Chapter Text
As a group that included Oikawa Tooru and Miya Atsumu, it wasn't often that the band Ready Set was struck speechless. More often than not (and to the constant chagrin of their managers and staff), there was some amount of squawking or whining coming from one or more of the band members, their apartment rivaling some of the most chaotic concerts Akaashi had attended.
But, here they were, all five of the other members' jaws hanging open with not even a squeak issuing from their throats. Akaashi may have enjoyed the moment more if the cause of their complete astonishment wasn't him.
He swallowed, feeling the heavy weight of their eyes as he stared determinedly to his left at the manager who had made the announcement. Despite having been a performer for almost two years now, the spotlight had never really felt like home to Akaashi. Closer to an ill-fitting sweater that he threw on because he was too tired to do the laundry but didn’t trust any of his bandmates to work the washing machine.
The manager seemed to bask in the rare quiet, at least. A small smile quirked her lips as she surveyed the meeting room, letting the silence drag on for five, six seconds before she opened her mouth to break it. She was beaten to the punch by Sugawara, however.
“You're leaving? Why?”
Akaashi fidgeted, unable to meet his friend's eyes and face the undisguised heartbreak in his voice. “I really - ” His voice came out cracking, breaking apart as his throat formed the words, and he paused to try again. “I don't think this path is right for me, Suga.”
“I…” Sugawara’s expression was unreadable. He shifted in his seat like he wanted to get up to meet Akaashi at the front of the room, but seemed to decide against it. “I don’t know what to say, Akaashi. This is so sudden.”
“I know, I’m so sorry. I wish it didn’t have to happen like this.” The words coming out of his mouth sounded dispassionate even to Akaashi’s own ears. This - this was one of those times he couldn’t blame fans for calling him cold and emotionless.
“Oh, cut the bullshit, Akaashi,” Oikawa snarled. Although he had expected anger from his oldest friend, Akaashi still winced. “We've been performing together for years, and we’ve been friends for longer. Every time you sing, I can feel how much you love it. We all can!” He jabbed a finger at the rest of the members, still sitting mute. “Hundreds of songs for dozens of active artists. Does that mean anything to you? You’re one of the most sought-after songwriters in the industry, and you're just going to throw it all away?”
“I'm not throwing anything away, Oikawa. You know how much music means to me, there's no way I'm going to give it up. I've just weighed the pros and cons of staying with the band, and it's nothing against you guys, I just-” He was cut off again by Atsumu, who stood up so quickly that the chair he had been sitting on flew out from under him, falling with a dismal rattle onto the tile floor.
“Oh, so you're going to keep making music, just not with us! What, do you have some delusions of being the next big soloist? Did some other company buy you off us with a solo contract?”
With every word, Atsumu's hand gestures grew wilder and wilder, his Kansai dialect slipping into his speech. Akaashi had always thought it was lovely, really, the differences in the cadence of their guitarist’s voice when he spoke in dialect. He was always telling Atsumu to use it more in their music, but he had yet to convince the label that fans would love it as much as his lurking on Twitter confirmed they would. It was with a twisted sort of appreciation that Akaashi listened to it now, admiring each lilt and turn in Atsumu’s voice even as the same words were turned on him.
Atsumu strode towards Akaashi, who felt his head bump the wall as he instinctively backed away. “I bet you never even wanted to go all the way with us. The last five years were just practice, weren’t they? We're just stepping stones for you!”
“Miya-san,” the manager warned as Atsumu stopped barely five centimeters from Akaashi's nose, grabbing Akaashi’s collar in his left hand. It was shaking, Akaashi noted distantly.
“I should have seen this coming. The way you always act like you're better than us, the way you've been so distant recently. Can you believe I was actually worried about you? God!” Worried about you. The words hurt more than Akaashi would ever admit, piercing through his calm façade with disturbing ease, but he schooled his face, refusing to let anything but resigned indifference show.
Atsumu raised a fist.
“Atsumu!” Sugawara gasped, while Oikawa flew out of his seat, ready to throw himself at Atsumu, but Atsumu’s hand wasn’t meant for Akaashi. It impacted the wall to Akaashi's left with a harsh crunch, and Atsumu let out a loud, shuddering exhale. Akaashi didn’t even think his lungs would let him draw a breath.
