Archive of Our Own

— 1 —

Kuroo and Akaashi get to the bar before Koutarou does. 

They’re sitting close when Koutarou walks in, heads inclined together like they need to be heard over the music, even though the volume’s turned right down low and the crowd is sparse enough that the chatter isn’t overwhelming.

Koutarou doesn’t really think anything of it, making his slow approach through the tables, until Kuroo slings his arm over the back of Akaashi’s chair, nudging at his opposite shoulder with his knuckles.

His hand lingers. Akaashi doesn’t push him away.

Koutarou knows that move, because it appeared in a grainy YouTube video he and Kuroo watched religiously during their first training camp together, a video of an exuberant American man teaching them how to flirt with quote unquote guaranteed results.

He has to stop in his tracks and bite his knuckles to hold in his laugh.

He’s not laughing at them – God, he’s not, he couldn’t be happier, but it’s just the parameters of the situation. That they’re in their twenties, tumbling through early adulthood, and Kuroo’s pulling a move that they learned when they were fifteen from a man who was enthusiastic but almost definitely lying about the effectiveness. 

Or maybe not, if Akaashi hasn’t pushed him away yet. Koutarou knows that Akaashi will wriggle out of any touch he doesn’t want, but he’s tilting further into Kuroo’s space, chin propped in his hand. They’re as whip-smart and annoying as each other. Their happiness is Koutarou’s happiness. 

They make Koutarou soppy, and he hasn’t even had a drink yet.

“Hey, hey!” he calls, preceding his approach.

Kuroo flinches away like he’s been burned, arm falling from Akaashi’s shoulders, but Koutarou just crowds up behind them, wrestles Kuroo's arm to its prior resting place, and slaps them both on the back.

Kuroo's gaze slides over to him, slightly unsure. Koutarou winks.

“You started without me!” he cries, sliding into a seat on the opposite side of the table. Their beers are half-drunk already, the glasses glistening in the low light.

“Perhaps you should have been on time, then,” Akaashi says, unmoved by Koutarou’s dismay. Kuroo snickers. “How were your sisters?”

“Good! Good. It’s been so long since we all got together. I thought this vacation was gonna be relaxing, but it’s all dinner with the parents and lunch with the sisters and drinks with the old team and keep up the training regimen. There’s just too much I wanna do,” he finishes, mournful.

“Well, consider this a reset,” Kuroo says. He must have come here from work; he’s still in a button-up, but he’s undone the top two buttons, the collar dishevelled. “Just the three of us. Just like old times. C’mon, I’ll pay for your first drink.”

“I wanna peruse”—he spares a glance at Akaashi, who nods approvingly—”the options first. If you’re offering to pay, though…”

Koutarou lays his hand on the table, palm up. 

Kuroo rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he deposits his debit card into Koutarou’s waiting hand. Koutarou scampers over to the bar, leaving the two of them to it.

While he’s standing at the bar, Koutarou pretends to read the wine menu. He doesn’t even like wine, thinks it’s sour, but he needs something to make him look busy while he sneaks a look back at their table.

Beyond the other patrons, tucked right into the corner, he can see Kuroo’s hand drifting to Akaashi’s lower back, over his sweater. He’s murmuring something into Akaashi’s ear, his expression warm.

Akaashi says something back, smirking.

Kuroo leans in. Koutarou finally looks away, gives them their privacy.

He returns with three beers cradled precariously in his hands, doling them out as a gesture of goodwill, even when Kuroo points out that’s he’s the one that technically paid for them. 

Koutarou’s itching to ask. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to bombard them, but he’s attuned to every glance they throw each other, the way their shoulders brush. There’s definitely something going on.

Kuroo taps out first, citing a presentation tomorrow as his excuse. Koutarou bids him a rib-crushing farewell, holding Kuroo tight until he wheezes. He’s just so happy, okay? Kuroo’s got moves, and he’s busting them out on Akaashi of all people. Akaashi deserves it. He’s mushy, underneath all the cutting remarks and side-eyes.

With Kuroo heading out, Koutarou can finally ask. He sits patiently as Kuroo takes his leave, silent and well-behaved. His fingers tap arrhythmically on the table. 

Akaashi dutifully ignores the way Koutarou is staring at him, takes a sip from his half-full glass rather than make eye contact.

“So,” Koutarou says, resting his chin in his palm. He grins.

Akaashi regards him warily. “I don't like that look.”

“I thought you were allergic to cats,” Koutarou says, as coy as he can manage. Akaashi rolls his eyes, hiding his face behind his glass. 

“I am, Bokuto-san,” he replies.

“Are you sure?” Koutarou asks. “You were getting mighty cosy with one just now.”

Akaashi flushes. “You’ve been with your sisters too long. Stop meddling.”

