Work Text:
But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you
you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain
– Rain, Hone Tuwhare
Onyx, exuberant rays waltzed across the tinted windows of the gym as Keishin Ukai recognised the miasmic smell of alcohol that reeked from Ittetsu Takeda’s olive track jacket. The fabric smelt of last night—a fleeting recollection of sloppy grins and cordial tabletalk flourishing with distant pipe dreams (they had gone out for a beer with Coach Nekomata and the other coaches of the training camp, a celebration to recognise the success the Tokyo Training Camp was, and how flourished and sharpened was the potential lying inside the pits of their respective teams.) The stars were out and the world diminished into a metaphysical state, rotting secrets and guilty urges exposed itself, inside out with wide jaws ready to bite. Consisting of the tinkling noises of amber glasses and splashed sake with the clear obsolete sky and voyeuristic stars.
(Last Night: Intoxicating alcohol, the nectar of Dionysus. Keishin had offered his eyes to him, a glimpse inside those lonely irises, and in return, he flashed a smile that burnt an impression behind Keishin’s mind. It was an idle night, and yet, when Keishin thought of it, it was more than idle. It was exposing; leaking with unspoken rawness and glass fragility.)
Curious, Keishin peered over the edge of a crumbling cliff, his eyes lingering on Ittetsu. A crevice between them; an ugly crevice that runs along the rubble tearing through the plates of the earth. But electric and erratic sparks like a broken cable cord, where, when their skin touched, it was akin to a pale fire. But the crevice remained, where the touch was evanescent as the crack of dawn or the lick of the first raindrop before a thunderstorm.
The squeaks of rubber soles slapping the polished gym floors scratched between him and Ittetsu, sweat swarming the congested gym. Yet, Keishin wore the plunge, and tilted his head a little closer to Ittetsu’s ear—not too close, but close enough for Ittetsu to shift him a questioning gaze.
“You still smell of last night, specs,” Keishin mused.
The rise of flustered pink on Ittetsu’s cheeks, the lids of his eyes lifting into an impressive expression of embarrassment. In reflex, Ittetsu snatched the collar of his jacket, hoisting it near his nose and sniffs—" Oh God, you're right ."
Keishin laughed, flashing Ittetsu a wide grin that displayed a set of yellow-faded teeth. He shrugged. "What did you expect? You're wearing the same jacket you wore last night."
"We're around minors ," Ittetsu moans , whistling as a harsh whisper through thin lips.
" High schoolers ," Keishin justified. “They’ve probably had some form of alcohol before.”
"I am their teacher ,” Ittetsu succinctly replied.
Keishin sniffled a laugh, shoulders subtly sloping up and down as he crossed his arms with swelling satisfaction. Ittetsu rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind his actions—the white exposure of a subtle smile twitching his lips before erupting into a vague chuckle that twisted and danced in the air.
The sun drained from the sky, the gentle gaze of the moon rising in the horizon like a gentle applause. There’s a special way in how his tinted glasses captured the sun's rays, filtering through the gym windows that highlighted the floating debris. Foil-like shades fading in and out, eyes welcoming like the warm hugs of the sun, and the fruiting soil beneath.
“Here,” Ittetsu said as he revealed a tattered item from behind his back.
Keishin stared at it, stunned with blank features. White Nights , the faded letters read. A book. With the eventual rise of flustered hues, he shook his hands with sheepish protest. A rotten seed uncurling itself as he tapped the following syllables, chipping his skin until he’d stand before Ittetsu with this messed up network of shame. “I don’t read.”
Ittetsu only shrugged, deflecting Keishin's response. “That’s fine. I don’t see why you can’t start now.”
With a placid sigh, Keishin surrendered as he claimed the thin book and tucked it in his back pocket. “Only for you, specs.”
“It’s disappointing, you know—” Mother’s words were sharp and serrated. The drag of a cigarette, then the pungent smell of nicotine puffing up the congested atmosphere. “You had so much potential.”
If the floor had the ability to open wide, a sinkhole in the earth swallowing itself with little pockets of cavities sculpted from its bed, Keishin wouldn’t mind. His eyes remain on the vamp of his planted feet; suddenly like the drowsy weeds he would attend to every morning. If only someone would come and save him. If only. With a meek voice, Keishin apologised.
“I’m sorry, mum.”
//
To be human is to love, and to be loved—or rather, having the capacity to be loved—is what makes someone human. Love bonds, love knots. But what if he couldn’t love the way people expect him to? What if he cannot love with morbid infatuation, or ravenous with the desire to corrupt others' innocence?
