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Keiji discovers his first flower when he is five.
He feels a mild sting on his ankle and rolls the hem of his jeans up, stopping short when he finds the white lily on his ankle, small but clear even against his pale skin. He attempts to scratch it off, but it remains stubbornly present.
“That’s your soulmate mark,” his mother explains when he asks her about it. “You get a flower on your skin when they’re hurt. And you’ll probably feel a tiny bit of their pain, too.”
“Hurt?” he exclaims in alarm.
“It’s a very small flower, so I doubt it’s anything serious,” she reassures him. “It’ll fade when his injury heals.”
Keiji looks down at his ankle a little dubiously. “I don’t want them to be hurt, though.”
Keiji’s mother laughs, and ruffles his hair. “You can’t help that, dear. All you can do is take care of yourself so you won’t make them worried too.” Seeing his expression, too serious to belong to a five-year-old, she adds, “And your flowers have meanings, too. You can tell what your soulmate is feeling by looking at the flower that appears on you.”
Keiji perks up. “Really?”
Over the next few years, Keiji watches- and feels- as flowers bloom all over his body, tiny clusters of white lilies and red poppies and freesias. They appear mostly in little pinpricks, but every now and again there will be a sudden twinge of pain that makes him sit up and gasp, and run his fingers gingerly over the marks for the weeks after that, until they finally fade from his skin.
Some nights, after a particularly large or painful flower appears, Keiji tosses and turns restlessly, sleep as elusive as a shadow, until he finally gets up and huddles by the window with his mother’s book of Japanese flower language. Keiji traces the meanings of his flowers on the fading yellow paper.
Purity. Fun-loving. Immaturity.
The flowers don’t stop appearing even as Keiji grows older, appearing with the same alarming frequency and quantity as they did when he was five, even as Keiji moves through life cautiously, never skipping a step along the way. He thinks he has to be the first and only high school athlete without a single injury from his sport, and wonders if that’s the reason he can’t match up to the likes of genius setters like Kageyama Tobio.
“Ah, Aghashee, you got another one!” Bokuto exclaims.
They are in the locker room before practice one day in Keiji’s second year, and the lively chatter around the room momentarily pauses as everyone turns to look at Keiji, who feels himself flush at the sudden attention. He looks down at his knees, where three white edelweisses are slowly but surely blooming, another few to match the growing clusters on his shins and knees. Courage .
“Your soulmate is so careless,” Konoha remarks. “You’d think they’d have learnt to take care of themselves by now.”
“I think it’s romantic,” Bokuto argues. “Y’know, ‘cause then Akaashi can be the one to take care of his soulmate. Right, Akaashi?”
Keiji hums noncommittally, and pulls on a pair of knee pads. The edelweisses disappear from sight.
“Sure it is,” he says.
In his defence, it’s not like Keiji is actively avoiding any opportunity to meet his soulmate.
He’s busy- between juggling his vice-captainship, Bokuto, his academics, and Bokuto, he doesn’t have much time to meet new people. Plus, if this person really is his soulmate, surely fate will find some way to thrust them into his hands.
“Bullshit,” Kenma says, when he tells him as much.
They are sitting in the stands at Spring Highs after Karasuno’s match against Inarizaki, watching the players slowly clear off the court. The Karasuno players are still lingering by the sidelines, high off their win, and Keiji watches detachedly as the bald spiker from Karasuno yells directly in his teammates’ face, full of energy despite the gruelling match.
“I know he tried to ask you out,” Kenma says. “Tanaka-kun, I mean.”
For someone who spends half his life living in video games, Kenma is as updated on the latest gossip as a tween girl in a cheesy coming of age movie. It is one of Keiji’s least favourite things about his friend.
“He’s definitely not my soulmate,” Keiji says. “Besides, he only has eyes for that Karasuno manager. I’m not interested in being a rebound.”
“Maybe,” Kenma replies. “But something tells me you didn’t even consider the possibility at all.”
Scratch that. Keiji’s least favourite thing about Kenma is definitely his annoying tendency to always hit the nail right on its head. It must show on his face, because Kenma cracks out a rare smile.