“Is it meddling to want to know about the blossoming romance in my best friend’s life?” Killer move. He knows Akaashi gets sentimental when Koutarou drops the best friend bomb. He adds, conversationally, “My sisters asked about you, by the way. They hope you’re doing well.”

Akaashi also gets sentimental over the Bokuto sisters. He once told Koutarou that all of the Bokutos were born with too much love in them. He was drunk at the time, but Koutarou holds it dear. 

He sighs. Looks over his shoulder, like Kuroo might still be in the room. He turns back to Koutarou.

“It’s fairly new,” he says. 

Koutarou leans forward, now resting his chin in both hands. He raises his eyebrows, an implicit go on in the gesture. 

“I don’t know what you want to know,” Akaashi grumbles.

Koutarou ponders the question for a moment. He wants to know everything, but he also doesn’t want to push Akaashi past his comfort zone, because then he’ll clam up and get grumpy, so he decides to ask just one question.

“Are you happy?”

Akaashi ducks his head. He traces his finger through the ring of water Kuroo’s glass left on the tabletop. “He’s pretty annoying.”

“So that’s a yes.”

Akaashi sighs. “Yes.”

“Good.” Koutarou grins. “Great. By the way, that arm-around-the-shoulder move? We learned that from a YouTube tutorial when we were first years at training camp.”

“God.” Akaashi drops his face into his hands and groans. “I hate him. Why did I let him do that?”

“Because,” Koutarou says, “you want to kiss his stupid face.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Akaashi sniffs. The flush is back. Koutarou’s on top of the world. 

— 2 —

Kuroo's acting different.

Kenma’s used to Kuroo’s phases. He’s seen them all. He was there for the month-long Tetris obsession. He witnessed the mopey emo music era of Kuroo’s teenage years. He remembers Kuroo deciding he wanted to drop out of college and raise chickens instead.

Needless to say, Kuroo’s phases are short-lived, but just because they’re short-lived doesn’t mean they’re not bothersome.

“What’s wrong with you?” is the first thing Kenma asks when Kuroo swans into his house on Friday evening, takeout bags swinging from his hands. 

“Excuse you?” Kuroo splutters. “Kenma-chan, it’s very rude to ask people that before they’ve even taken their shoes off. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with me?”

He phrases it like a question. Kenma just walks away, leaving Kuroo to juggle the bags and his briefcase and taking his shoes off in the genkan.

“What’s got you so grumpy today?” Kuroo calls after him. “Do you need me to do another boss battle for you?”

That was one time. The worst moment of Kenma’s life was when Kuroo saw him struggling with one of his Assassin’s Creed bosses, offered to give it a go, and accomplished it first try with his fingers haphazardly mashing controller buttons and his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. Kenma thanks every god every day that he wasn’t streaming at the time.

“No,” he grumbles. He’s independent. He has a mortgage. He can do his own boss battles. “I’m just saying your face is weird.”

Kuroo follows Kenma down the hall, into his open-plan living space. He veers into the kitchen while Kenma throws himself back onto the couch, setting the bags down with a rustle. Kenma watches him over the island.

There’s something inside Kuroo that’s bursting to get out. He’s always been so heart-on-his-sleeve about his emotions, which means Kenma can tell when something’s shifted in him. He gets this look in his eye, this youthful glow, when he’s latched onto something new, laid his desires out bare in front of him and jumped headfirst into his favourite.

Hence, the phases. The way Kuroo’s smiling absently down at the kitchen countertop, unpacking plastic tubs of Chinese food, tells Kenma that maybe this one is a slow-burner.

“I’m just happy,” he says. Simple.

Sometimes Kenma envies the way Kuroo embraces his emotions wholeheartedly, rather than running from them. He’ll never tell him that, because Kuroo will weep that Kenma really does like him after all these years. 

He’s seen Kuroo happy. He’s seen Kuroo gleeful and ecstatic and fond and hysterical. He's seen Kuroo suffering through the whole spectrum of human happiness, memorising the way he loves the world.

This is different, though. Kuroo seems content.

Kenma’s seen most of Kuroo’s emotional hand, but contentment is usually lost in all the noise. He thinks he probably knows the cause.

“Is it Akaashi?” he asks.

“Hey,” Kuroo says. He looks almost guilty, head snapping up from the boxes in front of him. “Who told you that?”

“He did.”

“Huh?”

“He told me,” Kenma says. Flat and bored, even though he’s ready to laugh it up at the way Kuroo’s gawking at him. “He texted me before your first date asking what to wear.”

Kuroo’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions. The one he lands on is a little sickening.

“You’re drooling,” Kenma says.

Kuroo pouts. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

Kuroo looks sceptically over Kenma’s outfit of the day. “He asked you for fashion advice?” 

Kenma looks down at his tattered Nekoma tracksuit bottoms, a threadbare hole opening up on the inside of the thigh. His hoodie has a stain on it. He’s been streaming for three days. Sue him. 

