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♬
The bar is dimly lit and helps, a little, to soothe the growing headache forming behind Tetsurou’s eyes.
Go out and get some fresh air, Akaashi said.
You’ve been staring at that notebook for hours, Akaashi said.
A goddamn traitor too is what he is. Akaashi tends to spend a majority of his days plucking at his violin, jotting haunting notes down on bars like the notes weren’t about to be one of the best scores to grace the world of classical music. He’d begun going to his studio for practice instead of their shared apartment–he would say it was because he didn’t want to disturb Tetsurou’s “practice” but Tetsurou knows it’s the kindest way of Akaashi saying he doesn't want to make Tetsurou’s mood any worse.
God, Tetsurou remembers when he would turn on the radio and the music that flooded from his stereo didn’t cause him to cringe. The times when he’d sit at salt and pepper keys and a headache wasn’t right behind his fingers over the piano.
He’s not jealous. The head of the green monster hasn’t bared it’s disgusting head in a while. He’s tired of walking past his grand piano each morning when he wakes up. Tired of feeling estranged as he barely plucks a tune and his scales fall on his ears in a scraping, jarring sound that would force anyone who heard to turn tail and walk the other direction.
Tetsurou had been sitting more often at his piano, staring at the salt and pepper keys waiting, hoping that their flavor would touch his tongue again, for months.
He had tried to do some research, scoured every loose end he could, and most of the results he found were the same.
Wait.
Give it time.
Travel, take a break.
The act of sitting is still an accomplishment.
Except he’s never felt more disappointed in himself.
“You didn’t have to come out Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says at the table they’re sitting, one close to the stage. The bar they’re at is less what Tetsurou would call a bar but an actual restaurant that’s focused on live bands entertaining the crowd. The Rock Kitchen it’s called. It doesn’t look like much of an uppity place from the dark walls, the crimson lights overhead, but Tetsurou had read up on it one their ride over. Tickets for the shows are usually sold out months before, when certain bands and singers are announced, and reservations are taken in the same amount of time.
Akaashi had evidently already snatched tickets for whoever would be playing that night–a band by the name of The Croaking Crows. But after seeing Tetsurou groaning into a pillow on their couch after he’d come home, he’d urged Tetsurou to join him in the only way Akaashi can urge people–with a cloak-and-dagger stealth Tetsurou thought he’d grown used to over the years, but Akaashi had stared at him, unblinking and unwavering, and now they’re here.
Each table and booth throughout the establishment is full–packed with bustling and excited people. Tetsurou wishes he felt as enthusiastic as them. Even Akaashi seems eager–dressed in a long sleeved, white button up that’s unbuttoned right below his collar bones, eyes hidden by his black framed glasses, the lights flash against his eyes as he looks back at Tetsurou.
“Yes, I did,” Tetsurou sighs, leaning back against his chair as a server comes around and places the neat drinks they’d ordered on their table. One pomegranate martini for Akaashi and a whiskey sour for himself. Hopefully the tingle of alcohol would help this ordeal blow over faster. Then he could go home and mope around again. “Plus, I’d never meet your new boytoy if you didn’t insist on me coming along.
Akaashi’s eyebrows pinch and draw down. “Atsumu’s not my ‘boytoy’.”
“Then why did you know exactly who I was talking about?”
“Because, guess what Kuroo, I know him and know he’s the singer. How else do you think I got the tickets?”
Kuroo raises an eyebrow, sending Akaashi a smirk. “Ohh, that’s how you got them?”
“Not like that you absolute–”
Notes begin to trill throughout the restaurant cutting off whatever insult Akaashi was going to lay on him. Tetsurou turns his eyes towards the stage where the band members have settled at their respective instruments.
Dum, dum, dum dum dum.
Lyrics begin, and they’re soft against the mic from the main singer but Tetsurou’s eyes skate over him, beyond the two guitarists, towards the drummer who’s sitting there.
The lyrics continue to trickle over his head, through the soft beginning and the barely-there acoustic, past his ears and given back to the ground that yawns towards the band, ready to devour the song that’s being poured into their mouths.
Tap.
The drums come back in.
Tap, tap, tap.
The drummer’s hands clutch the drumsticks and drop into a beat that mirrors its clutch on Tetsurou’s heart.
