Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Writer's block was a disease. Incurable. Incapacitating, even.

That’s what Kuroo Tetsurou tried explaining to his literary agent, Akaashi Keiji, who was hounding him over a deadline for the third time that week.

“You don’t get it, Keiji. I’m trying, I really am. But it’s just-” he cut off, ruffling his bed head. It was already noon, and Tetsurou was still in his pajamas, unshowered and unfed. From the moment he woke, his body defaulted to autopilot, shuffling into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, which was steadily drained throughout the morning, while he attempted, quite futilely, to put words on the page. Beside his computer was a glass ashtray needing to be emptied, and in his pocket, a half-smoked carton of Newports - the only other thing he'd consumed that day.

It had been three months of this same struggle, the longest creative lull he'd suffered since first learning to write. Tetsurou wouldn’t be surprised if a trench had formed in the floor where he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and-

“I’m gonna need a longer extension,” he settled.

In that signature dry regard, Akaashi repeated, “One month is the best I can do.”

Tetsurou dramatically flopped into his desk chair and let it roll him across the study floor. “What use is an agent if you can’t buy me more time?”

Akaashi was chronically level headed and nearly impossible to rile. Tetsurou knew this, and was therefore unsurprised by his measured response.

“You’re already on thin ice with the publisher. Asking for two consecutive extensions would be enough for them to cancel the contract altogether.”

Thin ice. As if Tetsurou needed to be reminded. He saw the ratings, the reviews. After ten lucky years of evading backlash, living the rose colored-life of a critical darling, Tetsurou’s most recent novel had been met with mixed reception on account of the gay subtext. More text than sub, in truth, but his publisher had requested several changes to the first draft, resulting in a massive rewrite of the two leads. They insisted that the relationship be kept ambiguous, a mere student-teacher dynamic, to ensure it was marketable to a wider audience.

That had never been Tetsurou’s intention with the narrative, his most personal and indulgent to date. Even with his great success, however, he was still subject to the rigid standards of polite Japanese society. So, he bit down his protests and made the revisions, pushing out the novel only to receive a resounding... meh.

An unfortunate, yet wholly predictable outcome of curbing the novel's emotional core and reducing the romance to subtle pining and ambiguous feelings. The Moon Waxes Full hinged on the budding affection between Sensei and Hotaru. Even Tetsurou would swallow his pride and acknowledge that the reworked ending underwhelmed, especially when compared to its less tepid counterpart: a culmination of feelings, a confession, and a night shared before bittersweet parting.

But c’est la vie, or whatever. The novel was finished, people didn't care, and now the same publisher that requested edits was breathing down his neck because, your next book better sell well to make up for the loss.  

Normally, that wouldn't be an issue for Tetsurou, from whom words flowed like water since the age of five. Regarded as a prodigy at twelve, and publishing his first full-length work at seventeen, Tetsurou was what the publishing industry called a golden goose: possessing a natural aptitude for prose and plotting, while also toting an aloof mystery. A young genius whose face was yet unknown - very uncommon, and very marketable.

Tetsurou's reclusion wasn't an intentional ploy. He simply garnered renown at an early age, and his parents were worried about how a public image might affect his still-developing psyche, so they politely requested he keep a low profile, at least until he graduated from university.

Ten years later and he had yet to make a public appearance. His anonymity, especially now, was a saving grace: no risk of being recognized in public and answering to disgruntled fans regarding his most recent flop.

By all means, he should've bounced right back from the misstep. Authors did it all the time; shaking off the critiques and refocusing their energy on a new project. But for some reason, following the release of The Moon Waxes Full , Tetsurou fell into a slump. A pit so steep he couldn't scale the walls and crawl back out. He had tried all the tricks of the trade - solo traveling, revisiting old favorite works, disconnecting from technology - each to no avail.

He scoured himself for an answer; a reason for the block.

Perhaps it was the fact that the story to fail was also the most personal. Tetsurou had been overcome with excitement in the early writing stages, positive that this would be his masterwork, his take on romance to redefine a genre. He was especially enamored with the characters: Sensei and Hotaru. The latter naive, stand-offish, and full of pride, gradually undone by his love for the former, a wise and gentle mentor figure.

It felt like the story he was meant to craft. Like it was etched in his soul before birth, and every moment since then was leading up. Like he was honing his skills in preparation for this one moment. This beautiful first love.

And no one cared.

C'est. La. Vie.

“Look, I understand that you're feeling the pressure, but what has passed is past. All you can do now is set your sights on the future," Akaashi went on, as rational as ever, and his even-keeled words were a genuine solace. One of the few constants for Tetsurou through the many rewrites and backlash.

At least you will have this version for yourself.

"I know, I know," Tetsurou sighed, brushing off the tired sentiment. "I just-"

He stopped, catching his reflection in the mirror. Kenma liked to call him rooster-hair when he was annoyed with Tetsurou, and the childhood insult rang painfully true now. His unruly black hair fanned up every which way, not even worth the attempt of taming. Tetsurou leaned in closer to inspect the fine details of his face, dark circles, a three-day shadow at his jaw, wrinkles crinkling the corners of his eyes and creasing his forehead...

"God, I feel like shit."

Finally, Akaashi's stony demeanor fractured. On the other end of the line, Tetsurou heard him chuckle.

"I'm sure you do. When's the last time you took a shower? Or shaved?"

Tetsurou stroked his light stubble, considering it. Not a terrible look for him. "Can't remember."

"Then it's been too long."

"Maybe I should grow out a beard," he mulled. "Preemptively embrace life as a nobody hermit. Would you still come to visit me if I went full Thoreau and moved to a cabin by a pond?"

"Absolutely not."

Tetsurou cracked a smirk. "Yeah, didn't think so."

"You're going to be fine, you melodramatic lug." The tone shift was slight, but Akaashi was more sympathetic, as he advised, “Go for a walk, enjoy the fresh air, and get outside your own head.”

Tetsurou saluted to the empty room. "Aye aye, cap'n."

In the end, Tetsurou didn't shave.

He did shower, but only because he really, really needed to. After toweling off, he threw on a fresh t-shirt, some dark wash denim, his ole' reliable Birkenstocks and called it an outfit, before venturing outside for the first time in three weeks. The walk wouldn't be long, he figured, nor would it yield a breakthrough. But it was a good excuse to soak up vitamin D, enjoy the weather, and as Akaashi so diligently pointed-out, get out of his goddamn head.

His house (yes, Kuroo Tetsurou, at age twenty-seven, was not only a best-selling author but also a homeowner) was nestled in a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. A quaint, charming street that shone most brilliantly in spring. Cherry blossoms were no longer in bloom, but everything else was, swatches of lush greens, honey yellows, and pearly whites painting his route. The breeze was gentle and refreshing, the sun warm on his shoulders.

He strolled through the residential area, until it gave way to a strip of shops and restaurants. Tetsurou rarely ventured out this far, to livelier spaces that bustled with people. He wasn't good in crowds. But his stomach was protesting, begging to be fed something other than coffee and cigarettes, so he dipped into a nearby cafe for a late lunch.

The place was small but cozy, a real hole-in-the-wall. Most patrons were outside enjoying the mild temperature, sipping their beverages and chatting over metal patio tables, leaving the interior sparse. Bells chimed when Tetsurou pushed open the door, the staff greeting him with a chorus of welcomes. He joined the end of a short line of people waiting to order, hands in his pockets, mulling over the chalkboard menu. Their drink selection was small, but the croissants looked pretty good. Maybe he'd get something iced? It was warm out...

Around him, idle chatter enveloped, peppered by the grinding of coffee grounds, the steaming of latte foam, the cha-ching of a register making another sale.

From the cacophony, a single conversation compelled Tetsurou.

"Hotaru wasn't in love."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because that's not how Kuroo-sensei writes romance."

Ears pricking with the invocation of his name and creation, Tetsurou turned, eyes scanning the small cafe, because they couldn't mean...

His attention halted at the furthest corner, where a group of four were gathered, their chairs arranged in a circle and each one holding a copy of Tetsurou’s latest novel.

A...book club?

His feet were moving without permission, exiting the line to get a better look at the curious collection of strangers, mismatched in their dress and aura.

Sitting closest was a Jesus-looking guy, tall and broad, with a soul patch and long chestnut hair tied up in a bun, the front strands pushed back by an elastic headband. He wore a green and white argyle sweater vest, paired with denim and leather sandals. Definitely an eccentric choice, but somehow Tetsurou knew it wasn’t ironic. This man seemed too sincere for that, exuding soft intellectualism with his half-moon reading glasses; a true gentle giant. 

His copy of The Moon Waxes Full was kept meticulous, accompanied by a single sheet of loose-leaf paper with countless notes and observations scratched down in surprisingly neat handwriting.

The second person sat to the right of Jesus, chair scooched close enough to signal that they were an item. He was delicate in a way that most men weren’t: smaller and slimmer than his partner, yet simultaneously more self-assured. The clothing he donned was simple and flattering: a romantic, silky white button-down and pleated slacks. His hair was fair and ashy in color, almost silver in the light, complemented by glowing skin and a single beauty mark resting below his left eye. He also had a nice smile; bright and refreshing.

His copy was comparably beat up, with coffee stains and dog-eared pages. Tetsurou knew this kind of reader, for it was similar to his own chaotic method, and would wager good money that there were annotations scrawled in the margins of the text.

Third came the only woman of the group. She was tiny in comparison to the rest of her company, barely pushing 150 centimeters with a timid demeanor to match, nervously twiddling her freshly manicured nails. The most apt word to describe her was bright. She donned an oversized purple sweater and white frilly skirt with polka-dotted tights. Her honey hair was cropped to her shoulders and decorated by a collection of cutesy barrettes: pink with strawberries, blue with stars, and green with flowers.

Her copy of the book was well-kept, with countless candy-colored sticky tabs lining the pages, marking well-loved passages by theme. Organized and respectable.

Finally, there was the ringleader. The voice that first captured him.

His copy remained pristine, save for a cracked spine. Unlike the other three, there were no indications of annotations or notes or tabs. He was above that - having already committed the entire novel to memory.

With one long leg crossed over the other, arms folded at his chest, a poised smile curling his lips, he appeared regal; a prince gracing the quaint coffee shop with his eminent wisdom. Bold, golden eyes pierced the soul even from behind his wire frames. With a porcelain complexion, wheat hair, and taut little waist, flattered by a navy mock neck and cream trousers that fit like a second skin, he reminded Tetsurou of the Greek god Apollo. 

Beautiful and untouchable, the pride of Zeus. Patron of knowledge, music, and the arts. Bringer of sun and light.

A lofty comparison, but one so fitting, for this person’s intimidation rivaled an ancient god. Designed to be admired from afar or, if one so unworthy possessed the courage to approach his throne, revered with a bent knee.

Oh that’s a good line, I should write it down… 

Enthralled by the random assortment and their heated discussion, Tetsurou nearly walked into a structural column. He caught himself at the last minute, however, and hid behind it.

“But what about that scene in the rain?” Barrettes asked. “Hotaru told Sensei that he loves him. He used that exact word.”

“There are forms of love outside of romance,” Apollo pointed out.

Tetsurou knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. The talking points of readers were not meant for his ears as author; they were free to ascribe whatever meaning to his work. But his curiosity was long piqued by this conversation, and the stunning, godly creature that professed ultimate say over his story.

“It is a romance,” Barrettes insisted, squeaky and earnest. “It might not have a happy ending, but I think that was an intentional statement by the author, about how first loves are often the most painful.”

Apollo rolled his pretty eyes. “Kuroo-sensei isn’t such a sap.”

Yes, I am, Tetsurou thought to himself.

“Romance isn’t inherently sappy,” Silver defended, hand falling to his partner's thigh and squeezing. “And I think Ya-chan is right. Hotaru was obviously infatuated with Sensei. He might not have acted on those feelings, but that’s probably because of the time period it was set.”

It’s actually because my publishers are a bunch of bigots. But…sure, let’s go with that. 

“I dunno, Tsukishima-kun could also be correct,” Jesus concurred. “Yes, he used the word ‘love’. But it feels more innocent, like Hotaru was searching for a father figure in Sensei.”

Tsukishima-kun. Tetsurou smiled. The prince has a name. 

Silver casted doubt. “A father figure was only seven years his senior? Seems like a stretch…”

The one called Tsukishima answered this question with a familiar statement. “His wisdom exceeded his years. When Hotaru looked at Sensei, he saw a well overflowing with knowledge. And he was desperate to drink.”  

Those were his words, Tetsurou realized, repeated verbatim. He peaked from around the column, taking in Tsukishima’s copy of the novel, sitting untouched on his lap. 

He quoted all that from memory? 

Tetsurou’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Age doesn’t matter in the search for guidance and stability,” Tsukishima asserted with that regal command, and Tetsurou was compelled to listen. “Sensei took Hotaru under his wing, offering him a sense of self-assurance and purpose. If Kuroo-sensei wanted to write a straightforward romance, he would’ve done that. But I believe he kept it ambiguous because the themes are more important than the actual relationship dynamic. Sensei is nothing more than a platonic ideal, representative of the fulfillment one is afforded through education.”

An elegantly phrased and sound, yet wholly misguided interpretation of Tetsurou’s work. His feet were spurred to action before his sense of danger could rein him back.

“Pardon the interruption, but I think you’re assigning way too much autonomy to the author.”

The group was startled, turning in unison. Barrettes let out a meek gasp, and Jesus straightened up in alarm. Silver’s eyes were jumping up and down, evaluating Tetsurou with an unreadable expression. It was Apollo, however, who first acknowledged his statement, glaring at the stranger in challenge.

“Excuse me?” 

Tetsurou’s confidence wavered, because wow, Tsukishima only got prettier up close.

He regained nerve, however, when he remembered that this was his novel. If anyone should be assigning authorial intent, it was him.

“I’m just saying, maybe he did intend to write a romance but chose for whatever reason to keep it vague. I mean, there are certain passages that only make sense when read as pining.”

Tsukishima lifted a perfect eyebrow at him in disbelief. His expression begged, Who the hell are you? 

But his lips asked, “Which passages?”

Tetsurou realized that he’d dug himself in a hole. Eyes were on him, expectant, waiting for the proof behind the assertion. Would it be suspicious, if he quoted the book from memory? Tsukishima had done it, and no one batted an eye or accused him of authoring the story. He should be fine...

Forgoing caution, Tetsurou offered, "Mere embrace wasn't enough. Hotaru wanted something closer, a knitting of their flesh and mind. He thought to himself, if the Christians were right, if Eve truly did come from Adam's rib, then please God, turn me into bone and sew me to his insides, so we may never again part."

Tsukishima's jaw fell slack. The rest of the group, too, were taken aback.

"What page was that from?"

It was Silver who asked, already flipping through his beaten-up copy in search of the excerpt.

Tsukishima and Tetsurou answered "164" in perfect unison, much to the former's chagrin and the latter's amusement.

Silver's eyes skimmed over the page, and he laughed. A sudden, bubbling sound, shaking his shoulders and lighting up his face.

"Oh my god, he's right. And listen to this part, It was like he'd been given a temporary home, in those strong arms. How he wished to settle down there and spend the rest of eternity."

Tetsurou shrugged, catching Tsukishima's glare and winking at him. "Doesn't sound very platonic to me."

Silver whipped up his head, eyes gleaming. "That's incredible! I've only ever seen our Tsukki quote a passage from memory."

Tsukki. Tetsurou engraved the cute nickname on his heart.

"It's nothing. I just...liked that part. A lot."

Tsukishima didn't seem to buy the excuse, however. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he finally asked the million dollar question. 

“Who the hell are you?”

Yikes. Tetsurou couldn’t answer that, now could he? Casually dropping into conversation that he was the very person whose intent they were debating. Like some kind of conceited trump card.

“I’m…a fellow reader,” he decided, because it wasn’t technically a lie.

“You seem quite familiar with Kuroo-sensei’s work,” Jesus observed.

Tetsurou's smile turned wry, as he settled, “You could say that, yes.”

Barrettes fidgeted in her seat, excited by the prospect of a likemind. “Our book club is currently reading through his backlog,” she explained, holding up the novel and displaying it's cover for Tetsurou, like he hadn’t approved it’s design nine months prior. “We’ve already covered his earliest works, but this week we jumped forward to discuss his latest release, The Moon Waxes Full.”

“Based on your knowledge, I assume you’ve read it as well?” Silver nodded to the empty spot on his right. “We’ve only just begun our discussion. Why don’t you sit down and join us?”

“Wait just a-”

Silver turned to Tsukishima, cutting off his protest with that refreshing - now, abating - smile. “C’mon, what’s the harm? He clearly knows his stuff, and I’m rather interested to hear his opinion.” He turned to the others, and asked, “Aren’t you as well?”

With a timid but genuine smile, Barrettes nodded.

Jesus added, rather impartially, “The more the merrier.”

Tetsurou’s attention flickered around the circle, constituted by friendly faces more than delighted by his presence and thoughts. All except for one.

Tsukishima was livid, fierce disapproval oozing from every pore. Tetsurou's conscience was chiding him. This is wrong, you shouldn't trample over their dialogue.  

But another part of him - selfish and impulsive - was already lost in the labyrinth of his Apollo’s eyes. Boring into him with such ire, such disdain for the stranger who dared dispute his expertise. A lesser man might've been scared off by that glare, but not Tetsurou. Fire ignited in his chest, warming his cold husk of a body after several months of feeling nothing at all.

So, with another careless shrug, he relented, “What the hell? I’ve got some time to kill.” 

Tetsurou pulled a chair from a nearby table and took a seat. All the while, he drank up that contempt like it was water, and he’d been living through a drought. It should be illegal to look that good while scowling.

Oh darling, if you only knew… 

“So…what’s the general consensus?” he floated, finally breaking the heated staring contest in favor of sweeping over the rest of the book club. “One of his weaker works, no?”

“I quite liked it,” said Barrettes. “The prose is lovely.” She paused, fingers fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “You don’t think so?”

"Eh, I’ve read better.”

A condescending response, perhaps, but it was also honest. Tetsurou’s natural reaction to praise was humility, blowing it off without a second thought. 

The remark only stoked Tsukishima’s loathing, however.

“Kuroo-sensei is one of the greatest voices in modern Japanese literature,” he asserted, looking down on Tetsurou like he was garbage, while unknowingly singing his praises. “He’s put out a more impressive and consistent catalog at twenty-seven than most authors will achieve throughout their entire career.”

The air escaped Tetsurou’s lungs, exhaled with shaky, incredulous laughter. He felt himself leaning forward, propping a hand on his thigh, meeting those devoted golden eyes head on.

“That’s some high praise,” he remarked. “You must really like this guy.”

“I don’t like him,” Tsukishima snapped, offended at the accusation. “I love him.”

Holy shit. 

Tetsurou’s stomach flipped. A stupid, giddy grin threatened to consume his entire face.

“We all like Kuroo-sensei,” Jesus explained. “But Tsukishima-kun might be his biggest fan. He's got all his works memorized by heart."

In theory, Tetsurou knew fans like this existed: unfaltering in devotion and revering his writing as testament. He would receive their letters in the mail. Sprawling essays detailing how meaningful his novels were to them, how grateful they felt to be seen by another.

But now, Tetsurou had a face to match the ardor. And what a face it was. He couldn't believe this godly creature, this stunning Apollo, could be so enamored by the meager words he put to page. His ego might never come down from its high.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed," Tsukishima grit through clenched teeth. "He's nothing short of a genius. I've been following his career since the very beginning."

"The Cat and the Crow," Kuroo supplied, nodding. His debut. A respectable thriller. Nothing revelatory, but he was still proud of it.

"No," Tsukishima responded curtly. "The Hummingbird."

Tetsurou's nodding stopped. His breathing hitched. His heart nearly burst out of his chest.

The Hummingbird was a literary magazine, no longer in print, that he used to submit short fiction pieces for. How many years ago was that? Twelve? Thirteen? Tetsurou didn't know where those works could be found nowadays. Definitely not online, and the only physical copies he knew of were currently stuffed in a box, buried somewhere in his childhood home.

Not even the fan letters mentioned those pieces.

For a second, Tetsurou gave up the ruse and asked, a little too seriously, "How the hell do you know about that?"

Tsukishima blinked, taken off guard by his switch in demeanor, the abrasiveness of the question. Still, he answered, "I used to write for it as well."

"Huh," Tetsurou exhaled. "You did?" He reclined back against his seat and sifted his mind for the name. Tsukishima...Tsukishima... it didn't ring any bells. Maybe his work was featured in a different issue?

"What's this now?" Silver asked, attention flitting between Tetsurou and his Apollo. "Hummingbird?"

"Kuroo-sensei's first published works were a collection of short stories in a literary magazine," Tsukishima explained. "That's how I learned about him." His attention returned to Tetsurou, and he flipped the question. "But how do you know about it?"

Tetsurou startled, and smiled nervously. "I don't. Er - well, I do, through the grapevine and what not. But I've never read the submissions. Hard to get a hold of these days - anyway," he cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. "I'm surprised that you've been interested in him for so long."

"Of course." Tsukishima's response was automatic, like it was a given. And for the briefest moment, his regard warmed, tender eyes falling to the floor, mind flooding with thoughts of his precious Kuroo-sensei. "You don't forget a voice like that."

Tetsurou swallowed. Oh my god. I think I love him.

"It's not just that," Silver teased, earning a swift Oi, stop that, Suga-san from Tsukishima, but he ignored the complaints, lowered his voice to a whisper and beckoned Tetsurou closer, to confess, "Our little Tsukki has a crush on Kuroo-sensei."

Tetsurou's heart thrummed harder in his chest. He glanced at the newly flustered Tsukishima, searching for confirmation.

"But you don't even know what he looks like."

"Tha- No, I-" Tsukishima stumbled through the attempts of denial, squirming hotly in his seat, shoulders tensed, lips tugged into a frown, cheeks flushed a bright red. With a grumble, he surrendered, "Looks...don't matter to me."

Oh my god. I definitely love him.

"Aw, don't be embarrassed, Tsukki," Silver chuckled. He nudged Tetsurou's side playfully. "Ain't he just the cutest thing? Becoming shy over the person he likes."

Tetsurou felt a fondness bending his features beyond control, as he agreed, "Yeah, he really is."

The discussion lasted only an hour, but it wasn't for lack of talking points. In truth, these people would have gone on for days, uninterrupted, dissecting every single plot point, dialogue exchange, and word choice, wringing meaning that even Tetsurou himself hadn't thought to imbue.

He would occasionally throw an opinion into the mix. But for the most part, Tetsurou remained pointedly quiet. A contented, passive listener. He found the book club's conclusions and takeaways to be far more interesting than his own. Moreover, witnessing them speculate about Hotaru and Sensei's relationship with such enthusiasm and thoughtfulness was therapeutic; an exercise in humility. For the first time since its inception, Tetsurou relinquished control over the story and remembered that The Moon Waxes Full belonged not to him, nor his publishers, but to the readers.

When the clock struck 3 PM, their conversation was swiftly put to an end, much to Tetsurou's dismay. Jesus checked his wristwatch and raised his brow in mild surprise, "Wow, time really flies, huh?" He leaned closer to tell Silver directly, "We should head out soon, babe."

His partner nodded and informed the wider group, "We've got some errands to run before shops close. I wish we could stay longer, though. This truly has been wonderful." He turned to Tetsurou in specific, and thanked him again for joining, "I really found your perspective quite nuanced...uh...I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?”

Tetsurou's heart was in his throat again. He forced a smile.

“I didn’t.”

Silver extended his hand in amicable welcome, which Tetsurou shook. Despite having a narrow wrist and small palm, his grip was strong. Firm. Maybe he wasn't as delicate as Tetsurou initially assumed. 

“Sugawara Koushi.”

“Nice to meet you, Sugawara-san.”

“Oh, just Suga is fine,” he assured with a bashful chuckle. He then gestured to his partner. “This is my boyfriend, Asahi Azumane.”

Asahi nodded politely.

Sugawara continued, “That's Yachi-san, and that’s-”

“Tsukishima,” Tetsurou finished, his eyes trained to his beautiful Apollo. “I know.”

“Tsukishima -kun,” the blond corrected, lip curled in disgust. “And to whom do we owe the…pleasure?” 

Spoken like a true obligation. Tsukishima didn’t really care who this intrusive man was, and would’ve been happier with him gone. Tetsurou too would have been better off leaving the question unanswered. But he also knew avoidance would only incur suspicion at this point.

So, he carelessly offered the first thing that came to mind,

“Kozume. Kozume Kenma.”

“Well, Kozume-san," Sugawara began. "If you don’t have anything better to do with your Sunday afternoon, we’d all be delighted if you joined us again. We're tackling Evolution next time. I'm sure you're already familiar?"

"Oh sure, sure," Tetsurou nodded. His fourth work and initial foray into the romance genre. Not as near and dear to his heart as Hotaru and Sensei, but still good.

"Same time and place," Sugawara informed. "Can we expect you?"

Tsukishima bristled again. Definitely not delighted at the prospect, but holding his tongue regardless.

In all honesty, Tetsurou did want to return, if only to steal a little more time with the prince and this passionate crowd. He wanted to listen for hours uninterrupted as Tsukishima professed love for a man he'd never met, to watch him squirm and blush, all the while unaware that his precious Kuroo-sensei was sitting just across the way, equally as smitten.

But he also couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this was wrong. Giving a false name, infiltrating their sacred space. A voyeur to their unbarred opinions. Surely, they would be unsettled, if they learned his true identity.

"I'm...not sure I'll have the time," he admitted, with genuine despondence.

Sugawara, too, was upset. "Really? That's a shame. And here I thought we'd won you over."