“He didn’t come to me for fashion advice,” he says scathingly. “He came to me because I know you.”

“Kenma!” Kuroo wails. “That’s so cute. C’mon, can we hug it out?”

Kenma ducks away from Kuroo’s outstretched arms, but Kuroo anticipates the move. He tackles Kenma into the couch, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing. Kenma wriggles a little bit, but it’s a half-hearted protest before he just gives up. Kuroo goes to the gym. Kenma sits in his gaming chair every day like a shrimp. He knows who’s going to win, and it’s embarrassing to even try. 

“Being in love makes you unbearable,” Kenma says, face pressed into the leather cushion.

“I’m not in love,” Kuroo protests. It’s feeble. Kenma can see right through him. His arms are crushing Kenma’s ribs. Kenma’s learned by this point that he just has to sit and bear it and Kuroo will be over the moon.

“I know when you’re lying, Kuro,” Kenma says, petulantly. It’s written all over his face, that dopey look that’s persisted ever since he step foot in Kenma's house. It’s come out in full force now.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuroo says. He scrubs at Kenma’s hair, dislodging his bun, and hauls himself up, complaining about old knees while he goes. Kenma rolls his eyes. Kuroo’s twenty-three, not dying. “Rice or noodles?”

As they get older, they get busier. Kenma’s either recording content or stuck in board meetings most days; the JVA’s running Kuroo ragged, especially with all the travelling he has to do. Despite it all, Kuroo still bullies him into hanging out as often as they can, inviting himself over under the premise of bringing Kenma food with actual vegetables in it.

Kenma never needs more than this, though; Kuroo sloppily eating chow mein on his couch, making stupid comments about the show they’re watching, exclaiming in dismay when he drops a bell pepper on his shirt and it stains. Things never really change between them, even when everything else in life does. Kenma likes constants, and Kenma likes people who know they don’t have to fill in a conversation that doesn’t need to exist.

Kuroo’s phone keeps lighting up, balanced on the arm of the couch. He’s ignored all of the notifications until now, but he picks it up and starts typing something when the screen flashes again. He’s smiling while trying to make it look like he’s not, the corners of his mouth twitching. Kenma knows exactly who he’s texting.

“Tell Akaashi I say hi,” Kenma says, eyes still trained on the TV.

He sees Kuroo’s fingers falter in their response out of the corner of his eye, before he starts typing again. 

“I told him that you miss him sooooo much,” Kuroo says, clicking the phone off and placing it face down on the couch.

“Kuro,” Kenma replies, deeply unimpressed. 

Kuroo snorts, settling back down into the couch. Kenma kicks one of his feet into Kuroo’s lap. There’s a hole in his sock. Kuroo doesn’t seem to care. 

Quiet, for a bit. Kenma picks at the rest of Kuroo’s chow mein. Somebody on the TV has a shrieking fit. Zelda joins them on the couch, shedding white fur all over Kuroo’s work trousers as he scratches her behind the ears. 

“Are you really in love with him?” Kenma asks, quiet. 

Kuroo stills. Zelda butts at his hand and mewls. He runs a thumb over the top of her head, gentle.

“It’s still pretty new,” Kuroo says. “That would be embarrassing, right?”

Kenma just shrugs. Not like he knows anything about it. 

Kuroo chews on his bottom lip. “But, I mean – we’ve known each other for years, even if we didn’t know each other that well. And now – I don’t know, I guess it feels right? Makes me wonder why we wasted so much time before.”

Because you were too busy trying to annoy people into liking you and Akaashi was too busy looking after everyone else’s lives to even think about his own, Kenma thinks. He doesn’t know how to say that without making Kuroo defensive about his own past annoyances.

Kuroo looks over at him and laughs. “Don’t look so panicked, jeez. I was just musing.”

“I like him,” is what Kenma settles on. Akaashi’s sensible. And stubborn. And dedicated. And a bit of a bitch, but he’s funny about it. Kenma can see, objectively, why Kuroo’s drawn to him. Kenma was worried, for a brief period in high school, that Daishou Suguru was going to be a genuine contender for Kuroo’s affections. He lost sleep over it. Akaashi is a blessing in comparison.

“The highest honour you can bestow,” Kuroo teases, but his smile is nothing but genuine. “I like him, too. He does this really great thing with his—”

“I don’t want to know.'' So help him if Kuroo ever tries to share anything about his sex life. Kenma will only suffer through so much, and Kuroo’s soppy eyes are enough for him.

“Kenma!”

— 3 —

Kuroo Tetsurou is a slippery bastard. Everybody knows this. Kei is not going to shock anyone with that observation.

However, very few people know that Akaashi Keiji is an even more slippery bastard, with a killer poker face to boot. 

“I’m never speaking to you again,” Kei announces as Akaashi pours him tea, kneeling at the low table in Akaashi’s living room.

