Work Text:
There is a lonely figure against the train's windows, hidden by the shadows, silently waiting for something. Green eyes reflected on the winter soil, old wine bottle in one hand, half-open lips.
While the train zoom along the rails, the body shakes, apathetic. There is a pain in this man. A solid, hollow one, shown by his lost looks, feeble hands, and silent ears. The type of pain that only a few can understand, the type of pain that only the greatest lovers can reach.
He sighs, opens the bottle, moves it a little. But his eyes never find focus.
There is always a reason for people to take the midnight express.
___
When they won against Nohebi, Yaku didn't feel like it was real. His body was numb, his head spinning, and the world looked too shiny, blurred at the edges, more an old and glorious painting than his actual life.
"We should celebrate!" Kuroo screamed as they get out of the court.
And they brought a few of the cheapest sparkling wines they could find, set at the curb, and stayed there, throwing rocks on the street, laughing loud in the silence, looking at the black sky above them and thinking they are on the top of the world. Twelve kids, twelve boys, a team.
They fill their souls with success and their mouths with cheap alcohol, passing the bottle hand to hand and drinking directly from it, without any prudency or shame. The liquid is sour and burns his throat as he swallows, but Yaku loves it.
Lev is by his side, waiting for his turn, eyes wide while watching Yaku's lips around the bottle, tongue coming out to lick his own. Like a man who never saw water.
"Thirsty, Lev?" Yaku asks.
Lev smiles.
"You have no idea."
"Maybe I do."
Later, Yaku is going to say he was drunk. Later, he is going to blame the excitement of winning running through his veins. Later, Kuroo is going to look at him, laugh, and reveal that none of the drinks actually had alcohol.
But the next thing in Lev's mouth is clearly not wine.
"How does it taste?" He asks when they break away.
"Like finding an oasis. Like victory."
__
Three years later, Yaku finds himself in a much fancier celebration. He almost disappears in the crowd of suited men and foxy-eyed women, hanging glasses on every waiter's tray he sees and feeling the violins vibrating against his tired muscles.
The drinks are great, they always are. The Martini is salty and dry. Yaku might be on his fourth –or is it his fifth?–one, and is starting to feel a little tipsy, as he tries to block the conversation happening above his head.
Two business, strong, tall men are talking, and, with the reminiscence of his education, Yaku smiles and pretend to care, but he doesn't. They are too self-centered, too arrogant, drowned in their ego and fake cordiality for him to listen. Topics jump from one triviality to another, even if never leaving one subject: money.
Yaku hates it.
His shoes shine brightly against the marble floor, the chandelier's light paints his skin, there is red lipstick along his collar. Still, he hates high society.
He hates how people's lips curve while telling pretty lies, he hates how false words can be so easily spoken, he hates how no one will ever look him in the eyes.
Because Yaku might be here now, thanks to an ironic twist of fate, wrapped in a black tuxedo and laughing at jokes that aren't even funny, but he came from the dust, and at least he knows how to have some fun.
The music is great and he wants to dance. He wants to dance, but not the way other people are dancing, not with steps meticulously calculated in that weird social power play.
God, Yaku is annoyed.
But that's when he sees it.
Yaku blinks once, twice, tries to rub his eyes.
On the other side of the room, there is a boy –a man – angular face, thin shoulders, and silver hair. There is a certain grace in the way he moves, pure and dramatic, but never theatrical, as if he was actually made of flesh and bones, as if Yaku wasn't the only person alive here.
The guy looks at him and smiles.
Not even the fanciest clothes in the world could make Yaku not recognize those eyes.
Of course they would meet again at a party. Something about business, something they both didn't care about. Yaku was a new sports company's poster boy, Lev had a contract with a glamorous brand; it didn't matter.
All that mattered was how their eyes find each other, hesitant and assertive, how they lost themselves from the rest of the room, an old connection coming to the light, how malicious, and how amused, and how desperate they were.
He raises one of his eyebrows as if saying 'It's been quite a long time, huh?'
They are too far away, and Yaku feels his skin itching. He wants to hear Lev, to know if his voice is still high, or if it's already raspy after the drinks, to count the times his lungs come up for air, to touch him after so long.
The saloon between them seems bigger than the universe, voices filling the air in an almost oppressing way, but they never stop staring. There is some modesty in the way their eyes are low, curling at the edges in an unashamed shameful hunt. As if they are doing a study in flesh.
Yaku can feel his chest arching, burning, craving, as he tries to understand Lev's unhearable words. 'I've missed you.'
"Lev..." His lips move around the name soundlessly. He tastes it, feeling its weight on his tongue.
The other man's smile only grows wider.
Looking at Lev again, from the other side of this full room made of empty people, all he can think is one thing.
"Please take me out of here."
___
For not the first time, Yaku finds himself in Lev's bed, admiring how pale the other's skin looks against the black sheets. Yaku always thought the bedding was too fancy, but, every time, it makes his stomach burm with luxury.
