Archive of Our Own ^beta

As soon as Osamu’s backpack hits the floor in the genkan, he feels like a dead man walking. 

His legs are achy, his feet feel disgustingly damp where they sit in his shoes, and his head pounds with a headache right between his eyes. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon and he is, once again, reminded of how long he’s been awake.

Dead man walking.

“Home,” Osamu half-heartedly calls out as he toes off his shoes, abandoning his backpack by the door before walking into the kitchen and filling up a glass of water. 

He’s greeted with Atsumu slumped over the breakfast bar with a pen in hand and a full page of scribbles upon entering the kitchen. 

“Took ya long enough,” Atsumu mumbles before covering a yawn with his hand. “Why the fuck are you just gettin’ home? It’s late, ‘Samu.”

Osamu huffs a sigh, “I told ya, I’m workin’ this stupid part-time job for the semester. Dumb late hours for a fast-food place.”

Atsumu quietly watches Osamu as he swallows down the water and goes to refill it again with the urgency of someone running on fumes. 

“Don’t ya have homework?” 

Osamu wants to curl up on the hardwood floor.

“Yeah. I’m gonna do it right now.” Osamu puts the glass in the sink before standing in the hallway that connects to the genkan. He stares.

He stands there, glaring at the offending fucking item that sits next to his shoes. His backpack, full of five kilos of textbooks and an essay he should’ve started a couple days ago, lies there mocking him from afar. 

“Stop starin’ lasers at it, ya might actually get it to burn,” Atsumu says from behind him and Osamu resigns himself to his fate by retrieving it from the doorway. 

Osamu sits at the dining table, pulls out his laptop and textbooks, and stops the swirl of spiraling thoughts before they can begin—he also tells himself that death is never a reasonable option.

It takes Osamu zoning out at the spread in front of him for Atsumu to speak up again.

“Y’know, ‘Samu, if you joined one of the honor societies at school, you wouldn’t have to work.” 

The room grows unbearably silent. 

Atsumu continues when he doesn’t receive even a blink from Osamu. “They provide those grant programs. They cover my rent. You can join mine, it ain’t that much work and the people are kinda cool.” 

Osamu knows all about these societies and their free money and the way Atsumu loves being ‘ an executive officer for the Robotics Honor Society, ‘Samu, can you believe it!’ He acts as if he doesn’t constantly talk about all the things they’re doing and all the people he meets. All the fucking people.

“I’d rather die than hang out with people from school. ‘Specially nerds like you.” 

“Stop bein’ sour, they ain’t that bad.” 

“I’m fine as is,” Osamu comments curtly before picking up his pencil and attempting to get to work.

Hard to do when you’re living with a chronic-nagger. 

“Nah, ‘Samu, ya ain’t. Don’t you have 8:00am classes? It’s nearly midnight as is.” 

Osamu ignores him, underlining some important text in his book.

Atsumu sighs, loud and dramatic, “There’s one for hospitality. They’re newer, but they’re there. You’ll get in if you apply, yer uni GPA is solid and yer poor.”

“We’re poor.”

“We’re poor, but I get fancy uni money and yer killin’ yerself at some burger joint that has no business being open until midnight on a Monday.” 

Osamu sighs then drops the pencil, fixing his brother a pointed look from across the kitchen. Neither of them blink, a challenge of sorts that shouldn’t be taken as seriously as it is, one that has been built upon years of practice.

When Osamu’s eyes start to water, he looks back at his laptop and accepts a silent defeat, adding a tally to Atsumu’s side of the imagined scorecard they keep. Doesn’t matter. Osamu has more pressing matters to deal with and not enough pride to lean on.

He looks at the task at hand. Is the paper really that important? Maybe he can wake up super early to finish it. 

Or, he can say fuck it, because none of this matters and what’s one essay down the drain. He can barely keep his eyes open as is and he has better shit to do, namely sleeping to give himself a shot at a better tomorrow. His eyes glance to the clock, just past midnight. 

He needs to be up at 6:00am. 

Or, he can suck it up and do it. 

“Go to bed soon, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says as he packs away his things and stuffs them into a backpack, finishing his night as Osamu’s has barely begun. “There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

Osamu grunts an acknowledgement before Atsumu disappears from the kitchen all together, the faint click of his door closing down the hall.

It’s now just Osamu, this stupid paper, and his rapid thoughts about how getting over his social ineptness may be easier than surviving the rest of this semester with a full course load and part-time job that demands way too much of him already. Maybe meeting new people and establishing friends outside of his brother and his high school circle would do him good.

The thought makes him impossibly more tired and that’s enough of an answer as any. 

He buckles down, ducks his head into his book, and gets to work.

☾

By the grace of some god, Osamu makes it to his 8:00am on time. How he does this after waking up an hour late, somehow eating breakfast, and getting this paper done is a force that he cannot take responsibility for. He thanks the sky—whether or not it hears him. 

He feels out of his mind, insanely tired and discombobulated, but he’s on time and in his seat and, goddammit, he is alive. Atsumu and his self righteous proclamation and magnetizing popularity be damned. Honor societies and fancy money be damned. 

Osamu has his materials out in front of him, laptop open and pens at the ready. Two whole minutes to spare! That’s talent. 

Right as the professor is shuffling his own papers in preparation for the lesson, Osamu feels a tap on his shoulder. 

Instinctively, Osamu turns away slightly, just in case it’s an accident and this person actually wants nothing to do with him. But Osamu can see eyes staring back at him in his periphery, so he rotates his body around until he is directly facing the stranger behind him.

Osamu’s heart finds its way into his throat. 

The man staring back at him has a full head of loose, black curls, some wisping in awkward angles, fluffy behind his ears. His square glasses sit atop his nose, lips shiny and eyes so dark they look black. He still has a slim hand reached out from where he tapped Osamu’s shoulder and an expectant look on his face.

Osamu has two sudden thoughts. 

The first being that this man may be one of the most beautiful people he has ever seen, with his dark turtleneck and slim face. Oh, are his eyes actually blue? Arrow straight through the heart. Second, he must be new, right? How the fuck has Osamu never met this person before?

“Would that be something you’re interested in?” The stranger asks and Osamu realizes he doesn't have a single recollection of what was just said. 

Osamu’s face burns, his knuckles dusting red, “I-I’m so sorry! Um, what was that?” 

The man smiles before picking up a small pamphlet and handing it to him. “I’m the president of the Literature Society this year and we’re seeking members. I was just wondering if you or someone you know would be interested in something like that?” 

Literature? No, Osamu is not interested in literature. He hasn’t properly read a novel in maybe six years and he couldn’t actually define the term ‘literature’ if asked. What is it, just fucking reading? Some writing? He didn’t even proofread his essay last night.

“I love literature,” Osamu blurts while taking the pamphlet in his hand. 

Osamu experiences horror of the nth degree as soon as the words leave his lips. There’s no way it doesn’t show all over his face—there’s no way this guy doesn’t know he’s lying. Osamu is reeling into a crisis and it’s only 8am. Not only is he a liar, but he’s a bad one at that. What the fuck else was he supposed to do? Tell the truth? He rationalizes that this was the best outcome. That this beautiful man catching him in a lie is worlds better than being a dick about his literature club. 

The man smiles, visibility brighter. If he notices Osamu’s mental warzone, he politely ignores it.  “That’s fantastic! The application link is on the sheet. If you have questions, you can let me know.”

Osamu nods in a detached sort of way and looks down at the pamphlet, willing himself not to speak another word.

“I’m Akaashi Keiji by the way.” Osamu looks up at him. His eyes are definitely blue. “What’s your name?”

The professor is starting to speak but all Osamu sees is blue. Not to mention, something heavy and distracting is burning through the skin of his chest, like a hand pressing down on his throat, and the breath is caught in his lungs. He’s nervous—a seemingly simple conclusion to draw that Osamu’s brain is only allowing him the solace of processing now. He’s nervous and he hasn’t even had coffee today. It’s this man’s fault, him and his pretty eyes. Osamu thinks he’s pretty. That makes this so much worse.

He’s still in this fucking conversation. 

“‘Samu,” Osamu blurts out and nearly trips over the nickname halfway through in an attempt to correct himself.

Akaashi tilts his head just slightly before biting his lip to suppress a tiny smile, “Just ‘Samu?”

“N-No!” Osamu rushes, “No, sorry, it’s Miya Osamu. You can call me Osamu, though,” he corrects himself, though the hole he’s dug has officially grown too deep to crawl out of despite the effort. 

Akaashi does smile then as he picks up his pencil and glances past Osamu to the front of the room, “Well, Miya-san, I look forward to your application.”

Osamu manages one more wobbly nod before turning back around in his seat. He spends the rest of the period hyper-aware of how red his neck probably is and how Akaashi has a front row seat to it. He panics over every word he said and the way he lied and how he offered up his childhood nickname as a first introduction.

But mostly he thinks about stupid, fucking Literature Society, Atsumu, and the way Akaashi smiled, amused and stupidly cute, when Osamu offered up his name.

☾

“I’m joinin’ a society.” 

It’s the first thing Osamu says when he sees Atsumu sitting in his common place at the breakfast bar, scribbling math on an abused piece of paper. It’s late again, another long day, but it doesn’t feel nearly as long as the day before. All thanks to a single interaction at 8:00am. 

It had turned him into a live-wire for the rest of the day. 

Atsumu immediately looks up at him with bright eyes, “That’s great, ‘Samu! I have a paper application for Robotics, let me get it.” 

Atsumu dives straight into his backpack, shuffling through paper and pens.

“I’m not joinin’ your nerd club, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu chuckles because he’s even got his sense of humor back. “I’m joinin’ my own.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow, “Hospitality’s? That’ll be good. Ya could get on that executive board real quick because of how new they are. I guess yer smart, sometimes.” 

Atsumu gives him a small smile, one that looks proud and Osamu takes a deep breath, “I’m not joining Hospitality either.” 

“Uh,” Atsumu’s smile drops and he knits his brows together with a slight tilt of his head, “yer studying Hospitality though?” 

“Yup.”

“So? Which one are ya joining? They’re usually exclusive to majors.” 