“You said that last time,” Akaashi replies, without batting an eyelid. He fills Kei’s mug just below the brim, the way he knows he likes it.

“Can confirm,” Kuroo pipes up. “He told me about it.”

“Get out,” Kei says. 

Kuroo pouts. “You can’t kick me out of someone else’s house.”

“He can stay,” Akaashi says, far too benevolent. 

“This doesn’t concern him.”

“It doesn’t really concern me, either,” Akaashi points out.

Kei wraps his hands around his mug and scowls.

“I asked for your help,” he says. He points at Kuroo, lingering in the doorway to Akaashi’s kitchen. Kuroo waves sunnily at him. “I specifically asked for your help so that he wouldn’t stick his nose into my business.”

“Tsu-ki-shi-ma!” Kuroo emphasises every last symbol in his name, dismayed. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

Kei’s Pointed Finger of Disappointment turns to Akaashi, who’s fighting back a laugh. “If you laugh, you’re no better than he is.”

Akaashi immediately schools his expression back to neutral. “My apologies, Tsukishima-san.”

Kuroo snorts. “Ooh, he pulled out the ‘Tsukishima-san’.”

“How are you worse when you’re in the same room?” Kei asks, weary. “Surely some of Akaashi’s bearable-ness should rub off on you. Why does it have to be the other way round? You’re ruining him.”

Kuroo’s eyes take on an irritating gleam. Akaashi’s sigh is quiet but no less irritated for it. “Ruining him, you say?”

“Tetsurou,” Akaashi says warningly.

Kuroo raises his hands in surrender. “Tsukki started it.”

Kei scowls at him. “Are you five?”

“Let’s get to work,” Akaashi says, snapping into no-nonsense mode. “Can I see the job description?”

When a new role opened up at the Sendai City Museum, Kei decided that he wanted it. Some might say he’s demotivated in life; Kei just thinks that he doesn’t waste his energy on things that don’t interest him, so he can then devote more energy to the things that do.

And the opening for the Heritage Executive position at the Sendai City Museum is exactly what interests him. The jump from Communications Assistant is too big for him to just be promoted into it, which is why he has to interview. HR assured him that, as a museum employee, he’d be taken into extra consideration, but he doesn’t want to take his chances. 

Yamaguchi’s always been a bit useless at interviews, his face paling any time Kei even brings one up, so Kei turned to the most helpful person he could think of at the time: Akaashi.

Akaashi probably has his life together. He landed a job in editorial right out of university, for crying out loud. Nobody gets jobs in editorial unless they’re perfect.

So Kei’s in Tokyo for a work trip, and in between gawking at the displays in the National Museum of Nature and Science he hopped on the subway and ended up at Akaashi’s apartment, drinking green tea while Kuroo leers at him from the kitchen.

“Tetsu, go away,” Akaashi says, not looking up from the job description on Kei’s laptop screen. “You’re distracting.”

“Boo,” Kuroo says. “Tsukki, I don’t know why you don’t want my help! It’s literally my job to convince people to like me and want to work with me, hello?”

“My desire to avoid your unfortunate personality is much stronger than my desire to accept your help,” Kei drones, jotting down a note on his phone about team-building. 

“Fine, fine,” Kuroo huffs. He edges towards a closed door. When he opens it, Kei can see a messily made bed beyond, a precarious stack of books on the floor beside it. “I’m outta your hair. Don't have too much fun without me, kiddos.”

His departure is punctuated with a quiet click. Something thumps behind the closed door, followed by a muffled everything's fine!

Kei sighs. He can't believe Akaashi betrayed him like this. Akaashi knows he needs a 48-hour advance Kuroo warning. 

“He’s going to get bored in ten minutes,” Akaashi warns.

“All I hear is that we’re going to get ten minutes of peace,” Kei says. “Now, the first thing I wanted to ask — why the hell does the tell me about yourself question exist?”

Akaashi snorts. “To force us into self-reflection? To make us cringe in the face of our own competencies? I don’t know, but here’s how I’d answer it…”

Kei was right, as he usually is. Akaashi contains a wealth of knowledge, armed with tips for all the interview prep Kei’s been avoiding. He’s to-the-point without making Kei feel stupid for having to ask, with enough derision for the implicit rules of workplace etiquette that Kei can at least pile some amusement in with the stress.

They’re in the middle of picking apart a tricky practice question when the bedroom door opens and Kuroo sneaks out.

“I forgot to pee,” Kuroo protests under Kei’s glare, skulking towards the door at the end of the hall. 

“So, how long’s that been going on for?” Kei asks, once Kuroo’s shut himself in the bathroom. 

Akaashi makes an inquisitive noise.

“You. Him. You’re both obvious.”

Akaashi blinks. Looks up from Kei’s laptop. His mouth thins, slightly, under Kei’s stare.

“A few months,” Akaashi admits.