It’s strange, the feeling that washes down his spine. He tingles. His toes curl in his shoes and his fingers tap along the edges of his whiskey glass.
“Who’s that?” Tetsurou asks.
Akaashi’s gaze slides from where they’d held onto Atsumu at the mic, over Tetsurou’s shoulders to who he’s acknowledging.
Akaashi hums, a sound he hardly hears past the music, and turns his steel gaze back to Tetsurou.
And Tetsurou waits for his answer, even as Akaashi purposefully pulls his martini glass to his lips. He draws in a slow sip, raising his eyebrows at Tetsurou in the process.
He can’t take his eyes off of him. The drummer. Isn’t that the most cliche thing Tetsurou has ever told himself. The man on the drums is mesmerizing though—first in the subtle flicks of his wrists and the tap tap, bun pattern that he makes. The drumsticks are an extension of himself giving a body and space to the voice and other instruments that surround him. There’s an orange backlit glow coming from the lights behind the stage that gives the drummer’s silhouette a felicitous air. His shadow rakes the wall behind him with every arm movement, with each bop and dip of his head and—
Ah. It doesn’t hurt anyone at all, let alone Tetsurou, that the holder of the drumsticks is quite the attractive fucker. Dark hair, sweaty and plastered to his forehead. Eyes focused and drawn but low as he cranes his head back, rolls his neck, and draws a breath that exhales into the beat. He’s wearing a white henley with the sleeves pushed up over his forearms, exposing how the muscles in his arms jump with each movement. His mouth moves to the words of the song, and his voice backs into the mic hanging above his head. Only then does Tetsurou focus on lyrics being sung. The drip of the drummer’s voice bleeds like a delicate sauce with Atsumu’s voice.
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
He wants to hear the words completely and wholly from the mouth of the drummer. He wants to hear the breathy sound coming from his lips as he closes his eyes and appears to drown out the rest of the world around them.
He opens his eyes in an instant and gives a round of beats over the drums in a flash. A bum-bum travels down Tetsurou’s neck and roots him to the ground. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to.
The drummer’s eyes give a flick of a glance at his band members, then towards the crowd—for a half second Tetsurou thinks his gaze lands on him, only for them to flick away and back toward the instrument in front of him.
He’s handsome. Not just handsome but enthralling.
“That’s Sawamura Daichi,” Akaashi says, startling Tetsurou. He let himself get so distracted by the way the drummer carves himself into the air he’d forgotten he even asked Akaashi a question.
“Sawamura, huh?”
This goes on for the rest of the show. Tetsurou is enthralled and stunned and feels a seeping from under his skin to do something but he isn’t sure what.
They’ve waved down a couple more drinks through the course of watching the performance, nearly two hours of playing from the band. The crowd bends with their words but Tetsurou keeps his eyes on the invisible strokes Sawamura’s drumsticks make on the page of air that is the stage.
The band finishes with a flare of blue and orange lights, and Atsumu says his goodbyes to the audience giving a wink in their direction.
“Ah, so you’re Akaashi,” Tetsurou hears from behind him a few minutes later.
And there he is. Sawamura, coming up to their table.
His eyes shining with a particular mirth that, well–makes Tetsurou feel a little in love. Anyone who can tease Akaashi so openly is one he needs to have on his side. He continues, and his smooth voice kisses at Tetsurou’s eardrums, “Atsumu’s talked a lot about you.”
“Has he?” Akaashi’s eyes slide towards the singer who comes up to the table.
“Has who done what?” Atsumu asks, raking a hand through his hair.
Sawamura’s small smirk turns Tetsurou’s heart over itself as he says, “You. Talk about Akaashi. Why haven’t you brought him around sooner?”
Atsumu’s face turns a color that could rival an apple. “I–Dai-san! Ya said ya wouldn’t embarrass me!”
Tetsurou lets out a startled huff of laughter that comes from a place of genuine happiness. Right in his gut.
“Oh ho?” Tetsurou joins. “Well, singer-kun isn’t the only one who’s been talking .”