Osamu pauses, sticking his hands into his jean pockets so he can nervously pick at his fingers in private and, having a real ‘here goes nothing’ moment, he spills, “I’m not joinin’ one of those. I’m, uh, applying to the Literature Society.” 

Osamu would be able to hear a pin drop on their kitchen tile. 

“Ya fuckin’ read now?” Atsumu looks wildly confused and slightly exhausted, his eyebrows drawn down in one of his more disapproving looks. 

“I read enough,” Osamu shoots back defensively. 

“I’m really not tryin’ to be a dick, but I’ve never seen ya read a book, like, in my life.” 

He really isn’t wrong there.

“I wanted to try a new hobby,” Osamu reasons, and it could be the truth if he let it. Maybe he’ll discover he really does like reading or whatever the fuck you do in a club centered on ‘literature,’ whatever that means. It could be his new calling. Maybe he’ll quit the hospitality industry halfway through his college career and start fresh.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll get to know a pretty boy with blue eyes and cute glasses.

Atsumu looks stunned in place with his mouth slightly hanging open. He looks fucking dumb but Osamu can’t help but feel the embarrassment of the decision begin to weigh on him like bricks. 

“I mean, okay? Whatever makes ya happy and gives you a check every month, I guess.” 

That’s helpful too, he supposes. Osamu mentally reminds himself to quit his job tomorrow. 

“It does, well, it will, I think.” Osamu takes his place at the dining table. He has stats homework tonight.

“You think…” Atsumu repeats warily before seemingly ditching the conversation altogether. “Well, there’s leftovers in the fridge for ya. Yer makin’ dinner once yer finally free from the shackles of the fast-food industry. I feel like a househusband.” 

Osamu grunts his acknowledgement and lays out the next two hours of his life in front of him. Somehow, it doesn’t seem nearly as bad. 

When it’s almost 2am and his stats homework is tucked away and finished, Osamu lays in bed illuminated by his laptop screen. He’s filling out the Literature Society application in one tab and looking at a top 20 list of ‘Common Favorite Books for Young Adults’ in another, because ‘Favorite Book?’ wasn't necessarily a quiz question he was prepared for.

Not for the first time, it feels slightly pathetic to be doing all of this for what? Someone who is above average in attractiveness and has a pretty smile? Someone Osamu hasn’t exchanged more than one conversation with? Someone who may not even come to like Osamu like...that. 

He rationalizes that he’s done stupider shit for less payoff and it feels better, kind of, maybe. 

It certainly will get him out of his hellscape of a job and will probably improve his quality of life overall. Yeah, that’s something to sing about. So he does, clicking the ‘Submit’ button on a nicely made Google Form before setting his laptop down entirely. 

If he spends a half an hour browsing ‘Akaashi Keiji’ on Instagram, only to come up with nothing, no one is the wiser. 

☾

It’s a solid week before Osamu hears back from the Literature Society via email (signed by Akaashi Keiji, no less) welcoming him with a direct deposit form and a ‘Meet the Executive Board!’ flyer. It contains a lot of information, more so than would have been expected for a club about books (?) and writing (?), but Osamu welcomes it with open arms and his current unemployment status. 

It’s also been a week of seeing Akaashi twice more after their first initial conversation and not saying a word besides ‘hi’ . 

This isn’t to say Osamu hasn’t been thinking of him more than he probably should. His stomach gets heady when he enters his 8am and not for the typical reasons of half-assing his assignment the night before. 

Akaashi always looks so good, like he’s dressed for class at 8am and ready to teach an auditorium of students at 10am. He looks professional without trying and so infuriatingly elegant. Sure, they’ve only exchanged a couple of greetings, but Akaashi always does it with a smile. He looks at Osamu as if he is the only person in the room, something he probably does with everyone—an interpersonal skill, Osamu reckons. But it does things to Osamu, things he’s not necessarily used to; a heat that reaches up to his forehead and down to his navel, like the attention could burn. Osamu imagines he’s not the only one that feels this way around Akaashi Keiji. The thought of competition eats at him, just slightly. 

He doesn’t fret. There are bigger things in the works, a grand plan to really sweep Akaashi off his feet. That’s what he’s calling it. 

These bigger things come in the form of the Literature Society orientation meeting on Wednesday at 5pm. Osamu has been staring at it in his calendar since he received the date, he even went ahead and color-coded it ‘Blueberry’ blue. Go big or go home, right?

He’s also workshopped some conversation starters, as a template, of course.

“Hi Akaashi-kun! Crazy that you’re here and I’m here and that we’re both here together, right?”

“Hey Akaashi-kun, totally forgot you were gonna be here. How ya doin’?

“Akaashi-kun, are your eyes actually blue or am I seeing things?”

They’re a work-in-progress. Or at least, that’s what Osamu tells himself and he doesn’t allow his thoughts to delve into the specifics. Regardless, he’ll be in a room with Akaashi for at least two hours and if he gets even one sentence in, this entire thing will already be worth it. 

Osamu conveniently ignores the likelihood of other people being in said room to witness him say said sentence. 

It’s all going according to plan.

He repeats this to himself like a mantra until his sneakers squeak to a stop in front of the classroom door ten minutes before he’s supposed to be there. Better to be early than late, right? Doesn’t matter that he stayed at school an extra two hours just waiting for this meeting. He doesn’t have a job anymore and what Atsumu doesn’t know won’t kill him. 

Osamu looks put together, which is saying a lot given that he hasn’t felt composed even a day this semester so far. He’s clad in fitted jeans and one of his nicer polos, navy blue and a bit big on him. A substantial upgrade from the sweatpants and slides arrangement that Akaashi had to see for the first couple weeks of school, unbeknownst to Osamu himself. He even did his hair this morning, woke up extra early just to fuck around with it and hope it ended up looking alright. He’s essentially a new man entirely, all thanks to the Literature Society. 

But he looks good, he thinks, in a disconnected sort of way. So it’s worth it, despite coming at the cost of a snide comment from Atsumu—something about a mystical date with a library, plus the burn of embarrassment when Osamu’s instantly reminded what he’s doing all this for.  

He’s holding a book, one he bought at the school’s bookstore right before making his way over. It was at the top of the pyramid of other classic fiction novels. Osamu would have played around with his options, given the extra time, but the pyramid was obviously made to look nice, stacked intricately and damn near artsy. This is the only explanation for how horribly ineffective and dangerous this book-tower-pyramid thing was. So, to avoid breaking the bookstore, he had snagged the one at the top—easy. After a healthy amount of back cover reading and CliffNote searching, he’s feeling pretty good. 

All of this considered and duly acknowledged, apprehension and anxiety sidle up to Osamu like an old friend, as it tends to do. Always out to make a good thing bad and a bad thing worse. 

Though, he supposes it’s not completely out of left field. He hasn’t necessarily been around a group of people besides his high school friends in years. It wasn’t by choice, not really, but forced proximity had done Osamu good almost all of his childhood. What with club sports forcing large groups of people to talk to him, work with him, and with a lick of charm, eventually befriend him. 

University doesn’t afford that same luxury. Having to attend a single class two times a week and then quickly switching to an entirely new schedule only months later was the exact opposite of Osamu’s friend strategy. So, he’s clung to Atsumu for the better part of two years, even when his brother didn’t necessarily return the favor. 

But that’s neither here nor there. Osamu has dug his grave and now he must lay in it, anxiety and all else cast aside. The things he does for a pretty boy with glasses.

Osamu steels himself, staring at the classroom door before taking a deep breath and pushing through the doorway. Inside is a decently-sized classroom with rows of tables and plastic chairs. A cluster of people huddle together at a single table in the middle of the room, books and bags stacked beside them, and one of them teetering on the back legs of a chair that creaks as he leans back and forth. 

For the space allotted, this really isn’t the crowd that Osamu was expecting. He does gracefully remind himself that he is at a Literature Society orientation meeting, and well, maybe this is exactly what he should’ve expected. Regardless, the tightly wrung spool in his chest slackens just a sliver, and Osamu can at least breathe where he’s standing. 

He quickly appraises the group of four where they sit at the table for any sign of familiarity and comes up with nothing. No Akaashi Keiji and certainly not a face that he’s going to recognize from his economic courses for Hospitality. 

The nerves creep back in, his hands growing uncomfortably sweaty around the hardcover spine of the book he’s holding, and he adjusts so as not to potentially stain it or something equally disgusting. Not to mention, he’s still standing in front of this door like a fucking moron but he’s not quite sure where to sit or if he should even sit at all. Would it be weird to sit five meters away from the only other people in this room? Most definitely. He could introduce himself, strike up some conversation, maybe talk through his CliffNote summaries of his top-of-the-pyramid book, and they’ll offer him that sweet, empty seat at the end of the table that’s quite literally calling his name. 

Or he can walk back out the door, it’s not too late, nobody is holding him here—

“Miya-san,” someone calls from behind, and Osamu is helpless against his instinct to follow the sound. 

When he turns to face the storage lockers set to the left and behind the door, Akaashi Keiji is there with books in his arms and sweat on his forehead, his free hand carefully trying to pull the bottom book from the top shelf without toppling the entire stack over onto himself.

Osamu’s feet rush into action without another thought, striding over to Akaashi before quickly setting down his things and carefully removing the book from the shelf without a problem, his extra inches helping him in the process.

“Hey Akaashi-kun,” Osamu smiles while carefully adding the book to the towering stack already in Akaashi’s arms. His ‘good son’ senses kick in automatically. “Do you need help with anything else?” 

“No, I’m alright, sorry,” Akaashi laughs awkwardly before setting the stack onto one of the empty tables with a huff. “Just preparing some things. I’m glad you could make it, I’ve been looking forward to it ever since seeing your application.” Akaashi lets out a heavy exhale, dusting his hands together before peering up at Osamu with a polite smile, “We have a lot in common with our book preferences.” 

It’s a real freeze-frame moment.

On one end, his heart can’t help but do a flip in his chest, ‘I’ve been looking forward to it’ , but Osamu acknowledges that his heart is an unruly thing that has gotten him into way too much trouble thus far and distracts him from the real worries at hand. 