“Huh,” is all Kei says. The things he misses when they live in different cities. He could’ve predicted it, especially with all of Kuroo’s juvenile hair-pulling flirtation tactics at training camp, but he thought Akaashi was stronger willed than that.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Akaashi says.

“Because I’m not.”

Kuroo re-emerges. The two of them fall silent as he approaches, but Kuroo doesn’t stop or give any indication that he’s heard them talking. He just snags Akaashi’s empty mug on his way to the kitchen.

Kuroo seems to know where everything in Akaashi’s meagre kitchen is kept. Okay, Akaashi has three cupboards, so he could just be getting lucky again and again, but he moves around like he belongs there. Like he’s had practice.

“Here,” Kuroo says, placing Akaashi’s now-full mug back on the table. It steams, the coffee smell winding through the air. He drops a kiss on the top of Akaashi’s head, a small, thoughtless gesture, before he remembers they have company. 

Kuroo clears his throat. Looks away from Kei’s stare. Embarrassment is not a look Kei has ever seen on Kuroo. All that for a kiss on the head. 

Kuroo clears his throat again. “Uh, pardon me.”

He starts to shuffle back towards the bedroom. Kei’s not much in the business of feeling bad, but he does feel bad that Kuroo’s embarrassed that Kei caught him acting soft.

“Kuroo-san,” Kei says, trying not to sound too interested, schooling his tone flat. “If you have a moment, I’d appreciate your insight on the skills needed for client-facing tasks.”

Kuroo lights right up. He turns on his heel, all embarrassment forgotten.

“You mean it?” he asks. “Man, there’s so much to know. Where to start?”

“You could start by sitting down,” Akaashi says, not unkindly.

So Kuroo does. He slumps right into Akaashi’s space, leaning back on his hands. One of his arms brackets Akaashi from behind, Kuroo’s palm pressed to the floor. Another thoughtless gesture, a splash of casual intimacy that Kei only knows about because he’s here and it’s staring him right in the face.

“So they tell you the client’s always right, yeah?” Kuroo starts. “Well, that’s wrong! The client is rarely right, but the trick is to get them to follow your ideas without making them think they’ve been wrong at all. I find that…”

Kei watches Kuroo ramble. He even takes a couple of notes. Akaashi just sips his coffee, quiet, with Kuroo’s fingers occasionally nudging at his hip. 

Kei acts like he doesn’t see it. Spare them the embarrassment.  

— 4 —

Akaashi won’t stop leaving work on time.

Leaving work on time isn’t a sin. In fact, Tenma would encourage it. He cares about the health and wellbeing of the co-workers helping him bring his ideas to life, unlike the higher-ups forcing their noses to their desks well into the night.

Akaashi leaving work on time, however, is troubling. Perturbing. Bamboozling. 

The first time, Tenma passes it off as a fluke. It’s not entirely unheard of for Akaashi to leave work on time. He can count the number of times it’s happened on one hand, sure, but it’s happened. 

It’s a Monday, and nobody wants to work late on a Monday. Tenma’s still weekend-weary, so maybe Akaashi is too. 

Except, it happens again on Wednesday. And Thursday. And the Tuesday after that. 

It’s been three weeks and Akaashi has left work on time more often than not. When he’s in the office, he’s quiet and focused, racing through edits in half the time he usually would. Like he’s desperate to not have to stay late.

At first, Tenma dismisses it as some sort of change of heart, Akaashi deciding to put his life over work. It doesn’t really make sense to him, considering he’s never met anyone as viciously dedicated to their job as Akaashi is, but people change. Not Akaashi, usually, who is a collection of stubborn habits in glasses and thick sweaters, but Tenma won’t begrudge him it.

What’s weird, though, is that without fail, before he leaves, Akaashi will check his coat pocket for his commuter pass. Tenma knows that Akaashi normally walks the distance between the office and his apartment. He’ll take the subway if it’s raining heavily, but the recent weather has been clear skies and early October sun.

Tenma’s a naturally curious guy. He works so closely with Akaashi too, can anyone blame him for wanting to investigate this shift in routine? And what reason does Akaashi have to be taking the subway at the start of rush hour? Akaashi hates the crowds. That’s why he’s always grumpy when it rains; that’s why he walks most of the time. 

So, when Akaashi starts packing up at 4:59pm on Thursday, Tenma watches him carefully from the corner of his eye while he pretends to be engrossed in his storyboarding.

He shoots Akaashi a quick farewell as Akaashi heads to the stairs, acting for all the world like he's barely even noticed him leave.

Once Tenma’s counted to thirty, he pushes away from his desk, upending a pot of pencils, and hurries down the stairs after him, trying to cushion the sound of his footsteps on the concrete. 

Akaashi’s still standing outside the building entrance when Tenma reaches the lobby. The glass doors are flung open, because it’s good to let the air through on nice days, so Tenma watches with perfect clarity as Akaashi pulls his phone out of his pocket, tapping something into it, fingers moving fast over the screen. His shoulders have lost the tense edge they have in the office, his posture relaxing now that the workday has slid off him.

