Chapter Text
Miya Atsumu becomes Keiji's mortal enemy within thirty minutes of meeting him. Keiji, who normally does not hate anyone, would think this is an impressive accomplishment, but that would require praising Miya (whom he hates).
That being said, Keiji, who is not liberal with his hatred of people, does openly hate wasting time, and parties, and wasting time at parties. His first semester was spent staunchly avoiding parties like this one; he has work to do, books to analyze, and professors to impress if he wants acceptance into their application-based courses, not to mention an impressive thesis advisor. Keiji doesn't have time for parties.
This fact still is true tonight, the night he meets and swears allegiance against Miya, but unfortunately for Keiji, Bokuto's persistence that he finally take a break and come spend time with your cool upperclassman, Akaaaaaaashi, come on is impossible to deny.
"I cannot stay late," Keiji repeats a third time as they arrive.
Bokuto beams as he throws the door open. "Of course! These club parties never go later than two, maybe three, three-thirty, don't worry."
Keiji sighs. "Bokuto-san—”
A loud cheer cuts off any remaining fight in Keiji as Bokuto is quickly whisked through the doorway. His friend's laugh trails into the building, and Keiji sighs once more and steps inside, muttering a quiet sorry for intruding.
Unsurprisingly, Keiji recognizes no one at the party. He resigns himself to following Bokuto's as surreptitiously as he can— close enough for Bokuto not to worry, far enough to not interrupt conversations— and, well. He manages. He excuses himself from introductions with well timed sips of a beer, and whenever Bokuto's newest friend turns to him to make small talk, Keiji makes sure to always be staring at his phone's mail app with a particularly furrowed brow.
He has spent hours in far more glamorous or productive ways, but if nothing else, he manages. When his watch reads ten minutes to midnight, Keiji taps Bokuto's shoulder.
"I'm going to head back," Keiji says. "Thank you for inviting me out tonight, Bokuto-san, this was fun."
His praise does little to soften Bokuto's wide frown. His disappointment is loud and exaggerated, even for Bokuto, and sits bright against his flushed face. "Already?"
"It's late," Keiji reminds him. "I'll message you when I arrive."
"No, I'll walk you home!" Bokuto says, and Keiji can't help but smile at the way his back straightens with newfound determination.
"There is no need—”
"Yeah, no need!"
Keiji blinks as an arm is thrown across Bokuto's back, pulling him away from Keiji. A man he's never seen before ruffles Bokuto’s hair, and Keiji is reminded of a pocket knife when he sees his grin. It’s simple, unassuming, and something he does not want pointed in his direction.
"Tsum-tsum!" Bokuto exclaims. "I didn't think we'd see you tonight!"
"Well, you nearly didn't," he says easily, glancing once towards Keiji. "Who leaves a party so early? Ya going soft on me, Bokkun?"
Bokkun, Keiji thinks.
"You wish!" Bokuto says, all bark and no bite.
"Prove it," the man shoots back. "Let's see who can out-drink the other. I'll even let'cha pick the game," he offers. Keiji gets the impression this man thinks he's being charitable. It makes Keiji’s eyebrow raise of its own accord.
Fortunately, it goes unnoticed by both men, as Bokuto shakes his head vigorously. "I can't, I've got to get Akaashi home safely! Akaashi, this my friend Miya Atsumu."
Miya deigns him a nod, but says nothing, already waving to ask someone to bring over more beers.
Keiji keeps his eyes on Miya's profile as he considers his words. "It is always a pleasure to meet one of Bokuto-san’s…" Miya turns back, meeting Keiji's gaze as he trails off. Carefully, Keiji smiles and says: "Friends.”
Not more than a second could have passed, but Keiji tracks the way Miya's relaxed composure shifts, like a camera lens clicking exactly into focus. Keiji retracts what he thought about Miya's expression: there is nothing unassuming about it.
"I'm sure he appreciates ya leaving all your friends so early just to keep him safe, huh, Bokuto-san?" Miya settles his hand back on Bokuto's shoulder.
Keiji's smile falters.
"Of course! But Akaashi's too kind like that, Tsum-tsum. He never lets you just help him, he has to always pay you back." At this, Bokuto narrows his eyes and juts his tongue out, as if the words were sour to say.