That damn application. The one that Osamu used as an “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?” assessment rather than the honest truth of a man wanting to join an Honor Society. 

Osamu should’ve expected this—he should’ve expected a lot of things, but this he should’ve known. He tries to recall any of the stolen opinions he scrawled onto his application at nearly midnight on a weekday but he can hardly remember his father’s birthday or what he ate for breakfast this morning. Something about the brain dumping useless information and only holding onto what’s relevant for survival. 

His brain really fucked him over this time. Osamu can only pray he doesn’t get asked a single question about it.

Neither here nor there , Osamu tells himself before painting himself confident and cool. 

“I’m glad you told me about it, Akaashi-kun,” Osamu chuckles before focusing on the stacks of books again, anything to distract from his current mental tussle. “Do you want me to take these to the front of the room?”

Akaashi’s smile turns wide and, oh , there’s a dimple. There’s a fucking dimple. “That’d be nice, Miya-san, thank you. We’ll get started soon. Let me introduce you to the other society members. There’s not many of us but we make a robust team, that’s for sure.”

Osamu swallows before following Akaashi to the table of students gathered around a laptop and some notebooks, chattering among themselves with relaxed smiles on their faces. Osamu envies them.  

“Konoha-san,” Akaashi says to the sandy-haired boy behind the laptop, “Kenma, Hirugami-kun, Kageyama-kun.” Promptly, four pairs of sharp eyes peer up at Akaashi and then shift their gaze to Osamu, freezing in their positions poised around the table.

“This is Miya-san, he’s a new member this year. We’re excited for him to be here with us,” Akaashi concludes with a small gesture towards Osamu, rocking on his heels. 

Osamu expected to be nervous, maybe to get rejected on sight and laughed at for no reason at all, but the air of unease pointed towards Osamu’s direction is the last thing he could have prepared for. It’s like each person curls in on themselves, just a little bit, like Osamu was harsh light in a dark cave. Osamu clears his throat slightly and throws on a winning smile, willing it not to wobble. 

“Um, hi, my name is Miya Osamu, thank you for having me here,” he says before bowing to them, closing his eyes tight before raising back up. When he comes back to stand at full attention, they’re still staring at him like he may be actively growing a second head. Maybe three, if the look in the short student with long hair’s eyes were any indication. 

The sandy-haired boy at the middle of the table coughs lightly, grabbing Osamu’s attention. He, too, has one of those dashing smiles, one that really makes you forget where you are. 

“Nice to meet you, Miya-kun, my name is Konoha Akiteru, and I’m the Literature Society’s secretary this year. We’re happy to have you,” Konoha smiles while lowering the screen of his laptop to extend a hand. It’s a kind and warm gesture and Osamu can’t help but note that Konoha is pretty, in a lazy sort of way. But his smile is a little too sharp, almost like he has a secret that Osamu isn’t too sure he wants to know.                                                                                                      

“My name is Kageyama Tobio,” the dark-haired boy with bright, striking eyes greets with an awkwardly raised hand, then adds, “I’m just a general member, it’s my first year.” 

He follows Konoha in shaking Osamu’s hand with a pained smile and eyebrows drawn down like he may be suffering a physical type of pain, but he seems kind enough, if not young and ragingly awkward like Osamu himself. 

“I’m Hirugami Fukuro, I—” a cough into his fist, “run events and stuff here, like, you know, reading weeks and what else,” Hirugami finishes with a crooked smile, an outstretched hand, and a piece of hair sticking up from the back of his head. Osamu gives him what he hopes is a comforting smile. 

“And this is Kozume Kenma, he and I founded this society and got it instated with the university. He’s essentially my vice president without a title,” Akaashi notes while referencing the long-haired blond boy at the table, a pen lazily twirling in his fingertips.

“Very nice to meet you all,” Osamu says in earnest, and though the anxiety simmers in his chest right beneath the skin, it doesn’t spill over the way he swore it would. The air is awkward but it isn’t just him carrying the weight of it, rather it seems he’s surrounded by a just-as-guilty party.

It may be the most relieving revelation he’s had all day. 

“Miya-san, why don’t you take a seat with them and we’ll wait for our other few members to show up before getting started.” Akaashi gives him a smile that's equal parts sea-deep eyes and smooth lips, one that makes Osamu a little unsteady where he stands. 

When Akaashi excuses himself from the table, Osamu can’t help but watch him leave, dodging around the long tables and making his way to the front of the room. He’s wearing a dark blue sweater, one that stops perfectly at the top of his wrists and, look at that, he’s even sporting a watch on one hand. You know, like a professional or something. 

“Miya-kun, come take a seat with us!” Konoha calls out, startling Osamu from his thoughts and he turns around to face the group once more. Some of them have gone back to writing and highlighting small novels but Konoha is looking straight at him with that half-lidded, listless look. Osamu breaks eye-contact; not that he’s good at it to begin with, but he feels uncomfortably perceived under Konoha’s gaze, a probable side-effect of the anxiety. 

Or maybe he’s just pretty. They’re all kind of pretty, Osamu notices, in a cumbersome way. Sure, they don’t seem to be the best conversationalists, but who needs social skills when you’re nice on the eyes and have enough of a brain to be into literature for fun.

Though this doesn’t seem to reign true for Akaashi with his confidence and nice way of dressing, all the way down to the proper speech and gorgeous smiles. There is a clear difference between the average pretty and an Akaashi Keiji kind of stunning, Osamu is no fool. 

He quickly grabs his things before rounding over and occupying the empty seat next to Konoha while Kageyama sits on his other side with Kozume and Hirugami settled across from them at a separate table, though they both crowd onto the same space. 

At first, there’s seemingly nothing to talk about. They do ask Osamu the basics and look at him a little upside-down when he explains he’s in the Hospitality department, but he saves himself with a nifty book fact, something about his mother loving classic manuscripts and passing the passion on. It’s a bold-faced lie. His mother didn’t even encourage much reading growing up, but it’s not hurting anyone and it's resolutely helping Osamu; so he lets himself believe it’s true and makes a mental reminder to call his mother tomorrow and tell her he misses her. 

Though productive in theory, this turns into book-talk a little too quickly with Kageyama asking questions about his mother’s favorites and Osamu having to scratch his neck and squint his eyes before saying, ‘I kind of forget, I’ll ask her!’

They’re all looking expectedly at Osamu, like it’s his move to win them over or make the conversation flow. Osamu is resolutely never on this side of the window, always the one to float along and watch the party. He resorts to a desperate scramble and the most comfortable thing he’s ever been able to talk about—sports. 

“You played sports in high school? So did I!” Kageyama yips from the other end of the table in an open expression of excitement, “I was my high school team’s soccer captain my third year.” 

It’s like cool water down Osamu’s back during the hot, Tokyo summers. 

“My brother and I have played volleyball since we were small kids,” Osamu explains, a toothy grin spreading across his face because he just can’t help himself, not when he finally feels like he’s got some footing. 

“I did some hockey back in middle school but it never ended up sticking,” Konoha comments with a shrug. “I got into photography, though, and I loved doing stuff like that.” 

“Are you still into it?” Osamu asks curiously, which gets a resounding ‘yeah, whenever I have the time’ before leading into a lengthy story about Konoha’s most recent camera mishap and how putting an expensive camera in rice does nothing but starch up the inner panelling. 

Osamu finds himself interested, leaning in and listening, asking questions when he’s genuinely curious. Hirugami and Kageyama do the same, as if they’re both learning something new about their friend, and Osamu doesn’t feel as alone. It’s a blossoming feeling, one that starts warm in his stomach and spreads to his chest, then all the way to his toes. 

He’s scared to say he might even be enjoying himself—though he doesn’t want to jinx it. 

The conversation continues on with fervor, jumping from sports to high school teachers and back to the university campus. Osamu learns that Kageyama is new to the literature scene, though he seems to have a solid clue what it’s about so it’s not much comfort for Osamu. He’s not complaining though—it's an olive branch in the journey of starting something new all the same. 

Hirguami was his high school’s valedictorian and his university life is no different, showing grades in the highest class percentile for his program. Osamu could only fucking dream—but he finds himself being excited for the guy in a commendable type of way. 

Kozume stays silent through most of it, though he chuckles where he should and makes affirming comments when it makes sense. He doesn’t offer up information willingly, but Konoha speaks up for him every now and then with a ‘Kenma was there, too’ or ‘Kenma took that class last semester! Best score on the exam, right, Kenma?’  

That is, until Kozume addresses Osamu directly. 

“What book do you have there?” He asks, peering over to look at the cover where it sits next to Osamu.

Well, here goes nothing.

Osamu props the book up to show the entire table, explaining his ‘place’ in the book (more like page five on CliffNotes), and the rest of the table chatters with their praise. It’s a book they’ve all read before, of course. 

They talk about it, an actual discussion that Osamu stays silent during, but he finds himself enjoying the topic all the same. A part of him feels like he might even be sold on reading it. It’s a fantasy book with intense world-building that juxtaposes the morality of man and the value of sacrifice with a cast of characters so thought-out and robust that even Kenma rambles on about his favorites. 

Osamu fucking hates reading, but he doesn’t mind this much. 

The conversation doesn’t hold the pressure that Osamu had expected, the simmering anxiety of lying through his teeth remains but the guys aren’t pushy, not like certain friends he has. They seem to enjoy the easy, light topics, chattering about their own views and moving on. Osamu is leaning onto the table with a toothy grin on his face, his heart racing, but not in the way that makes him feel uneasy and sweaty. It feels comfortable, it feels fun.

“Alright, let’s go ahead and get started!” Akaashi calls from the front of the room. Osamu’s head snaps forward, probably a little too intensely, to see Akaashi with a pen in hand and his glasses artfully pushed onto his nose. 

Akaashi introduces some ice breakers, talks through the rest of the school term, and goes over important events and reading assignments. Osamu learns very quickly that he will actually have to read a book and, for some reason, it’s the biggest surprise of the day. 

Osamu meets only two more people throughout the meeting's duration, both seeming to be estranged from the core group if sitting clear across the room explains anything. They do shake Osamu’s hand and mumble out their names, even if they avoid any possibility of eye-contact in the process.