“Miya-san,” the manager said again, the reproach clear in her voice. “Please control yourself. This is a meeting. You are free to discuss, but only if you can do so like adults.”
“I didn't hit him , did I?” Atsumu snapped over his shoulder as he retreated back to his seat, righting the fallen chair and throwing himself into it with jerky, angry movements.
Akaashi blinked, reeling from his close encounter from the fists he had seen in action more times than he could count. Mostly in shady bar fights on tour, although the fiery guitarist had once punched a manager after the man had not-so-subtly implied that Suga had needed to lose weight. Atsumu should have just gone for it, a little voice in Akaashi's head whispered. You deserve it.
Another voice broke him out of his train of thought, low and smooth but, in this moment, heartbreakingly small.
“Akaashi-san, are you really leaving?” The betrayal in Kageyama’s voice was sharp and raw, so uncharacteristic of an emotion on him that Akaashi physically flinched.
“Kageyama, I… it's just too much. Like I said, the cons just outweigh the pros at this point, and yeah, I think it's smart for me to at least take a break from the band.”
Kageyama's face lit up, and Akaashi immediately felt guilty, switching his focus to the Tokyo skyline outside of their fifth-floor window. “So you might be coming back?”
“Don't be stupid, Kageyama. Why would he come back?” Atsumu scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“Atsumu,” murmured Sugawara. “Don't assume things. Let him speak for himself.” Akaashi silently thanked the world for his friend’s calm confidence—that is, until Sugawara turned his piercing gaze onto him. “Akaashi? What do you have to say?”
After taking what felt like his hundredth deep breath in the past few minutes to compose himself, Akaashi answered. “Well, I mean, the option to come back is always open as long as you’ll have me, but right now, the company is announcing it as an ‘indefinite hiatus for personal reasons’.”
“So you really are leaving.” Kageyama's eyes dropped. "That's what indefinite hiatus means, right? It's just a way of giving the fans a little bit of hope that you might come back. But you're not going to, are you?"
“I don't know,” Akaashi said, surprising himself with how shaky his voice sounded. Maybe because that was one of the first completely honest things he had said in this whole fiasco. Or maybe just because the ache in the front of his head was growing more painful by the second. “All I know is that I need a break.”
He rubbed his temple, suddenly exhausted. His sleep in the past weeks hadn't magically improved just because he had finally made the decision to leave the band - if anything, it had gotten leagues worse. The impending discussion had made yesterday especially painful. He had spent almost the whole night drifting in and out of consciousness, plagued by awful anxiety-infected scenarios of how his members might react to the news.
This was for the best, he reminded himself. Soon, he'd be able to sleep for more than a few hours without Kenma having to shake him awake from a nightmare. Soon, this would all be a bad memory.
Speaking of Kenma, the bassist had been quiet the whole meeting. Akaashi turned his eyes onto him, but Kenma's gaze was trained at the hairband he was twisting between his fingers. His black hair swung in front of his face, obscuring his expression. That was probably how Kenma wanted it to be, but Akaashi wished he could see even a little bit of his friend's reaction. After all, it was Kenma, his roommate in the band’s apartment, who knew all too well just how much sleep Akaashi had been missing out on each night.
It wasn't the full story, but it was more information than the other members had. Akaashi just hoped Kenma would hold his silence.
Through Atsumu’s outburst, Oikawa had been calming himself down, visibly schooling his emotions like he usually did when he was pissed off by something but ever-conscious of being on camera. It had always been impressive to watch, but Akaashi had seen firsthand how much energy it took and how quickly Oikawa broke down in private afterwards. The realization that Akaashi was the cause of it this time felt like a huge, awful hand squeezing his chest. Not for the first time, he began to wonder if leaving the band was doing more harm than good. If, somehow, his calculations had been off.
“Akaashi, I know I already said this, but I really don’t understand why you’re doing this.” Akaashi’s exhaustion must have shown on his face as he turned to face Oikawa again, because the leader let out a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah, sorry, I just have to know. We’ve been training together for longer than anyone else in this band, and I know you couldn’t have been lying to me all those times you said performing your songs on stage had always been your dream. What the hell changed? Isn’t a dream like that worth doing anything for?”
Oikawa was certainly a consistent person. Akaashi wished he had the luxury of being able to work tirelessly towards the same dream and feel secure when he reached it. But some things…
“Some things just don’t work out. I don’t know what to say.”