He forces himself to look to the side before the self-assured glint in Miya's eyes becomes any more stifling. "It's simply gratitude," he says, keeping his resolve steady. "As an example, Bokuto-san, since I am so grateful for your care, I'm happy to take your spot in this contest with Miya-san. We can leave after I win." He purses his lips. "It shouldn't take very long."
Bokuto bursts into laughter once more, and Keiji moves to settle near the table of drinks. He doesn't even need to check to confirm that Miya sees the smirk on his face.
Unfortunately, Keiji was too caught up in the impulsive need to crush Miya under his heel to remember that he has no idea how to play any of the many games Miya runs them through. In his defense, they don’t make sense.
“You made that up,” Keiji accuses after his third loss in a row.
“Yeah, you made that up!” Bokuto echoes, taking the drink out of Keiji’s hand and drinking it in two large gulps. Keiji snatches the cup back.
“There’s no need to take my drinks.”
Bokuto frowns. “But these are all my drinks in the first place!”
“If anything, you’re probably making him drink more,” Miya taunts from across the table. Keiji folds his arms across his chest, and his glare turns lethal when Miya mockingly does the same. “Bokkun actually knows how to play, ya know. What happened to that quick win?”
“We’re leaving now,” Keiji hisses, grabbing Bokuto’s hand.
“Wah! Akaashi, ow!”
“It was a pleasure, Miya-san.”
“Yer not even going to finish them?” Miya calls after them. Keiji spins back slowly, eyes settling first on Miya’s terrible, infuriating shit-eating grin, and then to the two remaining drinks set aside. “It’s only fair,” Miya continues, drawing each syllable out.
Keiji clenches his jaw, searching for anything to say, but all he can think of is you’re horrible and don’t look so proud and you’ve already won, do you have to rub it in? Miya watches him, eyes glinting, and Keiji decides that he hates him.
Staring into the table as if it may catch fire with enough effort, Keiji tips both drinks back, one after another, his nose wrinkling at the bitter scorch of each beer and liquor concoction in his throat. Miya claps slowly.
“Impressive,” he says. Keiji does not roll his eyes.
“A pleasure,” he repeats. “Farewell.”
As he drags a smiling and waving Bokuto away, Keiji tries and fails to keep his feeling of red-hot shame from his face. Never mind the wasted time— Keiji will never attend another party if this is all they have to offer.
Bokuto continues to hum and laugh the entire time they exit, and only seems to take notice of Keiji when they’re well on the way back to his apartment.
“Akaashi, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Bokuto-san,” Keiji says on instinct. Bokuto stumbles slightly when he moves in front of Keiji to stare at him warily. Keiji sighs. “Really.”
“Did you not have fun?” Bokuto asks, now gravely serious. Guilt lurches in Keiji’s throat.
“No, I did.”
“You don’t look like you did.”
“It’s that— that Miya!” Keiji snaps. Bokuto’s eyebrows fly up, and Keiji ducks to cover his face in his hands. The motion sets his balance off, just slightly, and Keiji realizes he lost track of his drinks quite some time ago. It’s that Miya indeed .
He can’t believe he left with his tail between his legs and allowed that annoyance to goad him into so many drinks. With the cold air on his face now, a hundred better responses and insults are on the tip of his tongue. It is only all the more infuriating for his wit to return to him now , when he’s got an intoxicated Bokuto to deliver home and no one else around to listen.
At least his shame will stay behind him; there is no chance Keiji will ever see Miya again.
“Never mind,” Keiji says stiffly, straightening back up. “I apologize for my outburst, Bokuto-san. I’m simply tired. This is your unit, yes?”
Bokuto turns back around, his arms comically flapping behind him, and nods. “Oh, yeah! It is. How’d we get here, Akaashi?”
Keiji huffs a quiet laugh. “We walked, remember?”
“Not really,” Bokuto responds pleasantly. He starts up the front steps, digging through his pockets, and drops his keys to the ground with a yelp. “Sorry!”
Keiji kneels down and grabs the keys, and as he does, hears footsteps to his right. On instinct, he looks over, and then immediately drops the keys again. He lifts his glasses up and rubs furiously at his eyes, ignoring Bokuto’s delighted laughter, and blinks twice. Incredible— absolutely incredible. His eyes aren’t failing him.