Konoha leans over and tells Osamu they’re always like that, serious about grades, only here for the resume building. It connects the mental dots in his mind, everyone has their reasons, and Osamu can't really blame them for it. Truthfully, he wishes he could say the same so he’d have a reason, any reason, aside from ‘pretty boy with glasses’. 

When the meeting concludes and the small group files through the door, some call out farewells and well wishes for the rest of the day. Konoha asks Osamu for his phone number and he’s added to a group chat before the guy even leaves the room. Hirugami gives him some pens and a notepad with a professional looking ‘Literature Society’ logo scrawled across the top. They have plans for their next meeting the following week with the intention to have half an entire fucking book read.

Osamu is quite thankful for the era of Google search.

He takes a deep breath, stuffing his things back into backpack before glancing up at the nearly empty room just in time to see Konoha pat Akaashi on the back at the doorway before walking down the hall. 

Akaashi is still there with a tired smile on his face. He looks proper, wearing those nice corduroy pants and that sweater that should totally look pretentious but somehow doesn’t; not on him. 

“How was your first meeting, Miya-san?” Akaashi asks when Osamu makes his way over, his backpack hanging on his shoulder, “Anything you’d change?”

Osamu actually barks a laugh at that before he can think better of it. “Change? No, not at all, Akaashi-kun, you lead better than most of my professors do.” 

Osamu means it, too. It’s not some low brow attempt at flattery. Akaashi had really seemed like a professor, someone who knew exactly what he was doing and held an air of confidence that Osamu absolutely never could no matter how hard he tried. 

Akaashi’s eyes widen only for a second, something Osamu would’ve missed if he’d blinked at the wrong time, before righting himself with a diplomatic smile on his face. “Thank you, Miya-san. That means a lot.”

Osamu swears that Akaashi's neck turns the slightest bit pink before his hand comes up to cover it. Osamu rationalizes that it must just be the harsh fluorescents above them, the ugly way it makes skin look a little too warm.

It gets uncomfortably silent after that and Osamu fears that he did something wrong, that maybe the comment came off flirty and awkward and, fuck, he’s being weird, isn’t he? In a room alone with a complete stranger that he’s been kind of pining over without actually knowing a real thing about him. 

Osamu reminds himself, not for the first time, that maybe this is a little crazy. Akaashi is horrifyingly cute, sure, and he’s the type of charming that every mother loves, but it’s quite a leap to think he’ll get close to him in the way he’d like. It almost feels a little sleazy, schemey, and maybe Osamu ought to feel more embarrassed, which is saying a lot considering the shame that’s taken up permanent residence in his gut. Kind of fucking pathetic of him, really—

“On an unrelated note,” Akaashi interrupts his train of thought, his thin fingers playing with the collar of his sweater, “if you’d ever like to study for our class together, I’d really be open to discussing some of Sensei’s essay topics with you. That class hasn’t been the kindest to me.” Akaashi pushes a longer piece of hair behind his ear and they’re red. They’re definitely red.

“I’d love to,” Osamu says a little too quickly and he knows his own face is scarlet, there’s absolutely no way it isn’t, “and, um, if you’d ever want to just chill at the library, I’m there a lot. Like, if you want to...read? Or something.” 

Osamu swallows and he would have actually sprinted out the door if not for Akaashi’s blossoming smile, like petals of a flower folding back and exposing bright, brilliant color.

“I’d like that a lot, Miya-san,” Akaashi chuckles and yeah, this shit was definitely worth it. 

They part right after that and Osamu is on his way back home, the sun already kissing the horizon and the city growing dim, unnerving. It’s nothing like coming home at midnight when the sky is swaddled in black and dotted with faint, pale stars.

No, the streets are still alive now, but Osamu’s heart is raging a different war entirely. He can’t help but continuously play out the last two hours in his head. From the book at the top of the pyramid all the way to the tips of Akaashi’s ears. 

Maybe Osamu had been embarrassing—he wouldn’t completely rule it out as a possibility. He does have a tendency to lack tact, sometimes realizing the social cues a second too late after making a fool of himself. These things are possible, but he has new cell phone notifications for the first time in months that are not from his family or the ‘Icy Inarizaki’ group chat and it’s nice. It’s really fucking nice. 

He resigns the thought process, pockets his phone, and lets the soles of his shoes against the concrete work as white noise as he takes in the ink-blue sky above the halo of streetlamps. 

Blue, very blue. 

☾

The lengths they’ll go to for a decent grade.

A midterm paper that Sensei assigned two days ago is why Osamu and Akaashi are stuffed into a small study room in the back of the library that has definitely been used as a sexcipade destination at least once. There’s not even a fucking window on the door. 

Osamu feels inexplicably claustrophobic, though he can’t necessarily blame it on the four walls. 

Akaashi had suggested it after the third society meeting, pointedly after everyone else had filed out. It’s become a recurring ‘thing’, Osamu and Akaashi chatting alone about nothing of real importance after meetings. Osamu tames his rapidly beating heart every time with the justification that Akaashi is a good president, one that likes feedback from his members and enjoys a healthy team balance. 

Though it’d be idiotic to overlook how different Akaashi is in those moments. He’s more bashful than when he’s talking in front of a room of people or answering questions in class with the possibility of getting it wrong. He sometimes fumbles his sentences, just a little, when asking Osamu questions or chatting about in-class assignments. His cheeks flush red, and it’s definitely not a trick of the light. 

Osamu may be a little slow to catch on, but he isn’t stupid.

There’s papers and books sprawled out across the table. Akaashi has some multi-colored pens and highlighters that he’s letting Osamu borrow for ‘annotating’ purposes, which is sweet in thought but the absolute worst thing Osamu can imagine doing with his time. 

Of course it’s a little awkward at the beginning. It’s the first time they’re together outside of a classroom and there’s that thing about how a change in environment can really screw with a person’s comfort level. Or he’s making that up and it’s just Osamu’s own nerves finding a way to blow this for him.

They’re just working on a midterm paper. 

“Do you have an outline for the assignment?” Akaashi asks after capping a pen, looking up at Osamu expectedly.

Osamu looks at the blank Google Doc on his laptop and then back at Akaashi. 

“Um. It’s coming along,” Osamu says, coughing into his fist. 

“Do you want me to take a look? Another pair of eyes never hurts,” Akaashi smiles, because he does that a lot, and it’s very distracting.

“Uh, no! No, I’m good,” Osamu lies with a crooked smile, “Do you have yours?”

Akaashi holds his gaze a second longer with a doe-eyed look on his face before letting a small laugh escape his lips, ducking down at his keyboard to hide the toothy beam on his face as he giggles at his lap. 

“What’s so funny?” Osamu pouts, leaning towards Akaashi across the table, a little bit curious and a whole lot mesmerized. 

Akaashi glances back up at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners and nearly closed, revealing a large, open-mouthed grin on his face. Osamu attempts to swallow back the butterflies behind his teeth. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Akaashi assures, quelling his giggles by biting his bottom lip and picking up his pen once more. “I’ll share my outline with you, does that work?”

“No, no,” Osamu can’t help but laugh at himself because now it’s a contagious type of thing that Akaashi has created, hovering above them without a window to escape through. “You can’t just do that and not tell me.” 

It opens the floodgates for Akaashi once more, giggling into his hand like he wants to hide it. Osamu can’t help but grin like an idiot because not only is that laughter contagious, it stirs a dizzying sort of excitement in his chest. A feeling he’s sure he can get addicted to, making Akaashi smile like that. 

“I’m sorry, Miya-san, this is rude of me.” Akaashi clears his throat of his humor but can’t rid himself of the mirth pressed into every crease on his face, “You’re just kind of a bad liar. In the kindest way possible.”  

It’s most likely the most ironic moment of his life. 

Osamu can’t help but burst into his own fit of laughter, resting his face in his hands as he processes exactly what Akaashi just said. 

“Am I?” Osamu asks once he’s taken a breath and reigns himself back in, hands back on the table in front of him and a mischievous glint in his eyes, “You’re right, though. I have nothing on this page.” 

“Knew it,” Akaashi says with a playful roll of his eyes and Osamu’s chest is close to bursting, adoration bubbling up in his throat with no way to curb it. 

“Akaashi-kun just knows it all, doesn’t he?” Osamu teases with a smirk before picking up one of Akaashi’s highlighters to fiddle with the cap. 

Akaashi looks affronted, his jaw slack in a priceless, shock-ridden expression, eyebrows high on his forehead and, fuck, maybe Osamu said the wrong thing. Maybe he got ahead of himself and acted a little too familiar when he shouldn’t have. It wouldn’t be the first time and not certainly the last—

Akaashi plucks the highlighter right out of Osamu’s fingers, a devilish expression on his face.

“Are you implying something, Miya-san?” Akaashi smirks before tucking the highlighter behind his ear and looking back at his computer screen, fingers poised on the keyboard like he doesn’t have Osamu wrapped around his finger.

“Nothing at all, Akaashi-kun, only the honest truth with me,” Osamu quips, leaning back in his seat and mirroring Akaashi’s focus on his own laptop screen. 

“I am a bad liar, after all,” he adds with a quick wink. Akaashi’s blue eyes hover above the top of his laptop, glinting with something he can’t exactly place. Dare he say something fond?

They do actually get some work after that. If Osamu leans close to Akaashi to survey his laptop and give some advice when prompted, it’s all for the purpose of work, not a single thing else.

☾

“Whatcha doin’ this weekend? Ma is asking us if we want to come home for a couple days,” Atsumu says offhandedly where he’s sprawled across the couch, arms straight and phone hovering over his head. 

“Can’t,” Osamu says as he takes a bite of his eggs and flips the page of his book. 

Atsumu sits up, “What do you have going on that’s so special that you can’t even see your Ma?” 

“Nothin’ ‘special’ but I have homework to do.” Osamu starts to reread the same paragraph again.

“Okay? Do it on the train, then? Not like you can’t do homework back at home,” Atsumu huffs, and it's the most annoying sound Osamu has ever heard.