Tenma sneaks through the lobby. He imagines himself like Watanabe, the strong, silent side character from Zom’bish. He shuffles behind a potted plant in the entryway, hidden from Akaashi’s line of sight. Watanabe probably wouldn’t hide behind a plant. Tenma decides to cut his losses.

Akaashi’s phone buzzes in his hand. He swipes it immediately, lifting the phone to his ear. 

“What?” he says, rather rudely. It’s not a tone that Tenma’s ever heard from him. He’s taken aback, slightly, by how abrupt Akaashi sounds. Who the hell is he talking to?

Akaashi turns slightly, until Tenma can see his face in profile. He isn’t looking towards the building, but Tenma ducks further behind the plant anyway, holding his breath as the leaves rustle.

Akaashi snorts suddenly. “Get them yourself.”

Another pause. “It’s closer to your building. You owe me for the subway fees, anyway. I want tuna.”

A laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

His face tilted into the setting sun, Tenma can see the smile on his face. He’s never seen Akaashi smile like that, not even at the work party last December when Kawaguchi-san’s trousers fell down and Akaashi had to excuse himself from the room to laugh it up in the hallway. 

If he didn’t know any better, Tenma would say Akaashi looks fond, but Tenma could have sworn that the only things Akaashi’s fond of are grammatically perfect sentences and nicely bound books.

His smile is a little absent, a little wistful. He actually looks his age like this. Tenma’s only four years older, but sometimes it feels like Akaashi’s years beyond him.

Akaashi frowns slightly. Tenma recognises that expression better. “Not yet. I’m just about to leave.”

A tall guy in a business suit approaches Akaashi from the opposite direction to where he’s looking, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and carrying a briefcase in the other. There’s a paper bag tucked under his arm bearing the logo of an onigiri place, rustling as he walks. He hangs up as he reaches Akaashi, knocking into Akaashi’s shoulder with his own. When he speaks, he's slightly out of breath.

“Made it in time, huh? Yeah, I was just pulling your leg. I got them already.”

Akaashi turns. Tenma loses sight of that elusive smile, but he can hear it in Akaashi’s voice when he speaks again.

“Tuna?” Akaashi asks, already reaching for the bag.

“Oh, what was that?” The guy pulls the bag out of Akaashi’s reach, holding it above his head. “Not even an Oh, what a surprise, Tetsu! or How was your day, Tetsu? Were you raised by animals? For shame.”

“Well, considering you’re here and not in your building, I assume you skived off work early, which already tells me how your day was,” Akaashi says, in that tone of his where he’s explaining something that should be so obviously logical that anyone who doesn’t get it must be remarkably stupid. Ruthless. Tenma shudders. “Now, tuna?”

The guy – Tetsu, maybe – just lowers the bag with a sigh, hands it over to Akaashi to tear into. He’s rather handsome. Tenma doesn’t know how Akaashi has so many good looking friends. They must run in packs.

“They’re not going anywhere,” Akaashi’s friend remarks, watching the carnage.

“Didn’t have lunch,” Akaashi says, through a mouthful of rice. 

“Keiji,” the guy chides. Akaashi’s shoulders hunch.

Tenma watched Akaashi work through lunch, even asked if he wanted him to grab anything from the convenience store, but Akaashi was glazed over with edits, barely registering Tenma’s question before declining. At least Akaashi’s friend also disapproves of his eating habits.

“Not my fault,” Akaashi protests, almost petulant. “They’re pushing the publication schedule up again. There’s so much to do. I have to go through some scans later tonight.”

The other guy just ruffles Akaashi’s hair in response, grinning as Akaashi tries to swat him away without giving up on eating.

While Akaashi busies himself with swallowing his food, the guy’s gaze slides over to the lobby. Tenma knows it’s going to happen before it does; his eyes catch Tenma’s, crouched behind the plant. The guy’s eyes widen slightly. Tenma winces.

By some miracle, the guy doesn’t say anything. His gaze slides away again. He shifts his body away from the entrance so that Akaashi is forced to follow him, stuffing another rice ball into his mouth.

He picks a grain of rice off Akaashi’s chin. “So messy.”

Akaashi grumbles something too low for Tenma to hear. He’s too focused on the fond expression on the guy’s face as he watches Akaashi eat. 

Tenma’s seen Akaashi eat. It’s nothing to get fond over.

Okay, so maybe not Akaashi’s friend. Is Akaashi gay? Is he dating anyone? Is he dating this guy? Tenma knows next to nothing about his personal life, but he does know that Akaashi would rather walk on hot coals than let anyone at work ruffle his hair or pick rice off his chin.

He watches as the guy slings an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, drawing him in close. He nudges them both down the street, crowding into Akaashi’s space.