For a split second, it seemed his eyes flickered in the direction of Tsukishima, but it happened so fast, Tetsurou couldn't say for sure.

Sugawara stood and Tetsurou followed suit, shaking hands once more in parting. "Well, if your schedule suddenly frees up, we'd love to have you."

He nodded, eyes already drifting back to Tsukishima, taking in his full, upright stature. Just as tall as Tetsurou but slimmer, with the longest goddamn legs he'd ever seen and a tight little ass, thank you lord for well-fitting pants. The blond slipped his book into a leather messenger bag, unaware of the eyes raking over him and even more beautiful in his mindlessness.

"I'll - uh, see what I can do."

That night, Tetsurou made greater headway in his novel than he had in the past three months combined.

Like an endless spring, the words flowed out of him, filling up twenty pages in two hours - a brief return to his old self. He lacked clarity of the story progression still, and much of the ensemble cast were yet to be fleshed out, but with shining clarity, he wrote his protagonist. An old god, cast out of heaven for transgression, for falling in love with a human, reincarnated on earth and forced to live amongst mortals as penance. What he lacked in plotting, Tetsurou more than made up for with vivid description: golden eyes and wheat hair and trim waist and haughty mannerisms and unflinching ardor.

The words, this time spoken fondly, I don’t like him. I love him. 

Chin in hand, elbow propped on his desk, a cigarette half-burned between his fingers, Tetsurou crawled his eyes down the horizontal text born from a frenzy and tested it against a second read through.

Not bad. Rough, but with a little tweaking here and there, it might be worth publishing.

He took another long drag, leaning back in his desk chair and closing his tired eyes, strained from the blue light of his laptop.

Behind his lids, the image remained. Gorgeous, harsh, otherworldly.

Tetsurou felt his fingers twitching, restless, unsatisfied. Not even clacking away at the keyboard quelled them. They itched for something greater: to grab those narrow hips and shove Tsukishima face first into the sheets, squeeze fistfuls of his thighs and rut into him, slap his perky ass and leave a red handprint on that pretty pale skin.

Fuck.

Tetsurou's entire body flashed hot, singed with burning desire. Without a thought spared towards decency, he was stamping out the cigarette, tugging down the elastic waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, freeing his growing erection, and stroking himself hurriedly to full length. He bent forward, leaning an arm on his desk for support and squeezing his eyes shut as he rocked with pleasure. All the while, his imagination ran wild.

He envisioned Tsukishima bent over a table, those long legs split apart and bare. Lubed up fingers would fuck himself open, scissor apart and stretch his cute little hole wider, asking for something bigger and hotter. Tears would glisten in his eyes as he begged shamelessly for his precious Kuroo-sensei's cock. And Tetsurou would indulge him, tell 'em he was a good boy and reward with a hard thrust of his hips. Fill him up to the brim and make him scream with the burn, strip him of that superiority complex and leave the brat filthy, shaking, saccharine, babbling sweet worship for his favorite person. His idol.

S-Sensei...Kuroo-sensei!

With rapid breaths, Tetsurou was climaxing, catching the thick threads of cum in his palm before they could soil his pants. All the while his toes curled against the floor, his neck shivered with the orgasm, his mouth parted on a whine. Holy fucking shit. He wanted the real thing so bad. He wanted Tsukishima, his Apollo, undressed and honest, crying and clinging on to him, making heated eye contact and speaking his feelings into the air. Over and over again.

Grabbing a tissue from his desk, Tetsurou wiped his hand clean, crumpled it to a wad, and tossed the balled up paper in the trash. The onset of clarity was already descending, bringing with it a deep self-loathing.

This was so fucking wrong. Tsukishima was a fan - one that he’d only met that day. Tetsurou shouldn’t be lusting after him like this, especially not after lying about his real identity. And he sure as hell shouldn't return to their book club next Sunday, eavesdropping on their conversation and spinning his own takes, like some self-indulgent asshole.

Today was a one time thing. A mistake he wouldn't repeat.

...

Probably.

Tetsurou stewed in his shame for five minutes. Maybe six.

When the gnawing guilt finally subsided and he straightened himself out, Tetsurou was on his feet, shuffling through the mess on his desk, in search of his cell. After he found it, he hit the first contact on speed dial and waited.

After three rings, she picked up.

“Hi, sweetie!”

“Hey, mom. I'm calling because-”

"One second honey." Muffled on the other end, he heard her call out, "Tetsu is on the phone, dear! Come say hi!"

"Mom-"

"Dad says hello," she returned, clearer. In the background, a low voice grumbled, and she translated. "He wants to know how the latest novel is coming."

"It's great. Look, I just called because-"

"Did you get the scones I sent?"

"Yes, they were great. Now, I called because-"

"How is Kenma doing? Did he get the scones I sent him?"

Tetsurou let out a long sigh. She really meant well.

"Yes," he relented, propping a hand on his desk and holding himself upright. "He says thank you."

"Oh, he doesn't need to thank me for that. We had extras and I'm happy to deliver them." There was the rushing of water in the background, and Tetsurou assumed she was washing the dishes from dinner. It was about that time in the evening, anyway. "Now, what did you need, sweetie?"

“This is going to sound weird but do you remember that magazine I used to submit pieces for back in high school? Like early high school."

“Oh, that takes me back. I do remember, though not the name - it had something to do with a bird, I think. The Owl? The Eagle?”

“The Hummingbird.”

“Oh! That's it," she agreed.

"Do you still have the copies?"

"I can't imagine we got rid of them." The rushing of water stopped, and she was muffled again, "Dear, do you know where Tetsu's stuff from high school is?"

More indistinct grumbling, followed by his mother's chipper voice, "You can check the attic, sweetie."

"Great, I’ll swing by tomorrow night."

"I'll make dinner. Bring Kenma too."

Tetsurou snorted. "Will do."

“Why the hell did you give them my name?”

Tetsurou heaved another cardboard box - this one labeled awards/publications - onto the creaky wooden floor of his parent's attic, summoning a cloud of dust in the air. Kenma brought the sleeve of his hoodie up to his nose and squinted his eyes, watching his childhood friend kneel down and run the blade of a box cutter along the seal of duct tape, before opening up the flaps. Inside was everything from old volleyball medals and trophies, to certifications and ribbons from writing competitions.

“I dunno,” Tetsurou admitted, rummaging through the sentimental garbage. “I panicked.”

Kenma frowned and sat down on a plastic storage bin. He was still small enough to do that, even at twenty-six.

Growing up, Kenma had always been smaller and paler than his counterpart, loathing exercise and hiding away from the sun. Much of his appearance remained unchanged into adulthood. He got out of the house as much as Tetsurou did - which was to say, not often. But that was simply the nature of his work as a computer programmer. A profession that leant itself to stationary and casual. 

Without a proper dress code, Kenma lived in baggy sweatshirts and old flannel pants from high school, faded and pilled from the endless wear and wash. His hair, too, was unprofessional: stark brunette roots growing out of bottle-dyed blond. The pudding-head to Tetsurou's rooster-hair.

“You could've said Yaku, or Kai. Now a bunch of strangers think that I actually read your books,” he lamented, like that was the worst part.

"Shut up," Tetsurou said with a dry smirk, his words lacking any real venom. "I know for a fact that you've read my books."

Kenma shifted uncomfortably, but didn't deny it. "Only the good ones."

From the box, Tetsurou excavated a bundle of old newspapers, stacked neatly and tied together with twine. That's right - he was a student journalist back in middle school. How nostalgic. 

“What else could I have done?” He asked, plopping the old copies beside him.

“Um...told the truth?”

“Yeah, right - they were in the midst of discussing my book! It would’ve looked so conceited if I just-"

Kenma interrupted him, lashing a careless blow to his ego with that painfully blunt demeanor, “Aren’t you being conceited? I mean, your first instinct when overhearing their debate was to join in. Humble people don't do that."

Perhaps there was some truth to that. Perhaps it was narcissism that drove his feet forward and sent him stumbling into their conversation. Or perhaps it was his pride as an author, unable to sit idly by as another person wrongly interpreted his original intent.

Or perhaps...it was something else. 

“You don't get it, man. You didn't see this guy. He was..." Stunning? A revelation? Perfect in every conceivable way? Tetsurou never finished the thought, for at that precise moment, he found what he was looking for. Hidden underneath a collection of composition books, lined with pages and pages of his inelegant script, embarrassing stories that went nowhere, was- 

"Aha!"

A dense pile of magazines, each one bordering a hundred pages. Printed in bold yellow letters at the top of each edition's cover was The Hummingbird, along with various illustrations of the titular animal.

"Oh, wait. I remember those," Kenma said, leaning over curiously. "How many are there?"

"I submitted something to ten different editions during my first year," Tetsurou explained, splitting the pile in half and plopping five copies on his friend's lap.

Kenma frowned - a familiar look. The same expression he donned when facing a difficult video game boss. "I can't believe you're making me do this."

"You won't be complaining at our wedding. Now, read."

Kenma grumbled more protests, but did as instructed. "What's this guy called again?"

"Tsukishima. Not sure the spelling."

Tetsurou took his own pile and reclined against a garbage bag full of spare bedding, making himself comfortable as he combed through the submissions. There were thousands and reading them all would take several days, but they were just looking for a name.

An hour of silence passed, undisturbed as they skimmed the pages, illuminated faintly in the dim attic light. Eventually, it was Kenma who managed to locate him (Tsukishima, Age 13). Two years younger than Tetsurou, at the time.

Tetsurou snatched it from his hands to examine himself. The November issue. His submission lived not in the short fiction section, but the poetry section. Huh, so that's why I didn't remember his name. 

It was a single piece, short and sweet, titled Illusionary Hero. Tetsurou read it out loud.

"Tell me your illusionary hero, and I shall tell you mine
A smile, a promise, a mold to bend oneself into
I spent so long carving and cutting away
With the exacting knife of expectation
That I failed to notice the mold as it changed

He's alone, standing in his shame, and I don't recognize
The smile, the promise that once breathed me purpose
Now unable to fill a crowded stadium
Incisions have been made, forever on the skin
Too late, I wish to have taken a different shape"

When Tetsurou finished, they ruminated in silence.

Then, through pursed lips, Kenma murmured, "That's...really sad."

Tetsurou furrowed his brow, silently reading the words a second time, committing them to memory. "It's-"

Amateurish, perhaps. But for age thirteen? Introspective, honest, budding with potential. A bit tragic too, as Kenma so articulately phrased. This idea of changing yourself to match someone you no longer look up to...maybe not a universal experience, but something Tsukishima had conveyed with deft care.

"-beautiful," he finished. Much like that godly appearance; a stunning mind to match.

Kenma rolled his eyes. "You're just saying that because you think he's cute."

"He is cute," Tetsurou maintained. "I wonder who the poem is about?"

"His father?" Kenma guessed. "Or maybe a friend."

"The word stadium is odd," Tetsurou noted, skimming the prose a third time. "When are you ever in a stadium?"

"For sports, or music," Kenma supplied off the top of his head. He then jumped off the plastic storage bin and raised up both arms, stretching like a cat. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Tetsurou dog-eared the magazine page before closing it. "No. He can never know about this - might think I'm some kind of stalker."

Kenma shot him a look, as if to say, aren't you? 

"Shut up," he repeated. "In any case, I probably won't ever see him again."

"Weren't you just talking about marriage?"

Tetsurou returned the assortment of childhood accolades back to their box, save for the November issue. That was tucked safely under his arm. "A pipe dream. I've already ruined my chances. He thinks I'm you. And if I were to tell the truth now, he'd probably be weirded out."

"Probably," Kenma agreed, though he was eyeing the magazine. "What do you plan to do with the poem, then?"

Tetsurou's attention flickered up, and he smirked. "Find some way to work it into my novel."

"Plagiarist."

"It's called having a muse," Tetsurou corrected. "If I can't see him anymore, then this," he held up The Hummingbird, "is the only inspiration I've got."

Tetsurou hadn't been lying when he vowed to leave Tsukishima alone.

It wasn't his fault that fate had other plans.

After wringing every last bit of material from that single poem, Tetsurou was, yet again, at a creative impasse. He paced and smoked and caffeinated for three days straight, before Akaashi was hounding him again over the phone, his ever-present voice of reason.

Eat something. Take a shower. Go for a walk.

And so, Tetsurou was back to wandering, back to aimless in his neighborhood. Only this time, the world he walked was mellow. A dreary spell had set in that morning, but Tetsurou didn't bemoan the gloomy weather. Overcast skies complimented his foggy mind. Moreover, the surrounding foliage was especially lush and vibrant; glowing with the morning showers. In one hand, he swung a black umbrella, unopened but ready for when the sky cried again.

The entire time, Tetsurou couldn't escape him. He was seeing Tsukishima everywhere. In the delicate and layered petals of a white rose, the elegant script of a bakery sign, the wheat hair of a stranger...

Hold up.

Tetsurou stuttered to a stop, lifting his hand to peer into the windows of a local bookstore. Browsing the shelves with his back turned was a tall, blond drink of water, donning a crisp button-down and trim waistcoat, some shapely slacks, and leather oxfords. Tetsurou couldn't see his face from this angle, but the red tether snaking around his heart squeezed tighter. Without a doubt, it was his Apollo.

Suddenly, the universe swelled with poetic harmony. The overcast sky cleared for a brief interlude, opening up a patch of blue and sending down angelic rays. The smell of rain hung fresh on the air, a comforting, nostalgic scent, and the warm interior lighting of the bookstore cast Tsukishima in all shades of flattering radiance.

Everything at that moment sang, here he is, your soulmate.

And god, was Tsukishima as beautiful as Tetsurou remembered.

The first emotion to hit him was longing. The desire to reach out and touch Tsukishima, to envelope him from behind and hold him like they were long-time lovers, to close his eyes and listen to the way that dulcet tone spoke his name.

But following just as quickly was a sobering wave of guilt. The recollection of his own mistakes, the intrusion, the lie, the inherent power-imbalance between a writer and a fan. Not to mention, Tetsurou had gotten off to the thought of him. That alone was sufficient cause for retreat. He needed to run far away and preserve Tsukishima's rose-colored perception of his precious Kuroo-sensei. Ensure it untarnished by the disappointing reality.

Tetsurou's body was not on speaking terms with his brain, however. He felt like a spectator to his own actions, watching helplessly as some idiot with awful hair and a five-day shadow played at nonchalance, pushing open the door and sounding the entry chimes, slinking between rows of shelves, pretending to browse the selection while steadily making his way to Tsukishima. From behind a stack, he watched the blond's movements, mirrored them, pulling out a random novel to create a window between the shelf separating them.

The surprise was feigned, as he said, "Oh? Well, isn't this a coincidence. It's nice to see you again, Tsukishima-kun."

The blond startled with the unexpected sight, but just as quickly, recognition twisted his features into a scowl.

"What are you doing here, Kozume-san?” he asked, already replacing the book so that their window was closed, forcing Tetsurou to jog around the shelf and chase after him. Tsukishima refused eye contact, scrolling his attention instead through a new section labeled Magical Realism.

"Same as you," Tetsurou offered, forcing his demeanor calm, despite his pounding pulse. "Looking for a page turner."

Tsukishima reached out, pressing down a finger to dislodge a book from the shelf, before turning it over in his hands and skimming the back summary. His eyes never left the text, but Tetsurou could practically feel them drilling with skepticism, as he asked, "In the cooking section?"

"Uh..." Tetsurou's mouth parted and his brain scrambled for an explanation. Suppose this was punishment for trying to be cool. "...yeah. Uh-huh. Love a good cookbook, always looking for new recipes to try."

Finally, Tsukishima's eyes tore away from the novel in his hands, just long enough to spare Tetsurou a passing glance. His eyebrow quirked with the evaluation. "You cook?"

Tetsurou scoffed, a wry smirk curling his lips. "Is that doubt I hear, Tsukishima-kun?"

"No," he replied, returning the book to its narrow slot and pressing it back into line. Looks like it didn't pass the test. Tetsurou's quick eyes caught the author and recognized the name as his peer, someone whose skill Tetsurou always regarded as superior in every sense. But apparently, not enough for his darling Apollo.

Tsukishima went on, eyes scanning the rest of the titles, "I was merely surprised. You don't strike me as someone who cooks often."

Ouch. A dig, not-so-subtly phrased. In other words, Tsukishima was telling him, you don't strike me as a proper adult. As much as he resented the implication, Tetsurou had little grounds to dispute. He was currently the scruffiest he'd ever been, with thick stubble and a bad case of bedhead. And that was to say nothing of his clothing. In stark contrast to Tsukishima's meticulous fashion, Tetsurou donned a worn t-shirt from undergrad, some joggers, and a scuffed pair of running shoes that were in desperate need of replacement. Hardly the picture of refined maturity.

Tetsurou followed Tsukishima to the next shelf, this one labeled New Releases and watched him select another book from the masses. This author too he recognized and respected. Tsukishima studied the cover, considered the title, and was quick to disregard, not even bothering with the summary.

"What do I strike you as, then?" Tetsurou asked. He was undeterred by Tsukishima's slight. If anything, he was elated to know that this person had thought of him at all.

The blond sighed, finally turning his entire body to regard Tetsurou directly. With arms folded and eyes doing a once-over, he countered, "What does the opinion of a stranger matter?"

"Well, that's precisely it. You're unbiased," Tetsurou explained. "The perfect candidate for honesty."

"You want honesty?" Tsukishima verified with another disbelieving curl of his brow. There was something ironic about the question, but Tetsurou was nodding, unaware that he'd just opened Pandora's box.

"Fine," Tsukishima said, tilting his head back and looking down his nose, as if Tetsurou were standing below him. In truth, they were lined up squarely eye-to-eye, allowing the latter a clear view of every golden fleck in those precious gemstones. With little care or delicacy, Tsukishima listed off the charges, "You're ill-mannered, lacking in tact, and conceited."

Double ouch.

"That's - harsh," Tetsurou settled with a hollow laugh. "I mean, the first two I'll grant, but conceited? Really?"

Tsukishima turned away again, this time touring through the shelves of Historical Fiction. He reiterated, unapologetic, "You asked for honesty."

"Yeah, but..." Tetsurou trailed off, watching him pick up a third book. This one passed all the preliminary marks, only to fail at the very end with a brisk flip through and skim of the prose. At this rate, Tsukishima's standards would never be met. Tetsurou tilted his head, thinking for a moment.

"Wait just a second.” 

Tsukishima did wait, confused, as Tetsurou made his way to the International section, scouring the multi-colored spines before bending down and plucking a familiar title from the bottom shelf. He then returned and offered the book to Tsukishima.

"Here."

He didn't take it, however, instead inspecting the cover suspiciously. "What's this?"

"A recommendation," Tetsurou said simply. "I noticed you skipped over Murakami, in the magical realism section. Assuming you've already read through his backlog, I thought you might be looking for something comparable."

Tsukishima's eyes widened. Gone was that harsh appraisal. In its place, genuine confusion. "How did-"

"An educated guess. Figured we were of similar tastes."

Tetsurou's knowing smirk would've normally ruffled Tsukishima's feathers, but he was too distracted by the book being placed in his hands to take notice. An orange cover with the Japanese translation of an English title. The character combination was odd.

"How are you meant to read this?" Tsukishima asked, squinting at the seemingly senseless sequence.

"number9dream," Tetsurou said, in English, before repeating the equivalent in Japanese. "By David Mitchell. Murakami's western counterpart, in many regards. If you aren't opposed to translations, I'd recommend his whole catalog."

"That name sounds familiar," Tsukishima mused, turning the copy over in his hands to read the summary.

"Pretty sure Kuroo-sensei is a fan of his work."

Tsukishima's grip on the book tightened, ever-so-slightly, at the mention of his beloved. He kept skimming, pretending to be unaffected while humming aloud, "Mm, is that so?"

"I mean, he's never confirmed in so many words. But there's a lot of obvious influence from Ghostwritten and Cloud Atlas in his debut, The Cat and the Crow, especially when it comes to plotting and perspective change," Tetsurou rattled off, almost mindless.

With brisk flip through of the first few pages, Tsukishima's eyes danced quickly over the writing, testing it against his refined palette. As he read silently through the first two pages, Tetsurou took the opportunity to admire, unabashed, his beautiful features: the button nose, the delicate jawline, the high, almost-rosy cheeks. He only dropped his gaze to the floor when Tsukishima closed the book and tucked it into the canvas shopping tote slung over his shoulder.

"Thank you for the recommendation, Kozume-san," he said, robotic in his polite speech, like he was out of practice.

"You're interested?" Tetsurou asked, the smirk taking on a more genuine endearment. He didn't know if it was the actual premise that intrigued Tsukishima, or the mention of Kuroo-sensei's preference. Either way, Tetsurou was happy to share a personal favorite work with his Apollo.

"Yes, I am," he said, and then paused, examining Tetsurou with renewed intensity.

"What is it?"

"You didn't lie about being a reader," Tsukishima observed, rather out-of-the-blue.

Tetsurou let out a huff of incredulous laughter. There were many things he'd lied about, but that was not one of them.

"Why would I?"

"I don't know," he admitted, and then amended, as he walked off towards the checkout, "To impress, I suppose."

Tetsurou was chasing after him again, this time to set the record straight. "Last I checked, you were the one trying to impress, Mr. I-can-quote-the-book-from-memory."

If the nickname bothered him, Tsukishima didn't let it show.

"I can," he affirmed, and then turned to needle Tetsurou over the rim of his glasses. "And so can you, apparently."

"Just a few passages.”

"Hm, indeed."

Tsukishima joined the back of a line of customers waiting to check out. Tetsurou idled beside him, pretending to read a flashy sign marketing some meet and greet event. Up and coming author so-and-so would be coming to promote their latest release-

"Will you be joining us again?" The blond asked suddenly.

Tetsurou blinked, tearing his eyes away from the cardboard advertisement. "Huh?"

"Sunday," Tsukishima clarified.

"Oh." Tetsurou shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his scuffed up sneakers. After dodging it earlier, his conscience was finally catching up with him, flinging his past transgressions to the forefront of his mind. "I'm not sure." To smother the guilt, Tetsurou put on his cheekiest grin, and jabbed, "You'd probably be happier if I didn't."

This had the blond unsettled, not with insult but alarm. For the first time, he looked a bit remorseful himself.

"That's not true."

Tetsurou snorted. "It's alright, you don't need to feel bad. I was pretty rude, barging into the conversation like that." He winked. "Promise it won't happen again."

"That's not-'' Tsukishima tried again, but he was next in line, beckoned to the nearest available register by a cute girl with a pixie cut and thick eye-liner. He swallowed the words, and placed the book on the counter, pulling out his wallet to pay. With Tsukishima occupied, Tetsurou took the chance to make a discreet exit. He silently turned and pushed open the door to-

Rain.

A sudden shower, spilling from the sky. Tetsurou's grip on the umbrella in his hand tightened. He didn't remember Tsukishima holding one. Maybe in his tote? 

"Shoot."

Speak of the devil. Tsukishima had followed Tetsurou out, stopping beside him. Raindrops hit the striped awning that sheltered them in a thundering rhythm, sliding down the fabric slope to create a waterfall before their eyes. The downpour would leave a body drenched in seconds.

Without saying a word, Tetsurou offered his umbrella.

"No, I couldn't-"

"It's alright," he insisted, practically shoving it into Tsukishima's hands. "I live close by." Another lie, but what was one more in the mix? "Wouldn't want your book to get damaged," he went on, when the blond remained unconvinced.

With an earnest smile and one more gentle assurance that I'll be fine, really, Tsukishima accepted Tetsurou's generosity. Then, in a voice so small it was nearly lost with the rain, he repeated, "Thank you."

Tetsurou felt his expression melt and heart squeeze, struck with the despairing realization that this was probably their final meeting.

In another life, perhaps, it could've been love.

"Of course."

Tsukishima opened the umbrella and bowed once more in gratefulness, waved carelessly off by Tetsurou. The former then stepped out into the shower and walked in the opposite direction from where Tetsurou came. The latter watched him go with a lingering fondness, a thought of there he goes, into the storm, my Apollo, my soulmate. His eyes then flickered up to study the weeping sky. Maybe if he waited long enough, it would pass...

In the distance, Tsukishima halted, turned, and returned to the bookstore patio.

Tetsurou felt a smile curling his lips, as he asked, "Forget something?"

"Yes," he said, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a small, rectangular piece of paper - his business card, pressed between two fingers and extended like a white flag. Tetsurou took the peace offering and squinted to read the fine print, while Tsukishima backtracked, "I apologize for my wrongful judgment, Kozume-san. I don't actually think you're conceited."

Tetsurou couldn't appreciate the apology, for all its surprising empathy and tenderness. He was too distracted by Tsukishima's business card, denoting the name of a well-known publishing house and his title of contract manager - but that wasn't all. The character of his first name was written in calligraphy beside his last. An eerily familiar word: firefly, meant to be pronounced as-

“Hotaru?” He asked, lifting his head in bewilderment, amber eyes searching Tsukishima. “Like…the character in the novel?”

The blond twitched with the question, before a light blush dusted his cheeks. He corrected, “ It’s read as Kei. But I'd prefer if you kept to my surname."

Tetsurou nodded, "Sure, sure," but he wasn’t really listening any more. His romantic side had snatched the sign and took off running, claiming fate.

Hotaru. My Hotaru. 

“Wow...what are the odds." He remarked, a bit breathless, like the air had been punched from his lungs. All the while, his brain warred with itself.

It's proof!

It's a common name. 

We were meant to find each other!

It's not even pronounced the same way.

Tsukishima shifted from one foot to the other, lingering in front of the bookstore like there was something else on his mind. He had to wrestle down his own pride, to get the words out, "Look - I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, Kozume-san. You're a fan of Kuroo-sensei's, are you not?"