Osamu doesn’t look up from the book, though he has no idea what’s going on in this specific section anymore. “I’m meetin’ up with people to study, sorry. You can go, though. Tell them I’ll make it sometime at the end of the month.” 

“People? What typa people?” Atsumu asks incredulously, letting his phone drop loudly into his lap. “Suna ain’t in town until the end of the term.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about Suna. They’re new people, from the society I’m in or whatever,” Osamu tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, like it isn’t really as big of a deal as it is. 

Atsumu doesn’t speak up to respond so Osamu restarts the page with a fresh mind. 

When he’s halfway through the page and Atsumu still has not said anything, which is so wholly unlike him, Osamu shuts the book entirely and looks up to face his brother across the room. Atsumu is still staring straight at him with a small smile on his face, something way too soft for the conversation they’re having.

“What the fuck are you lookin’ at me like that for?” Osamu bites and throws the book into his half-opened bag on the floor—that’ll be the most reading he gets done for today.

“Nothin’, damn,” Atsumu sighs but the smile still stays on his face, “‘M just proud of you.”

“No,” Osamu warns, “we ain’t doin’ all of that, stop it.”

“I ain’t doing nothing, ‘Samu, jesus christ,” Atsumu laughs before hauling himself off the couch with a slump in his shoulders. “I’m gonna go for a run, wanna come?”

Osamu thinks on it before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh. He looks down at the book in his half-opened bag and then back up at his brother. “Yeah, lemme get my shoes on.” 

☾

Akaashi drinks black coffee, no cream or sugar because of course he would. Osamu says as much.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Akaashi asks over the lip of his mug, a beautiful, forest-green, ceramic piece cradled in his hands that makes his skin look like snow.

“It means what it means,” Osamu hums before taking a bite out of his toast and dusting the crumbs off his hands. 

Akaashi laughs, that bright and brilliant noise like sunshine through a glass window. 

The coffee shop they’re in is situated on campus, a small little room that doesn’t quite seem like it was meant to fit as many students as it ended up holding. There are tables haphazardly placed throughout the space with books and laptops scattered across the surfaces, and a plethora of surge protectors line the floor. It’s early, ‘ too early ,’ Osamu had told Akaashi when he first offered to meet up and study before their 8:00am exam. 

But they’re here at 6:30am on a Monday because Akaashi Keiji is a black coffee drinker, probably, or because he’s a terribly persuasive force that makes Osamu a little weak at the knees. 

“I have a feeling you’re insulting me, Miya-san,” Akaashi lilts as he opens up his notebook and scrounges for a pen in his bag. Osamu can’t help but notice how good his hair looks today, like he maybe even styled it and made the tips of his curls look silky enough to easily run his hands through.

“Quite the opposite,” Osamu responds flippantly, clearing his throat, “and stop calling me that. Osamu works fine.” 

“Do you have a pen I can use, Miya-san? I think I left mine at home.”

“Now you’re just doin’ it on purpose,” Osamu rolls his eyes in a playful kind of way that probably looks a little puppy-love silly to anyone looking at him. 

“Found it! Nevermind,” Akaashi draws some scribbles in the margins to check for good ink.

“Cute accent, though,” Akaashi says like it isn’t a bomb dropped straight in the ocean, an explosion left flying into the sky.

Osamu can feel his cheeks burn and he no longer wants anything to do with the hot coffee in front of him. 

“Ya think it’s cute?” Osamu teases instead, leaning forward to grab Akaashi’s attention away from his notebook page. “High praise from a pretty, city boy.” 

Now Akaashi’s cheeks tint pink but he upholds an unreadable, stoic expression, “Be careful, Miya-san, that almost sounded like you called me pretty.” 

“My apologies, Akaashi-kun, I wouldn’t ever want to do that,” Osamu says with a charming smile and pushes into Akaashi’s space. He picks up the pen that Akaashi was holding and starts doodling in the margins of his notebook, staunchly looking away from the boy’s gaze. 

Osamu starts scribbling stick figure people and cartoon-looking dogs and cats with no real direction. Akaashi will have to scrap this page all together, but he keeps drawing. 

Osamu can feel Akaashi's gaze burning into him but he doesn’t say a word and acts as if this is normal. Osamu just wants to be close, he likes the feeling he gets when he’s near Akaashi, talking to Akaashi, with Akaashi. 

It’s a scary realization, one that tells him he may be a little too in over his head. 

Osamu finally looks up at him, still bent over the table awkwardly, and when he does he realizes how close their faces actually are. Akaashi looks stunned in place, but he’s leaned over as well with his hands placed delicately in his lap and his lips shiny like he just licked them. His eyes are wide as if he’s watching something astonishing and not just Osamu fucking up his study guide paper. Time feels a little frozen and the early morning sunlight looks sultry on Akaashi’s skin, like he’s meant to drown in it. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Osamu wants to reach up and touch. 

So he does.

It’s just a small thing, the way he takes one of Akaashi’s unruly curls near his cheek in between his fingers and rubs his thumb down the smooth strands before tucking it behind Akaashi’s ear. It makes his hair look impossibly fluffier and Osamu gets a beautiful view of the swath of skin where Akaashi’s ear reaches down towards his neck. 

He wants to taste it.

That’s when Osamu moves entirely, pushing himself back in the seat and adjusting Akaashi’s paper squarely back in front of him. 

“Sorry,” Osamu mumbles and he rubs a finger over his trackpad to wake his laptop up. “Uh, okay, so, this exam. How far did you get in the guide?”

It takes a second for Akaashi to respond and Osamu refuses to look up so he instead clicks away at nothing, hoping that the embarrassment doesn’t pulse off his body like a heatwave. 

“I got halfway through,” Akaashi says and Osamu looks at him then. The piece of hair still sits tucked behind his ear, his cheeks are pink along with the tips of his ears, and his eyes look hazy in an otherworldly type of way. He’s staring at Osamu like he’s asking for something and warmth pours down the front of Osamu’s shirt, soaks it straight through and makes his skin feel damp. 

Osamu schools himself, throws on a smile, and replies, “Me too. Let’s look at number fifteen?” 

Akaashi blinks away his daze and smiles back, polite and small once more, and then they’re back where they always begin once more.

☾

“A-ha! I definitely have the longest railroad on the board,” Konoha rejoices, delicately situating his trains in a neat row on the gameboard. “Must hurt how badly I’m beating you all!” 

“You always worry about getting the longest railroad and then neglect all your cards and lose, Konoha-san,” Kenma mutters from behind his fanned out deck, a bored look on his face. 

“Whatever, Kenma, you’re over there cheating or some shit, you win every game,” Konoha grunts before laying his cards in a stack.

“Where’s Akaashi-kun?” Osamu asks distractedly, glancing at the door from inside their meeting room.

For the record, Osamu is trying to participate in this game, but just barely. His trains are haphazardly set to the side and spilling out of a beat-up plastic bag but he doesn’t have a single competitive railroad on the board because firstly, he’s never been one for board games, and secondly, Kenma had given him the most unhelpful rundown on how to play Ticket to Ride: Japan & Italy Map; he has less than half a clue of what is actually going on. 

“He should be here soon,” Hirugami chirps from where he’s selecting new cards, standing over the board with a quizzical look on his face, one eye shut and head tilting to the right, “said he had to grab some things from the library.”

Osamu sighs and taps his phone where it’s started to dim, unlocked in his hands. 

Akaashi Keiji [4:34 PM]

I wouldn’t be opposed to dinner. Ramen stall in the courtyard is open until 9!

Me [4:35 PM]

Then it’s a deal

Gotta get through meeting first though lol

Akaashi Keiji [4:37 PM]

That’s the easy part

See you soon!

Me [5:02 PM]

You coming?

Osamu checks the clock once more. It’s only ten past five, Osamu reminds himself. He locks the phone and looks back at the door.

“Don’t look so down, Miya-san,” Konoha calls, and Osamu breaks his thousand mile stare just to catch the tail end of Konoha’s knowing smirk. He’s been doing that more and more lately, giving Osamu looks after meetings and even during, through book discussions and all else. 

It makes Osamu nervous more than anything. After a couple of weeks of actually getting to know Konoha, he’s drawn a pretty horrific conclusion.

He’s a lot like Atsumu.

Konoha is like Atsumu in the way that he seems to be the one listening the loudest in every conversation. He’s sharp and knows things he shouldn’t without having to ask any questions at all. Horrifying. 

“‘M not down,” Osamu throws on a smile and relaxes away any residual tension in his shoulders. “Uh, do I draw the next card?”

“We skipped your turn the last two rounds, Miya-san,” Kageyama says candidly as he surveys the board, counting some unknown amount on his fingers, and surely planning his next move. 

“Ah, sorry guys,” Osamu awkwardly chuckles and sits straighter in his seat. He can feel his neck start to warm and he pulls at his shirt collar, welcoming cool air to extinguish it. 

“Got something on your mind?” Konoha drawls, lazing in his seat with a raised eyebrow. He observes Osamu like he’s looking into him rather than at him. Osamu knows what Konoha is doing, what he’s getting at. Osamu decides he won't give a single thing at all. 

“Nah,” Osamu replies and resolutely breaks their eye-contact to instead study the game board like he’s invested in the outcome. He keeps it there, not allowing himself any other words that may betray him and reveal his inner thought process. 

Though he knows that, at this point, it’s no secret what’s on his mind. 

Things have changed. What started out as a lust-driven crush on a nameless boy with pretty eyes and curly hair has definitely escalated to more. Akaashi and Osamu text now, and not just for school or society matters. Osamu tells him about the dinner Atsumu made that night and Akaashi sends Osamu pictures of his Maltese puppy when she’s doing something especially cute. They’ve even jumped on Facetime a couple of times for the sake of studying from their respective households—late night deadlines and all.  

But things have evolved and not only does Osamu think Akaashi is pretty and smart, he thinks he’s funny and his laugh is like music and he’s a selfless man, someone who gives so much and doesn’t expect a single thing in return. 

So, yeah, maybe Osamu got himself a little over-invested and strayed away from his original intentions. The whole ‘get to know Akaashi and maybe kiss him once or twice’ had surely flipped itself over on its head. 