“And I heard that you didn’t exactly warm up to Bokuto quickly, either. At least not until after you found out he’d already found his soulmate,” Kenma adds. “Kind of a trend of yours, isn’t it? Avoiding people who look like they could be the reckless type.”
Knowing it is one thing, but it’s another thing to have it said to him, especially in such a matter-of-fact tone. Keiji is still mulling over it after he bids Kenma goodbye, and is lost in his thoughts as he rounds a corner and runs headfirst into the person on the other side. Or at least he would, if not for the fact that the person catches him by the shoulders just in time.
“Whoa,” the person says. “Careful, there.”
Keiji jerks away hastily, and looks up to meet their gaze. “Miya…” he trails off.
“Osamu,” he finishes. Keiji reflexively ducks his head in embarrassment and Osamu smiles easily, small but genuine. He’s probably the same height as Keiji, but his presence makes him seem bigger. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first to get us mixed up. Kinda why we dyed our hair.”
Keiji kind of wants to fall through the floor anyway. “Right,” he manages. “You played a good game, Miya-san.”
“I suppose it was.” Osamu’s eyes flick across his face briefly and Keiji feels his cheeks warm up inexplicably. He puts it down to the embarrassment still swirling in the pit of his stomach. “You played a good game too, Fukurodani setter. I watched your first match. Somehow monster players are ten times more troublesome when they’re on your side of the court, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Keiji agrees. “I suppose you would know that.”
Right on cue, a blond head pops around the corner. “‘Samu! Quit dawdling, asshole!” Miya Atsumu yells.
“Speak of the devil,” Osamu sighs, but his tone is laced with fondness. “See you around, Fukurodani setter.”
“Akaashi,” he blurts out. “Akaashi Keiji.”
The smile reappears. It wraps around Keiji’s shoulders, the ghost of a warm, steady grip. “See you around, Keiji-kun. Try not to run into any walls until then.”
The final whistle blows. Keiji’s knees give out immediately, but he catches himself from falling just in time.
“Well, it is what it is,” Onaga says as they’re cooling down afterwards. “You did a good job, captain.”
Keiji knows he did. Their new team is good, full of experienced second and third years and first-years full of potential. Yet the twinge of disappointment still burns all the same, part of it because he’d still clung on to some hope to lead the team to victory in his last tournament, even though no one can quite fill the Bokuto-shaped hole in their offense.
The other part of it probably has something to do with the brackets on the large board in the entrance hall of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, where a highlighter mark could have joined Fukurodani Academy and Inarizaki High had they won this game. Probably. Keiji is not about to admit anything like that to himself soon, especially given how ridiculous the whole thing is considering he’s exchanged a grand total of less than ten sentences with some player from the team.
Not just some player , a traitorous voice whispers in his ear. It sounds distinctively like Kenma.
When he leaves the locker room, his phone pings with a text.
Kuroo-san [18:09]
AKAASHI!!!!!!!!
UR GONNA MAKE UR OLD MAN CRY.
U GREW UP SO WELL.
Ok Kou broke down so I’m taking my phone back
You did good though :D We’d take u out for a meal to celebrate, but Kou has to catch the 7pm train back to Osaka and I have a demon paper from hell due midnight
Catch u next time, ok? :)
Still smiling, Keiji types out a reply on his phone as he heads out of the building into the cool spring evening. There are more people on the street than usual, teams having flooded into Tokyo for the Spring Nationals, but Keiji weaves through them without looking up from his phone, long used to the hustle of the city.
Now, on a normal day, Keiji is a very careful person. He always packs an umbrella in his bag before leaving the house. He does all his stretches meticulously before every match. He never skips a step on the stairs.
However, Keiji’s normal routine does not account for the physical and mental fatigue of playing back-to-back games on consecutive days, or the fact that he had been up all night running over plays in his head. Consequently, Keiji doesn’t quite register the insistent calls behind him to “ Get out of the way, boy! ” until the bicycle is right behind him.