Tetsurou blinked, roused from the heated internal debate. "Uh...right."

With that confirmation, Tsukishima was sighing in concession. "Then...you're welcome in our book club. I-" He bit off the word, clearing his throat, to rephrase, "We would be interested to hear your thoughts again, if you have time to spare."

A half-hearted invitation, spoken like a confession of love. Like a scene born from Tetsurou's imagination: his Apollo standing in the rain, sheltered by a borrowed umbrella and blushing in spite of his ego. He could've walked off without another word, exiting Tetsurou's life as quickly and bluntly as he'd entered. But something drew him back. A sense of indebtedness. Or maybe, those words were more than mere obligation. Maybe he was genuinely curious towards this stranger, disheveled and intrusive, but also equally as passionate and knowledgeable.

Tetsurou would likely never know the true motive behind the offer. But he was beaming regardless.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll try to make it."

"What is your favorite of Kuroo-sensei's works, Kozume-san?"

Tetsurou blinked back to the present. For the past ten minutes, he'd been staring, quite blatantly, at Tsukishima's beautiful countenance as the blond recited one of his many favorite lines from Tetsurou's fourth work, Evolution , before tailing it with a personal interpretation of one character's motivations. Again, conflicting with Tetsurou's original intent, but he was far from wrong in his evaluation, citing evidence with every assertion.

Such was the nature of fiction. Meaning was completely subjective, dependent on the varying perceptions and experiences of those deriving.

Asahi disagreed with Tsukishima's stance, offering something that was a little more in-line with what Tetsurou had originally planned. The two went back and forth, and the more Tsukishima dug his heels into the dirt and refused to budge, the more Tetsurou was enamored.

He's pretty even when he's stubborn.

Barrettes - er, Yachi, had been the one to startle his ardor with her question. She whispered so as to not interrupt the current debate.

Tetsurou shifted his eyes to connect with her. He was currently reclined in one of the cafe chairs, hands shoved in his pants pockets and legs crossed wide, propping one ankle atop the other knee. His demeanor was relaxed. Perhaps a bit too relaxed, given the current predicament. He was still using a false name, still parading under the guise of a fellow Kuroo-sensei fanatic to infiltrate their book club. He should've been nervous, fearful of misspeaking and involuntarily indicting himself.

But these people were magnetic, intimately familiar with his work, and therefore, familiar with his mind. Conversations with them came easy, and he was quick to find comfort in their presence.

"What's that, Yachi-san?" He whispered back, leaning closer lest her voice be lost in the wider discussion.

"I was just curious to know if you had a favorite of Kuroo-sensei's catalog," she explained. "Evolution is Asahi-senpai's."

Well, that would explain how he was able to go toe-to-toe with Tsukishima.

Tetsurou briefly studied Yachi's earnest, smiling face, and concluded, rather belatedly, that she was cute. Adorable, even. Like a kitten or puppy, something you would take into your arms and squeeze with affection. If Tetsurou was straight, he might've been smitten with that heart-shaped face, those wide chestnut eyes, that candy-glossed smile. He might've set his sights on this darling blond, with a proclivity for bright, spring colors and floral patterns.

But, as it currently stood, he was gay. And not only gay, but very, very in love with the other blond cutie sitting opposite in their circle.

"What are you two whispering about over there?"

It was Sugawara who asked, scrutinizing Tetsurou and Yachi with a mischievous glint in his eyes, snickering like he caught them colluding. The question halted Tsukishima and Asahi's discussion, drawing their attention to the pair as well. The former was not happy to be interrupted.

Yachi explained, waving her hands frantically, "I'm sorry, we didn't mean to be rude. I-I just wanted to know if Kozume-san had a favorite book among Kuroo-sensei's works. You know, because Asahi loves Evolution... so I just..." She bent forward, bowing to Tsukishima in particular. "I'm sorry!"

His sharp edge dulled with her apology. Apparently, the great Apollo had a soft spot for more than just his beloved Kuroo-sensei. With that rare, fleeting gentleness, he assured Yachi, "It's alright, you don't need to apologize."

"Well..." Sugawara said, speaking directly to Tetsurou, "Do you?"

And with the question, everyone's attention fell to him. The hot seat. Tetsurou didn't know what to say. He had never really given favoritism much thought. Each of his works, with their many flaws and quirks, were precious to him in their own way. Emblematic of the time he wrote them, and honest to his past thoughts and reflections, no matter how far he'd grown out of some. It was like choosing a favorite child.

"They've all got their own merits, don't they?" He offered, rather noncommittally. Sugawara rolled his eyes, though he was smiling.

"What a copout!" He accused. "Whad'ya scared of? That we might judge you?"

Tetsurou smirked as well. "Not at all. But if you're so keen on knowing, then why don't you share first, Suga-san?"

"Fine, I will," he agreed, and then offered without hesitation or reservation, "I've always been fond of The View from the Summit."  

His second publication. A slice of life meditation on one man's acceptance of mediocrity.

Yachi volunteered as well, "The End and the Beginning, for me."

Third. A reconciliation story about one family, spanning multiple generations.

Both were fine choices, and somehow very fitting of their respective audience. Yachi's sweetness was mirrored in the climax of her pick, in which a mother and daughter reconnected after years of distance and miscommunication. On the other hand, Sugawara's was a bit of a deceptive underdog. Slow to begin, but once the main character beholds his epiphany at a literal mountain peak, the pace ramps up and tumbles into one triumphant conclusion.

Even Asahi's preference made perfect sense. Usually polite and deferent in his speech, the gentle giant had an underlying reliability to him, never one to shy away from defending his personal morals and beliefs. A contrast in personality that matched the two main characters in Evolution: one shy, innocent boy and the brash, outspoken girl he falls for.

Tetsurou's attention fell to Tsukishima, who stiffened the way he always did when their eyes connected.

"And you, Tsukishima-kun?"

Now, Apollo was in the hot seat. He squirmed with curious eyes on him.

"It seems we share sentiments, Kozume-san," he muttered. "I think all of Kuroo-sensei's works are strong."

"Aw, you two are no fun," Sugawara scoffed. "It's not about quality, Tsukki. It's about personal connection! Which one spoke to you?"

The blond squirmed some more with this prodding, and Tetsurou was leaning forward without realizing, desperate to know the answer.

To be clear, there was a definitive answer. Tetsurou could see it, hidden in those champagne eyes, stifled for whatever reason by pursed pink lips.

Tsukishima didn't hope to win against a resolute Sugawara. The latter had a way of dragging the truth from the former's clenched jaw. So, he relented, "I suppose...the one that spoke to me most was The Moon Waxes Full."

This confession surprised the rest of the book club, who were expecting an older selection. Something aged and nostalgic.

Asahi asked, "Really? But it's only been out for a few months now."

"And already I've read it six times," Tsukishima informed him frankly.

"Six!" Yachi squeaked.

Sugawara whistled in amazement. "Now that's a dedicated fan."

"If you don't mind me asking, Tsukishima-kun, what about that particular story spoke to you?" Tetsurou asked. He squeezed his own thigh tightly, praying he didn't appear as frazzled as he felt. 

Six? Are you trying to kill me?

Tsukishima was quiet to begin, contemplating the answer himself. Eventually, he explained,

“The Moon Waxes Full feels very personal to Kuroo-sensei, more so than his prior works. I do adore his voice as an author, but even I can admit it's...distant. Impersonal. He never..." preemptively, Tsukishima blushed, dropping his voice to mutter, "He never loves his characters, the way that some authors do. Rather, his narration is incidental. Like he's an unfeeling, omnipotent observer merely relaying the events, albeit in a very poetic and satisfying way. In contrast, The Moon Waxes Full reads like," he shook his head, wracking his brain for the precise phrasing, before settling on, "like you're being told the story from a friend of the characters. Like someone who knows these people intimately and cares about them, cares about how the reader perceives Hotaru and Sensei. It's...the most earnest and vulnerable he's been. I think." 

The circle was speculative, sitting quietly with Tsukishima's words. And soon after, the blond was recoiling from his own rambling.

"N-not that I think it's a true story. I just think Kuroo-sensei cares about this particular narrative a great deal, for whatever reason. And that...I don't know-” he shrugged, finishing, "That spoke to me."

At some point during the soliloquy, Tetsurou's throat tightened and his eyes burned. One more kind word and he would've broken down - it was hard not to, with Tsukishima flaying open his soul and pulling out something that even Tetsurou himself hadn't admitted.

The Moon Waxes Full was indeed his most personal work, and maybe, in some ways, his favorite too. Through the many rewrites, the countless adjustments and edits, it was still something he loved, something he was meant to write.

But that wasn't what constricted his chest and pricked his eyes. No - what really got him was the way Tsukishima, a perfect stranger, had effortlessly shattered his heart and pieced it back together. He'd taken The Moon Waxes Full, a half-realized and deeply flawed story, and read it six times. He'd poured over the words, and from them, extracted a fondness expressed not outright, but in subtle word choice and narration.

In other words, Tsukishima had felt his affection, and reciprocated it. 

Suddenly, best-selling author and notorious recluse Kuroo Tetsurou was struck with clarity, a revelation in the form of kinship with his own fans. All those sprawling essays he'd receive in the mail, detailing how freeing it was to be seen through the eyes of another...finally, he understood.

"What a coincidence, Tsukishima-kun," Tetsurou said, chuckling to keep his own voice from breaking. He cleared his throat. "That one is my favorite as well."

Tsukishima shot him an icy glare, almost protective in its nature.

"You said it was weak, if I remember correctly."

Tetsurou nodded. "It is, without a doubt, his weakest work. And for that reason, I find it both fascinating and infuriating. I can't stop thinking about all the ways it failed. But that's love, is it not?"

A rhetorical question, for the answer was obvious. Slowly, that icy glare melted from Tsukishima's eyes, because for the first time since they'd met, Tetsurou was speaking from a place of visceral truth. Of warm and familiar devotion.

"Maybe if I loved the story less, I wouldn't be so critical. But the flaws are glaring and I can't ignore them, because part of me knows, with a few changes and less ambiguity, it could've been perfect."

The cafe was lively, bustling on a Sunday afternoon. All around them, people chatted and orders were called. The typical humdrum. But gradually, with each subsequent word, it fizzled out. Even the surrounding book club faded into nothingness, until there was only Tsukishima and Tetsurou.

Hotaru and Kuroo-sensei.

Apollo and Author.

Golden eyes locked with amber. No more harsh looks or haughty pride. Just two people slowly understanding each other's heart.

"But you're right, Tsukishima-kun," Tetsurou went on, making the effort to smile again, because somewhere along the way, he'd lost it. "For its glaring faults, The Moon Waxes Full is indeed honest. The most honest he'll ever be."

Unexpectedly, Tsukishima returned the expression. It was slight, a subtle twitch at the edge of his lips. Less fond and more awed, but a smile all the same.

Maybe if Tetsurou wasn't so wrapped up in the moment, in the effortlessly beautiful curve of Tsukishima's lips, he might've caught Sugawara's eyes. Far too perceptive, shifting between them. At his own mouth, a plotting grin pulled.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow night?" He asked Tetsurou suddenly, shattering the atmosphere and forcefully wrenching the pair back to the present. To the bustle and humdrum.

Tetsurou turned his head and raised his brow at the unexpected inquiry. Tomorrow was Monday.

"I don't believe so."

"Wonderful! This upcoming Saturday is my 28th birthday," he informed, again out-of-the-blue.

"Well...happy early birthday, Suga-san."

"Thank you, thank you," he said with a nod. "Anyway, Azumane and I are traveling to see my family next weekend, so the club won't be meeting on Sunday. Instead, we're getting drinks tomorrow night to celebrate. I know it's rather sudden, and you've only just met us, but would you like to come?"

Tetsurou was a bit speechless with the invitation. Indeed, it was forward, but also incredibly thoughtful and generous and far greater than what he deserved. Never mind intruding on academic conversation, personal celebrations should’ve absolutely been off limits. A line not to be crossed.

But those beautiful honey eyes were stuck to him, waiting for his answer, and words took form on Tetsurou's lips without permission.

"I'd be honored."

Child prodigy and published author at seventeen did not a partier make. 

University was the time in which young people experimented with alcohol and tested their own boundaries, but Tetsurou didn't have time for clubs or bars or debilitating hangovers. As a full-time student and part-time author, his greatest concerns during undergrad were simply making his next deadline. 

Smoking was therefore the extent of Tetsurou's vices. An unpleasant habit, for sure. Something he'd picked up from a senpai in high school and came to rely on through his adulthood. In contrast, he never really developed a taste for alcohol outside some choice merlot brands and the occasional whiskey sour. Whenever Tetsurou did indulge, it was usually within the sanctity of his own home. Two glasses, maybe three, to warm his body and round the evening.

In other words...Tetsurou was a terrible lightweight.

And that did not bode well, especially because nerves had emptied his stomach and kicked his heart. He spent the whole of Monday afternoon and evening milling aimlessly about his house, getting nothing done, anxious to see his Apollo again. An hour before the ordained meeting time, he was in his bathroom, fiddling with his appearance like a school girl before a first date, which was stupid, because this wasn't a date. Not even close.

Tetsurou stroked over the shadow-turned-stubble-turned-beard. Again, not a bad look. But it did age him. Not to mention, Tsukishima's remark from earlier still haunted him.

You don't strike me as someone who cooks.

Sitting untouched on the sink counter, his electric razor called his name.

"Well...don't you clean up nice, Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome."

The comment had Tetsurou reflexively touching his now clean-shaven face, smooth and fragrant with the sage notes of aftershave. He grinned sheepishly as Sugawara made a big show of his transformed appearance, and to be fair, it was indeed a transformation. Beyond grooming, Tetsurou had put some genuine thought into his clothing selection, trading stretched, faded, and old for something fitting of the occasion: a pressed button-down, black chinos, and a pair of loafers that were respectfully kicked off at the door.

His hair was still a mess, of course. Combined with the pressed lines of his clothing and the sharp cut of his jawline, however, it was a welcome contrast. A little imperfectness to endear. To preserve the inner truth.

"You don't look half bad yourself," he returned, sliding closed the shoji door of their reserved washitsu, a private room offered by the restaurant to host larger groups. Sugawara and Asahi were already sitting on cushions around a low, circular table, overlaying tatami mats. They had split a bottle of sake to start, sipping from small white cups.

Both of them were done up as well, although that was less a rarity. Asahi retained that trademark softness with a white cable knit sweater and some khakis. He also let his long hair down, parted in the middle and tucked behind the ear.

Sugawara similarly was dressed with his usual romantic flair, a billowing pink blouse this time that might have originally been designed for women, but nevertheless suited his slim body. His ears were pierced too, something Tetsurou had never noticed before. Dangling from each lobe were silver chandeliers. Gaudy for some, but on him, they worked.

"I like these," Tetsurou complimented, gesturing to his own ears as he sat down on the opposite side of the table, crossing his legs.

"Early birthday presents from this one," Sugawara said, reclining against his boyfriend like he was a sofa. Asahi blushed, but didn't shrug away from the PDA. Rather, his hand at Sugawara's side tightened, pulling him closer. Ah, so that's how it was.

"Antiques," Asahi explained, warm brown eyes cast into his sake cup. There was a bashful smile playing on his lips. "Thought they suited him."

"They do," Tetsurou agreed with a good natured grin. The shining silver complimented his hair color and highlighted that mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Such a flatterer," Sugawara joked. He then waved his hand up and down, gesturing vaguely to Tetsurou. "What brought all this on?"

"What? I can't look nice?" He asked, with put-on insult.

"It's not that you can't. It's that you normally don't," he said and Tetsurou winced with the brutal honesty. It seemed like everyone in his life was insistent on checking his ego.

Tetsurou grabbed the drink menu off the table and skimmed through the selection. He'd probably start off with whiskey, or maybe sake? He wasn't the biggest fan, but if that's what everyone else was drinking, then maybe-

The shoji doors slid open again and Tetsurou lifted his head.

"Happy birthday, Sugawara-senpai!"

"Happy birthday, senpai."

A chorus of greetings by the remainder of their group. Sugawara returned them affably.

Tsukishima was standing in the ajar entrance, and just behind him Yachi's tiny figure peeked out. The former was wearing a linen tunic, tucked into green slacks. Cinching it all together was a leather belt, emphasizing that narrow waist. The latter was wearing a baby blue dress, patterned by white polka dots and ruffled at the skirt.

Asahi asked, "Did you two come together?"

"We ran into each other outside," Yachi explained, dipping around the taller man to enter the room.

Tsukishima, on the other hand, was stalling in the doorway, attention newly magnetized to Tetsurou. His eyes were wide and lips parted, like he didn't recognize him.

But of course, he did. Changing outward appearances didn't erase the person underneath, and it was hard to misplace that infuriating mug, the crooked grin, the provocative air. This was the same scruffy man to barge into their book club and condescend Tsukishima's expertise. The same to presume friendliness, recommending him a book and sparing an umbrella on a rainy afternoon.

The same to share his complicated love for The Moon Waxes Full.

Only now, he wasn't scruffy. Now, the infuriating, crooked, provocative man was groomed and sleek, dressed in clean silhouettes that did not obscure but enhance his figure: broad shoulders, strong forearms, tapering torso, and cutting jawline. His eyes glimmered under the low cast of restaurant lighting, and Tsukishima nearly stumbled backwards under their intense scope. He nearly checked the reservation again, because this couldn't be the right room...

"Something wrong?"

It was Sugawara asking, flashing him a smug look. Knowing.

"Uh - no, I-" Tsukishima cut off his own explanation, realizing there was no logical reason for his delay. He muttered, "Excuse me," under his breath, entering the room finally and taking the seat to Tetsurou's right - the only one left. He then picked up a drink menu to hide behind.

It was Yachi who addressed the elephant in the room.

"Kozume-san, you look so different!"

"Good different or bad different?"

"Good!" She answered, and then stumbled over her words nervously, "Er- not that you didn't look nice before, but it's just...this is a big change! Both are good. But this, well, you know-"

"She's complimenting you," Tsukishima translated from behind his cover.

"And you, Tsukki? What do you think of Kozume-san's new look?" Sugawara pushed him to answer, leaning forward with both elbows propped on the table. Still smug. Still knowing.

Tetsurou fidgeted because he wanted to know too.

Lowering the menu, Tsukishima willed his eyes on Tetsurou, dragging along the crisp collar of his button-down shirt, climbing up his neck and along the defined curve of his jawline, falling into the subtle bow of his lips, and then-

Back to the menu.

"It's certainly...a change."

"Ehh, that doesn't sound good," Tetsurou said sheepishly, chuckling and feeling for the stubble that was no longer there. "Maybe I should've kept the beard..."

"No," Tsukishima cut him off. He wasn't smiling, or even sparing another glance in Tetsurou's direction. But his voice was quiet and sincere, as he complimented, "You look nice."

The thing about bookworms...they could only pretend to be normal for so long.

Efforts at small talk were made, no matter how beleaguering and trite. How was work? Nice weather we're having. Any exciting plans for the weekend? But after two bottles of sake were killed and the group steadily drained a third, among other drinks, the conversation veered away from casual and plunged into the darker depths of speculation and analysis, retreading old ground. An inevitable progression.

“I still don’t believe it was meant to be a romance,” Tsukishima maintained, pausing only to sip his gin and tonic. "Hotaru's feelings are too ambiguous. What he's feeling isn't love. It's just..." He waved his hand to fill in the blank. "...admiration."

Sugawara, already drunk on account of the early start and festive air, was arguing back, "You just don't know true love, Tsukki, that's the problem."

"Excuse me?"

Asahi was trying to defuse the tension (now, now, he didn't mean it like that, right Koushi?) while Tetsurou cackled. His true laughter, brazen and contagious, coaxed out by six cups of sake and two beers. A harsh crow's caw that scratched the air. Tsukishima snapped a glare at him.

Yachi wasn't drinking - didn't like the taste - but kept up with the intoxicated energy regardless, clutching a glass of orange juice with both hands. She smiled with the infectious laughter, but reminded everyone, "That's not true, Tsukishima-kun loves Kuroo-sensei."

An attempt to defend, but it did more harm than good. Tsukishima's entire face flashed red, a heated cocktail of embarrassment and alcohol.

Even still, he didn't deny it. He never denied his feelings, Tetsurou noted.

"I do love him. And because of that, I know Kuroo-sensei.”

Laughter subsided in favor of dangerous curiosity. Tetsurou propped his chin in his palm, unintentionally leaning closer to Tsukishima beside him. Maybe it was the lowered inhibitions, but this was all very funny to him because you don't even know that he's sitting right next to you. 

With mocked surprise, he raised his eyebrows and challenged, “Oh, do you now?”

“Yes, I do,” Tsukishima affirmed simply. “And that’s not how he writes romance.”

There was something...magnetic and fuzzy in the air between them. Something that went beyond the one-sided infatuation. Tetsurou wasn't ignorant to the way Tsukishima's eyes secretly drank up his appearance, stealing glances throughout the evening when he thought Tetsurou wasn't looking. He also did not miss the subtle return of his body language, a mirroring of his dangerous curiosity.

Tsukishima was leaning closer too.

“Alright, then, Tsukishima-kun, tell me. How does your Kuroo-sensei write romance?"

"My Kuroo-sensei," Tsukishima repeated, lowering his voice as if speaking only to Tetsurou, to the shared and dwindling space between them, "doesn't shy away from feelings. Take Evolution , for example. The reader can feel the devotion and attraction between characters, expressed in plain and powerful terms. It's acute. Visceral. There is no room for allusion or allegory when it comes to love, not for him. He writes what he wants."

His eyes dropped to Tetsurou's lips, falling again into the Cupid's bow, before rising up to regard the wider group. A quick motion, but the latter caught it. Shivered with it. 

"If The Moon Waxes Full was meant to be a romance, then we wouldn't be having this discussion at all," Tsukishima finished.

Sugawara hummed with his evaluation, admitting the loss. "Hehhhh, I guess you would know better than us, after reading the book six times." He then shook his head. "What are you going to do when you date someone, Tsukki? Is there enough love for another person, or is there only room in your heart for Kuroo-sensei?"

A fair question, all things considered. Tsukishima claimed to love a man he never met (knowingly, that is). With such obsession and reverence, how could anyone else hope to compare?

"Show me someone of his caliber and I'll consider making space."

At this, Tetsurou felt his own chest constrict with a confusing feeling: jealousy. This image Tsukishima had created in his mind of Kuroo-sensei was flattering, sure. His ego sang blissful notes every time Tsukishima stroked and praised its genius. But, at the same time, was it really Tetsurou he was lauding? Or some other, untouchable version the latter had created? The real deal was sitting inches away and here Tsukishima was, asking for a comparable substitute.

Sugawara supplied, "I can think of a few good men, off the top of my head."

"Please, senpai. Let's not forget the last time you tried setting me up with one of your 'good men'." 

Tetsurou perked up with curiosity, turning to ask, "What happened?"

"One of my coworkers took Tsukishima out on a date," he explained. "And it didn't go well."

Tsukishima counted off on his slender fingers, "He was late, disrespectful to our waitress, and he'd never read a single book in its entirety."

"Not even for school?"

"Nope." Tsukishima rolled his eyes. "A painful night, needless to say."

"Okay, so that was my bad," Sugawara conceded. "I didn't vet him well enough beforehand. But you also have high expectations, Tsukki! It's hard to find someone who meets all your criteria."

"You're the one who insists on playing matchmaker, senpai."

"Can you blame a mother for worrying?" Sugawara lamented, back to drunk theatrics. Asahi was patting his silver locks in consolation, like he was used to it

"You are not my mother," Tsukishima corrected dryly, lifting his drink. "Besides, wanting a partner who doubles as an intellectual peer is far from unreasonable."

Tetsurou needed to know, "Is that all you want?"

The glass stalled just before Tsukishima's lips. An unexpected question, existing not in a vacuum.

Rather than acknowledge the implication there, Tsukishima chose to play dumb. He sipped his drink and placed it back down on the table. "What do you mean?"

Tetsurou shrugged. "I'm curious to know what your criteria is. These 'high expectations' Suga-san alludes to."

With a pointed look spared in Sugawara's direction, he began, "I'd prefer someone who is punctual, to start."

Sugawara hugged the arm resting over his shoulders, leaning further into Asahi for solace. "Be nice to meee. It's my birthday."

Tsukishima rolled his eyes again, but nevertheless dropped the matter.

"Someone who is well-read," he added, taking the question more seriously this time. "Who will engage with me in a meaningful way in academic discussion. But I don't want a parrot. They should have their own opinions and be able to challenge me."

"So...someone smart and punctual?" Tetsurou summarized. "Doesn't seem too lofty."

Tsukishima wasn't finished, however. He listed off in addition, "I'd like them to be witty, and introspective, and confident, and financially self-reliant. Someone who keeps busy so I don't have to worry about entertaining them. A conversationalist who also is comfortable with silence..."

"There it is," Sugawara muttered with a smirk. "Mr. Impossible-to-please."

"I resent that."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with having high standards," Tetsurou said, placating Tsukishima with a light smile. "You just...know what you want."

To reassure, Tetsurou pat Tsukishima's thigh under the table. An unseen gesture made with benign intent, but under his palm, Tetsurou felt the other man go rigid, before flashing him a harsh glare.

Whoops.

The alcohol must've been hitting pretty hard, because Tetsurou's sense of fear seemed to be broken, inverted. Rather than ward him off, that contemptuous look drew him closer. He squeezed his hand tighter. Just once. Just enough to say, You know what you want, and I like that.

Another round shared. More laughter and teasing. More feeling like Tetsurou was fitting perfectly into this group.