And, yeah, maybe Osamu really likes Akaashi now, but that doesn’t mean he wants to yell it from the fucking rooftops. Or, in more relevant terms, the meeting room of the goddamn Literature Honor Society. 

Another revelation of Osamu’s original plan had taken place in the form of legitimate friendship-making with the other society members. They, too, are no strangers to texting each other to meet up for lunch during the week, sometimes in a group and other times a patchwork of whoever can make it. 

Osamu always goes and it’s not because he feels obliged, he just likes them. 

Kageyama is a comic without even trying and devastatingly impressionable. When Osamu talks to him it almost feels like having a younger brother; one that hangs on to every word that he says and looks at Osamu with some misplaced fascination. It makes him feel warm and important, like for the first time ever he has the wisdom to spare and an audience to hear it.

It’s about goddamn time.

Hirugami is a genius. Not only is he a genius, but he is a kind boy who takes mercy on Osamu’s stupid-ass soul. In translation, Hirugami sits down with Osamu every Tuesday and walks him through his statistics homework. It’s the highest marks on homework that Osamu has received all semester. As a direct result of this, Osamu buys milk tea for Hirugami every Tuesday as payment for his troubles, though it’s always a battle to get him to accept it. 

Kenma and Konoha are definitely more of Akaashi’s friends, and it’s hard to find a time when those three aren’t together. However, they’ve been kind to Osamu, if not a little guard-dog-esque when they leave Akaashi to hang out with Osamu alone which has been happening more frequently as of late. 

Osamu would often wait for Akaashi in a study room in the early evening, scribbling into a pocket-planner, preparing himself for what would be another late night of studying. Though, these types of nights weren’t nearly as dreadful as they used to be. 

Not when Akaashi would rap his knuckles against the pale-cedar door before poking his head through and giving a shy smile. Osamu’s stomach always finds its way to his toes. 

Every time, without fail, in true body-guard fashion, Konoha and Kenma would be standing in wait, giving a tiny salute in Osamu’s direction as Akaashi bid them a farewell. Their stares would always linger on Osamu for a second or two, just long enough to give the hint. 

Osamu gets it. Some new guy comes along, the shovel talk thing. Message received. 

Except there’s really no need because as it stands, Osamu and Akaashi are just friends. They hang out like friends do, study together, and follow each other's Instagram (Akaashi does, indeed, have one).

Have they sometimes played with the line of banter and flirting? Sure, yeah. Has Osamu gotten a little bold and grazed Akaashi’s shoulder, patted his knee, or stared a little too long? Probably. Does the air feel slightly charged with something much bigger and impending? Well, if it is, they don’t talk about it. 

Osamu is stuck between recognizing a good thing and wanting something infinitely more when the door suddenly bangs open. 

Akaashi bursts through, a frazzled look on his face and some crazy curls out of place. “Hello! I’m sorry, oh my god, we’ll be able to start soon.” 

He skirts over to the front desk before laying down a stack of books with some loose pieces of paper wedged under the covers. The desk thuds in response to the heavy weight before Akaashi is sifting through his bag, searching for what could be the answers to all of life’s questions if the desperate way he jostles through the contents is any clue. 

“You’re fine Keiji-kun,” Kenma says casually as he sets down a train on the board. “Count up the scores, I won.”

“No you fucking didn’t!” Konoha shouts, standing abruptly from his seat and making the chair legs drag against the tile with a nasty screech. He starts collecting the cards while pouting, “Count that shit twice, Hirugami.”

Osamu is already at the front of the room by the time Hirugami pulls out his phone calculator. 

“Is everything okay?” Osamu asks Akaashi with a deep-set concern that could be heard through voice alone. Akaashi’s cheeks are pink and blotchy and not in the cute, flustered way.

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Akaashi releases a deep breath as he continues to shuffle through his bag, pulling out papers and folders as he goes.

“Need a pen?” Osamu says, plucking the one from behind his ear and extending it to Akaashi. He freezes at the offer and then focuses his gaze on the outstretched gift. It’s like watching the eyewall of a hurricane dissolve into the earth and leave behind newfound clarity, the way Akaashi blinks away the panic and reaches to take the pen from Osamu’s hand, their fingertips brushing ever so slightly. 

“Thank you, Miya-san,” Akaashi exhales with an easy expression, like the tension had melted away. “It’s just been a crazy day, I feel two steps behind.” 

“Don’t mind,” Osamu places a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it back and forth slightly. “Can I do anything for you?” 

Akaashi lets himself be moved back and forth by Osamu’s hand, taking another steadying, deep breath before replying softly, “Seeing you is enough.”

Immediately Akaashi’s body goes rigid under Osamu’s hand and Osamu stops moving entirely, stunned by the words and also terrified of spooking Akaashi further. Heavy rain and rapid winds all over again. 

“We should get started,” Akaashi clears his throat and moves out of Osamu’s hold, looking down at the desk and avoiding Osamu’s eye. 

“Yeah,” Osamu awkwardly chuckles. “Um, also, are we still good for dinner?” 

Akaashi flashes him a look before scribbling back down in his notebook, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can invite the others if you want, too.”

Osamu inwardly sours at this. He absolutely does not want the rest of the group there. Why is he asking that? Osamu is surprised at how defensive it makes him, sacrificing his one-on-one time with Akaashi. Osamu feels his hope sink like a ship, pulling his head down and under with it. He thinks of going for a casual response, something to try and make him look dismissive and cool as if he couldn’t give less of a fuck; like he doesn’t actually care for one way or the other. 

But he’s really not good at being cool and he gives a lot of fucks. 

“Um...well, I was hoping it could just be us, if that’s cool?” Osamu rubs his forearm nervously, looking behind him and across the room to see the others already staring back at him. He swivels forward once more, flustered and embarrassed. God, he’s being weird. This is so weird, and not for the first time that semester Osamu is kicking himself for his social ineptness. He seems to have miscalculated; Akaashi is uncomfortable with him, there’s no two ways about it. Maybe it had all been a fluke, Osamu wouldn’t put it past him, he’d respect it.

Though, at this point, it’d take a hefty amount of questionable coping to get over him now. 

Akaashi stops his writing and peers up at Osamu from over his glasses, breaking him from his thoughts. Akaashi seems just as uncomfortable as Osamu feels, and it’s another nail in the coffin. Maybe it’s not too late to get his job back. He could always resign from the society—make this easier for everyone, mainly himself. 

Not like it’s become the best part of his week or anything. 

For the first time, it’s as if Akaashi can hear Osamu’s tornadoing insecurities or he’s reading them straight through his eyes like a broken script. Maybe he could see through Osamu all along, but always had the decency to feign ignorance. It’s an embarrassing realization for Osamu, one that makes him start to curl in on himself like a bug in the rain, but then Akaashi is smiling. 

It’s a real one; he can tell it’s real because Akaashi has that adoring sort of glint in his gaze, one that’s become familiar and hypnotizing. 

“That sounds good, Miya-san,” Akaashi murmurs before he slips Osamu’s pen behind his own ear, “but, I’m gonna have to ask you to take a seat. We’re starting a little late here, wouldn’t wanna hold us up, would you?”

Osamu smirks before taking a step back, “Apologies, Akaashi-kun, I’d never want to do that.” 

Akaashi gives him a smug look and it’s slightly infuriating given Osamu’s mental gymnastics, but it’s more spellbinding than anything. Osamu wants to kiss the smirk right off of his face and steal that ‘I cracked the code’ sparkle in his eyes; show him how fucking frustrating his existence is and how much Osamu wants him and all the stupid shit he’s thought and done to get even a second look at him.

Akaashi has Osamu on his knees and he doesn’t even know it. 

Osamu walks back to his seat at the table and weakly acknowledges that the board game has long been cleaned up and fitted back inside its box. He’s about ready to settle back comfortably into his seat and zone out while Akaashi talks for two hours, maybe do some deep thinking and assessing while he’s at it, before Konoha elbows him in the side.

Osamu dazedly meets his eye with a raised eyebrow. 

“Dude, this is getting kind of painful,” Konoha sighs. 

“Did you lose?” Osamu drawls.

Konoha curses, “That’s not what I’m talking about, damn.” 

“He did,” Kenma comments from the clear other end of the table. Good ears, Osamu notes aloofly. 

“Will you stop?” Konoha groans, threading a hand through his hair, “I’m never gonna hear the end of this. Kenma, I’m never playing a fucking game with you again.” 

“‘Kay,” Kenma drones on like he doesn’t believe it or he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

Konoha huffs with a roll of his eyes, “Back to what I was saying. Dude, you gotta figure it out with Keiji-kun, you both have been doing this a little too long.” 

Osamu’s brow furrows, “What do you mean?” 

“Don’t play dumb, Miya-kun, you’re, like, tripping over him. It’s painful to watch,” Konoha explains with his lips turned down in an unpleasant twist. “You gonna confess any time this year?” 

Osamu blinks at him and then turns to the front of the room to see Akaashi setting up a powerpoint through his laptop. The pen behind his ear. 

“Probably,” Osamu states, gaze fixed on Akaashi’s slender hands as he types along his keyboard and messes with the trackpad. He’s wearing a maroon sweater today—it looks nice, but doesn’t he always?

“I’m just saying, if you don’t, someone else will,” Konoha comments offhandedly. 

It’s involuntary the way his mood falls straight into hell and his fingers twitch in his lap. Osamu rips his eyes away from Akaashi and fixes Konoha a burning look, one that he doesn’t necessarily deserve. 

Because Konoha is right. 

Osamu would have to be bottom-of-the-barrel stupid to ignore the stares Akaashi gets when they’re together. He almost has a mind to be offended by the way people ogle at Akaashi even when Osamu and him are bumping knees under the table like teenagers on a first date. It’s a shock that Akaashi isn’t fucking married already. Not only is he beautiful, but he’s sharp as a whip and something worth chasing; enchanting in a way that Osamu has never known possible.

If Osamu was a smarter man, he’d—well, he wouldn’t be here right now, would he? 

His tongue starts to taste sour in his mouth, an ugly feeling settling at the pit of his stomach. Osamu crosses his arms over his chest. He is quite stupid, he thinks, now that the jury is bringing it forward. What the fuck has be been waiting for?