Sawamura’s eyes glide over to Tetsurou and Tetsurou is delighted by the expression on his face. There’s dimples pulling at the edges of his mouth, and Sawamura’s voice drops lower. “Really now? Tell me more. Anything to get Atsumu riled up and bothered.”
“Well,” Tetsurou starts, but Akaashi’s hand is over his mouth before he can say another word. Akaashi’s other hand is currently covering his own face and the blush that’s slowly creeping up his neck and towards his hidden cheeks.
“Kuroo-san, don’t say another word.”
“Awe, ‘Kaashi-kun talks about me?” Atsumu positively trills with the knowledge and slips himself right next to Akaashi before nosing at the top of Akaashi’s hair like a needy cat. His own cherry flush sits under his eyes still but he beams at Akaashi’s small smile.
“Hey Daichi, we got everything packed up,” another voice starts, and Tetsurou’s attention is pulled towards the other two bandmates who join their group.
Sawamura nods at the two–both around the same height though one has spiky, dark hair, and the other has pale, almost white hair that's longer and pulled partially back. They say a couple things heading to the bar and then heading out, but beyond that, they simply give Kuroo a raised eyebrow and a nod, before walking away.
Sawamura blinks and shakes his head before giving Tetsurou his full attention. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. Sawamura Daichi, but you can just call me Daichi. Everyone does. And that was Iwaizumi and Semi–bassist, backing vocals, and then lead guitar.”
“Sure, Sa’amura-san,” and Tetsurou leans his elbows on the table, holding his hands as he drops chin on his knuckles. “Kuroo Tetsurou. You can call me whatever you want.”
Sawamura tilts his head just a centimeter, and places one of his hands on the table in a manner that feels delicate, pointed, intentional in how he studies Tetsurou. He spends a moment raking his eyes over Tetsurou, as he taps his fingers on the face of the table to some unknown beat. The feeling of Sawamura’s gaze lingering over him–from the points of his face, a whole second on his lips, down to his neck and shoulders–brings the tingling sensation of listening to Sawamura playing on the drums back again.
His eyes don’t just settle on him. It’s an adagio. A piu mosso growing and wandering in the same way some of Tetsurou’s favorite scores did.
Tetsurou itches for a blank music sheet so he can etch the movement of Sawamura’s freckles, the slope of his nose, the crinkle in his eyes, the beat of his drums–
Damn.
And Tetsurou’s breath catches in his throat at the realization. It’s the same moment that Sawamura pulls a chair from another table over to Tetsurou’s and Akaashi’s, and sits, making himself a home there.
It feels right.
“Are you staying?” Akaashi asks, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tetsurou waves him off, “go enjoy your date or whatever you kids do nowadays.”
Akaashi stands from his chair, and gives a nod towards Sawamura. He pauses for a moment, even as Atsumu takes his hand. Akaashi’s eyes pendulum between Tetsurou and Sawamura, like he has something he wants to say but he’s not sure how to say it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” Sawamura says with a smile that could be dubbed as sweet but it feels coy and Tetsurou doesn't know yet how the image of it will linger on his mind until he sees Sawamura again. “I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”
“Go on,” Tetsurou chuckles, giving a nod towards the entrance where many of the patrons are already making their leave and exit. Tetsurou can spot Semi and Iwaizumi both mingling with guests...
“Are they dating?” Sawamura asks, curious in his questioning as he watches with Tetsurou Akaashi and Atsumu weaving through the crowd. They give their own waves to Semi and Iwaizumi but then they disappear completely.
“I’m gonna be honest,” Tetsurou says as he takes Akaashi’s half-full martini and swirls he red liquid it in its glass, “I have no fucking clue. As long as they don’t end up at our apartment, they can do whatever they want.”
“You and Akaashi share an apartment?” Sawamura knocks his head to the side again.
“Ah, yeah,” Tetsurou rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. “Akaashi and I were in the same music school…
“Wait, you play? What do you play?”
If someone could be bouncing in their seat, then Sawamura would be doing just that. His eyes alight, wide and round. Tetsurou flushes under the intensity of his eyes and leans back in his seat a bit, finding the cool leather of the back soothing.