They were old high school friends, he learned, bonded past two grade levels by a shared love of literature. They formed their book club in college to keep in touch, and kept it up even into adulthood, despite their lives following different paths.

Yachi worked in graphic design for an ad company, and spent her free time reading everything from classics to fantasy to contemporary dramas. She also loved to paint with watercolors, bake, and clean; the lattermost a method of de-stressing, she confessed.

Asahi, on the other hand, had studied fashion during undergrad, and worked in apparel design. He explained how nearly everything Sugawara wore was custom made, which Tetsurou could relate to as a fellow man with a muse. When Asahi wasn't bent over his sewing machine and playing dress-up with his boyfriend, he would indulge in editorials, non-fiction, and cheesy romance novels.

Sugawara was the biggest surprise in terms of his day job. A teacher, at the elementary level. Only in hindsight did this make sense. Sugawara was nothing more than a big kid himself, silly and sweet underneath all that sass. On weekends, Sugawara spent his time burning through thrillers, mysteries, and the occasional slice of life slowburn.

In contrast, Tsukishima's career choice made too much sense. A contract manager at a publishing house, something that required a love of books, keen attention to detail, and ability to speak harsh truths. The company he worked for was not affiliated with Tetsurou's own publisher, which spared him the worry of being recognized. But it did mean they had a lot to talk about.

"I'm surprised you also work in publishing," Tsukishima noted.

On the other side of the table, Sugawara and Asahi were moved past the conversation of careers, busy sharing the wedding photos of a mutual friend with Yachi. Some guy by the name Daichi, Tetsurou caught, but he was quick to tune out in favor of a sidebar with Tsukishima. The latter was intrigued by their shared industry, but Tetsurou hadn't chosen it for any shallow or duplicitous reason. Rather, it was the perfect cover. Publishing, outside of writing, was the one thing he knew best.

"I like books," he answered simply.

"Which house?"

Tetsurou supplied his own publisher, without much thought. "Nekomata."

This further intrigued Tsukishima, who tried and failed to act nonchalant because, "That's Kuroo-sensei's publisher."

At the corner of Tetsurou's lips, a grin curled. 

"No, I've not met him," he answered preemptively.

"I wasn't going to ask," Tsukishima said, though it was an obvious lie. He cast his eyes down into his drink, the third gin and tonic of the night and one he was handling well. Tetsurou might not have even known he was tipsy, if it weren't for light blush dusting his pale cheeks, and the ever-diminishing space between their bodies. Barely two centimeters separated their legs now, and a few times, Tetsurou would span the remainder, brushing against him - something Tsukishima didn't seem to mind.

At the very least, he wasn't glaring anymore.

"Which department?" The blond asked him.

"Oh, you know..." Tetsurou mused vaguely. This time, he shifted to push his knee against Tsukishima's thigh, the point of contact flashing hot. Or maybe it was the sake warming his skin - he couldn't tell anymore. "I've done a little bit of everything. Mainly copy editing, though."

Tsukishima didn't move closer, but he also didn't pull away, so Tetsurou took that as a good sign.

"And, do you enjoy it?"

Tetsurou shrugged. "It pays the bills."

"Hm."

He took the lull as an opportunity to drag his knee further up Tsukishima's thigh, spreading the heat under his skin and further down to his gut, where it coiled and burned and begged for greater friction. And again, the blond allowed it.

"What about you? Do you enjoy working as a contract manager?"

"I suppose so," Tsukishima said. Tetsurou watched him finish off his drink, tracking the glass as it was lifted and pressed to his lips. His eyes lingered on the plump, pink skin, wishing to trade places with the gin and tonic. Tsukishima then set the glass back down and repeated, with a slight grin, "It pays the bills."

Fuck. He’s beautiful when he smiles.

"Did you always want to work in publishing?"

The smile was lost. "No, not originally. I..." Tetsurou leaned in with Tsukishima’s pause, letting their shoulders bump, and this time, it really was an accident. "I originally wished to be an author. A poet, actually."

Tetsurou swallowed something thick. He recalled the submission, committed to his memory after the million times he'd reread it. Incisions have been made, forever on the skin. Too late, I wish to have taken a different shape. There was nothing more he wanted to do than berate Tsukishima with questions concerning the illusionary hero he wrote so articulately about at thirteen.

But that would mean giving up the ruse and admitting to his compounding lies. So instead, Tetsurou asked, "What changed your mind?"

The smile resurfaced, less genuine, and more sardonic this time. Tsukishima answered, "You know as well as I do, Kozume-san, that getting published nowadays is a near impossible feat. Besides, my work isn't worth reading. Certainly nothing compared to Kuroo-sensei."

The remark, uncharacteristic in its humility, sparked fire in Tetsurou.

"Don't say that," he chided. A harsh reprimand that took Tsukishima by surprise. Immediately, Tetsurou backtracked, "I mean - I'm sure you've got talent. You're smart, and articulate, and young. You shouldn't kill your own potential before it has the chance to grow."

Tsukishima studied Tetsurou with disbelief, before doing something equally as unexpected.

He laughed.

Nothing like Tetsurou's grating chuckle - this sound was as adorable and intoxicating as the person it belonged to. A fit of giggles rising up from his chest, shaking his shoulders. Behind the glasses, his eyes crinkled.

Tetsurou chuckled as well, submitting to the contagious moment. Oh, how he wished to take a picture, to freeze that stunning expression forever in a polaroid and carry it with him everywhere. A little spot of sunshine for rainy days.

Tsukishima's cute bout subsided long enough for him to remark offhand, "You're an odd man, Kozume-san. I can't seem to figure you out."

Tetsurou scoffed. "Thank you?"

"It's a compliment," he affirmed, and then, with a quiet fondness that made Tetsurou's heart sing, he confessed, "I like odd."

Midnight came and went, yet the group remained lively, oblivious to the late hour. Or maybe they simply didn’t care.

That was definitely the case for Tetsurou, who wished for eternity in this warm space, where banter was abundant and conversation stimulating. He found himself enthralled by the breaking boundaries: volume raised and boisterous as people were undressed by alcohol, less stilted and more candid in their demeanor.

Most of all, however, he was enraptured by Tsukishima’s mouth, stretched into a playful smirk; a rare, intoxicating expression hidden behind the rim of his drink and something Tetsurou couldn’t get enough of. He wanted nothing more than to grab him by the nape, lead his lips away from the glass, and press them onto his own. 

But he never got the chance to follow through. Around 1 AM, Tetsurou was suddenly struck by another wave of dizziness, and this time, the disorientation had nothing to do with lust.

He had to excuse himself to the bathroom, feeling suffocated in that enclosed space, head throbbing and stomach churning. He really should’ve eaten more at dinner.

“You alright?” Sugawara asked. Tetsurou gave him a smile to stave off concern, but it wasn’t at all convincing.

“Yeah, be right back.”

Sliding the door closed behind him, Tetsurou blinked several times to refocus his bleary vision, to no avail. The walls swirled and the ground seemed to evade him. He somehow managed not to stumble or sway on his way to the restrooms, only to clip his shoulder on the doorway.

Fuck.

The stalls were thankfully vacant to spare him the embarrassment. There were three total, standing opposite a big mirror underlined by a row of sinks. Tetsurou mosied over to one of them, leaning over the porcelain fixture and gripping the edge for stability. The details were fuzzy, but even still, Tetsurou knew he looked drunk, with distant eyes and flushed complexion.

He turned the faucet and splashed cool water on his reddened cheeks for a refreshing shock to the system, spreading that relief to the back of his neck. He then blindly waved a hand in the air, feeling for paper towels, before his fingers touched the dispenser and pulled a few to dry off. 

When leveled his head at the mirror, there was someone else in the reflection. Leaning against the back wall beside the entrance, Tsukishima watched Tetsurou with an airy smile. Like something was funny. 

Tetsurou decided to ask him, "What’s with that look?”

"You can't hold your booze, huh?" Tsukishima observed in answer, stepping off the wall. He’d had just as much to drink, if not more. Yet he showed no obvious signs of intoxication, aside from  the relaxation of his guard.

Tetsurou turned to share the smile. The water had managed to clear his head a little, but suddenly Tsukishima was back in his orbit and so too returned that fogginess. The impaired judgment. The urge to touch.

"Suga-san sent me to check on you," he explained. "He was worried you might not be feeling well."

"I'm fine, really," Tetsurou tried to insist, but the iron grip on the sink betrayed him. 

Tsukishima took another step closer, tilting his head in disbelief, as he considered Tetsurou's appearance. The lines that began the night clean and pressed were rumpled now, with the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled up, a spot of water at the collar from when he splashed his face. 

Certainly not a fitting image of Tsukishima’s untouchable Kuroo-sensei. Tetsurou was especially thankful now that he didn't know the truth.

"Are you sure?"

Tetsurou retained enough awareness to heed the concern laced in his words. He condescended accordingly.  "Aww, Tsukki. Are you worried about me? That's cute."

Tsukishima reacted how Tetsurou would anticipate: raising back up his walls, folding his arms, and doling out orders.

"Don't call me that."

He’s so pretty when he’s pouting, Tetsurou’s heart fawned.

His brain, in contrast, begged for an end to the foolish dance. This is dangerous, it warned. You’re not thinking clearly. Tsukishima is too beautiful.

Too good for a pathetic liar like you.

But like always, Tetsurou’s body was belligerent in its disobedience. The line was clear, laid out before him in bright yellow police tape - do not cross - and he trampled right over it. 

"What? Tsukki?" Tetsurou prodded, slurring his words. "S'cute. Suga-san gets to say it, why can't I?"

"Because he's a senpai from high school," Tsukishima informed him with a roll of his eyes. "He's always called me that. And in any case, it’s a childish nickname. I don’t like it."

Tetsurou hummed. “That so? Then..." He drew out the word, lolling his head to the side and smirking, to finish, "...what about Hotaru?"

This time, Tsukishima froze, his eyes blown as wide as the moon.

Tetsurou, too, stopped breathing, because that was not the reaction he anticipated. The name had been thrown out playfully; a jab to elicit further annoyance. To stoke Apollo’s temper and enjoy the enticing way he lashed back. That haughty air and sharp tongue were first to ensnare him, after all - Tetsurou enjoyed being subject to Tsukishima's ire.

But this was the complete antithesis to confidence and pride and condescension. Tsukishima stood paralyzed, cheeks dusting an indignant pink, eyes falling to the tiled floor, voice dropping to a nervous stutter.

"T-that's not…” 

He didn’t finish and Tetsurou’s intentions turned sinister with the silence. Indeed, the name held Tsukishima captive...but it wasn't fear reflected in those pretty golden eyes. 

Conducting another test, Tetsurou took two more steps closer.

“Hm? What is it, Hotaru?"

"Stop saying- I’m not-” Again, Tsukishima couldn’t finish. He instead backed away, overwhelmed by the electricity between them, needing reprieve from that powerful spark, but it wasn’t quite retreat. If Tsukishima truly wanted to leave, the door was right there. Tetsurou wouldn't have stopped him if he ran.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his back hit the wall. With eyes still averted and fingers flexing idly at his side, Tsukishima let Tetsurou corner him.

“But that’s your name, isn’t it?”

There were barely inches between their chests now, lining up perfectly on account of their comparable height. Tsukishima turned his head to the side, unable to meet the other man’s gaze.

Through a clenched jaw, he forced himself to set the record straight. “It’s not.”

Tetsurou could see him faltering, though. Waffling on his own resignation because maybe he did like the sound of that name. The way it tied him to the man he claimed to love and know intimately.

So, Tetsurou tilted his head to catch Tsukishima’s averted gaze and insisted, “Oh…I think it is. I think you want to be called that.” 

Slowly, Tsukishima pulled his attention forward, an achingly precise motion, for Tetsurou was close and their lips could’ve accidentally brushed together, if he wasn’t careful.

“You’re drunk,” he sneered.

Rather than concede to that, Tetsurou threw an allegation right back. “Sugawara didn’t send you to check on me, did he?”

Tsukishima's pupils dilated. Marginal, but still enough to act as answer.

Tetsurou chuckled. Partly because he was past tipsy, and partly because that little look of defiance was just too cute. 

“No need to be shy, it’s okay if you like me,” he drawled, and then dipped behind Tsukishima’s jawline, to whisper in his ear, “ I like you too, Hotaru.”

Tsukishima exhaled sharply through his nose, body shuddering with the confession. His hands lifted to press against Tetsurou’s chest, but he didn’t actually push him away. Rather, it was a safeguard, as he made one final bid at denial.

“I don’t-” 

Tetsurou cut him off, boldly dragging his tongue along the shell of the blond’s ear, puffing hot air and amending,

“My Hotaru.”

And that was it, the final straw to break the camel's back. Tsukishima closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip, and let out a little whine from the back of his throat - the sweetest fucking sound Tetsurou had ever heard. Not even something born from his most unforgivable fantasies could compare to the real deal. 

Tetsurou felt a delirious grin pulling at his lips, drunk on alcohol and lust and the delicious sounds Tsukishima made, uncaring of repercussions, of right or wrong. Tomorrow would come and Tetsurou would wake up feeling like the worst, most disgusting person on planet earth, but it would all be worth it, for this one heated exchange. For Tsukishima unraveling on his word and his word alone.

Like a magnet, his hands were drawn to that narrow waist, nearly able to span its entirety as they gripped above the hip bones and jerked the blond forward. And in that moment, Tetsurou knew there was a God, because he could feel against his thigh that Tsukishima was hard for him.

Again, he whispered, “Hotaru.”

And again, Tsukishima was melting. Trying and failing to muffle the whine in his throat, as it came through strangled and needy. His hands lifted to rest on Tetsurou’s shoulders, holding tight as his knees threatened to give out any second.

Taking this as encouragement, Tetsurou raised a hand to slip into those soft fluffy locks, leading Tsukishima’s jaw to the left and allowing him better access to his neck, kissing once, twice at the corner, before murmuring into the skin,

“Can I touch you?”

He felt Tsukishima swallow. His voice was hoarse, scratching the air, betraying his own arousal.

“You’re already touching me.”

Tetsurou took that as a resounding ‘yes’ and drew back to kiss his lips this time, soft and tender. His sappy heart trilled happy notes when Tsukishima kissed him back.

He was so elated, in fact, that a confession slipped out, “-so fucking beautiful.”

And the compliment must’ve really affected him, because Tsukishima responded with a fit of passion, like he was the one holding back all night. Slipping fingers into Tetsurou’s mess of hair, he tugged him closer, parting his lips, hungry for something deeper. Tetsurou felt his silky tongue lick along his teeth and in no time, the dance devolved into sloppy, hot, open-mouthed and gasping. But damn if it wasn’t the sexiest fucking thing coming from the ever-pristine prince himself.

Of course Tsukishima was good at this too.

Before snapping in the throes of lust, Tetsurou’s last threads of rationality reminded him that they were technically still out in the open. So, he broke off the kiss, just long enough to grab Tsukishima by the wrist and lead him to the safety of the nearest stall. As soon as the lock was switched to read occupied , his back was on the door, fingers pulling Tsukishima close and thigh splitting apart his legs. Caught up in the momentum, Tsukishima’s hands reflexively slapped the stall on either side of Tetsurou’s head.

At this new angle, their chests were rising in breathless tandem, their eyes locked in heated contact. Even in the dim bathroom lighting, Tetsurou could see every sparkling gold fleck in his irises. He marveled at shifting color, thinking about how he never expected to get this close. To hold Apollo in his arms.

And...Tetsurou hesitated. 

For a brief moment, he was sober, nerves quailing. No, no, no, you idiot, you’re ruining everything…

But that thought was quickly smothered, because Tsukishima's eyes were flickering down, his fingers cupping his jaw. He licked his lips, fiending for Tetsurou not because he was a famous author, or his idol since age thirteen, but because of some deeper attraction. Something that even Tsukishima couldn’t quite articulate, though try he did.

“You are an infuriating man,” he professed before chasing his lips, kissing over and over while peppering spice amidst the sweet.

“Rude and,” Kiss. “Presumptuous and overly familiar,” Kiss. Kiss. “Provocative.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

A smirk pulled against Tetsurou’s lips, taking the insults like sweet talk. He raked his fingers through Kei’s hair and tightened at the root, yanking him back just far enough to drag his teeth and nip at his cheek.

“I’ll show you provocative, sweetheart.”

In delivery, Tetsurou grabbed fistfuls of Tsukishima’s perky ass and hiked him closer, grinding hard against his erection, urging the blond to play pony on his thigh. 

“Oh f-fuck,” Tsukishima whined, the high-pitched sound breaking off into a gasp. Vanished was his composure as Tetsurou led their hips in a heady motion, helping Tsukishima ride him. The latter's eyes squeezed shut and mouth hung open. An obscene expression, too enticing not to devour. Tetsurou swallowed up those cries as he bucked for more friction.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted skin to skin.

He stroked his fingers over the tented fabric of Tsukishima’s crotch, tugging down slowly on the zipper, asking, "Is this okay?"

Tsukishima hesitated, before nodding.

Tetsurou let out a groan, tapering off into a lazy chuckle. He kissed Tsukishima’s cheek this time and promised against his temple, “I'll take good care of you, Hotaru.”

He hooked a finger under the elastic waistband of Tsukishima's black boxer briefs and snapped it against his taut abdomen, before slipping under and freeing his erection. A healthy pink color, already leaking from the tip. Tetsurou swallowed hard.

As expected, every part of this person was perfection.

Tetsurou ghosted a finger around the head, teasing the slit lightly, before thumbing over the pearly cum and spreading it in circles. Tsukishima burrowed in Tetsurou’s shoulder as his body rolled forward, falling into a natural rhythm with the hand stroking his cock.

The pleasure was obvious, but Tetsurou wanted to hear it directly from those lips. 

“Feels good?”

Tsukishima let out a stunted moan in affirmation, and that saccharine noise had Tetsurou feeling lonely. Maybe it was the greedy drunkard taking over, but he had the gall to hope for those delicate fingers to play with his own cock.

“Touch me too,” he urged, using his free hand to lead Tsukishima south, grinding into his open palm.

Though it wasn’t framed as an invitation, Tetsurou was still relieved when Tsukishima didn’t refuse him. He pulled out Tetsurou’s erection and with a shocking amount of finesse, began coaxing him to climax. Tetsurou was crooning with the sensation.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that.” He swooped in to lick inside Tsukishima’s lips, gasping, “Just like that.”

Pleased with the praise, Tsukishima called out for,

“K-Kozume-san.”

Tetsurou’s crooning and insistent hand stopped, as did Tsukishima’s.

Ugh.

Nothing wrenched him out of the moment faster than hearing the name of his childhood best friend - his younger brother in many respects - on Tsukishima’s wanting lips. He should only be calling out for Kuroo-sensei.

“Kozume-san?”

“Hey, I have a fun idea,” Tetsurou volunteered, pressing their foreheads together and picking back up the pace. “Let’s play pretend."  

Tsukishima was confused, knitting his brow, so the older man clarified, "The Moon Waxes Full. You’ll be Hotaru, and I’ll be sensei.”

Tsukishima pulled back so quick that he nearly stumbled over the toilet seat, only to be caught at the small of his back. Apprehension colored his features as he studied the latter's expression, searching for traces of humor, because this had to be a joke. He wasn't seriously suggesting...

Tetsurou discerned the hesitance, the disbelief, and remedied it with a gentle smile. He scratched his fingers reassuringly behind the nape of Tsukishima neck while the other hand continued to palm his erection. "Hey, don't give me that look. It'll be fun, I promise."

Tsukishima bit his lip. "I-I couldn't..."

"Shh, don't say that," Tetsurou hushed him with another slow, deliberate kiss, before setting the scene. "Be a good boy for me, Hotaru. Make sensei feel good."

The words were just a taste of wider possibilities, but managed to wet an appetite.

Tsukishima opened his mouth. There were reservations he held on to still, internal conflictions resting on the tip of his tongue. A bathroom quickie was already a reach, never mind full-blown role-play.

But for some odd reason, Tsukishima elected to trust Tetsurou in spite of that, eyes glossing over and voice falling to a whisper as he committed to the part.

"Yes...sensei."

"Mmm, that's more like it." Tetsurou picked back up the pace over Tsukishima's cock, nudging him to climax. He could tell the blond was getting close from the way his hips twitched and jerked erratically. All the while, the prettiest string of moans, gasps, and curses spilled from his open-mouth. Tetsurou was in love with every choked sound.

"You wanna come?" He cooed, licking again inside Tsukishima's ear, knowing this was a weak spot for him. The latter nodded frantically.

"I - yes. Please."

Tetsurou pushed, "Tell me exactly what you want."

"I..." Tsukishima hand slowed at Tetsurou's member as he genuinely considered the question. Then, starting again with renewed vigor, he confessed, "I want you to fuck me, sensei. Bend me over your desk and take me from behind. I want to," he stuttered, still nervous but stubbornly pushing through, "g-get on my knees for you, suck you off."

Tetsurou laughed, not from humor but incredulity; pleasant surprise. He didn't know what he expected from Tsukishima, but it certainly wasn't that dirty little whore mouth. And the blond was only getting started.

Out of breath, toes curling with the cresting wave of euphoria and falling deeper into the depths of his character, Tsukishima - Hotaru - asked sweetly, "Promise to do that, sensei? Promise to fuck me? I want you inside of me, fuck. I need it."

Tetsurou sighed like he was in love, because he was.

"I promise, sweetheart."

They came almost at the same time, Tsukishima first, breaking with a too-loud cry that Tetsurou was quick to smother in another kiss. He followed not two seconds later, spurred on by the blissful countenance, the shivering figure, the rolled back eyes and fluttering eyelids. In contrast, he attained release like it was a punch to the gut, huffing out heavy, gasping breaths. Through the comedown, he slumped back against the stall door and mindlessly pet through Tsukishima's flaxen crown where it rested on his shoulder, trying to steady his chest while foolishly dreaming about marriage and a future, because never in Tetsurou's life had he been down this bad.

In a few minutes, the afterglow would fade. In a few minutes, Tsukishima would stop letting Tetsurou kiss him and straighten out his appearance and try and pretend like this never happened. In a few minutes, guilt would consume him entirely.

But before that happened, Tetsurou let his heart bask in the moment. Let it preen over the fact that, I knew he was my soulmate.

Chapter Text

The afterglow faded.

Tetsurou awoke the next morning feeling like the worst, most disgusting person on planet earth. Pain split his forehead in punishment, while his stomach churned like choppy water. He barely had enough time to rip off the covers and sprint to the bathroom, where he excavated the sloshing contents of his stomach, painting the white porcelain bowl crimson. 

Huh. He didn’t remember drinking wine.

There was a lot he didn’t remember about the previous night: how he got home, the quantity of alcohol consumed. But amongst the browning memory, one moment haunted him with merciless clarity.

His Apollo, disheveled and incandescent under the warm restaurant lighting, hooking a long leg around Tetsurou's body and synching with his motion, melting in the mutual heat, crying out for sensei . Tetsurou burned right along, reliving the sensations: hot, open-mouthed kisses against his lips, intense pleasure earned from hurried hands. His ears were ringing, tickled by the licentious sounds of their role-play, that honeyed voice begging for more.

A hand knit through his thick roots and pulled in beratement.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.  

Tetsurou contemplated jumping off a bridge.

He decided against it, in the end, but not for any renewed appreciation of his inherent value. None of that It’s a Wonderful Life shit. Tetsurou was still a piece of garbage, better off swallowed by river rapids than daring to exist another day. 

But he couldn’t kill himself, because that would mean blowing his cover.

A body washed up last Sunday evening, identified as nationally-renowned author Kuroo Tetsurou. The twenty-seven-year-old male reportedly took his own life…   

Tsukishima would see the picture on screen and immediately know the truth. And how humiliating a reveal? Tetsurou would die a second time from shame.

So, regrettably, the author was resigned to keep living, to stew in his mistakes.

Although, ‘mistakes’ was too kind a word, allotting innocence where there was only culpability. Tetsurou’s current circumstance was born from a very intentional and wholly avoidable comedy of errors. Stumbling across the book club, he granted, was a harmless coincidence. But everything else? Barrelling into their conversation? Lying about his identity? Chasing Tsukishima into a bookstore? Leaning closer over drinks? Pulling him into that bathroom stall and-

Tetsurou pinched his forearm. He’d been doing that a lot recently: small reprimands each time the memory boiled his blood. The recollection of the prince, once haughty in his throne, coming undone by the hand over the very man he demeaned…it was more reliable than an aphrodisiac, getting Tetsurou full-mast in a matter of seconds. 

The pain, therefore, served as curt reminder: You fucked up, buddy.  

Of course, such physical chastisement only did so much. Come nightfall, that pinching of skin, pulling of hair, and smacking of his temple was rendered useless. Tetsurou would become a slave to his imagination, unrestrained and guiltless in the dark, desperately getting off to the crisp scent of Tsukishima’s skin. The high-pitched mewls shattering that otherwise monotonous drawl. Tetsurou's back would curl off the mattress, his neck arch and lips part for gasps and the name, Hotaru. 

It was nothing short of an addiction, a desperate high Tetsurou chased, spilling into his own hand while dreaming of Tsukishima’s, riding his orgasm for as long as it would carry him, before crashing to reality, the cruel mistress, waiting patiently to rip into his conscience with her claws.

You. Fucked. Up. Buddy.  

Tetsurou knew that. This mess was nothing more than a grave of his own digging. And if he couldn’t outright die, then at the very least, Tetsurou wished to make a bed of the hollowed earth and lie peacefully still with the worms. He wished to become a true recluse, the once mused Thoreau on Walden Pond, trekking hundreds of miles from this city, finding redemption within isolation and nature. 