They always end up here: Lev half naked, his bare chest in the cold wind, and Yaku on top of him, languorously kissing his lips, his jaw, his neck, and more. It's almost a tradition, at this point; they go to dinner, laugh more than they had the whole week, talk shit about the same old people, buy a bottle of wine, and Yaku drinks it directly from Lev's tongue.
Yaku follows his well-known way, hands brushing against prominent ribs, teeth scratching thin collarbones. Like a hungry, thirsty man. He always was fascinated by how purple Lev's dermis can turn.
"Mori..." Lev whispers, breathless. Yaku hums, satisfied, on his skin. He keeps going down, waiting for a request, waiting for Lev to beg. "I-I..."
"Tell me, love." He instigates, already fantasizing about what comes next.
"What..." Lev whispers, but it reverberates through the room. "What are we?"
Yaku looks up, to reach Lev's eyes. They are dilated, drunk with alcohol, desire, and some fragility that he wouldn't dare to name.
"Lev..." Yaku says, cupping the Russian's face, pressing the ghost of a thumb against his lips. "Why would we need a name, while we are having fun, right?"
Lev doesn't respond, so Yaku kisses him. Again, again, again, and again. As if to convince him, as if to make him forget.
"Listen, Lev, people tend to create problems where there aren't. Why would we change something, if what we have is already great? Champagne is just a fancy name for wine, ok? And we both know you would drink it, regardless."
__
"I can't believe Kuroo-san is already getting married."
"He always was a little bit of a cursory, don't you think?" Yaku says, feeling Lev's soft hands around his waist, the thin fabric of his shirt a tender barrier between them.
His own are intertwined behind Lev's neck, fingers lazily playing with the silver strands there. Lev giggles a little, a shiver running through his body when Yaku curls a specific lock.
There is a warm old jazz playing, dripping down their spines and inflating their hearts, as they sway delicately on the dance floor. The low lights turn everything cozy and brownish, like the sunlight that invades your room between the wood planks and makes you feel sleepy. That's what poets would call home.
Lev's suit is deep blue, and Yaku is mesmerized. He seems so ethereal, so intangible, but also so close, so real. Smelling like pine, fresh and lively, as if he were a grown man, and not the stupid boy tripping over Yaku's shoes while trying to spin him.
Yaku can't help but come closer, diving his nose into Lev's shirt, snuggling against his chest. And, for a moment, Yaku almost feels safe.
Lev smiles, fingers tracing gentle circles against Yaku's lower back.
"One day, I wanna be like them."
A wish, an invitation.
"Lev..." Yaku whispers, greedy green eyes on his own.
But he is a coward. He is a coward, and he's not gonna say it, and he will run away, and that's just how things work. So Yaku slowly detaches himself from Lev's arms, gives him a sick smile, and pets his head.
"I think I'll have another drink. Do you want one?"
__
Alisa invited him to a new year's party, and Yaku reluctantly came. She is lovely, and he is glad to be here, but recently there has been a certain sparkle in Lev's eyes that scares him. Lev's hands have been more lasting, his lips fonder, and his eyes, sometimes, became distant, in a passionate, determined way.
So Yaku is running away. Dropping hands when they start to glue together, breaking kisses that are too sweet, avoiding eyes that he knows would make him stay.
Alisa bought a Don Perigon, there is a table in the corner of the living room filled with champagne flutes, the guests in fancy clothes always end up staring at him.
As midnight comes closer and closer, Yaku can feel the tension in the air, the not asked question, the way things are about to change.
"Are you enjoying the night, Mori?" Lev smiles.
"Yeah." He responds, more by courtesy than any other thing.
"That's great." Lev says, rubbing his nose along Yaku's cheek. "I like you."
But Lev is drunk. Lev is drunk, and Yaku knows they like each other, so it doesn't have to mean anything, right?
"I know you do, your dumb giant idiot."
Until those words crossed the lips Yaku cared so much, until his blood became ice, until Lev's tongue, which usually gives Yaku the pleasure of life, decided to make him taste death.
"There is something I've been wanting to ask you..."
That's the exact moment Yaku knows. Yaku knows, and his whole body starts to tremble, so he has to get out of there. His eyes skim around the room, looking for any possible excuse he could hold on to, and, then, he sees it.
Alisa in her pretty, long, black dress. Red lipstick, sweet smile, the Don Perigon's bottle in her hands. It's ten to midnight, and people want to drink, after all.
"Alisa!" He exclaims, desperate. "Do you need a little help opening that?"
She looks at him for a moment, trying to understand from where exactly this sudden offer came, but accepts anyway, smiling as she passes the champagne to him. Yaku puts it under his arms, not trusting his so trustworthy hands.
He can't do that to Lev, not now, not here. So he runs to the kitchen, thumbs purple as he tries to uncork the wine. He presses it, desperately, laser-focused, trying to make his head spin less. He can hear Lev's steps becoming closer, and he should be able to open a dam bottle, but he can't. He simply can't.