“We’ll go to yours,” Tenma hears him say, their voices fading as they head down the street. “I need to pick up a toothbrush, though.”

“Already got one,” is the last thing Tenma hears from Akaashi before the two of them are too far away to hear much else. 

He stays crouched behind the plant for a minute longer. A couple of employees pass by while he’s hidden there, shooting him odd looks, but nobody comes to escort him away. Good. His legs have gone dead. 

Tenma finally stumbles back up to the third floor and gets back to his desk once he regains feeling in his legs, but he can’t focus at all. He keeps thinking about Akaashi’s handsome friend, maybe boyfriend, and the easy way he held himself around him. The fact that Akaashi has a spare toothbrush for him.

Mystery solved, he supposes, about Akaashi’s early departures. Too bad it opens up more questions than answers.

At least Tenma has a new character design in mind. Tall. Floppy hair. Handsome. He wonders if Akaashi’s going to say anything about it when he sees the sketches tomorrow. 

— 5 —

Atsumu’s single. He’s fine with being single.

Sure, he hasn’t gotten laid in, like, four months, which is pretty unfortunate considering he has a hot bod and a wicked amount of stamina (“an’ don’t forget the shitty personality,” the Osamu in his head chimes in), but at least it means he can ogle tall, dark, and handsome standing by the wall just outside the changing room without consequence. 

He’s in a dark grey suit, hair artfully swept back from his face, although strands keep escaping their hold, falling into his eyes. He’s wearing running shoes, which is kinda dorky with the suit, but Atsumu chooses to be endeared by it rather than disgusted. He’s tapping at something on his phone with one hand, head bowed over the screen, fiddling with a Vabo Chan branded lanyard with the other.

Atsumu’s going to let him off for that particular accessory, even though everyone knows lanyards are lame as fuck.

So, Atsumu's going through a dry spell and he likes floppy hair and well-fitted suits. He's high off the win against the Adlers. He wants to stare.

As he surreptitiously watches the stranger out of the corner of his eye, somebody comes up to him. The guy lifts his head from his phone, smiles at the newcomer. Atsumu recognises the fluffy hair, the glasses. 

“Ain’t that yer friend, Bokkun?” Atsumu asks, smacking Bokuto on the shoulder, giving up on subtle once he senses an opening. “The manga editor? Who’s that standin’ next to him?”

Bokuto cranes his neck around the doorway, waves at the two of them. The handsome one waves back.

“Kuroo?” Bokuto asks. “He works for the JVA, doing, uh, something, I don’t really remember what. He had a big hand in the match today, though!”

“Kuroo,” Atsumu repeats, rolling the name over his tongue with leisure.

“He also captained the Nekoma volleyball team back in the day, Atsumu-san,” Hinata chimes in. “You don’t recognise him?”

Atsumu’s sure he would have remembered broad shoulders like that. And he only remembers the important opponents from high school. Inarizaki never played Nekoma, ergo Atsumu had bigger fish to fry. 

“Tell me he’s single,” he says.

Bokuto starts to look a little stressed. “Uh. I mean. Um. It’s complicated?”

Atsumu waves a hand. “I can do ‘complicated’.” He starts rolling up the sleeves of his MSBY hoodie, runs a hand through his shower-damp hair. “Wish me luck, boys.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Bokuto warns quickly. “Kuroo and Akaashi, they’re—“ and he cuts himself off, making an incomprehensible gesture with his hands instead. 

Fortunately for him, Atsumu’s pretty fluent in Bokuto-isms by this point. He looks back at Kuroo and Akaashi with the added context, watches how Kuroo bends into Akaashi’s orbit. 

Huh. Interesting.

“Are they lookin’ for a third?” Atsumu asks, mostly to rile Sakusa up, who he knows is secretly listening in from across the room. 

“I hate this fucking team,” Sakusa mutters, snapping a face mask over his mouth and nose and storming out of the changing room.

Atsumu: one. Omi: none.

“We’re gonna get a drink after this,” Bokuto says, trying to diffuse the creeping tension from Sakusa’s abrupt departure. “Wanna come with us?”

“Can’t. I’m meeting ‘Samu for drinks,” he says, regretfully. Stupid Osamu. Always ruining his life. “I’ll say hi, though.”

He swans out of the changing room before Bokuto can stop him. 

He catches Akaashi’s eye as he approaches. He knows Akaashi can smell the ill intent on him, but Akaashi just watches him sidle into their space without saying anything. 

Atsumu’s always wanted to play the homewrecker. Just for funsies. He’s not really interested in Kuroo, not now that he knows he’s taken, but Atsumu’s riding the adrenaline-win and likes causing trouble.

“Yo,” he says. He rests an arm against the wall by Kuroo’s shoulder. It’s not that effective, considering the guy’s taller than him, but Atsumu knows the muscles in his forearm flex fetchingly when he pulls this move. “Nice lanyard.”