The sidewalk is narrow, so Keiji would probably have been steamrollered if not for the arm that wraps around his waist then and yanks him out of the way. The cyclist zooms past, muttering something about kids these days being too obsessed with their phones.
Keiji blinks up at the face of his unlikely rescuer, not quite believing his eyes. “Miya-san?”
Osamu lets go of Keiji, who shouldn’t have any business feeling as bereft as he does at the loss of contact. “When I said not to run into any walls, I didn’t mean you could go running into bicycles , Akaashi-kun.”
Keiji splutters. Osamu laughs, a sound that sends tingles to Keiji’s toes. “Relax. I’m just teasin’.”
Get it together , Keiji tells himself firmly. Do not think about his accent . He counts to three before putting a smile on his face and forcing himself to meet Osamu’s gaze.
“Thank you,” he says. “What brings you here, Miya-san?”
“The Spring Tournament,” Osamu replies, raising an eyebrow amusedly. Keiji is going to buy a plane ticket to the Arctic tomorrow. Then he can freeze to death in peace, and never have to think about Miya Osamu ever again. “Although if you’re asking about why I’m right here,” thank God , Keiji thinks, “I’m trying to find a good place to have dinner.”
Keiji looks around, and realises that his vicinity is noticeably void of the crowd of maroon jackets that usually surrounds him. Osamu himself has changed out of his uniform into street clothes, a black T-shirt tucked into worn blue jeans, his duffel slung over a shoulder. “You’re not with your teammates?”
“Nah,” Osamu scoffs. “They are all going back to the hostel and eating there. But the food sucks.”
“I see,” Keiji says. He knows there is an invitation on the tip of his tongue, but doesn’t quite know how to draw it out-
“Have you eaten?” Osamu peers at him. “You look awfully pale.”
Keiji shakes his head, and Osamu tsks. “Every meal is the most important meal of the day, Akaashi-kun.”
“Keiji,” he blurts out. “My friends call me Keiji.”
His friends absolutely do not. “Okay, Keiji-kun,” Osamu’s eyes reflect tiny pinpricks of light from the billboards above. “Would you happen to have any recommendations for a good place for katsu curry for a friend visiting Tokyo?”
Keiji does. Osamu’s smile widens so Keiji catches a glimpse of teeth, white and endearingly crooked. “And if said friend were to be unfamiliar with the city and also happened to be terrible at directions, would you be inclined to join him for dinner?”
“Yes,” Keiji says too quickly, but doesn’t have time to regret it because Osamu’s answering smile nearly sends him sprawling all over the pavement again. “Let’s go.”
Keiji is still in a daze when he settles down opposite Osamu in the corner of a tiny basement restaurant ten minutes later, Osamu rubbing his hands in anticipation as he takes in the steaming plates of curry rice the waitress sets down in front of them. Keiji opts instead to take in the way the lightbulb above illuminates dark roots below Osamu’s messy silver hair.
“... doesn’t it?” Osamu is saying.
Keiji blinks. “Huh?”
Osamu narrows his eyes at him. “When was the last time you had a full eight hours of sleep? Or a full meal?”
Keiji’s smile lands somewhere a little south of wry. “I have a team to run, Miya-san. And entrance exams to pass, since not all of us are going pro.”
“That’s no excuse not to take care of yourself,” Osamu chides, pushing a plate closer to Keiji. “And wrangling Atsumu is a full-time job, mind you. ‘Sides, I’m not going pro either.”
Keiji’s spoon pauses on its way to his mouth. “You’re not?”
“Nah,” Osamu says. “Not my scene. Now, eat.”
Keiji has about a billion more questions, but is forced to file them away for later as Osamu begins shovelling food into his mouth in earnest. He had ordered a portion twice the size of Keiji’s with extra potatoes, half-boiled eggs, and chicken, but he still manages to clear all of it in the time it takes Keiji to finish half his plate. Osamu, Keiji reflects, was one of those people who could make others full just by watching him eat. Despite the speed at which the food disappeared into his mouth, he was a surprisingly neat eater, as if he couldn’t bear to let even one crumb go to waste by dropping it on the table.