Oikawa looked like he had a retort ready on his tongue, but he swallowed it with a sigh and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. If Akaashi didn’t know him better, he would have said he was holding back tears. “That’s the second bullshit response you’ve given me, but if you don’t want to tell us, don’t tell us. We’re only your bandmates. That’s all.”
Guilt poured through Akaashi’s veins. If he had to endure any more of this, he might just break down and tell them the whole truth. But, no . Absolutely not. That would make things worse for everyone, and the whole point of this disaster was to make things better. If Akaashi could salvage one thing from this meeting, it would be a better future for everyone in the room. Just like he had planned.
“‘Kaashi.” Sugawara spoke up, voice even and steady. “Could you please tell us the truth? If you’re too stressed, please, just say it. We’ve all had to deal with stalker fans and internet hate in our own time, and there’s no shame in having to take a step back from the stage. I’ve definitely played with the idea myself. Just tell us, please. Maybe we can even help you.”
Akaashi squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the world shattering around him. It would be so easy to lie, to say yeah, I’ve been really stressed recently, to blame it on anti-fans or popularity rankings or demanding schedules. But Sugawara was right. His bandmates, his friends, his family — they didn’t deserve empty lies, even if they would believe him in a second. So he couldn’t bring himself to give them the answer they wanted. But, somehow, he also couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth.
His eyes still clamped shut, he forced out, “I’m sorry. I - I can’t.” It felt like signing his own execution papers. The Akaashi Keiji that they all had worked with, laughed with, created with, cried with, and dreamed with was dead, and Akaashi himself had struck the killing blow.
The room was silent. The seconds seemed to stretch for years before Akaashi opened his eyes, daring to look at his bandmates’ faces. Whatever rejection, whatever disappointment, he could take. He had to.
Oikawa tipped back in his chair, still staring at the ceiling. The anger seemed to have left him, and Akaashi could almost see the gears turning in his mind as he processed everything that had happened. As Akaashi watched, he pressed his lips together into a thin line, then pursed them into the pout their fans loved so much. If only they could see their beloved Ready Set now.
When Akaashi looked at Sugawara, his friend was staring right back, his gaze searching. Akaashi felt a bit like he was being dissected and quickly broke eye contact, but not before he saw Sugawara blink rapidly as a sudden unmistakable shine came over his eyes.
Atsumu was clenching and unclenching his jaw, eyebrows furrowed and shoulders squared. He looked like he was preparing for a fight, even though he had had the opportunity to hit Akaashi and turned it down. Akaashi had guessed that Atsumu would reject his decision the most, but he hoped the guitarist would understand his choice someday.
Kageyama had his black gym shorts crumpled in his fists, and he stared at the table, blinking fast and mouth trembling slightly. Akaashi knew that face all too well, had seen it after award show wins and losses, after concerts both incredible and disastrous. He usually ran to comfort their youngest immediately, wrapping him up in an embrace before Kageyama inevitably collapsed forward onto his drum set. Now, he felt like he had lost the right, and only stared, his heart sinking in his chest as Kageyama’s face grew more miserable with every passing second.
And Kenma. Akaashi’s roommate and closest friend still stared at his hands, hair falling over his face, twisting that same black hairband over and over in his slender fingers. Pianist’s fingers, Sugawara had always said, but despite being trained in classical piano almost from birth, Kenma had always responded that bass was his true love. No one had ever been able to deny that Kenma was a monster on the instrument, his unique playing style giving their music a flair that had made it special from the very beginning.
The same could be said of all of their members, really - they wouldn’t be the same without Oikawa’s leadership or his consistent, flexible vocals, without Suga’s deft keyboard skills or Atsumu’s raw passion on guitar or Kageyama’s unwavering rhythm and sixth sense for the music. They were undoubtedly the most talented group of musicians Akaashi had ever had the privilege of working with, and he knew trying to work without them would be like trying to drive without a steering wheel.
But they’d be fine without him. He’d made sure that between Kageyama’s blossoming songwriting abilities, Kenma’s eye for production, and Suga and Atsumu’s recent vocal training that every role he had inhabited in the band would be filled once he was gone. Akaashi looked forward to seeing what kind of music they’d be able to create once they didn’t have him hindering their progress.