Miya.
The universe is either pitying him or giving him a second chance, and Keiji doesn’t care which at this point. He snatches up the keys once more, throws Bokuto’s door open, and promptly shoves his friend forward without ceremony. “Akaashi, whaa—”
“Drink some water, Bokuto-san,” he instructs before slamming the door shut.
Running while intoxicated may not be his strongest skill, but Keiji is still sliding to a clumsy stop outside Miya’s door in record time. He bangs his fist against the door twice. Fury and hatred churn in his stomach as he waits, and he knocks once more for good measure.
Finally, Miya opens the door. Keiji glares at his stupid, infuriatingly blank expression.
“Fuck you,” he says, and then he throws up on both their shoes.
It is not the gentle morning light filtering through a window that wakes Keiji in the morning. No— it is a nauseating, splitting pain behind his eyes and the sensation that his throat is on fire that serves as his internal alarm clock. Keiji rolls over, burying his face further into the pillow, and allows himself a pained groan, as if making noise would somehow fix the million ways his body seems to be rejecting itself.
When nothing seems to settle, he lifts his chin up, blearily glancing around him. Without his glasses, the details are faint, but the pale blue walls are enough to remind him he’s not in his own room. Keiji rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and reaches off the side of the futon Bokuto must have pulled out for him, feeling for his glasses. He doesn’t even remember making his way back to his friend’s apartment; maybe he should be lucky he isn’t even worse for wear than his current state.
Slipping on the glasses, Keiji spots a small plate nearby with two pills and a glass of water to its side. In front of the plate is a scrap of paper with the word painkillers written hastily. “Wow,” Keiji mumbles, a grin slowly stretching across his face. Bokuto’s thoughtfulness always appears when Keiji least anticipates it.
Keiji quickly takes the medicine, ignoring the way his stomach lurches when he sips the water. With any luck those pills are fast-acting, he thinks sourly, closing his eyes as his hangover pulses through his head once more. All this suffering for the sake of a lackluster evening. Keiji, you’re an idiot.
Carefully, Keiji rises from the futon and moves to the door. Hopefully Bokuto has enough fixings for a decent breakfast, or at least enough for Keiji to fuel his recovery. Already distracted by food, it takes Keiji longer than it should to realize he has never seen this apartment before.
Keiji freezes in place, halfway through an unknown hallway in a stranger’s unidentifiable home, and panics.
What has he done?
He turns back towards the bedroom, then stops, then turns back forward, then stops again, and pivots again and again, ignoring the dizziness the motion brings in favor of his running thoughts. Should he make a run for it? Should he pretend to sleep more and plan his escape? Should he fold up the futon? It’s rude of him not to, honestly, but should he really be concerned about politeness if he’s being kidnapped?
I should fold the futon, he decides once and for all, but just as he starts to spin, Miya appears from around the corner, his hair wet and an unamused look on his face.
Keiji scowls instinctively— it’s because of this fool and his ridiculous competition that Keiji’s insides are tumbling around like a washing machine. “Why are you here?” he asks, suddenly aware that he must have terrible bedhead and clothes that are wrinkled from sleep.
“I was going to ask you that, but then ya threw up on my shoes and passed out,” Miya responds.
“Well, I—” Keiji falters. He flushes as he remembers doing just that, and Miya’s stare only makes it worse. His eyes are unwavering, in a way that is both intimidating and annoying. How can he be so calm? How can he be so entitled after putting Keiji through hell last night?
Keiji’s scowl deepens. “You know it’s your fault that even happened, right?” Miya opens his mouth and Keiji holds his hand up, cutting him short. “Don’t even bother to deny it. Do you have any idea how disrespectful your actions were last night? I understand wanting Bokuto-san’s presence around, but to pressure him into drinking under the guise of friendship is childish. I only drank to the point of sickness because of you and—”
Miya lets out a groan so exasperated Keiji loses track of his own sentence. He blinks twice as Miya rubs a hand down his face and mutters something too quiet for Keiji to parse.
“I was saying something, Miya-san,” Keiji says, glaring.