“Miya-san,” Kuroo greets him. He holds out a hand to shake. How exotic. Atsumu takes it, making sure to squeeze his palm for good measure. “Kuroo Tetsurou, nice to meet you. Great game! That set where you got right under the ball?” He whistles lowly. “Lotta core strength needed for that.”

“Plenty more where that came from,” Atsumu replies cheerfully. Kuroo’s set him up so well. “Happy to demonstrate, if ya want.”

Akaashi clears his throat pointedly. Shit, this is fun. Atsumu knows Akaashi’s far too polite to call him out for it in front of everyone else, but Atsumu can tell he isn’t happy. 

“Keiji-kun,” Atsumu says. He grins at him with all his teeth. Akaashi looks on, unimpressed. He knows exactly what Atsumu’s doing. “Didn’t see ya there.”

“Really now,” Akaashi replies, flat.

“‘Keiji-kun’?” Kuroo echoes, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Oh, yeah,” Atsumu jumps in. “Me an’ Keiji-kun have a lotta laughs. Don’tcha think?” 

He directs his question at Akaashi. Akaashi pastes on a wan smile, but Atsumu can see a muscle in his neck tense up. Atsumu’s been creeping closer to Kuroo the whole time they’ve been talking, just to see what’ll happen. An aneurysm, probably, if things keep escalating. Akaashi’s going to shove down all his stress and explode right here in the hallway. Shame. 

“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you from Akaashi,” Kuroo says. That can’t be positive. Atsumu knows that Akaashi’s a bitch behind closed doors. Who knows what slander he’s been smearing all over Atsumu’s reputation.

“All good things, I expect.”

“Well,” Kuroo says. Atsumu would prefer not to go down that vein of conversation, so he changes it.

“That’s a fancy suit you’re wearin’,” Atsumu says. “Mind if I feel? I’m thinkin’ of buying myself a nice suit, but I dunno if I’ll like the texture of the fabric. You get me?”

“Sure, man,” Kuroo says. He holds out his arm. Atsumu bypasses it and presses his hand to Kuroo’s lapel, right over his chest.

Solid muscle. Akaashi’s seething beside him. Atsumu’s in heaven.

“Miya-san,” Akaashi says. Not even his and Bokuto’s usual nickname for Atsumu. Pure, vicious politesse. Atsumu swears he can see his eye twitching. “Don’t you have a post-match interview to get to?”

“Yeah, Tsum-Tsum, we gotta go,” Bokuto says. Atsumu didn’t notice that he stuck around. The stress is radiating off of him in palpable waves, darting glances between Akaashi and Atsumu, Kuroo oblivious between them. His laugh is high and forced. “Don’t want to be late, Meian’ll kill us.”

Atsumu sighs. “Yeah, guess so.” 

He rolls his hoodie sleeves back down. He holds his fist out; Kuroo bumps knuckles with him. He doesn’t try his luck with Akaashi.

“See ya,” he says.

“Nice meeting you,” Kuroo replies. He pairs it with that handsome grin. He has nice teeth. And nice hair. And a not-so-nice boyfriend who’s probably thinking violent thoughts about Atsumu right now.

Bokuto hurries him down the hallway, towards the green room. Atsumu lets himself be shuffled along, magnanimously. He’s had his fun. He hopes they have a fight about it. God, that would be fucking hilarious.

He looks back just before he turns the corner. Akaashi has sidled into Kuroo’s space, the two of them briefly alone in the hallway. He watches Akaashi slip a hand under Kuroo’s suit jacket, curving around his waist. 

Kuroo tilts his face towards him, instantly enamoured. Maybe it’s for the best that Atsumu never stood a chance; he doesn’t want any guy who’s capable of looking that lovesick.

+1

“Hey, you’ve barely touched your drink. You good? Is it too loud in here? I can ask them to turn the music down. Keiji?”

“Miya Atsumu? Really?”

“Oh. That’s what's bothering you? Hey, he came onto me!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Aw, are you really grumpy? Is someone jealous? Ow, that hurt.”

“Then stop being stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid. You’re stupid.”

“...”

“You know you’re really cute when you’re jealous, right?”

“Tetsurou.”

“C’mon. When we get back home I’ll show you just how much Miya Atsumu isn’t my type, yeah?”

“I’m not sleeping you with ever again if you talk about Miya Atsumu and sex in the same context one more time.”

“Uh, I can hear you guys?”

“...”

“I apologise, Bokuto-san. That was inappropriate.”

“Eh, I’m not that sorry. Anyone want another drink? Keiji’s paying.”

“Well, if Akaashi’s paying…”

“I’m not. Tetsu’s paying.”

“In more ways than one, hm? Fine, I’ll pay. This is only my first punishment. You wouldn’t believe what a tyrant he becomes when he wants me to get down on my—”

“Guys.”