Osamu insists on getting dessert afterwards, which is how they wind up strolling through Ginza, cones of ice-cream in hand. Keiji gets a simple hojicha swirl, which dwarfs in comparison to the extravaganza that is Osamu’s triple scoop sesame-vanilla-matcha ice-cream, topped with chopped peanuts and five different kinds of sauces.
(“I can’t tell you how nice it is to be eating with someone who isn’t Atsumu or Suna,” Osamu says. “Those bastards have to take pictures from, like, fifty different angles before I’m allowed to take a bite of my food.”)
“Should you be eating this much food?” Keiji ventures as Osamu hands over a wad of notes to another vendor in exchange for two paper bags- one red bean taiyaki and one peanut taiyaki. “You still have a whole day of matches ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Where do you think I’m going to get the energy from?” Osamu replies, handing a bag to him. “‘Sides, why would I come to the best food district in Tokyo and have, like, a single popsicle? Or whatever it is those food blogger tourists eat. Such a waste.”
It is past ten when they find themselves in front of the metro station, Keiji’s stomach just about bursting. Yet he can’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of sleepy contentment, the kind that comes after a good meal, the edges of his vision pleasantly blurred every time he blinks.
They stand in comfortable silence for a moment. The noise of the city fades to a quiet buzz, and Keiji is sure that if he glances at the giant clock above the station, he’ll see the second hand frozen in place, suspended in time.
“So…” Keiji starts.
“I had fun today,” Osamu offers. “Thanks for showing me around Tokyo, Keiji-kun. We should do this again sometime.”
Keiji knows that Osamu had probably intended that last sentence to be nothing more than a throwaway promise, but he foolishly lets it echo in his mind anyway, and it writes itself into the walls of his chest. We should do this again sometime . “It was my pleasure.”
“I leave for Hyogo right after my last game tomorrow,” Osamu says regretfully. “At three in the afternoon.”
“Ah,” Keiji doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. “I suppose you’d better head back then. Good luck for your games tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he says, and Keiji turns to leave, ducking his chin into his scarf to hide his smile. Then Osamu calls out to him again.
“Keiji,” he starts. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, looking a little nervous for the first time that night. “Before you go- can I ask for your number?”
“Look, it’s very simple,” Kenma tells him severely. “Just say: Osamu-san, have you met your soulmate?”
“It’s not that simple,” Keiji groans. “And I call him Miya-san.”
Kenma mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “hopeless” under his breath. He sighs and readjusts the controller in his grip, fingers flying over the buttons as he keeps his eyes fixed on the monitor in the corner of their shared dorm room. “If he doesn’t know who his soulmate is, just compare your flower tattoos and see if he has matching scars. Simple.”
“He can’t be my soulmate,” Keiji’s voice is muffled by the pillow he’s currently burying his face in. “He’s too careful to have that many injuries.”
“Well,” Kenma says. “Even if he isn’t, tons of people date others who aren’t their soulmates. Plus, your soulmate could be platonic.”
Keiji knows this. But he also knows that even if he does start anything with Osamu, he wouldn’t be able to rid himself of the thought that Osamu belongs to someone else. And, as much as he tries to forget it, so does Keiji.
The flowers have stopped appearing abruptly in the past few months since Keiji started university. Keiji tells himself he doesn’t care, but couldn’t help the relief that had washed over him anyway when he woke up each morning with his arms and legs void of any marks. Then when it had been three months without any new flowers appearing he’d begun to feel the beginning trickles of worry, enough to pull up Google and look up ‘ how do I know if my soulmate is dead ’.
Your soulmate is still somewhere out there if you still have flowers that symbolise their permanent scars , the website reads. Don’t worry!
Keiji had promptly darted over to the mirror and lifted his shirt, exhaling heavily when his eyes found the cherry blossom he’d sported on his ribs since he was ten, as bright as the day it had bloomed.
But it doesn’t mean anything. His soulmate only exists in the marks on Keiji’s body, nothing more than an insubstantial concept. What is decidedly more real are the texts that consistently ping in on Keiji’s phone, that had turned into weekly dinners at some hole-in-the-wall restaurant ever since Osamu started school at the culinary institute across the city.