“Fucking Atsumu,” Miya mutters again, louder.
“Pardon?”
Miya drops his hand and stares at Keiji. “I’m not the asshole who got you sick. I’m that asshole’s twin brother.” He glances up and down Keiji’s disheveled appearance. “Unfortunately.”
It takes Keiji several painfully awkward seconds to snap his jaw closed, his teeth making an audible click. “Oh no,” he says simply.
Miya Not-Atsumu exhales sharply, nearly a chuckle were it not for the way his mouth tightens into a grimace. It’s obvious now: his hair is darker from being wet, sure, but Atsumu’s hair was an obnoxious blond. The man in front of him has dark black hair and no idea who the hell Keiji is.
Keiji wishes he choked on his own tongue while he was asleep.
“I sincerely apologize for my yelling. And for the— um,” Keiji pauses and gestures stupidly downward, and they both stare at their feet. “The... vomiting.”
“Hm,” is what Miya says before turning around and walking away.
“Um?” Keiji manages.
“Sit down, will ya? I was making breakfast, it’s nearly ready.”
Miya is already gone behind a corner when he finishes, which is a blessing as Keiji immediately balks at the suggestion that he choose to remain here. He glances around and finds the front door past the kitchen entrance.
“Well, thank you, but I’ll be out of your way. Sorry for intruding again, and for interrupting your cooking—”
“Are you saying something?” Miya calls. Keiji clears his throat and starts to repeat himself, but Miya continues before he can. “Because from here, it sounded like you were gonna leave.”
Keiji frowns and steps toward the door. “That’s correct.”
Miya reappears, balancing several plates across his arms and hands. For the first time since Keiji has met him, Miya’s face does something other than gaze impassively. His eyebrow quirks as he looks between Keiji and his goal of escaping. “Don’tcha think ya owe me the story behind all this?”
Regrettably, Keiji knows he probably does. He’s aware that he is the rude one in this situation; technically Miya has done nothing but extend him kindness, first in the form of a futon, and now a meal that Miya seems to have made with the both of them in mind. Keiji doesn’t know what to make of such thoughtfulness from a stranger, though if he's learned anything from Atsumu, it’s that there’s surely something lying underneath it. He doesn’t want to wait around and find out.
But the scent of miso soup cuts through Keiji’s hangover like a razor, and the decision is made for him.
“I suppose I do,” Keiji concedes. Miya only waves at the spot across from him as he settles down at the table.
Keiji takes a few small bites of rice, wary of any additional wave of nausea, but it fortunately never comes. He starts on the other dishes eagerly, feeling his humanity starting to return to him.
“Ya like it?” Miya asks. Keiji looks up in surprise, and Miya points at him with his chin. “I can see it in your face.”
Ah, there it is, Keiji thinks. Miya twin similarity number one: a desire for validation as strong as it is “aloof.”
“It isn’t making me feel more ill,” Keiji says noncommittally. Miya waves his hand dismissively, which sparks a petty glee within Keiji.
“Alright, fine. You had an embarrassing night, just start there.”
And embarrassing it was. Aware that Miya is only going to relay these details back to his brother, Keiji takes care to withhold the most damning details, but he knows it will have little effect in the end. He's certain of how he comes across: clingy, awkward, and unfortunate. He is made all the more eager to leave the Miyas in the past.
“And then, I thought I saw your brother entering this apartment,” Keiji finishes, setting his chopsticks down. “So I came over here. I’m sure you remember the rest.”
“More than you do, I bet,” Miya says. Keiji kindly does not roll his eyes. “What was your plan, anyway? If I was Atsumu.”
Keiji taps his fingers on the table and frowns. “Revenge, I suppose.”
Miya snorts and immediately covers his mouth with his hand, as if that would do anything to hide the way his shoulders shake. It’s so entirely unexpected that Keiji cannot help but stare— this glimpse of Miya’s laughter is so warm in contrast to his unnerving gaze. Keiji wonders again what in the world he has gotten himself into.
“Well, you aren’t Atsumu. Who are you?” Keiji asks, schooling his eyes back to his food.
Just like that, the laughter is gone, and Miya settles into the table, resting his chin on his hand. “Osamu. You’re Akaashi Keiji, yeah?”