Fear is a great excuse, what with his elephant-sized anxiety resting in the corner of every room he enters. Maybe living as they are now, tip-toeing around the jagged eggshells of whatever they’re really thinking, had been easy enough to ignore up until this point. 

It’s true that Osamu would probably confess to Akaashi at some point—sue him for taking things slow. But even Osamu could recognize things were getting out of hand. Most notably at night, when Osamu lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, conjuring up any and all romantic scenarios and inserting himself and Akaashi into them. Or, when his face splits into a grin whenever Akaashi sends him a LINE message, no matter how mundane the contents of said message actually are. 

Or, and this one is quite embarrassing, reading four whole books in the span of six weeks.

Osamu has never been much of a quitter—part-time jobs aside—and the thought of sitting around and missing his chance like a dumbass only to end up watching Akaashi with some rando that doesn’t know shit about Kōbō Abe the way that they should does things to Osamu. 

It’s like a lit match—a thought so scorching that it could burn straight through his eyes and maybe weaponize into lasers if Osamu focused hard enough. He doesn’t have a moment to try, before Konoha is putting up his hands in surrender, breaking Osamu from his mental 3D printer attempt. 

“Put away the knives, Miya-kun,” Konoha rolls his eyes and looks like he just won something, “I only said it to encourage you.”

“That’s nothing to joke about,” Osamu scoffs, but it tastes a lot like defeat, probably sounds like it, too. 

Konoha gives him a knowing smile, and it’s like an eye-full of Atsumu when he does it. Osamu doesn’t want to admit it’s a comforting sight. Konoha claps Osamu on the shoulder and says, “then be fucking serious about it.”

☾

“This was a fantastic idea.” 

Osamu and Akaashi sit together in their university courtyard, surrounded by harsh outdoor lamp lighting and the welcomed commotion of good meals being made. Their meeting concluded only twenty minutes ago and Akaashi had nearly dragged Osamu out of the room by the elbow under the guise of ‘not eating a single thing all day’. 

The entire walk over, Akaashi had unloaded his day like he was telling a story, using wild hand movements, his voice almost pitching into delirium. Osamu watched and listened, smiling when Akaashi insulted his noon seminar professor and cursed over his upcoming stats exam. It was only until they had reached the line of the ramen hut that Akaashi fell silent, scanning the menu with his hands clasped behind his back.

It gave Osamu an unwelcome mental reprieve, staring at Akaashi under the obnoxious fluorescents of the menu lights, the evening sky eclipsing behind him. Akaashi’s shoulders are slightly bunched up, most likely due to the stress of the day, and Osamu finds himself wanting to rub a hand down Akaashi’s spine and let his fingers play with the woolen sweater material, maybe even massage at his shoulders and get them to come down from his ears. 

Osamu remembers that he could, if he just bites the bullet in his front teeth. The thought makes the hair on his neck stand up. 

Once they order (Osamu pays for both of them because ‘you had a hard day, Akaashi-kun,’ though he does this every time), they take a seat at a courtyard table, amiably chatting before food is brought out to them. 

Akaashi looks delighted to have his nose in a ceramic bowl of okinawa soba, colorful and fresh off the stove; Osamu can tell because curls of steam are fogging up the lenses of Akaashi’s glasses. Akaashi keeps pulling in and out of the bowl, quick enough to escape the haze but long enough to spoon broth into his mouth. He seems to be unaware that he’s even doing it, the way he looks so feverishly determined. It makes Osamu’s chest ache.

He’s so cute. 

He should do it right now. 

“Is the food good?” Osamu asks instead, after swallowing his own mouthful and setting down his chopsticks. His hands are growing clammy. 

“ So good,” Akaashi all but moans into his spoon and it does some embarrassing shit to Osamu’s head. “How is yours?” Akaashi asks with shiny lips. 

God, it’s all very distracting. 

Some stalls are starting to close up with workers calling out to one another, the sound of slamming windows and doors ringing behind them. The table they’re sitting at is tiny and built into the floor with four chairs surrounding it, one that Osamu has seen many times walking around campus but has never taken a moment to sit down and eat on himself. He’s grateful for it now. They’re sharing the corner of the table, knees close to bumping and their arms threatening to touch. They probably look silly, crouched together with so much space to use. 

Osamu doesn’t mind.  

“It’s pretty good,” Osamu comments feebly and he doesn’t mean for it to come out as apathetic as it does. The food is pretty good, especially because they were nearing closing time when he and Akaashi had ordered. It has in-season vegetables, decent cuts of meat, and a solid broth.

It’s just that Osamu could make it better.

“Just alright?” Akaashi’s eyes widen before he draws an eyebrow in a silent question. 

Osamu really tries to be as humble as possible when he says, “Well, I could probably make it better.”

Akaashi barks out a laugh, leaning back in his seat and letting it shake him. It’s a pretty sound on his lips, even though it comes at Osamu’s expense. Nonetheless, Osamu lets his mouth curl into a smirk and patiently waits. 

When Akaashi blows out a concluding breath to his fit of laughter, he comments a short and sweet, “Liar.”

“I’m not lying, my concentration ain’t in culinary for nothing,” Osamu notes with a wry smile and Akaashi still has that glow from something that’s properly pleased him, though he still has the skeptical eyebrow up—ever the literature major look. 

It’s like an invitation, that’s how big the window of opportunity is. It’s as if the universe is screaming, ‘here’s your chance, ‘Samu! Fucking take it!’ and, for some reason, the universe sounds a lot like Atsumu. Just the way he did when they were younger, screaming at Osamu on a volleyball court with the ball soaring towards him—because Osamu was wide open for it.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to slam it over. “I could make it for you sometime.”

Akaashi’s eyebrow drops and a curious expression takes his face. “You would?” he asks simply. 

“If you wanted,” Osamu smiles but it feels uncomfortable on his lips. His heart is beating in his ears, he’s never had less of an appetite in his life. He stares at his ramen, mourning. 

“I’d love that,” Akaashi says cheerfully before taking another bite from his chopsticks and swallowing. “I’ll be a harsh judge, though,” he notes diplomatically. Osamu likes him so fucking much.

“That’s fine.” He knows he’s probably starting to visibly heat up and the late spring weather is not to blame. Konoha crosses his mind just for a half a second and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“It can be, like, a date.”

If a semi truck bulldozed its way through the campus brick walls, Osamu wouldn’t be able to hear the crash. He might not even be able to see it, his own words are dancing around his head like he’s in some kid cartoon and his lips are suddenly very dry even though he’s probably wet them three times in the last ten minutes.

Neither here nor there, Osamu tells himself. 

Akaashi looks thoughtful, his lips pursed and his eyebrows drawn like he’s solving a thousand word puzzle and not sitting on the receiving end of Osamu’s very embarrassing and overwhelming feelings. 

“ Like a date?” Akaashi asks cheekily, and his lips are spreading into a smile—he’s fucking smiling and Osamu just asked Akaashi Keiji out on a date. 

“Nah, an actual date,” Osamu beams, a newfound confidence finds him in a way that only Akaashi would be able to twist out of him. He blames the way Akaashi pours all of his attention into Osamu like an empty glass pitcher. “If you accept, that is.”

“You’re asking me on a date, Miya-san?” Akaashi asks instead because he’s infuriating in a way that Osamu loves way too much. 

“Osamu,” Osamu corrects far too quickly, a stupid big grin on his face because Akaashi is still sitting right in front of him and not running half a kilometer in the opposite direction. “And I am,” Osamu clarifies. 

“Well, then I’d love to, Osamu,” Akaashi agrees gently and it’s like staring at the sun, cold water down his shirt, falling hard off a bike. Osamu is surprised he doesn’t entirely jump out of his skin. 

“You would?” Osamu asks, stupefied, and he’ll admit he didn’t really think this far ahead.

Akaashi bites his bottom lip, smiling, “I would.” 

Osamu’s eyes catch on the action, flitting down to Akaashi’s lips. They’re still shiny, Osamu notices, and for the hundredth time since they’ve met Osamu is reminded of how full Akaashi’s lips are. He’s imagining, again, how soft they would feel against his own and how good Akaashi would taste on his tongue—probably like sugar and magic—and how badly he wants to take his face and kiss him like he’s never been kissed before. 

It doesn’t seem to be quite outside the realm of possibility anymore. 

Akaashi’s knees bump into his, pressing firmly and intentionally—Osamu can’t help but lean into it. They’re dangerously close like they’re being pulled into one another, and it seems their center of gravity lies at the corner of this cheap, thermoplastic table. Osamu has been here before, close like this but not quite close enough.

So he takes another step.

Osamu pushes forward, too, and he can feel Akaashi’s breath on his cheeks, his nose, his lips. Akaashi is no longer smiling, instead his eyes are darker now, glazed and hazy in a way that probably mimics his own. It’s a look he’s seen on Akaashi before but was stupid enough to never do anything to sate. 

Osamu reaches a hand up to cup Akaashi’s cheek and the skin is so soft underneath his fingertips—petals in his palm. Akaashi is gorgeous with his big eyes and stuttering breath. He's gorgeous and Osamu can admit he’s in over his head for someone like this. 

When Osamu’s lips are nearly a centimeter away from Akaashi’s own, his phone blares from his front pocket, vibrating so intensely that it might as well be a kick in the shin. 

They rip away from each other, frazzled and a little shocked as Osamu blearily fishes into his pocket to pull out his phone, muttering out a curse and ‘sorry’ .

Osamu is going to kill his brother.

“What?” Osamu gripes in lieu of a greeting into the phone.

“‘What?’ What d’ya mean ‘what’ ? I feel like I ain’t seen ya in two weeks!” Atsumu shouts into the phone and Osamu pulls the speaker from his ear with a grunt, rolling his eyes. 

Akaashi is watching him with a hand pressed to his mouth, stifling a giggle, cheeks pink in the fluorescent glow around them. 

Osamu shakes his head, “‘M kinda busy right now, can I call you back?” 

“The fuck are ya busy doin’? It’s, like, nearly 8pm. When are ya gonna be home?” Atsumu snides. 