“It isn’t like that,” Keiji says instead. “He just moved to Tokyo, he’s probably just feeling lonely-”
“I wonder if Waseda will revoke your scholarship if they could hear how idiotic you sound right now,” Kenma says.
Keiji throws him a dirty look, just as his phone beeps. “That’s your cue to leave,” Kenma says. “Enjoy your date. Use protection.”
“Not a date,” Keiji mutters, but Kenma’s quiet chuckles follow him down the corridor anyway.
Keiji accompanies Kuroo and Bokuto to get their first tattoos, right on Kuroo’s 20th birthday.
“Bro,” Bokuto says in awe as he watches a rose bloom on his bicep as the needle pricks against Kuroo’s skin. “We’re homies for life , dude.”
“How many Jagerbombs did he have again?” Keiji asks. “I thought you were supervising him.”
“He forgets we’re soulmates every time he gets wasted,” Kuroo snorts. “Also, should I get a dick tattoo? I kinda want to see Kou walk around with a bunch of flowers in the shape of a dick for life.”
The tattoo artist informs him with the weary air of someone who has repeated this a thousand times that no, that is not how it works. Kuroo pouts, and settles for a tattoo of a cat sitting at a table that Keiji doesn’t quite understand, which is fine. He’d given up on understanding Kuroo and Bokuto years ago.
Later, Keiji and Kuroo sit on the curb outside the convenience store, ice-creams in hand, as Bokuto dozes on the pavement with his head in Kuroo’s lap.
“Is it bad,” Keiji says, “if I never want to meet my soulmate?”
He doesn’t know what makes him say it, but one of his favourite things about Kuroo is that the guy is practically unshakeable. He doesn’t bat an eye at this statement either, just rolls his shoulders back and chuckles.
“You’re young, Akaashi-kun,” Kuroo says sagely. “Don’t rule out love when you’ve only just reached your legal age! Rejoice in being able to drown heartache in alcohol!”
Keiji gives him an unimpressed stare, and Kuroo laughs out loud, boisterous and unapologetic. It’s one of his least favourite things about his friend.
“Aghashee wants love,” Bokuto slurs from Kuroo’s lap. “He wants love with Myaa-sam.”
“Miya,” Keiji corrects automatically, just as Kuroo goes, “Oho?”
“I wish I’d never told you anything, Bokuto-san,” Keiji grumbles. Kuroo’s laugh, if possible, gets even louder and even more boisterous.
“Listen well, my kouhai!” Kuroo booms. “When I first met Kou, didja think my first thought was ‘damn, that’s my soulmate’?”
“No,” Keiji says grudgingly.
“I thought ‘damn, he’s hot’,” Kuroo says with a sleazy grin. Keiji makes a face. “And then I wanted to get to know him more! So I did. And the more I got to know him, the more I realised that if I had a type, it would be him. And then we found out we were soulmates, and the rest is history!”
“But you wouldn’t have stayed together if you weren’t soulmates, right?”
“Who knows?” Kuroo says. “The point is that by the time I found out we were, it already didn’t matter.”
Of course, actually bringing the subject up with Osamu is easier said than done.
In all his friend groups, Keiji is the established ‘quiet one’. Not that he has a problem with it- he likes listening to his friends ramble about their days and their latest fixations, watching their eyes light up as he chases their tangents.
So it comes as a bit of a shock when he realises that against all odds, he doesn’t know that much about Osamu despite the fact that they’ve been acquainted for the better part of two years. Osamu is full of questions on their weekly outings, asking about everything from Keiji’s recently played songs on Spotify to whether he would ever consider a piercing. Keiji finds himself doing most of the talking, Osamu only gently prompting him during the rare lulls in their conversations.
Which is why Keiji is thrown in quite the loop when he visits Osamu’s apartment for the first time and Sakusa Kiyoomi opens the door.
“Uh,” he says. “Hi?”