Sin does not exist, but is a false seed planted by humans itself. Love is perpetual, a primordial salvation, so Keishin reckoned it to be natural that humans cling to this ideal… this expected standard.
Keishin looked up at the morphing skies again. (An unbridled whisper: Tell me, god, if I cannot love the way you expect me to, does it mean I have been condemned from the moment you brought me here? )
The gods didn’t seem to grant him an answer. (And in truth, he wasn’t really expecting one either. Because for all his life, it seems that even the gods have always forgotten about him).
Sky dissolves into the Miyagi mountains. Snow melting into sleet, a huff of smoke coiling and disappearing in the dense air. Keishin Ukai peered over the cluttered counter top, realising how wet the store's floors were. The burden of responsibility began to nag at his head like a leafing page slicking back and forth. His shoulders sagged forward, coiling an impressive curve with his spine.
The ash budded cigarette brushing against his calloused padded fingers, a thin vapour curling and coiling from his nostrils and diminished in the thin atmosphere, where it eventually eroded into nothing but sky. The miasma lingered, but so accustomed to the vile smell, Keishin didn't notice it as he flipped a page of the notebook before him back and forth. His eyes absentmindedly flitted towards the worn-out book that laid at the side of the half-cluttered counter, pushed aside underneath a cavernous burial of papers, openly inked pens, and a stash of loose, crumpled, faded yen notes (in truth, Keishin didn’t keep track of the miscellaneous items that scattered the counter).
His attention glazed over the embedded title etched in the velvet covering. Kokoro, it read with humble letters scribed in the worn-out roads of the cover, a thousand ghosts of fingerprints running along the bent cream creases. Keishin recalled having to read Kokoro while he was still in High School. He didn't properly read it, but they did have to write an essay about it. Keishin couldn't remember what grade he got for that essay.
Rain droplets pelted down the grey window, a panoply of silver and translucent blues shifting the valley of Keishin’s skin as he gathered the capacity to unglue himself from his barstool, plagued with the responsibility to tidy up.
As he went to grab the mop stashed away in the supply closet, a shutter of metal grating against metal erupted like the flutter of a crow's wings. It was from the entrance door. Keishin prompted upward in rash fashion, exiting through the backroom and veering around the counter. Keishin brows perked at the messy sight in front of him.
"Specs?" Keishin questioned, instinctively examining Ittetsu from head to toe; coming to realise how drenched Ittetsu was as his wet clothes warped around his skin. His mop of hair sprouted in compacted threads, slicks of ebony that smelt of dew.
Exasperated and a little jaded, Ittetsu pushed his glasses up his slippery nose, droplets of the rain slicking off his skin. With a frail, wavering gasp, he looked up at Keishin, opening his mouth but then he furrowed his eyebrows and closed his mouth again. Then, after a moment of processing the calamity he had caused, he opened his mouth as his shoulders bore weight. “ Oh dear , I’m terribly sorry.”
Keishin instantly reached for the loose towel that hung over the counter, walked towards Ittetsu and thrusted the towel over his sparkling face, rain droplets shining underneath the store's insipid lights. Ittetsu coughed abruptly, startled by Keishin’s actions.
“The hell are you apologising for?” Keishin asked as he rubbed the towel over the crevices of Ittetsu’s face in a hasty manner. Once Ittetu’s skin was dry enough, Keishin deliberately moved down to the valve of Ittetu’s collarbone, rubbing a quick sweep.
Stunned, Ittetsu readjusted his crooked glasses, bushy brows furrowed as his puffing began to reside into deep, warm breaths. “Thank you.”
Keishin flicked the towel over his shoulder as a silence lapped between the two of them again. When the silence began to press on Keishin’s shoulders, he squirmed, tucking his perspiring hands in the caverns of his tarnished jacket pocket. Ittetsu didn’t seem to notice the unflinching silence though, his eyes captured by something out of Keishin’s peripherals as he followed his string of attention to Keishin’s desk. Keishin stared at Ittetsu curiously.
“White Nights.” Ittetsu thumbed the trodden down book that laid on Keishin’s counter. He looked up at Keishin with a warm smile. “How’re you finding it?”
Keishin sucked in a breath. “I like it.” That was a lie. He hadn’t even opened it, nor touched it, in the past days since Ittetsu leant him the copy. The words grew stale in Keishin’s mouth, scorching his tongue and painting him a knave.