Okay, he wasn’t selfless or stupid enough to not admit that he hoped they’d miss him a little bit. Maybe his consistently depressing lyrics that had created narrative contrast in their albums. Or his cooking - the rest of them were absolute trainwrecks in the kitchen, with the exception of Atsumu, who had racked up impressive kitchen skills from his restaurateur brother. Or maybe that slight rasp to his singing that Oikawa had always teased in the booth but that Sugawara said added character.
He really didn’t want to leave, did he? He had grown so much as both a musician and a person working and performing with Ready Set. But this was the right decision. If he didn’t believe that, there was nothing else.
“Alright, if no one has any more questions or comments, I’ll finish up the administrative checklist and the company car is waiting downstairs to take you back to the apartment,” the manager said after the silence had gone on uninterrupted for several seconds. She inclined her head slightly at Akaashi, who hurried back to his seat at the table, staring resolutely at the carpeted ground.
Taking a deep breath, the manager began to read off her clipboard. “As you know, the band is scheduled to have a two-week break at the conclusion of promotions for your last album, which formally starts tomorrow. Akaashi-san’s departure will be announced at the end of the break, which gives us time to finish sorting things out. That includes moving Akaashi-san out of the band’s apartment, by the way - he’ll be living in his own apartment full-time starting a week from now. Because the official reason for the departure is personal reasons, Akaashi-san will not be required to explain anything to anyone if he does not want to, but we do have a press conference scheduled for the rest of you a week after the break is over.”
Atsumu scoffed. The manager looked at him, let out a long-suffering sigh, and continued.
“The press conference will allow us to control the narrative, as will other measures concerning fan response. I have a few requests for all of you regarding PR. First, please stay off your personal social media accounts for the first two weeks after the announcement. Second…”
Oh, there was so much work to be done. Sure, most of it was out of Akaashi’s hands, but he hadn’t quite realized just how much of the burden of his leaving fell on the other members. They’d have to make public appearances without him, say they missed him and hoped he was doing alright. Even Atsumu and Kageyama, who were both extremely vocal about their hatred of fanservice and being fake for the public, would be forced to put on an act if they wanted to keep their jobs.
Maybe this was actually selfish of him. Akaashi’s mind began to whir in never-ending circles, jumping from idea to idea so quickly that he felt it start to physically tire him out, his breaths fighting their way out of his throat in that now-familiar way. He had thought he was being selfless - despite wanting to continue making music with the band, he had analyzed the developing situation and come to the conclusion that it would be better in the long run for the band (and for himself, hopefully) if they parted ways. But was that just an excuse to make himself feel better? Deep down, was he just scared of continuing with the band and disguising running away from his problems as a noble sacrifice?
Bands who lost a member lost fans, Akaashi knew. It didn’t matter if that member was consistently ranked last in popularity rankings or hadn’t done any solo work. Fans liked to think that their favorite groups were families, that they loved each other enough to stay together through thick and thin. While Akaashi knew better than most that that was far from the truth, he had always thought Ready Set was different. They really were a family. Holy shit, he was ruining that, wasn’t he? He was setting them back years by breaking that illusion.
His breath was getting shorter and shorter, coming faster and faster. Attempting to slow it down only left him needing more oxygen, and he wheezed a little on his next exhale, descending again into a crescendo of thoughts that flew faster and faster through his wrung-out brain.
I should have waited longer to leave. Clearly, my analysis was flawed—what else could I have missed? I thought I considered fan response, I have to check. I don’t remember what my pros and cons list looked like, fuck, what does this do to the balance? I should have taken more time, talked to someone else, someone I trust, drawn up more possibilities-
Dimly, Akaashi felt someone’s hand cover his own, gently prying his fingers out of the tight fist he had been holding them in. As his fingers peeled back from his palm, they revealed four angry red crescents, one of which sported the slightest trace of crimson. Marks from his own nails, Akaashi realized, a little dazed. He touched the darkest mark experimentally and started at the color smudged across his palm, the sight shocking some feeling into his numbed nerves.
The other hand squeezed his and Akaashi looked up to find Sugawara smiling at him, his eyes warm, albeit tinged with a certain melancholy. He must have moved over to this side of the table after Akaashi sat down. Gratitude welling up in his chest, Akaashi squeezed Sugawara’s hand back, offering a small smile to his friend as his breathing finally began to slow down.