Sakusa looks down on him from his considerable height, no mean feat since Keiji isn’t exactly short himself. Keiji checks the address Osamu gave him again- it’s the right unit number.
Osamu had never mentioned a roommate, much less one who is the top spiker in the high school volleyball circuit and who is currently looking at Keiji like he discovered an unpleasant infestation under his sink.
“You must be Akaashi Keiji,” he says in a complete monotone. Then he spins around and disappears into the apartment, leaving Keiji to hastily toe his shoes off and scramble in after him.
“Hey!” Osamu greets cheerfully. He’s standing at the kitchen island, a truly impressive array of food before him. “Glad you made it here okay.”
“Um, yes,” Keiji says haltingly, still frazzled from his encounter with Sakusa. “Was that…?”
“Oh, don’t mind Sakusa,” Osamu laughs. “He’s always like that. ‘Suppose I can’t complain, though, since he’s letting me stay at his place for free and all. Perks of being his soulmate’s brother.”
“Oh!” Keiji says. “Atsumu’s soulmate.”
“Yep.” Osamu pops the ‘p’, and gives him a faint, knowing smile that has Keiji flushing. “Shall we eat?”
As Osamu busies himself with preparing their plates, Keiji takes a look around the apartment. It’s spacious, with a separate living and dining area that is rare in most Tokyo apartments these days. Sleek oak panels and leather furniture complete the elegant look of the flat, out of odds with Osamu’s down-to-earth personality.
“Itadakimasu.”
Keiji shouldn’t be surprised that dinner tastes better than anywhere else they’ve eaten thus far- Osamu is at culinary school after all. Even so, he can’t hide the ungodly groan that escapes him as he bites into the chicken cutlet and immediately claps a hand over his mouth in horror.
Osamu stares at him for a beat and bursts into full-bellied laughter. It reverberates off the walls of the house, and suddenly the room feels a little warmer, the atmosphere a little lighter. Most of all, it transforms Osamu’s face from handsome to breathtaking.
Keiji hardly knows what to do with himself after that. He barely makes it through the rest of the meal on autopilot, nodding and smiling on cue while internally racking his brains for a way to somehow bring the topic of soulmates up.
“You look tired today, Keiji,” Osamu says as they’re putting the dishes away. He gives him a scrutinising look, and Keiji has to grip the counter for support. “Let me make you a drink.”
Before Keiji can protest, Osamu is at the bar- Sakusa has a home bar - expertly pulling out a couple of bottles and flasks.
“I’m taking a mixology course in school,” he explains as he deftly handles the dizzying array of drinks. “Not what I plan to go into, but it’s always fun.”
“Ah,” Keiji says, and steels his nerves. “You said Sakusa and your brother are soulmates, right? How did they meet?”
“All Japan Camp. It’s the most idiotic soulmate story, I swear- they both jumped for a block and crashed right into each other. Found out they were soulmates in the changing room. Very unromantic, if you ask me.” Osamu chuckles, but there is fondness written all over his face. “But I’m happy for them. They suit each other.”
“And don’t you want that for yourself too?”
At that, Osamu puts down the flask in his hands. Keiji can hardly breathe as he stays quiet for a second, then two.
“I don’t have a soulmate,” Osamu says at last. “For as long as I can remember, I haven’t gotten any marks. Not a single one. I gave up hoping years ago.”
“Oh.” Keiji feels overwhelming relief, and then guilt. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Nah, it’s cool.” Osamu flashes him a brief smile. “How about you? Ever want to meet yours?”
“I don’t believe in predestined romance,” Keiji says. “Or even predestined friendship. I prefer to focus on whatever’s in front of me.”
“And do you like it? Whatever’s in front of you?”
Before Keiji can answer, Sakusa suddenly emerges into the living area with a bag in hand, clearly heading out. “I’ll be gone for the evening,” he says, and the spell is broken. “Don’t worry, I brought my keys this time.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and when Keiji turns back to Osamu, he’s already busying himself with pulling out a lemon and a chopping board, head bent over so that his expression is concealed.