Anything, to keep his selfish hands from hurting Tsukishima a second time.

Abrupt severance from your soulmate wasn’t easy, but it was for the best.

Right?

…

Yeah, Tetsurou wasn’t entirely convinced of that either. The young author might’ve been a delusional romantic and a little out-of-touch with people his own age, but he held no misconceptions as to how disappearance and radio-silence following a drunken hook-up would be interpreted. Tsukishima would search inwards for a reason, and the last thing Tetsurou wanted was an innocent person subjecting himself to blame, thinking his attraction somehow drove ‘Kozume-san’ away.

At the same time…the alternative might’ve been worse: showing up at that cafe again, next Sunday, in all his shame. Admitting to everyone the identity he’d been concealing. Watching Tsukishima's face twist in betrayal, disgust, resentment…or any terrible concoction of the three. He would never speak to Tetsurou again. And that latter would endure the rest of life knowing that his soulmate, his Apollo, was not his at all. That Tsukishima had always belonged, first and foremost, to Kuroo-sensei. 

Some fictional hero he’d constructed in deep admiration, mistaken for love. 

As Akaashi rambled on about new marketing strategies for Tetsurou’s latest novel, the latter chased his Catch-22 in circles. Today was a Wednesday, the midpoint of the week. It also marked ten days since his drunken mistake, and four days until the book club was due to meet again. Yet Tetsurou remained paralyzed at the crossroad, unsure how to take responsibility in a way that wouldn’t hurt Tsukishima further.

He decided there was no other person whose judgment was more tempered and sound than…

“Yeah, yeah - sounds great, Keiji. Go ahead and get the ball rolling on that…I’ve got a hypothetical for ya.”

Before his agent could grant interest, or even clarify whether Tetsurou had been listening to his proposal, the latter launched right into that very hypothetical.

“Let’s say…I’ve got this friend.”

“A friend,” Akaashi repeated skeptically.

“Yes, a friend, Keiji. Keep up.”

Tetsurou could practically hear the roll of his eyes as he conceded, “Go on.”

“So - this friend, right? He’s kinda famous. But like, not so famous that people know his face. Just his name. You geddit?”

“Unfortunately, yes I do.”

“Alright,” Tetsurou was pacing the room, as he tried explaining, “so let’s say this friend met someone special. And for whatever reason, he chose not to divulge his fame - even used a fake name.”

“Why would he do that?” Akaashi interrupted.

“Well, because-” Tetsurou shut his mouth, opened it again, but decided the details were extraneous. "That's not important. The fact of the matter is he lied.”

“Hm,” Akaashi concurred.

His judgment was visceral through the phone, but Tetsurou nevertheless trudged ahead. “I mean, the fib was innocent in the beginning. My friend honestly didn’t think it would be a big deal, but then things got kinda serious between him and this special someone. And now he's feeling guilty that their relationship was built on a lie.”

There was a pause, then the inquiry, “You’re dating someone?”

“What?” Tetsurou balked. “No! This isn't about me. I told ya Keiji, it's all hypothetical. A friend of mine.”

“Uh-huh. And does this friend’s agent need to worry about any public repercussions following his lie? Hypothetically speaking.”

Tetsurou ceased the frantic pace, propping a hand on his desk to keep upright, his chest laboring through an exhale.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “He doesn’t need to worry. The stakes aren’t that high. My friend just wants to make things right, but he doesn’t know how.”

Akaashi was contemplative for a beat, thinking over the conundrum, the damage it could reap on his client’s career and determined they were probably in the clear. Eventually, he concluded, quite rightly,

“You believe honesty would hurt this special someone.”

This time, defeat knocked Tetsurou into his desk chair. The old joints moaned as his weight settled and back reclined.

“I do.”

“You also know that it's the right thing to do,” Akaashi went on, but his tone wasn’t condescending. Rather, it was even, almost informational, as if he were simply reminding them both the rules of a clear conscience. Tetsurou could always count on his agent in that regard; never scolding or self-righteous, just frank.

Softer, Tetsurou repeated, "I do."

"Well, then, Kuroo, you have your answer."

Tetsurou frowned. "You think I - my friend should tell him the truth? Even though it'll mean losing him?"

"That outcome is not certain," Akaashi assured. "A relationship built on a lie is no relationship to start. Admitting the truth will simply mean starting over, restructuring the foundations and building trust again. If this friend of yours is willing to put in that effort a second time, then I believe he can hope to salvage the relationship. It won't be easy, but it's definitely not impossible."

Tetsurou was silent for a beat, chewing on Akaashi's advice. Tempered and sound, as always.

Then, almost in a whisper, he bore his greatest fear, "What if the lie is inexcusable? What if the truth crushes this person?"

Akaashi was likely nodding on the other side of the phone, heeding Tetsurou's concerns while maintaining his stance, "Then, he will be crushed. It is unproductive to exhaust what ifs. If I were your friend, I would go to this special someone as soon as possible and confess to my wrongdoings. Lay everything out on the table and allow them the grace to weigh their own feelings and investment. If they choose to stick around, then wonderful. If they don't, this will serve as a lesson."

A humorless grin was conjured to Tetsurou's lips. Never did he imagine his own life resembling one of Aesop's fables.

Akaashi laid out that very moral, in so many words, "While a lie may start convenient, maintaining it will inevitably prove strenuous. In the end, truth is always easier than fiction. Even when it's not."

Tetsurou arrived to the cafe early. He'd never been one for punctuality, but guilt had a reliable way of bringing out the consideration in anyone. There was only so much aimless puttering around the house to be done before shame pushed him out the door and ordered, make things right. He kicked rocks and made detours to prolong the journey, and still managed to arrive a half-hour ahead of schedule. With nothing else to do, Tetsurou secured their usual spot in the corner (their - like he was already assimilated in the group, what a pipe dream) and waited for the rest of the book club to trickle in, knitting and unknitting his fingers together in anticipation, staring blankly out the window while his mind rehearsed his pre-scripted lines,

Tsukishima-kun, can we talk in private? I must confess, I haven't been totally honest with you... 

Yachi was second to arrive, interrupting his inner monologue, which had devolved into a repetitive mantra. She waved shyly at Tetsurou, who returned a smile and nod.

"Good morning, Kozume-san."

"Morning," he bid, watching as she took the seat to his right. Per usual, the outfit she donned was bright and heart-clenchingly adorable, a pink pinafore dress overlaying a white sweater. Her honey bob was pushed back with a satin headband, and dangling from her ears were some colorful pom-pom earrings. Yachi crossed her legs politely, smoothing over the pleats of her skirt, and only then did Tetsurou notice her stockings had little cat faces on them.

Tsukishima would look so cute in those... 

"Are you going to order some coffee?"

Yachi needed to crane her neck to match his gaze - she was just that tiny. Tetsurou blinked, roused from his thoughts a second time.

"Uh - no, not today."

His pulse was already racing a mile a minute. Mingling caffeine in his bloodstream might've been enough to send him into cardiac arrest and, as previously established, he couldn't afford to die just yet.

"What about you, Yachi-san?" He flipped the question in distraction. "I don't think I've ever seen you order something from the counter."

"I'm not much of a coffee drinker," she explained. "It's not good for my anxiety."

Tetsurou understood that much, though he did point out, "They've got decaf. And tea."

"Oh, I know. I just-" She blushed and let out a sheepish laugh. "My mom always said I've got the palette of a ten-year-old." She then extracted something from her handbag to show off: a bottle of strawberry milk, purchased from the adjacent convenience store, no-doubt. Tetsurou's nerves yielded to a charmed smile.

"It matches your outfit."

Yachi's features lit up with excitement. She re-examined the drink herself, packaged in similar rosy shades, looking quite pleased with the selection. "Right? I-I know it's silly, but I kinda did that on purpose."

"It's not silly," Tetsurou promised her, endeared that she'd even use such an innocent word to describe it. Not embarrassing, or stupid, or weird, but silly. He went on, "Your style is unique; I could take one look at you and instantly fill-in the rest. That's pretty cool, if you ask me."

The beaming melted to bashful as Yachi squirmed happily in her chair. Never mind fashion, her body language rendered this girl an open-book. 

"Thank you, Kozume-san! I think your style is cool, too."

Tetsurou snorted and waved his hand in dismissal. "What style?"

"She's referring to the sweats and sandals, I believe," a familiar voice condescended, and Tetsurou shed his grin to whip around in time with Yachi, discovering the one, the only, Tsukishima Kei, looming behind. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture boasting a smug superiority. The prince of Tetsurou's memory, as harsh and golden and perfect as they day they met, adorned by another crisp turtleneck, this time layered underneath an oversized button-down and tucked into narrow fit cords that make his ass look-

Tetsurou bit the inside of his cheek. Not the time.

Tsukishima never spoke with much inflection, but his vocal chords did seem to relish the words, "A killer combo."

That playful gleam in his eyes had Tetsurou questioning his own recollection, because whoa, whoa, whoa... where the hell did this confidence come from? He barely gathered the courage to get out of bed this morning and face the repercussions of his actions, dreading the inevitable awkward reconciliation, drunk impulse's cumbersome younger sibling. Yet, miraculously, Tsukishima was behaving like his normal, snarky self, making small jabs at Tetsurou's expense.

To be clear - they had hooked-up, right? Tetsurou had gotten Tsukishima off in a dirty bathroom stall, right? The blond had begged to be fucked by 'sensei', right?  

All of that happened... right? 

Then, where was the blushing? The averted gaze? The pointed silences? The excuses?

Tetsurou's jaw went slack, dumbfounded. Tsukishima raised a brow to veil his own amusement. Close your mouth. 

Yachi attempted to set the record straight, "That's not what I was referring to, Kozume-san," only to immediately stumble over her own defense, "N-Not that there's anything wrong with sandals...or sweatpants!"

Tsukishima rolled his eyes at her, but there was a reliable affection baked into the gesture. He patted the back of her chair, and assured, "I'm only teasing," before taking his spot across the circle. Tetsurou just watched him, visibly awed and a little skeptical. He wanted their eyes to meet, to see how Tsukishima might regard him head-on, hoping for a telling crack in the mask. But Tsukishima's eyes were cast to the interior of his messenger bag, searching for his copy of Tetsurou's fifth book, Land and Sky. 

A therapeutic piece on grief, seen through the eyes of several childhood friends with a shared trauma. Something born from a dark period in his life, as well as the novel to cement his seat amongst the greats. To date, it was the only work to receive universal praise, bar the usual suspects, career dissenters and devil's advocates - such was the nature of criticism. 

It was also the work to precede The Moon Waxes Full, which might have set the latter up for failure in hindsight. No better time to fall from grace when expectations were highest. Tetsurou wasn't bitter, but it was difficult for him to think fondly of Land and Sky, when it may have inadvertently undercut the success of his passion project.

Or maybe The Moon Waxes Full just sucked. Maybe he was just making excuses.

Maybe he really was bitter, after all.

"I'm always amazed, Kozume-san," Yachi began suddenly.

Tetsurou tore his eyes away from Tsukishima just as he unearthed the novel, only to find Yachi doing the same. She placed her well-maintained copy on the table, slivered by those same color-coded tabs and only now did he wonder what the shades corresponded to. There sure was a lot of light blue.

He asked, instead, "By what, Yachi-san?"

Her smile was timid - a tell that she wasn't confident on how her answer would be received.

"You."

Tetsurou wondered when the instinct first arose. Perhaps, over drinks? He couldn't say for sure. All he knew was that, somewhere along the way, he had developed a keen sense for when Tsukishima's eyes were on him. It might've been his own hyperawareness for the prince at play, but as soon as that single word left Yachi's lips, a fiery gaze was branding gold into Tetsurou's profile.

The latter tried hard not to fumble with his audience. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I always have to bring the book with me, so I can go back and search my notes for the lines that resonated most. I prefer sticky tabs because I have such a terrible head for the page numbers, but you don't require any of that! You don't even bring a book, yet your observations are always so well-considered. Not to mention, you can recite full passages from memory. It's really impressive."

Tetsurou forcibly evened his expression. Like everything else about her, Yachi's compliment was sugared by sincerity and sweetness. Yet the astute observation cast the former under the harsh light of a police interrogation. Yes, it's impressive...too impressive. 

He ruffled his bedhead. "Eeeeh, you think so? I mean, Tsukishima-kun can quote the books, too."

"I've reread them countless times," Tsukishima noted, and Tetsurou spooked like a damn goat. "It's a yearly ritual for me in the month of December. I also make sure to refresh my memory before each of our meetings, so the content is readily available. Are you insinuating that you do the same?"

Tetsurou didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't keen on lying again, but he couldn't very well admit, I don't need to refresh my knowledge, for the words never left. They were a part of my subconscious long before they knew permanence through pen and page, before they were released to the world and consumed by you. These words were born from my soul, and in my soul, they will always remain. 

"I don't reread them that often. I suppose I just...have a knack for memorization," he offered instead. Yachi was content with the justification. Tsukishima was not.

An attempt at deflection. Not an outright lie, but something provided in place of the whole truth. And that made him even more curious towards 'Kozume-san', the man who long-grated his sensibilities. The very same who stood his ground in an intellectual debate with Tsukishima, who could frustratingly match his wit, who shared his intense love for books and thirst for quality, who lent him an umbrella on a rainy day, who remained handsome no matter how scruffy or sleek, who could recite back Kuroo-sensei's works better than even his biggest fan, yet refrained from acknowledging the ability. 

This man was a puzzle. A rarity, in Tsukishima's experience, and though it wounded his pride to admit, those drunken words still rang true in a sober body.

I like odd. 

"Sorry we're late!" Sugawara hurried into the cafe, accompanied by the entrance bell, preventing Tsukishima from fishing for a better answer. Following behind was Asahi, nodding at the group's silent greeting. The pair filled in the remaining seats of the circle as Sugawara explained, "I forgot to set my alarm, so we were scrambling to make it on time."

With a dry smirk, Tsukishima asked, "Did you open your calculator app again?"

"That was one time!"

The discussion might've engaged him, if Tetsurou had any attention to spare.

As it stood, however, every morsel of focus was spent committing Tsukishima to memory. He listened to the blond wax poetic over the Kuroo-sensei's subtle switch in point of view, and imagined how this would be the last hearing that silvery voice sing praise. How this person, once blindly devoted and venerating, would turn on Tetsurou, soon enough. How his final glimpse of those champagne eyes would be tear-filled and hate-twisted. How their parting words exchanged would be of loathing and spite.

All consequence carved from Tetsurou's design.

He hated idling in this awful purgatory - desperate for an end yet wishing for eternity - because when the discussion finally did close out, he was sighing in relief as much as he was grieving a loss. Never again would he show his face here. Never again would he see Sugawara, or Asahi, or Yachi. Never again could he think of them as friends.

Never again could he hope for a future with-

"It's the end of an era!" Sugawara declared, standing in punctuation. "Six books in six weeks. Quite the feat."

"It's been fun," Asahi agreed. "I was due for a reread of Kuroo-sensei's works, and thanks to everyone's input, I feel like I've been provided a whole new appreciation."

Yachi added, "And we gained a new member of the club!"

Oh, that hurt. Tetsurou mustered an empty smile. "It's been a real pleasure."

"Don't tell me this is the end?" Sugawara asked with a lilt of humor, like he didn't think it possible. "We've got plans to tackle Sōseki-sensei next - any interest?"

He levied the name like an ace up his sleeve, like Tetsurou couldn't possibly say 'no' to such a legend. And to be fair, Natsume Sōseki was a huge influence on his authorial voice, especially the tragic Kokoro. But making promises meant digging this grave even deeper.

Moreover, he felt that burning sear; Tsukishima was watching him, waiting for the assurance, yes, of course. 

So, Tetsurou defaulted to his usual evasion. Not a 'yes', not a 'no'. Just, "I'll see what I can do."

Sugawara took it as confirmation, chuffed, already conferring with the rest of the group regarding the sequence. Should we go chronologically? Or pick our favorites first? And as they debated the merits of both approaches, Tetsurou's eyes linked with Tsukishima across the table, earning himself another raised brow. What are you looking at? 

Tetsurou probably should've averted his gaze, so as to not to be rude or earn suspicion. But, truly, what did all that matter now? Tsukishima would resent him in due time; he might as well drink his fill while he still could.

So, Tetsurou permitted himself to study the thousand beautiful shades of those golden irises, how they spun and dappled in the light. He took in the raised arches of his cheeks and the enticing blush of his lips and the subtle curve of his jaw. His attention swept over every feature, petting further down Tsukishima's throat, appreciating the ways it contracted as he swallowed, thinking about the taste, the feel under his lips.

And, while ingraining the finer details, he failed to notice the bigger picture. Tsukishima's restless body language, the way he squirmed...

"It's settled - we'll start from the beginning," Sugawara decided. And with their next read set, everyone began saying their goodbyes. Tetsurou stood up as well, discreetly stepping around the table and lowering his voice to a near-whisper in Tsukishima's ear.

“Can we…” he glanced pointedly around the circle, “...talk in private?”

Tsukishima swallowed again, before raking him over with an obscure look.

Eventually, he agreed, “We can.”

They were careful not to earn special notice, Tetsurou lingering at the cafe counter like he might order something for the road, while Tsukishima took his sweet time stowing away his book. Only when Yachi bid her final 'see you next week!' were they finally alone.

With shaking hands shoved in his pockets, Tetsurou began, "Okay, so um-" only to be immediately interrupted.

"Not here."

"Huh?"

He never got an answer. Instead, Tetsurou was taken by the wrist, led down a short, dim hallway, and pulled into the single bathroom. An eerily familiar scene. He almost made a comment about déjà vu, but Tsukishima had plans other than reminiscing. The door wasn’t yet closed behind them, before the blond dropped his bag, dropped to his knees and began fiddling with Tetsurou’s belt. The latter stumbled backwards in alarm, hitting the wall abruptly and grabbing those eager hands to halt them.

“Whoa - what are you doing?”

The innocent confusion Tsukishima fitted him with was ironic, given his current position. “You said you wanted to talk.”

Tetsurou blinked, even more baffled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the blond agreed, before leaning forward again. His hands were immobilized still, so he made due with his mouth, taking the trouser zipper between his teeth and pulling down like a well-trained whore. Every drop of blood in Tetsurou’s body rushed to his dick. 

Fucking hell, who taught him this shit?  

Tsukishima nosed against the exposed fabric of his boxers, inhaling his musk like it was a drug and he'd been itching for a hit. He puffed hot air to tease, and Tetsurou locked a traitorous groan behind clenched teeth, practically hissing through the pleasure.

“You wanted to talk, Kozume-san,” Tsukishima urged again, before dragging his tongue over the growing erection, grinning when he felt it twitch with interest. He finished off with a devilish kiss, and a whisper, “I’m listening.”  

Ok. Tetsurou would grant this was the hottest thing to ever happen to him. He would also grant that Tsukishima looked especially alluring on his knees, as if preparing to praise his own deity. One of Tetsurou's still-trembling hands raked back flaxen hair, drawing out a satisfied moan from Tsukishima, and that sound alone nearly spent his resolve.

Nearly.

Clarity was abandoning him. Before blind hedonism could take her place and cloud his mind, however, Tetsurou placed another hand on Tsukishima's shoulder and pushed back, applying just enough pressure to get that soft mouth off his half-hard cock. Tsukishima was not pleased by the perceived rejection. Glaring up at Tetsurou over the rim of his glasses, he let out a frustrated noise, the crossroad of a growl and whine.

But Tetsurou couldn't afford to break here. Straining for self-control, he reprimanded, "Look - this is real cute, but you can't participate in two-way conversation with your mouth full, Tsukishima-kun. Please, just stand up and talk to me."

But the blond refused to budge.

"That's not my name."

The hand in those soft honey curls tightened on instinct. Tetsurou had to work to unfurl his vice grip. "What?" 

"That's not my name," Tsukishima repeated with another impish smile. "If you want my attention, sensei, you must refer to me properly."

Oh.

Fuck.

Tetsurou was stunned long enough for the blond to make a successful bid forward, overcoming the failing resistance in his hair to shuck down the waistband of Tetsurou's boxers and finally free his erection. Tsukishima let out another warm breath to feather the sensitive member. Just a taste of the sloppy, hot euphoria his lips could provide, but wouldn't, until given what he sought.

Tetsurou winced as if in pain. In truth, he was tormented by this view: the arrogant prince and self-proclaimed proprietor of Kuroo-sensei's intent, staring up at Tetsurou with the most obscene bedroom eyes, lips parted and ready, like this man was his new object of worship. It was pornography; one of Tetsurou's many filthy fantasies, come to life. But there would be no benevolent waking, no safe evasion of repercussion. The threat of truth snaked around his heart like an inevitable chain, squeezing and squeezing until the muscle crushed and oozed a pulpy mess of blood and tissue. A trap he couldn't escape. His Catch-22.

Truth is always easier than fiction. Even when it's not. 

Somewhere in his right mind, Tetsurou knew those words to be true.

He knew there was no justification for what he was about to do.

What sensei was about to do.

"I never realized what a precocious little brat you are, Hotaru." 

Tsukishima purred. "Then,” he began, anchoring both palms over Tetsurou's thighs, kneading the muscle like an attention-starved pet, "teach me a lesson, sensei." 

It was vile. A strong contender for the most callous thing he'd knowingly done. But Tetsurou was beyond grace or forgiveness. The devil on his shoulder egged on his worst impulses, Tsukishima will hate you either way. Might as well make some memories for the road. 

Forget tempered and sound, that was the only logic that made sense to him now.

The hand fisted in Tsukishima's hair jerked forward, crushing those pretty lips up against his newly-erect cock. Long and veiny as the blond remembered, and now, soon to fill his cheeks and choke his throat. Tetsurou's expression twisted baleful as his voice dropped a few octaves. 

"Open up big and wide for me."

Tsukishima did, and Tetsurou's spine shivered with the power trip. God, he knew the prince was capable of sultry, of shameless. But this? There wasn't a word in the Japanese language to capture his appeal.

Angling the tip to lay on that pillowy tongue, Tetsurou clenched his jaw as it was greeted by an artful touch, circling and kissing and sucking the tender skin. His dick jumped again, an unsteady gasp pulled from his chest.

"Holy s-shit, baby, that's it. Take me in deeper, I know you can."

Spurred on by the praise, Tsukishima obliged, filling the small room with lewd sounds, wet sucking and wanton moans in answer to Tetsurou's own pleasure, taking the head to the back of his throat like an obedient slut. All the while, their gazes remained tethered, communicating in place of words.

Tsukishima's desperation demanded, Tell me I'm good. Tell me, sensei. 

Tetsurou would, gladly. "You're good, Hotaru, so fucking good for me. Those lips were shaped perfectly for my cock."

Over his member, Tsukishima trilled a noise of contentment, his head taking on an easy rhythm, bathing his palette in salt and the bitter taste of a man as he bobbed.

Tetsurou licked across his teeth, giving in at last to his terrible desires. The very same to vex his conscience since that first meeting. How many times did he imagine his Apollo like this? Knelt on the floor, earnestly sucking him off, begging to be showered in affection. With sharp resignation and a slight cruel streak, Tetsurou would make the most of such a fleeting opportunity.

He goaded, "You this sweet for everyone, or am I just special?"

The inquiry elicited a skeptical look - or the best attempt Tsukishima could manage with puffed up cheeks and glistening lips bent around a cock. Tetsurou almost laughed at the debauched sight, simultaneously ill-fitting of his regal prince, and yet perfectly how Tetsurou wanted him. An otherwise godly creature, untainted, save for this mortal's exceptional hands.

He prodded with a leading grip, urging Tsukishima to take him to the hilt, bringing his nose to a dark forest of coarse curls, "You’re insinuating I'm not? Even though you were so fucking eager to pull me back here and drop to your knees. It's not good to lie, Hotaru. Tell sensei the truth: you were thinking about this all morning, weren't you?"

Tsukishima was flushed, gagging and clenching the fabric of Tetsurou's pants. He struggled to breathe in this position, let alone speak, so Tetsurou permitted him air. The blond gasped with the sudden release, his shoulders shaking through each cough and sputter.

The edge of Tetsurou's demeanor was lost as he clicked his tongue. "Too much?"

Even while wiping spit on the back of his hand, Tsukishima managed to return a look to skip the heart. Don't underestimate me. Then, with a fierceness to match, he answered, "I did. The entire time. I thought about you, about this." 

Tetsurou's lips parted compulsively. Speechless.

How could anyone expect him to be a good person, to rise above temptation, when Tsukishima uttered shit like that?  

The warning came quickly, unceremonious, "Breathe deep," before Tetsurou plunged back in with merciless abandon. It was mean, the way he fucked Tsukishima's face, both hands cradling the underside of his jaw, treating his throat like a cock sleeve. At this point, however, Tetsurou had long parted with self-reproach. He had not an ounce of control when it came to this person. He was careless, selfish (as he'd always been), asserting his own wants with no regard for his claimed soulmate.

Tsukishima would feel betrayed, used and maybe even abused, when Tetsurou finally admitted the truth. But at least, for now, he was blissed. For now, he was thoughtless, drooling from the mouth and cock. A placated tool for Tetsurou's pleasure. The latter couldn't help but illustrate the delicious contrast.

"You like to put on a show for everyone, huh? Act so aloof, so put together, but you come apart just as easy, begging for my dick in your mouth like a slut. That's all you needed; a new name and a good fucking. I can do that, baby. I can take that pole out of your ass and replace it with something better. Make you scream on my cock. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotaru?"

The words were disgusting - and not in a fun way. Tetsurou would be appalled at the ugliness spilling from his mouth, if he wasn't so damn turned on.

And the worst part?