Keiji raises his eyebrows and Osamu smirks, seemingly proud of himself. “We’re in the same Introductory Philosophy course. That professor is ruthless with his grades, huh?”
Of course he knows the course Osamu is referring to; it’s a common choice for degree requirements and always hits max registration. Keiji is marginally interested in philosophy and significantly more interested in the literature courses which list it as a prerequisite, though at this moment he is most interested in the fact that this course is taught in one of the largest lecture halls on their entire campus. Keiji has to arrive early to get a halfway decent seat, there are so many students on the roster.
“How on earth did you learn my name there?” Keiji mutters.
There is a glint in Osamu’s eyes; Miya twin similarity number two. Keiji strongly dislikes this one and the misfortune it preludes.
“It’s hard not to know the name of the guy who never stops sucking up to the professor.”
“I do not do that!”
“Does it work?” Osamu continues, paying Keiji no mind. “Does he go easier on ya?”
Keiji bristles and stacks the empty plates in front of him instead of responding. He’s sure Osamu’s teasing him, but Keiji doesn’t understand why he’s avoiding the obvious gold mine: Osamu recognizes Keiji, but Keiji doesn’t recognize him. Osamu’s holding all the cards and Keiji has no idea what game they’re playing. Miya similarity number three, he thinks bitterly.
“No,” Keiji eventually says.
“Damn,” Osamu says, not sounding like he particularly cares at all. There’s a short silence as he collects the rest of the dishes on the table. Keiji is reminded that they are literal strangers.
“How did your friend end up?” Osamu asks, and Keiji is then reminded that he abandoned Bokuto.
Keiji jumps to his feet, knees knocking against the table. “I have no idea.” Before Osamu even has the chance to make a snide remark, Keiji has his feet crammed halfway into his shoes and the door open.
Keiji takes the steps two at a time, his heart pounding in his ears, and sprints to Bokuto’s unit. He cannot believe he forgot— he was eating breakfast and feeling sorry for himself, and for all he knows, he’s left Bokuto sprawled on the floor. He could be— he might have— what if he—
He throws the still unlocked door open and stumbles through it, barely catching his balance. Through the open entryway, Keiji’s best friend stands, shirtless and scratching his chest with one hand, a glass of water in the other. Bokuto’s face lights up.
“Akaashi!”
Taking a second to let his relief wash over him, Keiji nods and toes back out of his shoes. “You’re well?” He asks, still breathless.
“Never better!” Bokuto says, coming to meet Keiji. “I drank water like you said. I don’t think I’ve ever been less hungover.”
“Good.” Keiji glances over Bokuto’s ever sunny disposition; Keiji is a lucky man, for many reasons, he knows. “I was worried. Now I’m envious.”
Bokuto holds his glass out to Keiji, and he accepts it with a quiet thank you. “You never have to worry about me, Akaashi,” Bokuto says a moment later, watching Keiji drink. Keiji raises an eyebrow over the rim of the glass, earning a pout from Bokuto. “I’m serious! I was here all night. Where were you anyway, huh?”
Keiji accidentally inhales water instead of air and coughs frantically. Bokuto’s hearty smack between his shoulder blades does nothing to clear Keiji’s airway or his conscience. How is he to explain any of his actions in the past twelve hours?
“Akaashi, are you blushing?” Bokuto asks, bewildered.
“I am choking,” Keiji corrects him. Bokuto gives him another smack on the back.
“And also blushing.”
“I went back to my dormitory,” Keiji says. “I had an early appointment.”
Bokuto scrunches his nose, and they’re both aware Bokuto sees straight through Keiji’s shit. Keiji holds his ground anyway, even as Bokuto points at Keiji’s chest. “You haven’t changed clothes?”
Keiji shrugs. “It’s also laundry day.”
With an overexaggerated sigh, Bokuto turns back into his apartment. “You’re so weird, Akaashi. No one ever believes me when I tell them.”
I can name one person who certainly would, Keiji thinks, following Bokuto. Guilt nags at him once more, but Keiji is determined to push it aside. Bokuto is fine, Keiji will make it through his first college hangover, and the Miyas will fade from his memory soon enough.