“Lemon garnish is fine, right?” Osamu’s tone is light, but his hands are shaking just a little as he positions the knife over the fruit. “Sorry, it’s the only kind of garnish I have- ah, shit.”
Osamu pulls his hand away from the chopping board, and Keiji realises that he’s cut his left index finger. It’s a shallow cut, just the faintest pink line, but it makes Keiji’s heart stutter with worry anyway.
“Well, this is embarrassing for a chef,” Osamu laughs. “To think I’ve managed to get through nearly a year at culinary school without ever slicing into my fingers once, only for me to slip up while making drinks.”
“I have a band-aid somewhere,” Keiji says hurriedly. He flicks his wallet open, hastily searching for it, and then it catches his eye. A tiny, ruby-red rose, blooming on the index finger of his left hand, on the exact same spot as Osamu’s cut.
Love .
Keiji drops his wallet.
“Are you okay?” Osamu’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away as Keiji stares down at the rose. It’s him. How can it be him?
“Do you need to sit down?” Osamu’s face comes back into focus, and Keiji takes in his earnest, open face, eyes wide in concern. “I’ll just bring your drink to you-”
I gave up hoping years ago .
It’s too much for Keiji to handle. He snaps back to it, curling his hand into a fist. “I- I have to go,” he stutters, backing away slowly. “Thanks for dinner. For everything.”
Ignoring Osamu’s protests, he snatches up his bag from the floor and flees. The journey back to his dorm is a blur. Keiji vaguely registers sprinting down the stairs in Osamu’s apartment, foregoing the lift altogether, and jumping on the first bus that arrives at the stop.
He trips up the steps to his room, banging his shin as he trips on the way up. But he barely registers the pain, only hastily scrambling back up and slamming his room door open with a bang.
Kenma and Kuroo look up from the monitor at the corner of the room, gaming consoles in hand. “You’re back early,” Kenma says. “How was dinner with your pretty boy?”
“It’s him,” Keiji gasps, and then collapses face-first on the bed.
Keiji can sense Kenma and Kuroo exchanging concerned looks behind him. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, babe,” Kuroo says.
But Keiji doesn’t elaborate. What’s there to say? That the one guy he’s ever liked turns out to be his soulmate, but he doesn’t believe his soulmate even exists because Keiji has been that careful his whole life?
He somehow changes out into pajamas and pulls the covers over his head, despite it barely being eight in the evening. Maybe this is all a nightmare, he thinks. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and all his problems will be gone.
He wakes up to a series of texts from Osamu.
Miya Osamu [19:30]
Are you okay??
You kinda ran out on me
Was it something I said?
Miya Osamu [20:42]
At least tell me if you got home okay?
Miya Osamu [23:43]
Hey, can we talk? I think we should talk
Miya Osamu [00:06]
[Location]
I’ll be here at eleven in the morning tomorrow
You don’t have to, but I’d really like it if you came
Keiji is a man of great mental fortitude. Unfortunately, this mental fortitude has met its match in Miya Osamu, which is how Keiji finds himself entering the tiny, quaint cafe in a corner of Koenji at eleven on the dot.
Osamu is already seated at a table in the corner. For once, he doesn’t look up right as Keiji enters. Keiji takes in the dark rings under his eyes and the way he folds and unfolds his fingers together nervously, and feels a stab of guilt.
“Hi,” Keiji says quietly as he settles into the seat opposite Osamu, whose head jerks up immediately. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
They both pretend to be busy poring over their menus for a moment, but then the waitress arrives all too soon to take their orders and whisk their menus away, leaving them with no choice but to meet each other’s gaze.
“So-” They start at the same time, and then stop.
“Okay, you go first,” Osamu says.
“No,” Keiji says. “I’m always doing the talking, Miya-san. You start, please.”
“I can’t believe you’re still calling me that.” Osamu huffs out a laugh, and his normal self returns for a second. “Okay,” he takes a deep breath. “Keiji.”
“Yes,” Keiji says.
Osamu takes another deep breath, and then says in a rush, “I know your friends don’t call you Keiji.”
That was not what Keiji had been expecting at all. “What?”