Ittetsu furtively glanced around the store, fingers fumbling with the rim of his jacket. The lie amplified the weight, and Keishin knew that Ittetsu knew that he was lying. Shame; this is my punishment.
A silence, and a hiccup. And then another. The rain outside casted down now, morphing with the mountains and showered the earth. Embarrassment warmed Keishin’s face despite the biting cold freezing the store. Keishin hiccuped again. “Ah–” he laughed. “I’m sorry. I should heat something up for us maybe?”
Keishin watched Ittetsu, who itches the back of his neck and eyes wandering around the empty places where echoes invertebrates the rustic metal shelves. Then, he smiled at Keishin, one that allowed the rest of the world to fade with the rain that tapped against the winding pavements tracing the mountain.
"I would love that."
Keishin glanced at the worn-down book that lay untouched at the edge of the counter.
A cadence of shallow footsteps shuffled behind him, then, the croak of a voice. “Your friend leant that book to you, didn’t he?”
Keishin relocated his attention to his grandma behind him. Her attention is too preoccupied with returning the mop that stood against their little corner of the store. He pressed his lips. “Yes. Yes he did.”
His grandma didn’t regard him a glance as her frail, loosely skinned hands coiled around the broomstick. She pressed her support on the broom. “Read it,” she said. Her voice was tamed, strewn with fingerprinted wisdom. “He gave it to you for a reason.”
Keishin gulped. He was being chastised. “Okay, ma.”
"How are the kids?" Ittetsu asked, eyes fixated on the unwinding road before them, paled by the headlights.
Keishin glimpsed over his shoulder, briefly scanning the bus only to be met with tilted heads and wide mouths, snoring and dribbling saliva. The bulk of Karasuno's volleyball club— if not all —appeared to be fast asleep, knocked out cold and emitting coughed, staccato snores—some drawing out obnoxiously longer than others–producing an ultimate symphony of comatose.
"They’re all knocked out," Keishin answered with a subtle laugh, facing forward once more, nose facing the mirage.
A root coiled in Keishin’s throat, thorns curling around and pushing into the tops of his palette.
“They worked very hard today,” Ittetsu acknowledged.
Willow trees brushed their outgrown fingers, melodic lull of symphonies plucked by nature a melody that croons in the background. Keishin trudged ahead carefully as he delicately structured an answer as though one too-harshly uttered sound would tear the gap between them larger. One dubious scoop of air with his tongue, a hiss against his teeth and a snappy nod. “Yes, yes they did,” Keishin managed to reply.
Ittetsu's lips softly curled, a natural tug like feathers had aroused them upward. “You worked hard, too,” he said, eyes boring into Keishin. “Thank you for doing this—for them . I really appreciate it; for plunging headfirst into your nostalgia.”
“Yeah, well—” Keishin recalibrated his position, prickles sparking his nerves too much to remain stagnant, "—they have potential. And it'd be a waste if they never end up versing Nekoma in an official match, let alone, surpassing them with a claimed set."
"You're really motivated." Ittetsu grinned, determined eyes facing forward. "And you're right."
When you picture your future, what does it look like?
You once asked me this, night blazing before us with the litter of pearls rolling in the horizon and above. And I lowered my eyes, draping my curtains shut. A vision bleeds before me, not so bright, but vague enough for me to catch it within the print of my finger.
I imagine:
Mauve leaves fluttering in the whistles of 4AM; the crack of dawn bleeding with a yolk-yellow hue, like the fluffy scrambled eggs I have cooked for myself looked like that same morning.
My body is no longer a husk—attending crops and a shitty stop-by store nestled in the evergreen mountains. My body wells with purpose, my shoulders poised, and I am here .
I am here.
(An offer: and if you want, you could be here with me, too.)
He offered his palm to Ittetsu, and intuitively, Ittetsu took it with an amused laugh. "What's this?" He asked as Keishin roughly shook his hand in return.
After a brief moment, Keishin let go and tucked his hands in his pockets. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. "Formalities."
Ittetsu regarded Keishin with a sympathetic tilt of his head, eyes seeming to navigate their way into Keishin’s blurry pupils. “How is your grandfather going?” He asked.
“Oh, uh.” He awkwardly buried his head into his palm as he rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s in the hospital. He’s recovering steadily.”
Ittetsu nodded, sympathy sutured in his brow. “Prolonged breaks from action are good for the convalescents.”