“Piano,” he says. The past few months of inspirational drought scratch his thoughts, trying to barge through the pathway Sawamura’s playing seemed to have created. “I’m really not that great–”
“Don’t say that,” Sawamura’s voice is firm. Tetsurou wants to shrink more into himself but he holds himself and Sawamura’s deep–molten chocolate, rolling earth–brown eyes. “You said you went to the same school as Akaashi? I’ve heard Atsumu talk about it. That’s impressive Kuroo. You play an instrument, that alone is impressive by my books. You’re out here listening to music, a little out of that classical shell you’ve been covered in, but that’s impressive.”
“Yeah,” Tetsurou breathes, wanting to fight back, but that exhaustion settles back into his bones. “Except I haven't made anything new in months. I get paid by the work I produce, so what am I if I haven’t produced something I love and want other people to love as well?”
Sawamura frowns at this. Tetsurou can see it in his expression as he works a response from his tongue.
“Your worth isn’t in what you give to others,” Sawamura continues. His fingers tap on the table again, tap, tap, tap tap tap. “Not if your heart isn’t invested, which sounds incredibly cheesy but–people, listeners, your audience, will always be able to see, to hear, the difference between a performance driven by passion. One by anger. By facing a block and not yet feeling like you can see over this looming wall stretching before you. These aren’t bad , and feeling them isn’t bad, showing your audience where you’re coming from isn’t bad. They will know though. Putting your all into each of these, that’s a learned thing. It can be exhausting, definitely.”
He’s speaking from experience, Tetsurou realizes. The thought aches and shakes his core that someone like Sawamura who could give his audience everything would have walked through the same sludge Tetsurou has been drowning in for months now.
Sawamura sighs. The tapping of his fingers stops. “When I go on stage, I sit at my drums, I want to make sure the performance I give is every ounce of myself. Each and every feeling, including the bad. We’re like poets in this way, you know? Poets hide so much in the page, cheeky little bastards, but they trust their readers to know the words are just as important as the blank spaces between them. The breathing, the silence.”
Sawamura’s eyes are still focused on one of the pendant lights overhead but Tetsurou is focusing on the way the syllables leave his mouth. The way his mouth remains parted open the barest amount as he finishes. The tension underneath Tetsurou’s skin has fallen away as he listened to Sawamura. His lungs are less heavy, his fingers itching once again. The ache that had concaved his diaphragm is less of reluctance and dread, now it’s in hope he gets to see Sawamura play on stage again/
“Ah,” Sawamura clears his throat, dropping his eyes. “Sorry. That probably didn’t help you one bit, especially coming from a stranger, God, I’m sorry–”
“No, no!” Tetsurou rushes. “No, don't apologize. Coming out here and seeing you play was… Very much needed.”
“Just me playing?” And the apologetic tone is gone, back is the teasing man and his warm smile.
Tetsurou stutters and covers the bottom half of his face with one of his hands. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I, Kuroo-san?”
His heart comes to a full stop at the melting, sugary, drawl falling from Sawamura’s lips.
Goddamnit. Tetsurou is in trouble.
Oh he’s in a world of trouble.
Tetsurou hardly notices when Semi and Iwaizumi say their own quick goodbyes and Sawamura jumps back into what feels like a soliloquy for how he started playing the drums, how he got the band together, and how they got to where they are now. The Croaking Crows, occasionally performing at small focused bars, but that they’ve had a rather large following over the past few years.
He can’t say he really remembers leaving the restaurant, after Sawamura had given him a sweet smile, followed by his number in Tetsurou’s phone.
He goes home, in a trance. Itching, craving, wanting.
He pushes past his apartment door but doesn’t hear the click of it shutting behind him. Briefly he acknowledges that Akaashi definitely isn’t home, and probably wouldn’t be that night. He toes his shoes off, left in his socks, and pads towards his living room where his grand piano sits in the center. It’s form, sleek and dark, shines as moonlight leaks from the windows.
He sits. The keys gleam, like a call home, like they were waiting for him. Like they’re still waiting for him.
A blank page of music stares from the music rack–blank only because of the nonexistent notes though there’s doodles and scratched marks on lines. He doesn’t touch it. He leaves it open, regards it for a moment, before lifting his fingers.
Salt and pepper. Flavor under the prints of his fingers.
He plays, and his phone jingles with a message from Sawamura in his back pocket.
♬