“Yeah, Bokuto told ‘Tsumu, who told me,” Osamu says, words spilling out like water rushing through a broken dam. “I’m not just another friend to you, am I? Or maybe I am, and I’ve read this horribly wrong, but I don’t think I am. Either way, it’s probably pretty obvious that I’ve really liked you for a while. God, I like you so much. But-”
“Wait, wait.” Keiji’s head is spinning. “Slow down, please.”
Osamu’s eyes are open and vulnerable as he stares back at Keiji. “I don’t want to meet my soulmate, either.”
“What?”
“I found out my soulmate exists yesterday,” Osamu says breathlessly, and rolls up his pant leg to reveal a chrysanthemum, white as freshly fallen snow, on his shin, the exact spot where a bruise is no doubt blooming on Keiji. “After all these years, when I thought-”
He cuts himself off. “Anyway, I really, really like you. Hell, I might even love you. I’m pretty fucking sure I do. So I don’t care who my soulmate is, Keiji. I don’t ever need them, if you’ll have me.”
Keiji doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He doesn’t even know what to say. “I…”
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way,” Osamu says. “I swear, just say the word and I’ll leave you alone. We can go back to the way things were-”
“Osamu,” Keiji interrupts firmly, and feels a thrill zip up his spine. “When you were eleven, you got an injury on your left rib. It left a permanent scar, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, ‘Tsumu got stuck on the roof and I fell while trying to save him,” Osamu says, clearly confused. “What has that got to do with anything?”
Keiji continues regardless. “You got another scar on your right knee at thirteen. And another on your back at seventeen. And yesterday…”
He holds up his hand, and Osamu sucks in a breath audibly as he catches sight of the rose on the tip of Keiji’s finger.
“You…” Osamu trails off, and reaches out to graze the red bloom with the tip of his fingers, transfixed. Keiji feels warmth spread through his body at the point of contact.
“And if I ask you again,” Keiji’s voice comes out as a whisper. “Would you want to meet your soulmate?”
“Keiji,” Osamu says in awe. Life has returned to his eyes, and his face is brilliantly flushed. Keiji will never be as enraptured by another face in his life. “Pinch me. Tell me this isn’t a dream.”
“I thought there was no way you could be my soulmate,” Keiji admits. “You always seemed so careful. How did you even get so many injuries?”
“That’s what happens when you grow up with an idiot for a twin makes it his mission to drag you into trouble,” Osamu mutters. “Stupid ‘Tsumu.”
Keiji laughs, unbelievably feeling a million tons lighter. “To think I never wanted to meet my soulmate because I thought he would be some careless jerk.”
“I still could be,” Osamu says, but his eyes are twinkling again. If Keiji weren’t already sitting down, his knees would have given out. “You never know, Keiji.”
“Sure,” Keiji agrees. “I like you as you are, though.”
Osamu buries his face in his hands. “Keiji,” his groan is muffled in his palms. “You can’t just spring that on me. Give me some time to prepare.”
“But it’s true,” Keiji says, lips quirking slightly. “I think it’s pretty obvious that I like you, too. So much,” he adds for emphasis.
Osamu stands up abruptly. “Okay, this is it. My threshold has been reached. Are we getting out of here, or what?”
“Where to?” Keiji asks, already on his feet.
Osamu slaps a wad of cash, definitely way too much for their two coffees, on the counter on their way out. “Somewhere,” he says. “Anywhere. I’m about to kiss that smirk right off your face.”
“Are you, now?”
“And then you can show me the mark for the scar you mentioned, the one on your rib. And the one on your back, and knee-”
“Are you asking me to strip in public, Osamu?” Keiji says, barely stifling a smile.
“No,” Osamu says immediately, curling an arm around Keiji’s waist possessively. Keiji leans in, natural as breathing. “Definitely not in public.”
Keiji lets out a proper laugh then, and Osamu looks at him with the awe of someone catching sight of a shooting star as they fall into step next to each other, towards the rest of their lives.
“Patience,” Keiji says, smiling. The ground under his feet is as steady as Osamu’s hand on his waist. “All in good time.”