At the front of the meeting room, the manager was finishing up her speech. “This is new territory for all of us, so don’t be afraid to ask me or your other managers questions. Since Akaashi-san did not play an instrument in the band, no one will have to learn drastically new skills, but the remaining five members will have to adjust to fill his vocal hole. We’ll also be bringing in some more in-house songwriters and producers to help with future music when we get there.”
She looked up from her clipboard, a warm smile stretching her face that seemed just a touch out of place in the tense environment. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. You all just finished an exhausting round of promotions for your most successful album yet, so congratulations! This was the last thing on all of your schedules. Get some rest and enjoy your break!”
The ensuing silence was so thick, Akaashi had the urge to shift his weight in his chair just to escape the blanket of tension settling over the whole room. The manager looked at all of them, clearly expecting a response.
“Thank you, Tsui-san,” Oikawa, ever the diplomat, offered graciously, bowing his head. Satisfied, the manager bowed her head back and swept out of the room.
Almost the moment she left, Sugawara stood and turned to Akaashi expectantly. On reflex, Akaashi stood with him, and Sugawara immediately pulled him into a tight hug. Akaashi froze, having expected questions, maybe confusion over his almost-panic attack, but returned the hug after his fatigued brain managed to process the arms around him.
Akaashi was used to affectionate touch with his bandmates. The demand to show how close bandmates were was high, yes, but their tight bond from years of training together meant that they were all comfortable showing their genuine care for each other both on-screen and off. And out of all of the members, Sugawara loved casual touch the most. (Oikawa called it his love language, even though he was the only one who knew what that meant.) Everyone was well-accustomed to being tackled in a flying hug by their cuddly keyboardist.
But this wasn’t the kind of hug Akaashi was used to. Instead of his usual embrace that felt like a weighted blanket, a shield against anything the world could throw, Sugawara held Akaashi like letting go would mean Akaashi would cease to exist. As if his departure from the band hinged on whether Sugawara could hold him tight enough. His arms bracketed Akaashi, grounding him (and almost suffocating him), anchoring him to the present. It was a type of comfort Akaashi hadn’t known he had craved, and he leaned into it with an almost imperceptible sigh, afraid that releasing his equally rigid grip would also mean releasing himself from the band. It was a slightly bizarre thought, he was aware, but as Sugawara’s grip loosened, he couldn’t shake it from his head.
Pulling back, Sugawara took a deep breath, making unflinching eye contact with Akaashi, and began to speak. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked a little on the last syllable, Akaashi’s heart cracking with it.
“For—for what?”
“Sorry on behalf of all of us for interrogating you earlier. You don’t owe us any explanation for leaving, and we made what was obviously an already stressful moment for you even more stressful. It was selfish of us to demand things of you when we should have been making sure you were okay first. I’m really, really sorry.”
Akaashi blinked, taken aback. He certainly hadn’t expected that, but Sugawara had always been unable to let disagreements fester, dealing with them almost as quickly as they cropped up. Honestly, Akaashi didn’t think he deserved an apology this time, but he nodded anyway to accept it.
Sugawara pulled him into another hug, gentler this time. “I guess for me, personally,” he said, his chin resting on Akaashi’s shoulder, “it was just a shock that you’d leave. I never would have expected it, you know? You’re such an important part of this band, I can barely picture it without you. Not to guilt you into changing your mind at all! I’m just thinking out loud.”
It was sweet of him to say that, even though Akaashi knew he was just being his usual kind self. Akaashi knew he wasn’t as irreplaceable as Sugawara made him out to be—as the manager had said, unlike the other members, his roles could easily be taken on by anyone else. But, right now, it felt a little disrespectful to his friend to disagree, so he pushed those thoughts out, letting himself be pulled under the waves and into the comforting ocean of Sugawara’s words.
“I’ll miss you,” Sugawara whispered, his breath soft on Akaashi’s ear. “So much. But I hope you find what you need. And maybe this is too much, but for what it’s worth, I hope you find your way back to us, someday.”
Overwhelmed, Akaashi opened his mouth to thank him, but was distracted when another body barrelled into his side.
“He said it,” sniffled Oikawa, wrapping his arms around both Akaashi and Sugawara. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Akaashi. As leader, I shouldn’t have let my emotions get away from me.”