Tsukishima actually came from it. Tetsurou hadn't even realized he was close, until it hit. One moment whimpering, crying from the aggressive assault on his throat, the dirty accusations of lust, and the next, shattered. Tetsurou witnessed everything through his eyes: pupils blown wide with the cresting wave, brows knit by the fear that accompanied such an intense sensation. Then, his body wound taut, paralyzed through the euphoria, shaking only with aftershocks. And finally, plateau. His frame slackened and jaw unlocked, everything - sated by the high following release.

Tetsurou had to stop and take it all in.

Tsukishima just came, untouched, from oral. Feeling nothing but the stretch of Tetsurou's erection in his mouth and the intonation of his voice in his belly.

"Tsukishima-kun..."

Even dazed by an orgasm, the blond let nothing escape his notice. He shook his head.

Not my name. Not right now. 

Tetsurou understood what he needed. He pulled out his still-hard cock, and Tsukishima didn't protest the emptiness, instead resting his forehead against Tetsurou's thigh, gulping for air.

"Sorry, Hotaru," Tetsurou amended softly, dragging knuckles over Tsukishima's reddened cheek. "Didn't mean to be so rough. Can you stand?"

It took a few seconds of consideration, but eventually Tsukishima nodded. He accepted the outstretched hand and wobbled to his feet like a newborn fawn, gripping extra tight when his knees buckled. Tetsurou caught him, holding under the elbows to steady, leading him to prop against the nearest wall. It was odd, seeing Apollo like this: sluggish, dulled, and full of openings. Nothing like that iron-clad confidence he bore as armor in public.

The disparity was so intense, the inside so soft and moldable, Tetsurou wanted to ravish him a second time.

Tsukishima awkwardly shifted his weight against the cinderblock, pressing both palms flat for stability as he relearned his balance. Tetsurou enveloped him like a shadow from behind, hands closing over his own, pressing chest flush to back.

"I'm sorry," he repeated in Tsukishima's ear, and only this close could the remorse be caught, the shame over his next request, "Let me borrow your body. Please."

Although, it was less a request, and more a demand, given the way his hand was already petting down Tsukishima chest, feeling the contours of his abdomen behind fabric, ending at his waist, the harsh ridge of his leather belt. Nimble fingers fiddled with the buckle, his other palm still anchored over Tsukishima's. The latter dropped his own free hand to assist, all the while turning his head to meet their eyes. Then, lips.

Tetsurou had pined for many a sensation since their drunken rendezvous, but none more so than this. A kiss, languid and romantic. All fluttering lashes and shared breath. His stupid, sappy heart was rejoicing in spite of what was to come, because this was what sustained its beating: the idea that Tsukishima loved him. That this kiss was one of millions they would share within a lifetime together.

God, what a terrible, lovesick fool he remained.

Finally, the belt went slack, and Tetsurou wasted no time slipping under the fabric of Tsukishima's boxer-briefs, crooning with the mess in his pants. His dick had gone soft following climax, but it was wet and sticky with cum, clung to by soaked fabric. Squelching and warm. Tsukishima gasped into the kiss, hips jumping, when Tetsurou's calloused hand closed around the member, stroking despite its oversensitivity, lubricating his own hands in turn.

Tetsurou pressed more fervent affection against Tsukishima's temple, measly attempts at comfort, before rasping at his ear, "Did you play with yourself, while thinking of me?"

Tsukishima couldn't answer fast enough, like that might spare his sensitive cock. "Yes, yes." 

"After that night?"

This time, Tsukishima bit his lip, needing to build the courage to admit, "Before, and after."

Fuck. Tetsurou wanted to know more, wanted to know everything. Since when had he felt this way? Was it also love at first sight? Or did the attraction stir gradually? But his brain was so single-minded in its bid for gratification, he could only nuzzle further into Tsukishima, kissing behind his ear, down his neck, all the while confessing, "I did, too. Couldn't stop getting off to the thought of you. Dreamt about it every night for two weeks."

It wasn't clear whether or not Tsukishima could even hear the admissions. He was distracted, undone, reduced to gasping and moaning, grinding back against Tetsurou's painful erection. The latter hissed, nevertheless meeting his friction, rutting hard into the curve of his ass, frustrated with the obstructing fabric. He wasted no time pushing down the cords and underwear, bunching them at the thigh to reveal porcelain skin.

"Fuck, you're not real." 

Another sharp exhale was summoned when Tetsurou's grip vanished from Tsukishima's soft dick in favor of stroking over his own angry cock, slicking it with cum and setting a hurried pace, while his free hand grabbed fistfuls of Tsukishima’s ass, squeezing and slapping hard the tender flesh, eliciting a yelp of approval. He then rolled his hips to drag between the perky cheeks. Once, twice, until a new rhythm was set. Tetsurou thrusted over and over again, frotting his dick against the soft, pale flesh, fingers anchored at Tsukishima's waist to roll his body in time and adopt twin motions, as if they were actually fucking in this cafe bathroom.

The building orgasm had Tetsurou's voice shot, breaking on every syllable like glass. "My sweet Hotaru, so good for sensei. Letting me do whatever I want with your body. Like an obedient - f-fuck. Shit. Fuck. I’m-” 

Tsukishima did his best to answer. "Sensei, s-sensei..." 

And those sweet calls were just the push he needed. Tetsurou's climax arrived suddenly and painfully and perfectly, dressing Tsukishima's lower back in pearly threads. He unleashed a string of punted throaty noises as his erection pulsed and kicked. His fingers dug into Tsukishima's hips hard enough to leave a bruise - something that would otherwise stroke the possessive parts of Tetsurou's ego. Currently, however, all levels of his subconscious were emptied, alleviated, white. There was no guilt, no culpability. No grave of his own making.

Just body heat and a bone-deep satisfaction. Tetsurou almost cried, it was so beautiful.

But then, through the rapture and heavy-breathing of comedown, Tsukishima had the fucking gall to remind them both, "Y-You wanted to talk, Kozume-san?"

Tetsurou closed his eyes, shutting out the guilt that wished to crawl back in. "Not important." Kissing desperately at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, imprinting one final gift, he amended. "Not anymore."

"Oh, by the way, I read that book you recommended to me."

Tsukishima was bent over the sink, shirt hiked up over his chest so that Tetsurou could swipe a damp paper towel over his lower back and remove the dried cum. Following climax, the pair had indulged the mutual need for care and closeness, until discomfort demanded cleanliness. They'd parted, sadly, to right clothing and rid body fluids. Tsukishima did his best to salvage his underwear, but it was so thoroughly soiled that he risked chafing. So, the damp fabric was balled up and haphazardly tossed in the trash.

On any other occasion, the knowledge that, underneath those tight pants, Tsukishima was commando, might've been enough to get Tetsurou ready for round two. But he'd gone quiet, distant, following the bliss of orgasm. As if he never returned from that cloud.

"Hm?"

Despite his compromising position, Tsukishima shot back a glare that made Tetsurou feel small. It was kind of incredible, how he could still manage intimidation with another man's ejaculate painting his skin.

"The book you told me to read, number9dream. I finished it already."

Tetsurou's brain was slow to process; it took him a few seconds to recall their fateful second meeting, that rainy day and the warm interior of the bookshop. That's right, I'd given him a favorite of mine. 

He asked, "And?"

"I didn’t hate it,” Tsukishima began with misleading disinterest, fixing his gaze on the mirror once more, only to immediately undercut his nonchalance with the astute observations, “The prose and pace, it's...invigorating. I admit, I couldn't put it down."

Tetsurou's lips bent with a fond smile, though his eyes retained their heaviness. Half-amused, half-heartbroken, completely resigned. It was a shame, really. They'd never get to discuss the story in full.

"It is," he agreed softly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

“What else do you suggest?"

This time, his delay was born from confusion. "Hm?"

Tsukishima rephrased, "Do you have any other recommendations? I think-" he bit his lip, only now blushing in embarrassment. How ironic. "I think our tastes are suited, after all."

Tetsurou didn't know what to say to that. There were hundreds of novels to touch his heart, kindle his mind, and influence his craft. Hundreds of novels he wished to share and bond over and wring of meaning with Tsukishima. He was desperate to hear this person's conclusions on all the precious things in his life.

But they would never get that far.

Like he always did when cornered by his own irresponsible actions, Tetsurou deflected, "How 'bout I write you a list sometime; everything I've read that I think you'd enjoy." He then threw the paper towel in the trash and patted Tsukishima's hip. "All set."

The blond stood up, tucking his shirt back into place and adjusting his collar in the mirror, ensuring himself the same meticulous vision to walk out. He was concentrated, silent and serious. Tetsurou wondered if he'd heard the empty promise for what it was.

But then, Tsukishima asked, all-too-earnestly, "Would you really do that for me?"

Tetsurou hated that, even now, even after every terrible crime he'd committed, he was still lying.

"Of course I would."

Tsukishima smiled at him through the reflection. Tetsurou had to avert his gaze, lest he break down completely.

“I’m a fucking idiot.”

That was far cry from Tetsurou and Kenma’s usual greeting, unchanged since childhood ( hey and ‘sup, respectively). The latter was quiet on the other end of the call, ruminating on the most likely scenarios, considering the fixations currently crawling under his best friend’s skin, and deduced that Tetsurou was kicking himself over,

“Tsukishima?”

“A major fucking idiot.”

Kenma would take that as a yes. “What happened?” He pried, understanding that Tetsurou’s current distress was more than the typical theatrics. Whatever plagued him was enough to pause his game over.

Tetsurou scoffed, but the anger was only directed at himself. “What didn’t happen?”

“You guys slept together?”

Spitefully, he set the record straight, “No. But we might as well have. Pretty much did everything else."

Kenma wrinkled his nose. “Spare me the details. I thought you said you weren’t going to see him again?”

“I wasn’t," Tetsurou agreed. His voice dropped to a shameful mutter, "But then - we ran into each other by complete coincidence...”

Kenma cast his eyes to his nails, picking at them, serving Tetsurou a disbelieving, “Uh-huh,” because he didn’t put it past rooster-hair to deliberately skulk around book shops and cafes in the hopes of enticing fate. He’d always been such an incurable romantic.

“It was a coincidence…I swear on my life,” Tetsurou insisted, though he tailed it with another grumble. “The first time, at least.”

“And the second and third?”

“Look - I fucked up. I fucked up really bad, several times, and now I don't know how to fix this."

Tetsurou wondered when he'd gone and surrounded himself with a bunch of realists, because Kenma was as rational and averse to sentiment as Akaashi.

"Tell him the truth."

Tetsurou explained, "I tried! Last time I saw him, I intended to come clean about everything."

"And?"

"And he sucked my dick before I could get a word out."

Kenma made a bitter face. “What part of ‘spare me the details’ do you not understand?”

“But it's the details that are killing me," Tetsurou harped, and like a bursting dam, it all flooded out at once. "This guy is magnetic. Every time I'm around him, it's like I lose control. Like I can't fucking help myself. And I know that sounds like a lame excuse for bad behavior. And I know that the issue seems simple from the outside. Conceivably, it would be easy to just walk away, if the sex was mediocre or the conversation dull. But what we've got is good. Beyond good - it’s the best I’ve ever had, like Tsukishima was factory-made to be my kryptonite.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shivering with memory. “He's pretty and smart and passionate and mean. And, God, there’s little trick he does with his tongue...”

“EW. I’m hanging up.”

"Sorry, sorry." Tetsurou curbed the impulse to paint his muse in vivid color, in favor of the real reason he called.

"I'm at the end of my rope, Kenma. Just...tell me what to do."

Akaashi was no longer someone Tetsurou could confide in, given how terribly his previous advice had been executed, which meant Kenma was his last hope. And maybe it was pathetic, begging for answers to one's self-made dilemma at the foot of an uninvolved party, but Kenma wasn't uninvolved. Not really. He cared about his childhood friend, despite an attitude suggesting otherwise. 

Moreover, he’d spent the better-half of two decades holding the esteem of Kuroo Tetsurou's best friend, which meant becoming intimately familiar with that intense work-ethic, the quirks of a creative as well as the flaws of an idealist. He knew Tetsurou better than he knew himself.

Kenma also wouldn't sugar coat anything; that compulsion to spare feelings wasn't written into his DNA.

There was a long, beleaguered sigh to follow Tetsurou’s plea. And then, "If you can't control yourself around him, then you should cut off contact entirely."

Tetsurou's lip quivered, hating the idea of abandonment now, after all the boundaries he'd trampled over, after all the promises he'd made. And yet, he couldn't argue with that logic, especially in the wake of their most recent meeting.

"I think...you're right."

"I'm always right," Kenma corrected, not-unkindly. He picked back up his controller and unpaused his game, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, "You have his number?"

Tetsurou did. He'd gotten every club member's contact information after Sugawara added him to their group chat as formal induction. There was also Tsukishima's business card, tucked safely in a drawer of Tetsurou's desk like the last living memento of a passed loved one.

Like he was already in mourning.

Kenma further instructed, "Text him - or call, if you're really feeling generous and brave - and explain that you can't see each other anymore."

"What should I say, exactly?"

Kenma shrugged out of habit, though the gesture would be unseen. "That's up to you. Could make up a story about suddenly moving across the country, but then you'd have to be careful in public. There's also the option of turning him down, saying that you're just not interested. Really, there's no wrong way to lie..."

Tetsurou supposed that was true. He supposed this feat would prove no more strenuous than the past month, in which he doled out deceit like it was his job.

Still, he loathed to think of that conversation. The pain in Tsukishima's voice.

You don't feel the same? 

"He's gonna be hurt," Tetsurou dwelled. "He's gonna blame himself, and I-"

"Stop making excuses," Kenma cut in, his words sharp enough to rend Tetsurou's ego, but they weren't delivered in malice. Kenma was merely fulfilling his obligation as a best friend: calling Tetsurou on his bullshit and holding him accountable for his actions. "No matter how you spin it, the damage has already been laid. He'll be hurt either way."

Now, it was Tetsurou's turn to sigh.

"You're right. Again."

"Told you."

He swallowed his reservations, steeling over and committing outright, "Okay, I'll end it tonight."

"Keep me updated," Kenma bid. His own indirect way of being supportive.

"Will do."

"Oh, and Kuroo?"

"Mm?"

"Stop beating yourself up. Everyone makes mistakes. You're no worse or better than the rest of us."

Tetsurou nearly choked. This was Kenma's rare affection at work. Proof that, no matter how he pretended, pudding-head cared a great deal for rooster-hair.

"Thanks, buddy. That means a lot."

As soon as the fleeting kindness appeared, it was gone. Kenma snapped, "You're not my dad, don't call me buddy. Bye."

And then he hung up.

Tetsurou elected to send a text.

In many regards, the coward's way out. But also fitting. By profession, Tetsurou was destined to hide behind words, letting a well-crafted passage speak on his stumbling behalf. Seventeen times he read over the draft in his notes, making countless adjustments and edits, never satisfied with the final product. He even sent a version to Kenma for approval, which the latter provided with an underwhelming, looks good 2 me. 

Didn't he understand what was at stake? Tsukishima's pride as a man and the remnants of Tetsurou's conscience. This one text had to fix everything: communicating clearly and taking responsibility without ever alleging the truth.

It had to be air-tight. Perfect, to make up for the fact that it was Tetsurou. 

After two hours of agonizing and walking in circles, he prepared to end it all, thumb idling over the green arrow.

But another act of fate prevented him from ever hitting send. For at that very moment, a notification caught his eye.

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: Did you see!!!!! 

Tetsurou furrowed his brow, reading the string of messages as they flew in, one after the other.

From Ya-chan, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: See what, Sugawara-senpai? 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: I can't believe it's actually happening!!! 

From Ya-chan, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: 👀 

From Ya-chan, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: What? What is it? 

From Tsukki, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: Ignore him, Yachi. He just wants attention. 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: 😐 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: Fine. I guess I won't tell you about Kuroo-sensei's FIRST EVER PUBLIC APPEARANCE. 

Asahi emphasized a message. 

From Tsukki, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: I'm not sure I read that correctly. 

Tetsurou, too, doubted his own eyes. He skimmed over Sugawara's message a second, then third time, and shook his head. It couldn't be true. He was Kuroo-sensei, after all, possessing no recollection of such an event. Akaashi always made sure to keep him in the loop - there must've been some mistake on Sugawara's side. He likely caught wind of a rumor, Tetsurou rationalized. These things happened.

But then, an image was sent to the group chat. A legitimate-looking digital flier, advertising that very event. Tetsurou had to squint to read the blurb at the bottom.

One time only, June 30th, from 4 - 6 at Booksmith & Brothers. Award-winning author Kuroo Tetsurou will be making a private appearance, meeting fans and signing books. Photos are prohibited. Tickets for attendance are required and in limited supply. Buy now on the Booksmith & Brothers official website.  

Tetsurou wasted no time saving the photo and sending it to his agent, with the imperative addendum of, tell me this isn't real. 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: I checked and tickets are still available!! Go get your man Tsukki!!! 

From Ya-chan, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: omg! how exciting! and timely! you'll finally get to meet him, Tsukishima-kun :) 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: you too, Ya-chan! and Kozume-san! Azumane and I already got tickets. we can make an official club outing 😁  

Tetsurou felt his stomach sink to his feet. No, no, no, no... 

And then, the final nail is the coffin, Akaashi's response: It is. We discussed it last week. Do you not remember? 

Tetsurou was quick to type, of course I don't! I would've never approved such a-  

But he stopped. Deleted the words. Because he did remember, albeit vaguely. A week prior, Akaashi had made conjecture over marketing strategies and suggested a private meet and greet with fans, something exclusive to garner excitement and hype for his upcoming release. He then recalled his own careless approval, offered while his mind was absent, Yeah, yeah - sounds great, Keiji. Go ahead and get the ball rolling on that… 

Without further explanation, Tetsurou instructed, cancel it. now. 

From Ya-chan, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: ticket secured! 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: nicely done. 😎  

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: what about you Tsukki? did you get your ticket?  

As always, in times of panic and stress, Tetsurou was biting his thumb nail and pacing like a restless cat. Back and forth, back and forth. Until Akaashi's contact lit up his screen a second time.

Tickets are non-refundable, per the venue's terms. We cannot cancel. 

Tetsurou's fingers couldn't move fast enough.

we HAVE to cancel. please, Akaashi. my life is on the line here. 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: Tsukki? are you there? 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: Tsukki helloooooo 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: someone call for a wellness check. Tsukki's unresponsive  🚨 🚑  

From Asahi, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: I think the shock might've killed him. 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: 😦 

From Suga, to Bookworms 📖 🐛: nooooooooo Tsukki!!!! you can't die before you meet your future husband!!! 

Akaashi sent another text, What's going on, Kuroo? 

But Tetsurou was done responding to him. With a hammering heart, he turned to his last hope and dialed Sugawara's number. After two tones, that chipper voice greeted him.

"Well, isn't this an unexpected surprise! Good evening, Kozume-san. By chance, did you see my messages in the-"

Tetsurou immediately cut him off, "Yeah, about that. I need you to convince Tsukishima-kun not to go."

There was a beat of awkward silence.

"Huh?"

Bluntly, Tetsurou repeated, "Convince Tsukishima-kun not to go."

"What are you talking about, Kozume-san?" Sugawara asked with a disbelieving scoff. "This is his idol we're talking about. Of course he should-"

A second time, Tetsurou interrupted, "It's a bad idea, meeting Kuroo-sensei. You just have to trust me on this one. He shouldn't go."

The demand probably sounded intense and a little crazy, like Tetsurou was some foil-hat warning everyone of impending doom. But he had no other choice. He couldn't allow Tsukishima to attend that meet and greet, to walk into the private room and shatter the illusion of his precious Kuroo-sensei.

Sugawara seemed to pick up on the ulterior motives, for he began, "Why are you-" and stopped suddenly, as if struck by an epiphany. "Wait a second..."

Tetsurou closed his eyes and braced for the reveal.

"Don't tell me you're..."

Here it comes. 

"...jealous!"

He blinked.

"Pardon?"

"You are!" Sugawara accused, doubling-down on his gleeful discovery. "You're jealous of Kuroo-sensei! Oh, this is perfect."

Tetsurou coughed. "I'm - what?" 

"It's okay," Sugawara assured obstinately. "You don't have to pretend, Kozume-san. I mean, it's pretty obvious how you feel about Tsukki." His voice took on a theatrical lilt, "All those longing stares and fond smiles, the way you'd hang on his every word - of course you like him!"

Like a fly trap, Tetsurou's mouth hung open.

Sugawara went on, "Listen - I get the concern; you're worried you might lose Tsukki to Kuroo-sensei, but if my birthday is any measure of his feelings, I'd say you got a fighting chance, Kozume-san."

Finally, Tetsurou found his voice. "Tsukishima-kun told you about that?" 

"Nope!" Sugawara chirped merrily. "But you just did."

This time, his mouth snapped shut. Nice going idiot. 

Sugawara informed, "I had my suspicions long before that night, but it wasn't until I saw the way Tsukki acted around you, all giggles and smiles and blushing, practically sitting on your lap. And then you both mysteriously disappeared around the same time. I told Azumane you were hooking up, but he didn't believe me. Look who was right all along!"

"Please, Suga-san, don't tell anyone about us. I-It's not- We're not-"

"Oh, I'd never gossip," he promised, and Tetsurou strongly doubted that. "But...uh, just so you know, you're on speaker phone, and Azumane is in the room. So, you know. We'll keep this a secret."

Tetsurou slapped a palm over his face.

In the background, Asahi's voice carried meekly. "Evening, Kozume-san."

Tetsurou begrudgingly returned the pleasantries, "Hey," before turning his ire on the culprit, "You do realize it's common courtesy to tell someone when they're on speaker phone, don't you?"

"Oh don’t be so dramatic," Sugawara chided, but there was a smile in his voice, a stubborn levity to his perspective. "It's not a big deal. You like Tsukki and he obviously likes you, too. One little five minute meeting with his favorite author won't erase those feelings. Have more faith in yourself!"

If only it were a simple matter of courage. If only Tetsurou could unshackle the title author from his identity and confess freely, like a third party in the world's strangest love triangle.

I love you, Tsukishima-kun. Forget about Kuroo-sensei and choose me instead. 

The scary part was...he would do it. Without a moment's hesitation, Tetsurou would slice off the name Kuroo like a vestigial appendage. He'd break off his fingers and claw out his brain, forfeit all the wealth and success they garnered, never to write again, but only if it meant keeping Tsukishima Kei in his life.

"I'm not asking you to do this because I'm jealous," he tried to explain. "It's more like - I know he's gonna be disappointed. If Tsukishima-kun attends that event and meets his hero, the reality is gonna break his heart."

Sugawara’s insistent optimism was hampered by the desperation of Tetsurou's voice, ringing far too real and weighty to match the vapid concerns of a jealous lover. He asked skeptically, "How could you possibly know that?"

"A gut feeling."

Hm. Sugawara pursed his lips, considering the warning: cryptic, obviously distressed, toting another meaning entirely, should he only pry. Not to mention, coming from a man who'd been a complete stranger, only one month prior.

Yet here that same stranger was, calling up a trusted senpai and insisting he knew Tsukishima's heart well enough to protect it. A curious development, to say the least.

"Tsukki's stubborn," Sugawara admitted. "What makes you think he'll even listen to me?"

Finally, a question Tetsurou didn't have to walk around.

"Because he respects you, Suga-san. Because you’re the only person he lets use that stupid nickname.”

He could practically hear the bashful body language, the kicking of imaginary dirt and ruffling of silver hair. "Aw shucks, Kozume-san, I'm blushing."

"So will you do it?"

"Well, I can certainly try. But no promises. If Tsukki's got his heart set on meeting, and possibly marrying, this man, then there's not a force on earth that can stop him. Myself or otherwise."

That was precisely what Tetsurou feared.

The prelude to award-winning author Kuroo Tetsurou's first public appearance was slow and unremarkable.

Time passed through him like a fog, leaving the world around far away and muffled. But that was just fine. Tetsurou was happy to disconnect from exterior concerns in favor of becoming a hermit, skipping showers and meals, pulling all-nighters and smoking up his office. The final push to finish his novel. Just barely he met the deadline, sending off the rough draft to be chewed up by editors and spat out with red-ink. But they could call it whatever they wanted - because no matter how rough, the story was done. 

Though, Tetsurou would admit, with some pride, that it wasn't half-bad, considering the strife to fetter its conception. That beautiful old god, cast out of heaven, atoned for his transgression by living as humans do. By experiencing every harrowing tribulation and gilded triumph of the mortal coil: sex, hatred, addiction, jealousy, persecution, and love. Unequipped for the sensory extremes and driven mad by his own empathy, the old god takes his life to sever the line of reincarnation and spare all future versions of himself the burden of emotion.

A rather bleak and melodramatic tale. But also, emblematic of Tetsurou's current state, and something he wouldn't change, even granted more time and reflection. This novel would be a fitting legacy for his muse. Once vigorous, pristine, and untarnished - now, mangled and dead. Choked off his idealism and taught the harsh lesson that loving anything in the world will only get you hurt. 

And on the topic of Tsukishima...

Tetsurou had been in contact with Sugawara a few times since their initial phone call. The latter was diligent to keep him in the loop and per his most recent update, Tsukishima had no intentions of attending the meet and greet.

“I didn’t need to say much in the way of convincing; it seems he’s battling a host of reservations. I wonder if it’s got anything to do with you…hm…”

Tetsurou could only wish that were true: that Tsukishima’s feelings for ‘Kozume-san’ were deep enough to rival ten years of blind worship.

In reality, their relationship (if you could even call it that) had nothing to do with such doubts. Like anyone who had spent the past decade revering a hero, he was terrified of facing the truth behind the idol. Of confronting his god and discovering a human instead.