“Soon, holy shit, ya ain’t my Ma, I’ll text ya,” Osamu huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

The line goes silent—which is never a good sign—before Atsumu asks, “Are ya fuckin’ around with someone?” 

“No,” Osamu answers too quickly and he knows it's over before it starts.

“Holy shit, yer with someone right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m hangin’ up,” Osamu talks over Atsumu, nervously eyeing Akaashi where he’s dissolved into a fit of silent giggles. 

‘Be safe!’ is the last thing Osamu hears through the phone before he quickly ends the call, harshly jamming his finger onto the screen. As soon as he does, Akaashi erupts into laughter, tears bridging the corners of his eyes.

“I’m never gonna recover from this,” Osamu says grimly as he holds his face in his hands, feeling the warmth of his cheeks against clammy palms.

Akaashi is still giggling when he wraps nimble fingers around Osamu’s wrists and pulls his hands away, smiling all the while and glowing brighter than he has the right to. 

Osamu has an apology on the tip of his tongue—a plea, really, to forget that the last minute happened—but it's cut short, and not by his own accord, but by the lips against his. 

Osamu’s eyes are wide open, staring at Akaashi’s shut ones as a gentle kiss is pressed to his lips. It’s not heavy or deep but it is electric, all over Osamu’s arms and ringing in his ears. When Akaashi pulls back, not nearly a blink later, he’s still smiling. 

“Hi,” Akaashi whispers and he doesn’t even have the decency to seem shy about it.

“Hey,” Osamu laughs because he really likes this boy and how the fuck did he get here? He slides his hand down to catch Akaashi's, squeezing gently, “how ya doin’?”

“Great,” Akaashi giggles and lets their hands fall to the table, “would be better if you actually kissed me, though.” 

Akaashi can barely finish the sentence before Osamu has his hands on Akaashi’s neck and yanks him in. At first, it’s just a soft press of lips, plush and sweet and slightly curled at the corners because they’re smiling like idiots, of course they are. 

But then Osamu is tipping his head to the side and asking for more. He kisses Akaashi like they’re having a conversation, ‘is this good?’ , ‘can I go here?’ , ‘I want more’ and it’s an answer as clear as writing when Akaashi kisses him back in just the same language, just the same tongue.

And boy, is there tongue. 

It’s probably a more intense first kiss than any other he’s had, hot and searing in a way that only weeks of wanting can produce. Osamu couldn’t care if he tried—besides, everyone has probably gone home and Osamu wouldn’t exactly mind if someone saw them anyway. It’s dark, like they’re swaddled in midnight. He’s also kissing a very pretty man and they don’t even know that that’s the least interesting thing about him. 

Akaashi’s hand finds its way to Osamu’s thigh, squeezing right above the knee and it’s like lightning at the crown of his head, shocking him down to the soles of his shoes and he realizes just how badly he fucking wants. He lets himself lick at the seam of Akaashi’s lips and grip his jaw firmly, like opening a chest and running his fingers over gold. Akaashi responds beautifully, letting Osamu explore slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world.

They kind of do, Osamu thinks. 

They do eventually leave the courtyard bench, once Akaashi’s lips are kiss-swollen—not much different from his own—and Osamu is feeling heat in places he has no right to in a public space. They walk back to the station together, silently. They’re not hand-in-hand or even touching at all, but they’re close enough to it that anyone with a good pair of eyes would assume they want to. 

☾

It’s the week before the semester ends when Osamu finally musters up the courage to tell him.

They’re sitting in Osamu’s living room, lounging on opposite ends of the couch but their feet are in each other’s laps, shins serving as the perfect laptop desk. Keiji has been typing at what seems like 100 WPM with the way his fingers clack aggressively against the keyboard and vibrate against Osamu’s legs. Probably some final essay, with how long he’s committed time to it. Keiji is zoned in, glasses resting on the tip of his nose and eyes scanning the page with a sure sense of determination. 

Osamu loves when he looks like this.

“‘M goin’ out!” Atsumu calls from the kitchen and Osamu can hear the clinking of keys that drags Keiji out of his daze, eyes flitting towards the sound of Atsumu’s voice.

Fucking Atsumu. 

“‘Kay,” Osamu calls back, his laptop has dimmed and it could probably be deemed sufficiently abandoned—it’s hard to concentrate when Keiji is right there. 

“Yer lookin’ gross, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says, ripping Osamu from his thoughts and bringing attention to his brother where he stands in front of the couch. He’s wearing a disgusted face that doesn’t match the rest of his outfit—his nicest jeans and what looks like a new button down.

“Whatever,” Osamu comments with an eye roll because he’s long stopped being embarrassed over things such as liking his boyfriend. “Where ya headed?” 

“Date,” Atsumu says as he squats in front of the dark television and fixes his collar in the reflection. “How do I look?”

‘Great,’ ‘Fine, ’ Keiji and Osamu respond at the same time and Osamu can’t help but smile over at him. 

“Who’s the sorry soul?” Osamu asks as Atsumu makes his way over to put on shoes. 

“Wouldn’t ya like to know!” Atsumu calls out after tying his laces—his good shoes, Osamu notes. “I’ll be back some time tonight. Or not, depending how well this goes.” 

Osamu makes a disgusted noise while Keiji responds, “Have fun, Atsumu-san.”

“Thanks Kaashi-kun! ‘Samu, lock the door.”

“No, you lock the door, you have the key—” Osamu can hear the door slam shut and he heaves out a sigh. 

“I got it,” Keiji chuckles and attempts to push Osamu off his lap but Osamu shakes his head and jumps up, leaving his laptop on the couch. 

“Nah, it’s okay, keep working,” Osamu says as he walks towards the door, but Keiji catches him by the shirt. 

“Can I get a kiss first?” Keiji requests, peering up at Osamu with big, round eyes.

“I’ll give ya more than that if you want,” Osamu smiles devilishly before leaning in and giving his boyfriend a soft kiss on the lips. 

When Osamu pulls back Keiji is shaking his head, “we have work to do.”

Osamu dramatically rolls his eyes with a ‘whatever ya say’ as he goes to lock the door and then heads to the kitchen to put on hot water. 

“Tea break?” he calls out to Keiji and Osamu can hear a faint ‘yes, please’ in response. 

They’ve only been officially dating for a month and not much had really changed, really, besides the kisses and touching. They still see each other for coffee, study together, and go to meetings together. 

Except, now, they call them ‘coffee dates’, studying often occurs in one of their homes, and sometimes they walk into meetings with mushed hair and shiny lips. 

Absolutely no one is surprised. 

Things had really been going fantastic. For one, Atsumu loves Keiji—which is worlds better than his feelings towards any one of Osamu’s past lovers. 

‘Ya finally found someone good, thank god, ‘Samu, I was gettin’ worried for a minute there,’ Atsumu had told him as soon as Keiji left their apartment after the first time he came over. It was followed up with a nice, ‘don’t fuck it up,’ but Osamu was so over the moon that he couldn’t even take it as an insult. 

Osamu often feels like he’s on cloud nine, even in the midst of grueling exams, which is a hearty leap from pre-Keiji Osamu with his underpaying job and friendless existence. He often forgets where he started to get where he is right now. 

Which brings him to the subsequent thought of where he started to get where he is right now. 

Keiji still doesn’t know that Osamu fabricated almost the entirety of their first meeting. It just hadn’t seemed like a big thing to focus on, now that they’re together and Osamu doesn’t actually mind being a part of the Literature Society. If anything, it adds big numbers to his quality of life.

But, there is the itch in the back of Osamu’s head that feels like he should just come clean and make sure that things keep going the way that they are, rather than living on a lie. Osamu is quite positive he’ll get a chuckle in return, maybe a shell-shocked look and ten minutes of some fake pouting and they’ll move on from it. Though, there is the smallest corner of Osamu’s mind, the doubt, that says it could turn the tides and really offend Keiji instead, make it so he questions everything Osamu has ever said or done.

He grabs two mismatched mugs from the cupboard and then shuts it, successfully leaving the thought behind the wood and with the glasses, before pouring hot water over jasmine tea—Keiji’s favorite—and returning back to the living room. He hands a warm mug to his boyfriend where he sits on the couch.

“Thank you,” Keiji smiles and takes it with both hands, his knees drawn close to his chest. His laptop is already resting on the coffee table and he’s pulled a blanket over his knees.

Osamu abandons his original seat to instead sit closer to Keiji, looping loose fingers around one of Keiji’s ankles just for the sake of touching. 

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while. Just long enough to collect his thoughts, and then Osamu takes a step off the diving board. 

“Can I tell you something?” Osamu asks, and he’s already kind of laughing about it. 

“Anything,” Akaashi replies simply, blowing on his tea and wiggling his socked-toes into Osamu’s thigh. Osamu leans over and kisses him on the forehead, just because he can, before continuing.

Here it goes. 

“So, I don’t really… read,” Osamu starts and it’s maybe not the strongest leg to stand on but he owns it nonetheless. “Well, I didn’t read before I joined the Literature Society.” 

Keiji watches him above the frame of his glasses, still blowing away the curls of steam when it licks at the lenses.

“Honestly, I had no idea what literature actually was, if ya could believe it,” Osamu chuckles awkwardly before clearing his throat. He mumbles out the next part, “I only joined because I thought you were really cute. Maybe I could get to know ya, guess it worked.” 

Akaashi lets out an amused chuckle but besides that, says nothing. He takes the first sip, closing his eyes gently and taking a deep breath like he’s ready to nose-dive into a downward dog, maybe do a vinyasa. 

Osamu tries to be patient, waits for a ‘no way!’ or a ‘you’re insane, I’m never speaking to you again’ but he gets none of that. 

Keiji sets the tea down on the table before wrapping his long arms around Osamu’s neck and planting a kiss on his lips, so soft that it makes Osamu’s skin pebble and dizzies him.

“Osamu,” Akaashi whispers when he pulls away, staring at Osamu’s lips before meeting his eye. He’s doing that thing where he’s biting back a smile and looking at Osamu like he’s the sun after rain. 

“In the kindest way possible, you’re kind of a bad liar.”