"I can't open it."
Yaku says, panic in his voice, his body shaking. He needs to open it.
"Mori," Lev calls.
"Where the hell do these people leave their corkscrew?!" He searches in all the kitchen drawers, his hands desperately flying from one to another.
It's not here, it is not here, it's not here.
"Mori..."
"I-I need..."
"Mori."
"Everyone wants their drinks, Lev! If I just find the right drawer, I will..."
"Morisuke." And then Yaku finally looks up, finding those big, greedy green eyes. Oh, no. "I love you."
The sound that reverberates through the room is sharp and hurt in the ears. There is liquid gold running down the floor, bubbling in their black social shoes, staining all the white tile. It's a waterfall of honey, it's an angel's precious tears, it's Yaku's blood.
There is also glass. Everywhere he looks, there is glass. All broken and deformed, twisted and crushed, the edges squirming upwards in a sadistic smile, ready to cut anyone who comes close enough. Yaku looks at the fractured pieces, only to see himself reflected there: messy hair, wide eyes, chest fighting for air.
He looks dreadful.
At least the champagne is open now.
"No, Lev, you can't just..."
"But it's true! Mori, it's true! More than anything that I've ever told you, more than everything that I've ever said."
"Lev..."
No.
"You make me laugh like no one else does, you take care of me even when I think I don't deserve it, you are smart, and you are strong, and you are beautiful, and you are free."
No.
" Lev, please..."
"And when you look at my eyes, I feel like there is no such a thing as death, or time, or fear, or pain. And I've always wanted and wished for you to see me as I see you, because you are a flame, Morisuke, and I can't help but want to run through you."
No, no, no, no, no, no.
The floor is dirty, Yaku's vision is blurry and Lev is going down.
All Yaku can feel in his bones is a small whisper, running through his whole body, making his lungs shiver. Please don't get on one knee.
But Lev does. He does, he gets on one knee, becomes one with the wet floor, looks at Yaku's eyes, and smiles, as if this wasn't a nightmare, as if Yaku isn't seeing his whole life fall apart.
"I love you, and I want you to let me love you, until we are old and tired and you are the only thing that I know. So, all I am asking is..."
But Yaku can't. He doesn't know which is scarier: the perspective of getting old, his hair white, his flesh only a memory of who he was before, his tired eyes a promise that he left the best part of his life a long time ago, or the possibility of actually being understood.
"Lev, please, you can't." He is trembling now, the words tripping on his tongue."Y-You can't do that to you, you... Can't do that to me."
And then, there is silence. For one, two seconds.
Yaku can hear the music from the other room. He can hear people talking, people laughing, the tinkling glasses of celebration.
Silence is always weird with Lev.
"Why can't I, Mori?"
Why can't he?
Because Yaku is not made for this. He is not made to marry someone, to have two kids, a dog, a comfy house, a job he hates, and to be loved.
Because Yaku has born to be a flash news scandal in a magazine, to have his name written in red giant letters, to be a strong naked back that some love, some hate, but everyone looks up to.
Because there is so much he wants to live, and so much he wants to know, and he wants freedom, and he wants glory, and even the idea of living a usual life makes him want to die.
Because they are too irresponsible, and everyone knows it's true. Lev would let all of his wet towels on the bed, and Yaku would break his heart without even thinking twice.
As if it were a bottle of champagne in his bare hands.
"We would have been miserable together." He says, instead.
And that's when finally happen.
"Don't say that!" Lev screams, reaching his break point. He is crying now, his sweet tears bitter by the alcohol and the pain. "How can you say this kind of thing without even trying?!"
"Because I know it's true." There is a miserable smile borning on Yaku's lips. He hates it. "And, one day, you will see I am right, and you will thank me for that."
Lev gets up. His pants are wet from kneeling on the champagne and his members are weak like an old man's. But, his eyes, hurt and broken, are still the prettiest thing Yaku has ever seen.
"You think you are too smart, Morisuke." His eyes are judgemental, almost mean, something Yaku had never seen. "But everybody knows the corkscrew always stays on the second drawer."
And, then, he gets out of the room.
Leaving behind Yaku, a dirt floor, and the sharts of a glass heart.
__
There is a lonely figure against the train's windows, bathed by the light, silently waiting for something, even when he has nothing to wait for. Brown eyes reflected on the winter soil, old champagne bottle in one hand, lips pressed in a thin line.
While the train zoom along the rails, the body stays, apathetic. There is a pain in this man. A solid, hollow one, shown by his lost looks, feeble hands, and silent ears. The type of pain that only a few can understand, the type of pain that only the worst lovers can reach, the type of pain that comes with losing someone.
He sighs, opens the bottle, drinks it like an alcoholic. But his eyes never lose focus.
There is always a reason for people not to take the midnight express.