“What kind of word is that?” Keishin asked.
Ittetsu tilted him a grin. “A period of recovering from an illness.”
(A touch fleets—lingering within the crossroad of constellations of Keishin's ochre skin, whether a foreseen tragedy or a miracle. He subconsciously rubbed his fingers together, just so that special warmth could linger just a little longer. )
“Don’t mind your mother, Keishin.”
Keishin glanced at his grandpa, catching a glimpse of his molasses-like pupils. Sweet, yet stern. Keishin frowned, uncertain on how to reply, but to his fortune, or maybe misfortune, his grandpa elaborated as he recalibrated his seating position.
"Do whatever you want, don't do whatever you don't want," his grandpa told him, huffing out a ruminant cloud of smoke from his nostrils, dragging out the cigarette that was wedged elegantly between his frail fingers.
“But… I should have gotten married.” The words lingered in Keishin’s mouth and rot, digging a cavity in the nestles of his tongue. His mouth grew stale, the clangour in his skull; this wasn’t him speaking, with acute consciousness . Yet, he said it anyway, because when you’re force fed a belief, you have no other choice but to accept its authority.
Grandpa snorted, his chest straining out a cough. “You have the same tongue as that mother of yours.”
The pores of Keishin’s skin leaked with sweat. He stared at his feet. “I don’t… know how to love.”
Well, you’re capable of love, aren’t you?”
“Yes. No… yes?” Keishin heaved a sigh that carried the laps of his various burdens. His shoulders curled forward. “I love, yes. I love this family, I love my friends—but I don’t love in the way mum expects me to.”
His grandpa chuckled, amused by Keishin’s indolence. “There isn’t just one form of love, you know.”
Keishin’s fingers—like the lithe arms of weeds pricking his ankles whenever he walked the fields hours before dawn, air unflinching and serrated—slipped between Ittetsu’s cotton-like palm. His fingers wreathed like roots securing in the dirt, or the toppled twist and bends inhabited by a looming, unwavering sycamore tree.
“This is normal,” Keishin murmured, unable to decipher whether he was reassuring Ittetsu, or if he were convincing himself. His breath strained hoarse as reality began to smudge into a blur, like watercolours blending rebirthed.
Ittetsu blinked, opaque eyes wide, poking through the sheen of his blue tinted glasses. There is an idiosyncratic moment where the sun slips past those thick glasses, dense and stubborn, and pours inside.
The crickets crooned and the rain pattered, skeletal fingertips imprinting the fogged window. The rain cascaded even harder now, grey beginning to inflate the sky.
Keishin pursed his lips, looking away as a red hue began to bleed his cheeks. A feverish, sickening thump scooped a cavity in his stomach, an abrupt drop rattling his ribs as the need to explain began to bubble his throat, spilling over his lips like an overflowing covenant. “I love you,” he sputtered out. “Well, not in that way.” Another anticipated silence passed as Keishin allowed the words to stick in his tongue, letting himself straighten his clustered thoughts out. Keishin produced a tart frown and stared at his lap, picking at the tangled network of ineffable thoughts cramped in his mind. “Well, I think . I don’t know.”
Ittetsu stared ahead of him, abandoning Keishin's words and allowed them to dangle in the air like the unattended thick vines hanging off the mossy walls of Babylon.
Silence—this thing Keishin gratified so much whenever morning cracked dawn over the fields—shattered with the impact of his flooding doubt. But then, there was soon a repose, the forgiving breath of god over an ocean breeze.
“This is normal,” Ittetsu chimed, squeezing his fingers around Keishin’s palm. He looked up at Keishin, opal eyes glimmering underneath the soft glow of the moonlight. His eyes whispered, a handprint pressed against the windows of his eyes: I like you but not in that way, either.
Keishin's eyes flickered to their tangled fingers with perplexion. His heart skipped a beat, melting upon realisation, like liquid ramming into his throat to the point where the concept of speaking was beyond execution. It flooded his chest, but he didn’t drown.
Ittetsu's fingers were a bony, fleshy white underneath the phosphorescent light coming in from the window. The night whispers against the dense windows and the crickets croaked a deafening tune so loud, it bled into the backdrop and collapsed into the dark canvas that overcast outside.
Keishin surrendered to himself (and Ittetsu, too) as he softly echoed. “ This is normal .”
Waning morning, moulding a discreet shadow beneath their respective bodies. A shift in motion—the shadows met with the ghost of coy smiles.