Sugawara made an affronted noise that Akaashi, pushed right up against his chest, felt more than heard. “Hey, don’t do that. You’re allowed to have feelings, dumbass. There aren’t any cameras here, and it’s just us—you don't have to be our perfect leader all the time.”
“Impossible. I’m always perfect, and I resent the implication that I’m not.” Akaashi could almost hear Sugawara rolling his eyes as Oikawa continued. “Akaashi, to be honest, I still don’t understand why you’re giving up on your dream, but that’s not an excuse. I should have trusted that you had a reason. Tell us when you’re ready, okay? I’ll miss singing with you. And, well, everything else.” With another wet sniff, he buried his face into Akaashi’s shoulder.
“Thanks, guys,” Akaashi answered, his throat thick with emotion. “I’ll… I’ll miss you all too.” I’m sorry, his mind screamed as he squeezed their bodies a little closer to him. I’m so, so sorry for doing this to you. You just have to trust me.
Just like I have to trust me.
Someone cleared their throat from Akaashi’s right, and he reluctantly broke away from Sugawara and Oikawa. Kageyama, who must have left his seat during the exchange, stood ramrod-straight, his chin raised and only slightly trembling.
“Akaashi-san!”
Akaashi let out a shaky chuckle, the lightness of the noise slightly jarring. “Kageyama, we’ve lived together for five years, I’ve told you you don’t have to-”
“Akaashi-san!” Kageyama repeated in the same strident tone. Akaashi's words withered in his mouth. “I joined Furudate Entertainment because of you. You’re the most talented musician I’ve ever worked with.” Almost as if he sensed Akaashi’s disbelief, Kageyama’s gaze turned flinty, dangerous. Something dark and wild. Akaashi suppressed the urge to shiver. “I don’t understand why you’re leaving, and I don’t think you should.”
“Kageyama…” Sugawara said from Akaashi’s left, the warning clear in his voice.
“But you seem pretty determined. So,” Kageyama continued, his tone softening ever-so-slightly, “come back when you’re ready. This band needs you.”
“Kageyama, I’m…” Akaashi swallowed, his throat tight. “Thank you, that means a lot.”
“I hope so,” Kageyama said cryptically before taking his seat again, his part in the conversation apparently over.
Kenma stood, walking over to Akaashi’s side of the table with his hands in the pockets of his red track jacket. As he approached, he stared at the ground, but upon reaching Akaashi, he brought his head up to make steady and unwavering eye contact.
“I know you’re doing what’s best for you,” he said. I know there’s more you’re not telling them, his eyes said. “Take your time and don’t come back out of guilt. We’ll miss you, but only you know what you need.”
Akaashi smiled, and it was genuine. “Thank you, I will.”
Kenma nodded, satisfied, a small smile curving his lips to mirror Akaashi.
The day was dragging on, the sun sinking lower in the sky, and Akaashi was so exhausted he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to have a coherent train of thought. Oikawa clearly felt the same, as he only waited a few seconds after Kenma had finished to clap his hands together with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, chirping, “Alright, if everyone’s done, the car is waiting for-”
Atsumu jolted out of his seat, his chair flying out once again and hitting the wall behind him with a violent clatter. An international company worth billions of yen and they can’t even afford chairs that stand up to Atsumu's temper.
Atsumu’s chest heaved as if he had run a marathon, his jaw locked and fists at his sides. His accusatory glare, narrowed and stormy, bored holes into each person in the room in turn as they darted from face to face.
The longer the rest of the room stared back at Atsumu, however, the less fierce he appeared. Everything about his face still exuded anger, but his posture became defensive. Skittish. Shoulders hunched, arms curled in protectively, head twitching slightly to glance from person to person. Like a cornered animal. A fox in a fox trap, Akaashi thought humorlessly.
“Atsumu-” Oikawa began, but Atsumu spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, wrenching open the heavy soundproofed door and slamming it behind him with impressive ease.
Sugawara let out an equally heavy sigh, collapsing back into a chair and rubbing his temple. “Look, ‘Kaashi, I know this announcement had to be made, but I’m going to be completely honest: the only good thing about this day will be when it ends.”
The pounding in his head getting stronger by the second, Akaashi was inclined to agree.