Still, Tetsurou was put at ease, knowing this fear would keep him far away from Booksmith & Brothers on June 30th.

Which was precisely where the author found himself now, sitting behind a table in a private reading room with his head buried in his hands, freshly groomed, dressed up like a monkey in a suit, lamenting this shallow parade.

It was an endless cycle: like clockwork, a new Kuroo-sensei fanatic would be shuffled in for their five minute one-on-one with the acclaimed writer, armed with earnest effusion, badgering questions, and personal copies of his books. While he signed the interiors, fans would make off-hand comments about his appearance, I always imagine you’d be shorter/slimmer, more/less handsome . Then, they’d chat about his books. Some commended naively while others critiqued how The Moon Waxes Full was too vague in its purpose - a sore spot that twitched his eye. One woman even confessed that she’d always assumed he was female, writing under a pen name, because of the sensitive way he portrayed the mother-daughter relationship in The End and the Beginning. 

Which…he didn’t know how to interpret. Thank you, I suppose. 

It’s a compliment. You know how male writers tend to be. 

And of course, a few people remarked upon his hair. Is it always…like that? 

Yes, it’s always like that. 

Tetsurou wasn't a social butterfly to begin with, but this repetitive back and forth, the stilted formalities and forced smiles, felt like a new kind of torture. Like he was the main exhibit of a human zoo, caged and primed for public scrutiny. 

“Please tell me we’re almost done,” he begged when Akaashi strode in, signaling just the half-way mark.

Tetsurou’s agent stood a few inches shorter than him, yet nevertheless retained a steadfast presence. Reliable. True. That was Akaashi Keiji: all smart suits and square glasses, closely cropped raven hair and dark eyes that held no pretense. A smile made all the more attractive for its rarity.

“Just another fifty minutes. You’re doing great,” he promised, handing Tetsurou a water bottle. The latter took it and downed half the contents. All this talking had him parched. 

“I’ve been watching the entrance this whole time,” the agent went on. “People are leaving with smiles on their faces. What you’re doing right now…it means a lot to them.”

Tetsurou sighed, because somewhere under the rubble of his broken heart, he knew that was true. But it was also difficult, suffering the onslaught of praise and passion, looking in the eyes of this small army of dedicated fans and watching as Tsukishima’s face flashed harsh and sudden, like an echo of his past.

“Need anything else? Coffee? Food?”

“A cigarette.”

Akaashi huffed a stunted laugh.“No smoking allowed inside the venue, I’m afraid.” He took the empty plastic water bottle and tossed it in the recycling. Then, with a wink, he added, “But you’ve got a good seven minutes until the next guest is ferried in. If you sneak out the back, I might just look the other way.”

Tetsurou hummed, toying with the carton of Newports in his pocket, mulling over that very suggestion.

There was a second entrance to the reading room, feeding into a longer hall, encompassing bathrooms, excess storage, and staff rooms. Tetsurou slinked through that very backend, in search of the emergency exit. Smoking inside was strictly prohibited, per Akaashi's earlier warning, so Tetsurou would step out for a minute. Two, maximum.

Just as he rounded a corner and caught sight of that blessed red fluorescence, he nearly stumbled into a body walking the other way. Reflexes had him catching the other person, steadying their shoulders.

“Sorry, my bad-”

But then, he choked, for as soon as that flawless, familiar beauty was registered, that sharp gaze flooded by mutual recognition, Tetsurou’s heart jumped into his throat. He blinked several times, to the terrible realization that this wasn’t another echo of his past. Rather, the person standing before him, in all his shining perfection and presence, was Tsukishima Kei.

“Kozume-san? I didn’t know you also bought tickets.”

Tetsurou was silent. Petrified. A deer frozen in headlights, chanting stubbornly, you’re not supposed to be here. Why are you here? Not yet caught in his multitude of lies, but the car barrelling 80 miles an hour would flatten him soon enough.

The blond furrowed his brows and tilted his head. “Uh, Kozume-san? Are you alright? You look rather pale…”

Suddenly, it was the opposite. Tetsurou’s mind sprinted a mile a minute, dodging oncoming traffic and frantically searching for an exit. Just beyond Tsukishima’s shoulder, that neon sign called his name. He could ditch this stupid event without explanation, hail a taxi and drive until the meter ran out. Make a new home wherever he landed and try to put the past behind him. Anything to spare them the carnage of what was to come.

But Tetsurou struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone execute an escape plan. So, tactlessly, he blurted out his first concern.

“I-I thought you weren’t coming!”

Tsukishima widened his eyes, before casting them to the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he admitted quietly. Vulnerable. Tetsurou’s cowardice would never comprehend the bravery it took. “I had no intention.”

“Then, why-”

“Because it’s stupid,” Tsukishima answered, and his demeanor suddenly flipped, sharp and edgy, arms crossing to form a literal barrier. “I know it’s stupid, fretting over a five-minute interaction. Kuroo-sensei won’t even remember me, among the hundreds of other fans.”

The overlapping chatter of Tetsurou’s restless mind ceased suddenly, quelled by such candor; the concerns long suspected, yet Tetsurou’s chest constricted, hearing it put to words like that. 

He wanted to grab Tsukishima by the shoulders and shake until he understood, Of course I’d remember you. I haven’t been able to think a damn thing else since we met. 

“I worried those five minutes might ruin my life,” Tsukishima confessed, his shoulders hiking to betray the embarrassment. His arms, too, tightened their fold over his chest, hugging himself for comfort. “That I might lose this image I’d spent years painting in my head.”

This time, Tetsurou had nothing to offer but bitter concurrence. Indeed, that canvas he meticulously poured over would be shredded, soon enough. 

“But I’m resigned to it now,” the blond finished, a smile finally breaking through the nerves. Small, but courageous. “Whatever Kuroo-sensei is like as a person won't diminish how I’ve felt about him, all these years.” He swallowed, and corrected. “How I’ve felt about his stories. I want to show up for this person, share my support, and make sure he knows I care. It’s the least I can offer, after everything Kuroo-sensei has given to me.”

At last, Tetsurou’s heart shattered.

I’ve given you nothing. 

“He knows,” Tetsurou murmured instead, no longer caring how these words indicted him. Truthfully, nothing mattered, not his conscience nor his pride, just…

“Tsukishima-kun, I think what you’re doing is admirable. It’s remarkable to me how you can love someone so fearlessly. So unapologetically. I wish I could say the same for myself.”

“Where is all this-”

Tetsurou talked over him. “I need to tell you something.”

The blond dropped his folded arms, his defenses, matching severity with apprehension.

“What is it?”

“Before I tell you, promise me that you’ll listen. That you’ll hear everything I have to say.”

He could tell Tsukishima found the demand odd, given the way his brow raised. Even so, the blond promised, like it was obvious, “Of course I’d listen to you.”

And oh, how Tetsurou longed to touch this person, one final time. It was an impulse that couldn’t be fought. Tetsurou grabbed Tsukishima’s hand and clutched it fiercely within his own, pressing his lips to the skin. 

“You’re being very romantic all of a sudden,” the latter remarked, throwing his gaze over his shoulder to verify they were still alone. Then, with an air of sarcasm, he snarked, “If you’re planning to propose, don’t waste your breath - I don’t like you that much.”

Tetsurou’s intensity didn’t fracture with the joke. He just said, “I’ve been lying to you.” And that flat admission wasn’t how he intended to start, lacking proper lead-in or pretense. But these words were difficult enough to form, let alone pad.

Slowly, predictably, Tetsurou watched it take form: the protective outer shell, that steel suit of armor. Tsukishima was bracing himself for the worst.

I’m married. I’ve killed someone. I’m not from this earth. 

“...lying about what?”

“Everything,” Tetsurou confessed, heaving each awful truth off his chest like a thousand pound weight. “To begin, my name isn't Kozume Kenma, and I don’t work in publishing.”

The hand was wrenched curtly from his grasp, and with it went everything else: Tetsurou’s courage and the threadbare hopes that, just maybe, Tsukishima would find the grace to forgive him, after all.

“What-" Tsukishima stopped, searched for evidence of a joke, but there was none to be found in that imploring gaze. "What are you even saying, Kozume-san?”

He looked so fucking broken already. And Tetsurou hadn’t even gotten to the worst past.

“I’m saying…”

“There you are, Kuroo.”

Akaashi’s voice severed their conversation like the blade of a knife, curt and indifferent. Tetsurou shut his eyes, defeated.

No. Not like this. 

“Kuroo?” Tsukishima repeated, turning to find a dark-haired, bespectacled figure approaching. His attention flitted between this stranger, and the man he thought he knew. ‘Kozume-san’ who now claimed not to be ‘Kozume-san’. The same man who long-grated his sensibilities, who stood his ground in an intellectual debate with Tsukishima, who could frustratingly match his wit, who shared his intense love for books and thirst for quality, who lent him an umbrella on a rainy day, who remained handsome no matter how scruffy or sleek, who could recite back Kuroo-sensei's works better than even his biggest fan, yet refrained from acknowledging the ability… 

The realization dawned like a fire-red sky, portending a devastating storm.

Heedless of the atmosphere and taking Tsukishima for only another hapless fan, Akaashi continued talking business, “The break’s been cut short, I need you back in the reading room.” He briefly regarded the blond, “My apologies, sir, but I must steal Kuroo-sensei from you.”

Tetsurou’s gaze didn’t flinch from Tsukishima, though his expression had twisted, eaten up by remorse, by shame, by every emotion he’d been harboring like a criminal these past few weeks. He whispered, “I wanted to tell you sooner,” and reached out, but Tsukishima took a gut-wrenching step in retreat. His eyes were trained to the floor, seeing beyond the floorboards, studying some far off map of the events, realizing that every quirk in hindsight had pointed to this one conclusion. That every morsel of praise delivered in confidence, that every filthy noise traded during sex, had been with…

Tsukishima’s face flushed bright red.

“Excuse me,” he uttered, nodding awkwardly in departure, though it wasn’t clear if he was addressing Tetsurou or Akaashi. The former followed, lamely yet stubbornly reminding him, 

“You promised you’d listen to me. To everything.”

In a fit of boiling anger and mortification that took even Tsukishima by surprise, the blond whipped around and shouted, “I promised Kozume-san! Not you.” 

Tetsurou simultaneously flinched and endured, knowing this was his rightful punishment. Knowing that the only person to blame for that horrific look of betrayal was-

“Kozume?” Akaashi repeated in alarm, eyes tracking the blond as he disappeared around the corner, before returning to his client. “That’s your friend, no?”

Tetsurou just said, “You’ve got impeccable timing, Keiji.”

His agent narrowed his eyes, not missing a beat. “What did you do?”

In place of an explanation, Tetsurou extended a request, taking off after his runaway prince before waiting on an answer.

“Buy me some time, five minutes. Please. I need to fix this.”

The word to describe Booksmith & Brothers’ front shop was lively. Likeminds were gathered for an opportunity to meet their favorite author, inevitably bonding over mutual interests. There was a steady, conversational buzz underpinning the room, an atmosphere of amicable acceptance. All are welcome, so long as you love Kuroo-sensei!

Some fans would peruse the rows of bookshelves, admiring the selection for sale, while others split off into groups, chatting about recent releases, old favorites, and everything in-between. Within that latter demographic was the rest of Tsukishima's book club. They’d arrived together, waiting patiently for their ticket numbers to be called. Asahi’s strong arms held a mountain of novels to be signed - courtesy of Sugawara’s flawless reasoning. We’ll never get another chance like this again! Yachi, on the other hand, opted only for her absolute favorite editions, tucked safely in her tote bag. She also donned her best for the occasion: a purple floral dress with ruffled sleeves and skirt that dusted her ankles, paired with some funky white boots to pull the look together. Secretly, she hoped Kuroo-sensei would approve of her eclectic style, as Kozume-san had.

Finally, there was Sugawara, the first to catch sight of Tsukishima’s return from the bathroom. His refreshing smile and friendly wave were dropped as he reconciled the distress plaguing fair features, the tears welling in honey eyes.

“Tsukki, what’s happened?” He asked sympathetically, touching his arm as the blond rejoined their circle. The latter didn’t shrug him off, though he likely wanted to. The special privileges of being a trusted senpai.

Sugawara pestered, “Is it too much? Is this too much? We can leave, Tsukki, just say the word!”

Asahi and Yachi concurred, the former insisting, “These events are overrated anyway,” while the latter nodded vigorously.

“So overrated!" She chimed. "Let’s go get some ice cream instead."

But before Tsukishima could take them up on the offer, or even provide an explanation for his meltdown, another character entered the scene. Tetsurou stumbled onto the sales floor, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces for the one he sought, calling, "Tsukishima-kun!" and pushing past bodies to reach him.

The book club turned with the familiar sound of his voice.

"Kozume-san is here?" Asahi asked.

The tears finally fell, glimmering rivers down his cheeks, as Tsukishima glowered. 

"That's not his name."

Yachi was confused. "What do you mean?"

But Sugawara didn't wait for further context, because Tsukishima was crying. Beyond Kuroo Tetsurou, there was only one other person who possessed the power to break his heart.

Finally reaching the group, Tetsurou was breathless as he begged, "Tsukishima-kun, please, stop running, just talk to me."

Sugawara dutifully stepped between them, however, jabbing an unfriendly finger into Tetsurou's broad chest. A mother hen protecting her flock. "Did you hurt his feelings?"

"I-" Tetsurou curbed the urge to make excuses as soon as he took in that tear-stricken face, that smothering glare. His gaze circled the rest of the group, people who once regarded him with warmth and invitation, only to discover freezing distance. Sugawara was treating him like some deadbeat. Soft-hearted Asahi had steeled over with intense skepticism. And even Yachi - sweet, innocent, candy-colored Yachi - was biting her lip and averting her eyes, conflicted.

Finally, he admitted, "I hurt him," but then firmly insisted, "But I never wanted to, Tsukishima-kun. Please, you have to trust that."

"Trust?" the blond scoffed. Sugawara moved aside, permitting him the opportunity to confront Tetsurou face-to-face. Their respective statures lined up perfectly, as Tsukishima spat back, "You want me to trust you? I don't even know you."

The volume of their argument began turning heads.

At his side, Tetsurou's hands curled to fists, shaking. With a quiet frustration, the kind directed at a situation, rather than a person, he insisted, "You do. You know me better than anyone else." Again, he reached out an effort to touch, to cup along Tsukishima's jaw and remind them of what they had. At the very least, he wished to remind Tsukishima of that truth. 

Even if he didn't know Tetsurou's name, or his job, or any extraneous details - he still knew his soul. He knew it long before they ever met, extracting threads of personality and heart from the pages of The Moon Waxes Full, feeling that affection and falling just as deeply as Hotaru.

But Tsukishima caught his wrist, squeezed to hold his reconciliation at bay, and let a mirthless smirk twist his features. Tetsurou's stomach dropped in kind. He'd never witness such a terrifying expression. Even worse were the words, sugared by a false admiration and delivered loud enough for the entire room to overhear.

"How wonderful! Kuroo-sensei has arrived to greet his fans. Everyone, come say hello!"

Horror struck Tetsurou as his arm was tossed aside like garbage. Tsukishima stepped back to admire his handiwork, the chummed waters swarmed by sharks. A crowd overwhelmed Tetsurou, severing him from the book club, from Tsukishima. They chattered noisily, Is it him? Is it really him? Kuroo-sensei! Kuroo-sensei! I'm such a big fan! Would you sign my copy?

Tetsurou did his best to fight against the current, but by the time he escaped its pull, his Apollo, and the rest of the book club for that matter, were nowhere in sight.

“You can’t keep living like this.”

The unbarred sun affronted Tetsurou’s eyes, burning retinas and dilating pupils. Akaashi had shucked aside his curtains, flooding his office with light. They hadn’t been moved for some time, and a plume of dust was summoned, causing the agent to cough into his hand.

“When was the last time you had the place cleaned?”

Tetsurou shrugged, uncaring and distant. He was slumped in his desk chair, the LED glow of his desktop emitting a hypnotic spell as he poured every last drop of time and energy into revisions. He cared little for his surroundings as a result, transforming the space into a cave, shadowed from passage of time, smelling of stale smoke.

Akaashi cracked a window for some fresh air, inviting the scent of grass and hum of cicadas. He then ran a finger along the sill, gathering grime and rubbing it off.

“Have you been eating properly?”

Tetsurou offered only a non-committal grumble, something along the lines of more or less…

Akaashi sighed, strode over to the desk and began collecting empty cases of Newports from a mess of emptied take-out packaging and uncleaned coffee mugs. 

“Cigarettes and fast food do not constitute a balanced diet.”

This time, only a discontented huff.

The behavior might’ve read as ungrateful, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Somewhere in the recesses of his person, Tetsurou appreciated the fact that Akaashi would do this: driving out on a weekend, outside his working hours, just to check on the tormented artist. Tetsurou had completely succumbed to depression in the weeks following the meet-and-greet. The shadow returned to his jaw, and there were some unsightly dark circles plaguing his under eyes. As a diligent friend, Akaashi accommodated this rut, making exceptions and permitting grace, understanding that whatever happened between Tetsurou and his special someone had been a devastating blow.

But this lack of self-care had gone on long enough.

Akaashi bent down to meet Tetsurou’s gaze. His black eyes went uncharacteristically soft.

“I’m worried about you.”

Tetsurou just stared back at him. Through him. The whites of his eyes had turned red, and Akaashi could only guess the culprit: strain from the computer, lack of sleep, or tears.

“Will you let me clean?”

It was quiet, but Tetsurou managed a hum in approval.

Akaashi stood back up and disappeared into the kitchen, rummaging under the sink in search of the garbage bags he knew to be stowed there. After a few seconds, he returned with the entire roll, pulling off one and shaking the mouth open. Tucked under his other arm was a multiple purpose cleaner and some paper towels. He set those down, and proceeded to get to work.

Tetsurou’s eyes tracked him as he puttered around the room, tossing garbage and returning books to their proper place on the shelves lining three walls, a collection amassed after a lifetime of loving the craft. He wondered when he’d taken that pile out. Even more, he wondered why he never put them back. As an author himself, he took pride in his personal library, especially the clothbound limited-editions. Why the hell were those on the floor?

Slowly, as Akaashi cleaned, Tetsurou seemed to find footing in the present. He took notice of the dirtied mugs and couldn’t remember drinking all that coffee. His eyes then snagged on the overflowing garbage can. That thing needed to be emptied out two weeks ago.

He rubbed his eyes. God, this place was tragic.

Grunting with the motion, Tetsurou stood up finally, rolling his neck and shoulders. They’d taken quite the toll, thanks to several days of poor posture. He then began collecting the dishes from his desk and brought them to the sink, running hot water and scrubbing the stained interiors

If Akaashi was surprised by his helping hand, he made a point not to comment. The last thing Tetsurou’s pride needed was reinforcement of the idea that he was helpless.

He also didn’t pry, regarding this special someone. The source of this gloom. The blond with an admittedly very pretty face. Akaashi did wonder over the details of their relationship and subsequent fallout, the reasons behind that raised voice and utterly distraught look  (though he had his suspicions, courtesy of Tetsurou’s hypothetical musings).

But he would save speculation for a time when Tetsurou was fit to handle it.

They made good time, working together, and soon the office was returned to a more respectable state. Akaashi dusted while Tetsurou swept. As the former bent over to get at the stubborn corners of the radiator, he paused. Fallen behind one of twin upholstered reading chairs was a flash of yellow. Akaashi reached his nimble hand between the crevice and extracted a publication he didn’t recognize - which was odd, considering it was his domain.

“Kuroo, what’s this?”

He held up the cover to be seen, featuring The Hummingbird in bold letters. Tetsurou inhaled sharply.

“It’s mine,” he answered, dropping the broom in favor of retrieving the magazine, like he’d been searching for ages. In truth, Tetsurou had no idea how it ended up there, in the cold, forgotten space between furniture and wall. Likely, it had been discarded following that awful fight. Tetsurou couldn’t stand the reminder of what he'd lost. But nearly two weeks later, he was so thankful to see it again, flipping through the crinkled pages in search of a poem he knew as well as his own writing. 

On page 107, he was greeted by the old friend.

Illusionary Hero (Tsukishima Kei, Age 13)

“It’s mine,” he repeated, though Akaashi hadn’t disputed him the first time.

“Where should I put it?”

Tetsurou shook his head and placed it beside the desktop. “I’ll keep it out. It’s nice to flip through, every now and again.”

Again, Akaashi didn’t push, instead offering,

“Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?”

Us. As in, Akaashi and his husband, Bokuto Koutarou. Tetsurou had met him a few times now, enough to say with confidence that he approved. Bokuto was loud and expressive and welcoming, the complete antithesis to Akaashi’s cool repose. Yet his audaciousness brought out a side of Tetsurou’s agent not often witnessed: a fondness and sentimentality he seemed otherwise incapable of.

Bokuto also made some damn good food, which earned him bonus points.

Still, Tetsurou turned the offer down in favor of work. “I’m alright. There’s still a lot I need to get done with this draft.”

Akaashi was unsatisfied, of course. “No more junk food. I don’t want you getting heart disease before thirty.”

Tetsurou put a hand up in oath. “I’ll cook a proper meal, I promise.”

A ‘proper meal’ became salmon over rice, deceptively easy. Still, Tetsurou was proud. He even sent a photo to Akaashi as proof, per the latter’s request.

After dinner, he tidied the kitchen and returned to his office, hunkering down for another long night of addressing editor comments and reworking the story. Before his fingers could resume their position over the keyboard, however, Tetsurou’s eyes settled on that magazine cover. The titular bird seemed to match his look, staring up at him with an intense expression.

“What are you looking at?”

The bird didn’t respond, of course. It was only a drawing.

But Tetsurou felt those beady eyes mock him regardless.

“He’s not gonna talk to me,” he muttered. “I’ve tried reaching out, several times. To him. To everyone. But they all hate me, and rightfully so.”

The picture continued to bore skeptical holes in his profile.

“You think that’s gonna work? Yeah, right,” Tetsurou scoffed, and rationalized, “He’s probably already blocked my number, anyway. Even if I say the right thing, there’s no guarantee he’ll even see the message.”

Still, the hummingbird wouldn’t relent.

Tetsurou growled, reaching to flip the cover and hide from that judgemental gaze. But his fingers stalled, hovering just above the publication.

What if…

What if the bird is right?

Rather than discard it, or stow it safely in his desk drawer, Tetsurou pulled the magazine into his lap and fished through his pocket, extracting his cellphone. It was a half-formed idea at best. Something that might earn him a restraining order, but he was desperate and a little deranged, bickering with inanimate objects. He had nothing left to lose.

So, in a last ditch-effort to get Tsukishima to talk to him, Tetsurou began typing out lines, etched over his heart like the lyrics of a favorite song.

Tell me your illusionary hero, and I shall tell you mine

The first text was sent, but didn’t wait for a response to send another.

A smile, a promise, a mold to bend oneself into

And another.

I spent so long carving and cutting away

And another.

With the exacting knife of expectation

And finally, a breakthrough.

Following the reveal of his identity, Tetsurou had been shut out entirely, blocked off by the walls of radio silence. Yet, it took only four lines to draw Tsukishima out from his fortress. That contact lit up Tetsurou’s phone so suddenly that the latter nearly dropped it.

Timidly, he answered,

“...Tsukishima-kun?”

No time was wasted on pleasantries.

“Where did you get that?” 

He was angry, but regardless of intonation, the sound of that snappy voice provided Tetsurou genuine solace. He closed his eyes, squeezing the magazine against his chest, grinning in relief to announce,

“You called.”

“You were harassing me - of course I called!” Tsukishima lashed right back, and how Tetsurou had missed this little dance of theirs: that indignant offense matching his blithe enamour. Their fateful first meeting, all over again. “Now, tell me, where the hell did you get that?”

Tetsurou explained, “My parents kept their old copies of The Hummingbird. When you mentioned writing for the same issue, I went searching for the submission.”

“Y-You-” Kei stopped midway, deciding he was better off not knowing why someone would go to such lengths for the work of an amateur. Instead, he curtly instructed, “Throw it away.” 

Tetsurou lost his smile, growing defensive. “No. Why should I?”

“It’s an embarrassing excuse for poetry,” Tsukishima shot back, and that hurt the author a great deal. To think this person would shun his own artistic pursuits, when they had resonated with Tetsurou so deeply.

“I don’t care what you do - burn it, shred it - just get rid of it.” 

“No, I won’t,” Tetsurou insisted, hugging the magazine even tighter to his chest, as if it were thirteen-year-old Tsukishima in his arms. As if he were protecting that seed of creativity from its jaded future self, who looked back and condemned the emotion that molded him. “Your art is beautiful. I-I’d like to read more, if you ever-”

Tsukishima cut him off to interrogate, “Is this a habit of yours, Kuroo-sensei? Making fun of your readers?”

Tetsurou didn’t think it was possible, but his heart shattered a second time.

“Wha - Making fun of you? Tsukki…I love-”

“Don’t call me that!” He actually yelled this time. A harsh spike straining the parameters of monotone, leaving his words mangled and hoarse. His second blow-up, directed at Tetsurou. “We are not friends! We aren’t even acquaintances. I d-don’t-” Tsukishima stumbled over his anger, his hurt, to finish, “I don’t know a damn thing about you!”

Tetsurou’s throat tightened. He blinked twice, and suddenly, his cheeks were damp. 

Fuck. 

Just as quickly, the tears were wiped away and his throat cleared of the lodged emotion.

“I’m sorry.”

Quieter, but no less furious, Tsukishima said, “I don’t want your apologies. Just-”

Tetsurou wasn’t done, however, talking right over him. “I’m sorry, Tsukishima-kun, but I’m not throwing away your poem. If you don’t want it anymore, fine. Forget about it. Forget about me. Hate me, if that’s what you need. But don’t ever say you’re without talent.”

Tsukishima was defeated, at a fucking loss for why his idol for the past decade years would toy with him like this. Why his untouchable, prophetic Kuroo-sensei would care for a teenager’s angst-born work. Why he would spend weeks lying outright to their book club. Why he would indulge in a sexual relationship with a fan, well-aware the depth of his feelings. 

Tsukishima felt worn, violated, humiliated.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” He whispered, finally.

This time, Tetsurou couldn’t stop the tears, leaving his intonation fragile.

“Because I think I love you,” he answered, so simply it made all the prior deceit feel superfluous. Comical. Why had he ever danced around those words? When they were so patently true. “The attraction was shallow to begin with, I’ll admit. But as I got to know you, I thought you were spectacular. Smart and stubborn, full of pride, laying down your dignity for a man you’d never met. It made me jealous, that I’d never match the image in your head.”

Tsukishima’s voice returned, equally as ruined.

“You don’t lie to the people you love, Kuroo-sensei.”

Tetsurou agreed, in so many words, “It’s fucked up, isn’t it? That I just couldn’t help myself. That even after digging myself in deep with a phony name and backstory, I had the fucking gall to put my hands on you. I’m so sorry.”

There wasn’t a response to follow, and Tetsurou wondered if the call dropped.

But then, after a long stretch of silence, Tsukishima asked, “Why? Why didn't you just tell the truth?”

“Because I was terrified of losing you.”

“You say that as if you had me to begin with.”

Tetsurou’s own self-pity broke into a stupid smile. God, he adored that sass, even at his own expense.

Especially at his own expense. He must’ve been an emotional masochist.

“I thought I did,” he admitted. “I thought you might like Kozume-san enough to overlook everything else.”

Overlook. As if everything else weren’t aspects Tsukishima had long ago fallen in love with.

“This isn’t fair,” he whispered spitefully. “You’re not being fair.”

“I know,” Tetsurou empathized. “I’m a selfish bastard, Tsukishima-kun. A liar who doesn’t deserve to be forgiven for what I’ve done. I don’t deserve it. But please, let me at least try to make amends. For my own sanity.”

“It’s not my job to absolve your conscience, Kuroo-sensei.”

Tetsurou winced at his own name, spoken like a vice. Though it was tough to stomach, he would grant that Tsukishima was right. He wasn’t owed anything.

Even still, he said, “Then, I’m left with no other choice.” Tsukishima couldn’t even ask what that meant before he was declaring, belligerently. “I’m putting it in my next novel. The poem.”

If confessions of love and apologies weren’t going to fix this mess, then Tetsurou would shamelessly settle for blackmail.

On the other end of the call, there was a pause. Shock. Indignation, perhaps. And then, a low, venomous seethe.

“You will not.” 

“I will, unless you stop me.”

Tsukishima was sputtering. “Excuse me, is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise, Tsukishima-kun,” Tetsurou maintained evenly. “Unless you pry this poem from my cold, dead hands, it’s going in my novel. Right at the beginning, for millions of people to read. And because I’m such an insufferable, selfish bastard who cares a great deal for intellectual property, I’ll make sure to credit you properly. I’ll make sure your name is written in big, bold calligraphy. I’ll even dedicate the novel to you.”

At one point in his life, having acclaimed author and young genius Kuroo Tetsurou dedicate an entire book to Tsukishima would’ve sent him to the grave. He would have passed happily, knowing that his name was forever immortalized on the page next to Kuroo-sensei’s. The two, forever entwined.

But this was no good deed. No demonstration of love.

“Kuroo-sensei, I swear to God I will kill you before that happens.”

“It’s already happening,” Tetsurou imparted. “I look forward to dying, love.”

He then promptly hung up and texted Tsukishima his home address, as if to taunt, come and get me.

Tetsurou knew his plan was a long shot. At best, he hoped Tsukishima might show up sometime the next day, or even the next week, demanding the magazine from his hands and ordering him to stay the hell away from me.

He did not anticipate, however, that Tsukishima would be knocking at his door thirty minutes following the end of their call. He would’ve had to run out immediately in order to make such good time. Tetsurou didn’t actually believe it could be him, until he opened the door and revealed Apollo at his stoop.

Tsukishima was bitter, beautiful. Dressed down for the first time since Tetsurou had known him. No flat pressed lines or meticulous style. He donned only a baggy sweatshirt and some matching navy track pants, which was a strange sight. Conceptually, Tetsurou had always known Tsukishima was human, despite how his lovelorn eyes like to trick and flatter. But seeing the prince now, wrapped up by soft texture and sloped shoulders, seemed to dull the other edges as well.

Tsukishima Kei was not some untouchable deity. He was just a man Tetsurou adored.

“Evening,” he bid, staring at the blond like he wasn’t real.

“I hate you,” Tsukishima snapped. He barged past Tetsurou, welcoming himself inside. “Where is it?”

Tetsurou merely shut the door and watched him fondly from the entryway. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

Tsukishima spun around to glare. “Give me the damn poem.”

And under that intense scope, Tetsurou felt warm. Not hot or uncomfortable. Just…warm.

For the occasion, he too had kept clothing simple, stuck in the same gray sweatpants and cotton t-shirt from the past two days. Unbecoming, perhaps, but Tetsurou figured maintaining appearances was a bygone concern. His ugliest sides were already put on display for all to see. There was no point in hiding under a cleanly-shaven, but ultimately empty, guise.

Scratching at his stumble, Tetsurou mused, “Can’t remember where I put it.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.” Tsukishima retreaded the distance to grab Tetsurou by the collar. “Where is it?”

It was weird that Tetsurou could keep perfectly still, with Tsukishima at his throat like this. Even stranger, he was smiling. Happy to see him. Happy that the person he loved was standing in his home right now, regardless of the circumstance to lead him there.

Tetsurou closed his own hand over Tsukishima’s fist. Not to pull off, just to hold.

“It’s in my study.”

Tsukishima released him and demanded, “Show me where that is, then.”

“Okay,” Tetsurou appeased, and did, walking down a hall that bridged the foyer with the rest of his house, turning into the second door on the right. The lights of his office were still on, and the computer screen glowed, previewing an excerpt of his next release. Beside it, The Hummingbird.

Tetsurou anticipated Tsukishima to lunge for the publication immediately, given his earlier impatience. But, to his surprise, the latter didn’t make it past the door frame.

Rather, Tsukishima stood transfixed, expression still consumed by frustration, albeit a different strain. Almost childish. A pout. He seemed unconscious to his own mannerisms, pulling and knitting his fingers in nervous habit. His eyes, meanwhile, were busy touring the shelves of the study. There were six in total, each case bursting at the seams with books. Tetsurou didn’t know the precise amount - it had been years since he last counted - but he wagered the number surpassed 700. 

Tetsurou didn’t know whether to break the spell, or let Tsukishima explore unhindered. It was a fascinating sight, that furious awe.

Yet he couldn’t refrain from offering, “Take your pick.”

Tsukishima blinked back to the present. “What?”

“You can have any title you’d like. I’ve already read the lot anyway.” Not a boast. Just a fact. “All good. Except that one, of course.” He nodded at his own works, lined up in chronological order. Specifically, The Moon Waxes Full.

Tsukishima made a sour face. “Not funny.” Even still, he didn’t move from the entrance, didn’t stop twiddling his fingers and raking hungry eyes over the colorful spines. More genuinely, he asked, “Why would you give them away?”

This was a funny way of communicating, Tsukishima staring at the shelves and Tetsurou staring at him. The latter shrugged. “They’re just books.”

“They’re not,” Tsukishima argued, finally crossing that barrier and narrating the personal library like it was his own. “You’ve got collector’s editions all along that top row and a few prints I’m sure are first editions…” He plucked one title from the mass, Yukio Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask, and flipped through the initial pages. “Yeah, see? Kawabe Shobo, 1949. That couldn’t have been cheap.”

Tetsurou grinned, confirming, “It wasn’t.”

Tsukishima was careful to slip the relic safely back on the shelf. 

“Then, you should value them accordingly.”

“I do,” Tetsurou maintained. “I just value other things more.”

The implication being, you.

“It’s repayment, in any case,” he went on. “I promised I’d give you a list of recommendations. Well - here they are. Everything Kuroo-sensei loves in one room.”

Again, the implication being, you included.

Though he would rather die than concede to it, Tsukishima was enticed by the proposition. For years, he had ached to know what art informed Kuroo-sensei’s craft. He wished to consume everything this man held dear, if only to understand his mind a little better.

But Tsukishima was also determined to hold onto this hatred.

With bitterness stinging its way back into fair features, he reprimanded, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you care about me.”

Tetsurou had to laugh at that, or else he might start crying again. “I do care about you, Tsukishima-kun. More than any of these books. More than my own works.” He tried stepping closer, but it was too much too fast, because the blond flinched backwards and knocked his head against one of the shelves.

“Ow,” he grumbled, rubbing the tender spot.

Tetsurou frowned. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“What about my shelves? Did you dent them?”

Tsukishima pushed up his glasses, as they’d been knocked down by the impact. “Ha. Ha.”

The frown broke to something lighter, fonder. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I am not scared of you, Kuroo-sensei,” he insisted, with a slight blush. “You just - startled me.”

Tetsurou said “Okay” a second time, mindful not to push the truth they both knew well: that Tsukishima was scared of Kuroo-sensei. That he’d nearly forfeited  an opportunity to meet his personal hero - the only opportunity he would get in this lifetime - because of such fears. Surely, these worries were only exacerbated, given his true identity and their less than innocent history.

Such history, and the tension it toted, reared now with Tsukishima trapped between rock and hard place. The last time their bodies had been this close was…

Tsukishima was eager to change the subject. “Where is my poem?” 

Tetsurou nodded over his shoulder, like the other man couldn't see it plainly. “Desk.”

Dipping around him, Tsukishima retrieved the magazine, finally in possession of what he sought. Yet he didn’t make a sudden break for the door.

Rather, he turned a skeptical eye on the author. “You didn’t make any copies, did you?”

This summoned the ghost of amusement within Tetsurou’s features. “I didn’t need to.” He tapped his noggin. “Got a knack for memorization, remember?”

Flatly, Tsukishima told him, “I assumed that was just another lie.”

And, tasteless as it was, Tetsurou laughed. He laughed loudly. Like an obnoxious crow. Deeper shades of crimson stained Tsukishima’s complexion.

“That is not funny, Kuroo-sensei.”

“I know,” he agreed, still laughing. “It’s awful, because you’re right. I totally lied about that.”

Tsukishima was losing patience. “And?”

“And,” Tetsurou said, forcibly stifling the residual giggles, “the truth is, I read your poem so many times, I accidentally learned it by heart.”

Tsukishima’s mouth dropped, flabbergasted. He could not… fathom…why this person would do such a thing.

And that which he did not understand, he loathed. Oh, he loathed so intensely.

“Why?”

Tetsurou’s expression was a bulldozer, leveling him to the ground with pure ardor.

“Because you’re a good writer, Tsukishima-kun. Because…” he gestured to the wall of respected peers and literary giants for emphasis, “...your thirteen is better than some of their greatest works.”

Tsukishima said “Shut up,” on reflex. He added, “Stop exaggerating,” for good measure. And though it didn’t seem possible, his cheeks, the back of his neck, the tips of his ears, everything flushed an even darker red. It was like his body didn’t get the memo (we hate him now, remember?). For every inch of that pale skin was sensitive to the praise of Kuroo-sensei.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Tetsurou promised. “I honestly think you’re talented. I think you could accomplish something great, if you’d only let yourself.”

Again, Tsukishima blew him off.

“You’re only saying that because you want to fuck me.”

Tetsurou wasn’t one to succumb to his anger. A hair-trigger temper didn’t suit the tastes of an emotional masochist. However, that one remark managed to set him off entirely.

He bore an expression Tsukishima didn’t think this frivolous man capable of: lips turned with a scowl, eyes severe, like he hated Tsukishima. He’d never looked so fucking mean. 

“How many times do I have to say it?”

A flinch assaulted Tsukishima’s body.

“How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that I love you?” Tetsurou got right in his face and the blond tried to match the intensity, to stonewall him out, but Tetsurou could see it. The reliable crack of fear in his eyes. Cruelly, he would use that leverage, and spit, “Yeah, I wanna fuck you. I wanna see all the different positions I can get you in, dress you up in little costumes just to take them off, make you scream my name - my actual name. But-” he scoffed, like Tsukishima should know this by now, “I also wanna kiss you. I want to laugh with you. I want to talk for hours into the early morning, just pick at your brain and let you pick at mine. I want to sit in perfect, comfortable silence on a Sunday afternoon as we both read our favorite books. I want to cook meals with you, and share a bed with you. I want to go on sappy dates and hold hands in public and…and-”

He was trailing off, because Tsukishima’s eyes were shifting. Staring at Tetsurou with a different scope. All at once, familiar and new. Like he was understanding the author’s true nature for the first time.

Tetsurou’s insult softened, though he continued to scold, “I’m not saying you have to forgive me or trust me or even allow me in your life. Just - stop pretending like you don’t understand. You do. You know exactly how I feel about you. Why I did the things I did.”

Tsukishima had to turn his head to escape Tetsurou’s pull, and the motion felt like admitting defeat.

Even then, Tetsurou wouldn’t relent, practically whispering the words, “You’re not the only one who gets to love something, Tsukishima-kun. What’s the worst thing that will happen, if you let me return the feeling?”

He posited the question with no expectation of being answered. It was more rhetorical, a thought to chew on.

But Tsukishima told him exactly what would happen.

“It’ll ruin me.” 

Tetsurou blinked, shocked, because Tsukishima was crying again, the emotion spurred on so suddenly and silently that Tetsurou had to touch that pale cheek and feel the tears for himself, to understand they were real.

“What you’re feeling isn’t love. What I’m feeling isn’t love,” Tsukishima uttered spitefully. “It’s fire - it’s fleeting. For now, warm and exciting, my blind exaltation and your lie fanning the flames, but it’s not love. It’s not. Over time, you’ll become human and I’ll become burdensome. We’ll both come to resent the other when we realize that it’s not forever. And that’ll ruin me, Kuroo-sensei, because I was supposed to have you forever…”

He had resorted to hiding his face in one hand, ashamed of this hideous vulnerability yet unable to rein the emotion back. His other hand, meanwhile, had curled and punched repeatedly into Tetsurou’s chest, annoyingly broad and sturdy under the fist, emphasizing those last words.

I was supposed to have you forever…

The sight of him like this, the sound of his broken voice, exorcized all lingering resentment from Tetsurou’s frame. He wanted to take that trembling body into his arms and squeeze out the sorrow. But he was also mindful of the residual boundaries, the fact that Tsukishima had flinched away from physical contact not two minutes earlier. So, instead, Tetsurou grabbed tightly under Tsukishima’s elbow, placed a grounding hand at the small of his back, and led him to sit at one of the twin reading chairs. He then took a knee before him, held one of Tsukishima’s hands into his own, and tilted his chin to meet those reddened eyes.

“How can you possibly say you’re not a writer?” He harped with a small grin. “Even when rejecting me, you do it so masterfully.”

His flippant remark elicited some composure from Tsukishima, just enough to sulk.

“That is not the point.”

Matching his severity, Tetsurou assured, “I know. It breaks my heart that you think of yourself as a burden.”

“It’s happened before,” Tsukishima admitted. His demeanor, all at once, was exhausted. No more crying, just the sag of body beleaguered by sentiment. “It wasn’t fair of me to stake so much of my happiness and identity on another person. I couldn’t be upset when the rug was pulled from under my feet.”

With this information, an epiphany dawned. The inner workings of Tsukishima’s heart, within Tetsurou’s grasp as soon as the second day they met. 

Tell me your illusionary hero, and I shall tell you mine…

“What happened?” He asked, and squeezed Tsukishima’s hand, as if to say, I swear not to tell a soul.

“Nothing.”

“Tsukishima-kun.”

Maybe the tears really had defeated him, or maybe Tetsurou was an exceptional force. Stubbornly breaking down Tsukishima’s walls. The latter insisted, “It really is nothing. I just have a brother, older by about five years, and-” He had to take a breath, before adding on, “for a short while, he was my entire world.”

Tetsurou didn’t push or prod. For the first time since meeting Tsukishima, he was undemanding, selfless. Content with whatever was handed to him.

“The sun rose and set with Aki-nii,” Tsukishima continued, eventually. “Growing up, I thought he was the coolest person, the kindest, and I loved him, something terrible. I wanted to be just like him. I played the same sports, read the same books, wore the same clothes, even.”

Tetsurou did let one question slip. “And then?”

“And then I grew up. I realized Akiteru wasn’t perfect, that there were a lot of things I didn’t like about him, a lot of important matters we disagreed on: politics, sports, career, love - and that made me upset. Beyond the disagreements themselves, I was furious that he would go and change on me, after I had spent so long trying to hammer myself to fit his mold. We started fighting more and more, until there was no more common ground. Until he was a stranger. Until we stopped speaking altogether. It wasn’t betrayal, he never promised to be everything I wanted him to be. And yet, the fallout still tore me to shreds.”

“It’s safer, I realized, ” he continued, squeezing Tetsurou’s grip back, “to love someone from afar. That’s what made you so wonderful, Kuroo-sensei. I would never know you. Forever, you’d remain a name on a page, speaking to me only through the safe barrier of your stories. You could never disappoint me, like that.”

“And then I did,” Tetsurou finished.

Tsukishima retracted his hand, but not out of disgust, or fear, or hurt this time. Rather, he needed space from Tetsurou, to confess, “You haven’t disappointed me. I’m upset because you lied, not because I hate the man Kuroo-sensei turned out to be. Rather, I…”

Tetsurou tilted his head, straining to hear the words that followed, for they trailed off to an incoherent string of mumbles. Tsukishima averted his face in embarrassment.

“Come again?”

Surging with a volume that shook Tetsurou to his core, Tsukishima repeated, “I thought that maybe you were the man I’d been searching for my entire life! I thought, if I couldn’t have Kuroo-sensei,” the shout wavered and Tsukishima’s eyes glossed over with fresh tears, “ Then surely, you would be the next best thing.”

Tetsurou’s lips parted, stunned to silence. But he couldn’t have said a word, even if he wanted to, because Tsukishima was a ranting force.

“I thought I hated you, to begin. That stupid hair and intrusive behavior. The way you hovered around me in that bookstore like we were friends. I thought, who the hell does this guy this is? But then I realized you actually knew your stuff. That your love for books was earnest, and rivaled my own. So I decided you weren’t so bad, and soon afterwards, I began looking forward to our conversations, our debates. Then, the night of Sugawara’s birthday, you were completely different. I mean, you’d always been sexy - in that scruffy, infuriating, I-know-I’m-good-looking- no-matter-what-I-do kind of way - but this was… unfair. It was un-fucking-fair that you could also look like…like that. I wanted to punch you in your stupid, handsome face. But then you started flirting with me, so I stopped wanting to punch you, and wanted to kiss you instead.”

It was an extraneous detail, but Tetsurou pointed out, “I was flirting with you long before that night. You’re just obtuse.” Tsukishima shoved his shoulder so hard, Tetsurou nearly lost his balance. But he was smiling, beaming with the assault. He warned, “This is terrible for my ego, you know.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Like you don’t already know you’re hot.”

Tetsurou wanted to insist, I don’t know a damn thing other than what you tell me, but he held his tongue, for Tsukishima would only brush him off as facetious.

Instead, he asked genuinely, “If you were prepared to settle for Kozume-san, then why can’t you settle for Kuroo-sensei?”

Just a genuine, Tsukishima answered, “Because I wouldn’t be able to stand it, if Kozume-san and Kuroo-sensei both left me.”

Tetsurou swallowed, nodding. He placed a firm hand over Tsukishima’s thigh, and the blond met him there, overlaying his palm atop. 

“I understand your concerns, Tsukishima-kun. And I also understand that I’ve already let you down, so you’re right, not to trust this. You may doubt whether this really is love, and maybe, on your end, it isn’t.” He stared intensely into those champagne eyes, mustering all the truth to his own. “But I also have no disillusions of my feelings.”

And, in not so simple terms, he laid out that very sentiment.

“I love that you’re smart, in mind and appearance. I love that every word out of your mouth has been meticulously formed to convey a precise intent. No more, no less.”

“I love that you’re honest, always, even when you’re embarrassed, even if it will hurt someone’s feelings. Because everything, whether you can control it or not, is coming straight from your heart.”

“I love that you’re comfortable in your sexuality. I love that, despite a first impression that lends to prude, you’ll drop to your knees without hesitation and just indulge. It’s how sex is intended to be experienced, shamelessly. I’ve never had a partner who makes me feel this wild.”

“I love that when you love something, you love it with your entire chest. You love with the magnitude that poets can only hope to capture in their work: the weight and consumption that changes a person irrevocably. Your feelings are transformative, and how amazing is that?”

“And yes, I would be lying if I said I didn’t also love the fact that you love my work specifically. I love that you read The Moon Waxes Full six times and pulled from the page something that so many had overlooked. That you cared enough to do so. I love that, long before you knew me, you’d mastered my heart.”

Tsukishima didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere amidst the stunning declarations, he had parted with his own hatred. Pulled by an unseen tether, he forgot the safety of distance and leaned closer, matching Tetsurou’s intensity and hanging on each word like his favorite story.

To the dwindling space between their lips, Tetsurou finished, “I can’t promise that I’m not human. Nor can I guarantee to match all that you’ve built Kuroo-sensei to be in your head. But I can at least promise that the weight of your expectations are not burdensome. You’re not too much. Rather, you inspire me, Tsukishima, like no other person I’ve ever met. When I look at you, I feel like I can’t write enough. And, believe me, I’ve tried. Countless times, penning meager thoughts and quitting halfway through, frustrated, because our language hasn’t come far enough. All at once, there are too many, and not enough words, to capture you, as you are.”

Spellbound, Tsukishima mirrored, “As I am?”

Tetsurou smiled to himself. “Brilliant, in every facet. You breathe me life. For months, I was a stranger in my own body. I struggled endlessly to know myself again - and then, like an act of fate, or God, there you were, sitting in that coffee shop, telling me exactly who I was. Or rather, who I’d like to be.”

“A genius?”

“No. Not a genius.”

“Then, what?”

“Someone who cares. About his craft, his characters. Who writes with confidence, critics be fucking damned.”

Too soon, the spell was broken.

“That’s quite enough, Kuroo-sensei.”

It came not as a reprimand, but a request. Tsukishima needed time to unfurl this confession, these intricate emotions. A confusing rope knotted in his chest.

“Okay.”

Silence filled the room in all its many incarnations: heavy, meditative, calming, tense. And together, they existed quietly in the liminal space, Tetsurou never taking his eyes off Tsukishima.

A small eternity passed before that knot was undone.

“No more lies, Kuroo-sensei.”

Once more, Tetsurou welcomed hope in his chest.

“No more lies,” he promised, taking Tsukishima’s hand and kissing the knuckles. “Never again.”

“And, I need time.”

“Of course.” Another kiss. “Anything. I’ll wait however long you need. I’ll wait forever.”

Tsukishima wasn’t finished making demands.

“And let me borrow your books.”

“They’re all yours.”

“And let me read the draft of your latest novel.”

Tetsurou snorted. “It’s rough, but sure.”

“And take me on a real date.”

“Done.”

“And let me…”

Again, he was trailing off to mumblings. Tetsurou prodded with a hum and raised brow.

More clearly, Tsukishima repeated,

“Let me call you by your name. Your real name. No more ‘Kuroo-sensei’. I don’t want him, or ‘Kozume-san’. I just want-”

“Kei.”

Tetsurou had jumped the gun, eager to bridge that gap. To speak the name written as Hotaru. But this person wasn’t an ideal born from his imagination. Not a fictional character, nor a deity. 

He was, undeniably, Tsukishima Kei.

It took some convincing, but Tetsurou was eventually allowed back in the book club.

Sugawara was the hardest sell, still protective of his Tsukki and skeptical of the man who’d been lying to them for so long (rightfully so). Only after the blond assured him, for the 20th time, that, yes, I’m alright, yes, this is what I want, yes, he treats me very well, did he relent and permit re-induction.

Tetsurou knew apologies were in order, and the next meeting, he folded over to a bow, casting a messy curtain of black over his eyes, and declared, “My sincerest apologies, everyone!”

Asahi was waving a hand in dismissal, as if to say, that’s not really necessary.

“I admit, we were all pretty shocked,” he granted, as Tetsurou straightened up. “But Tsukishima-kun gave us the gist of it, and if he’s ready to forgive you, then I am as well.”

Yachi added, in that honey sweet manner of hers, “We understand that you did it out of love, Kuroo-sensei. It’s very romantic.”

“Romantic, my ass,” Sugawara rolled his eyes, and wagged an accusatory finger at Tetsurou. “Look - just cause Tsukki decided to forgive you doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Certainly not,” Kei humored, though his attention wasn’t really set on the conversation. He was distracted, flipping through his copy of I Am a Cat by Natsume Sōseki, searching for a specific passage. “Now - would you care to join the circle, Tetsurou? Your dramatism has eaten up enough time - I’d like to begin our discussion already.”

Tetsurou smirked and followed orders, enjoying the way his first name rolled off that tongue so naturally. Cracking open his own worn copy of the book, he said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

The eagerness to dive in was mutual, for following after their discussion was a promise.

Their first date.

And Tetsurou couldn't wait to fall in love with his Apollo, all over again.