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Akashi perfected the art of masks.
His cool facade of detachment kept most at bay, and the few who ventured closer gleaned nothing but the emotions Akashi chose to reveal. Only Kuroko delved even deeper, yet Akashi still managed to hide what was most important.
He had changed drastically since his first year of high school, but in this way at least, he was still absolute.
“Akashi Seijuro, please read the next section.”
Akashi stood at the teacher’s request, and he ignored how the entire class swiveled in their seats to watch him. He rarely spoke in class, but when he did, his commentary often left a wake of silence and awe. Even when he attempted creating better connections with people, his natural intimidating aura still shone through.
Without looking down at his textbook Akashi recited all five paragraphs from the textbook from memory. He knew they would review this chapter today, so he studied the material last night.
When he finished and sat back down, the teacher stared at him with confused fascination, but she quickly called on another student and continued with the lesson. Akashi felt the lingering stares of his classmates, but he promptly ignored them as he took his pencil in hand and prepared to write down any further information from the professor.
No one suspected even a hint of weakness within him. As far as his professors and classmates were concerned, he was perfect in every way, and Akashi had no intention of letting them discover any different.
Of course, the mask he wore was not truly for them, but his primary target would prove far harder to distract. A shame, Akashi wryly thought, that he lived with him.
…
“Welcome back, Akashi-kun.”
A small smile flitted across his lips as Akashi breathed in the familiar scent of vanilla and strong coffee. As soon as he stepped inside their shared dorm room, he found himself relaxing. His mask dropped, by the slightest degree, as his eyes gratefully adjusted to the dim lighting of the fairy lights and lamps rather than the harsh overhead light of every other room he encountered throughout the day.
“Hello, Kuroko.”
The blue-eyed boy glanced up from his desk, and Akashi noticed the open document on his laptop. He recognized the running title as his term paper, so Akashi suspected Kuroko was grateful for a quick break.
“How was your day?” he inquired.
Kuroko watched Akashi slip out of his shoes and coat as he replied, “Good. We studied the ethics of photojournalism in modern war. How was yours?”
Akashi sat down at his own desk but turned to still face Kuroko. “We discussed the Chesterton effect in corporate business models.”
“Weren’t you reading about that last night?” Kuroko questioned.
“Yes, I wanted to properly prepare. Would you like to go for coffee after dinner?”
Kuroko narrowed his eyes. After all, he recognized an example of misdirection better than anyone, but he allowed Akashi to slip by without further questioning. “Okay.”
…
The headaches were the most difficult side effect.
Akashi remembered migraines from his childhood, but these were different. The pain was not sharp but noticeable. A constant annoyance that made every day tasks more of a challenge than necessary.
Medicine did not help them, and neither did vitamin C or caffeine. The only cure was sleep, and Akashi hardly had time to nap away a headache before continuing his day. Early mornings provided the only relief, fresh from a night of slumber, but the dull pain made a reappearance around noon.
He told himself that he had endured worse, and he could deal with this minor irritation.
Of course he could.
…
When the door opened, Akashi peered over the edge of his book and offered a small smile. “Welcome back.”
Kuroko set his backpack by his desk and shrugged out of his shoes and coat. “Thank you,” he returned and then tilted his head in question. “Why are you wearing glasses?”
Akashi touched the side of his glasses though he already knew he wore them. He typically only used the pair when he stayed up late doing homework, Kuroko already sleeping in the bed next to his. While he did not actively hide the glasses from his roommate, he also did not flaunt them.
“The font in this book is particularly small. They help me read,” Akashi answered evenly.
Kuroko nodded, but his lack of response meant nothing. They had admittedly grown apart toward the end of middle school and the beginning of high school, but Akashi had known Kuroko for a long time. He knew the tidbit of information was filed away in Kuroko’s mind for later examination, but at least he also knew that Kuroko would not pry.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” Kuroko asked instead.
“I’ve been waiting to eat with you.”
“Can we go around six? I’d like to at least complete one assignment first.”
“Of course.”
Akashi continued to wear his glasses to finish his reading, and Kuroko worked on a math assignment. When they both reached reasonable stopping points, they pulled on shoes and coats and ventured outside toward the cafeteria.
Akashi left his glasses on his desk.
…
On the day they finished their midterms Akashi took Kuroko out for dinner. Perhaps as friends and roommates, perhaps not. They did not discuss their relationship in terms or labels, but they bought each other coffee, sometimes did their homework on the same bed, and occasionally held hands as they walked around campus.
And once in a while, they did something like this. A private moment of relief for just the two of them.
“This place seems very nice,” Kuroko complimented.
“I have been here a few times for club meetings, and I always enjoyed the tofu soup,” Akashi agreed.
“I am not surprised.”
“Is that so?”
“You enjoy the tofu soup from anywhere,” Kuroko teased in his own particular way. His expression did not change, but Akashi still detected the humor somewhere in his tone.
“I have impeccable taste in all things,” Akashi pointed out.
“Even in people? Your companions on the student council challenge that proposition.”
Of course, Akashi knew that Kuroko still only teased. The blue-eyed boy never spoke illy of anyone, and Kuroko said himself that he enjoyed spending time with Akashi’s friends… as long as Reo stayed away from alcohol and Hayama kept his hands to himself, that is.
“A bit rough around the edges does not diminish the quality of a person, as I’m sure you know,” Akashi argued.
Their minds both went to Kise, Aomine, and Kagami, and both decided to let the faux conflict die. Instead, they chatted over what they would do with their time now that they no longer needed to spend every spare moment studying, and their quiet conversation had to pause when the waiter came to take their orders.
Akashi requested tofu soup as normal, but a tension permeated the air when the waiter said, “I apologize, but we have not made tofu soup today.”
Akashi’s pause might have been interpreted as disgust, but Kuroko noticed the way his eyes hastily scanned the menu only to result in no backup order. Sensing his distress, Kuroko asked if he minded sharing a meal with him, and Akashi agreed, cool and collected as always.
Their conversation returned to other things, and the distress over ordering never rose in topic, but the event never left Kuroko’s mind. If Akashi could no longer read the menu, why didn’t he say something?
…
Akashi was fine.
Sometimes he needed to review his notes in his dorm room before student council meetings, but his sharp memory never allowed him to make a mistake when he recalled the documents perfectly without needing to check the small typeset that he could not read on his own.
He listened to his lectures and took thorough notes, and if the writing on the board seemed important, he took a picture to review later.
He only began to worry on the day in the library. He agreed to meet Kuroko by the history section, so they could study together in a place outside their dorm. When he idly surveyed the books on the shelves on either side of him, he noticed a couple of figures on the end of the aisle, but he paid them no mind. They meant nothing to him while he waited on Kuroko.
Then a small voice called, “Akashi-kun,” and his heart sank. He realized with painful clarity that he had not recognized the slight figure as his own roommate and close friend, and worst of all, Kuroko noticed as well.
A year ago, Kuroko might have guessed his low presence was to blame, but after living together and reaching this level of trust in their relationship, they both knew Akashi noticed Kuroko’s presence more than anyone. At least, when he could see.
“Akashi-kun, I’ve decided I don’t want to study in the library today. Can we go to the fountain?”
A cold knot tied in Akashi’s stomach as he realized what that meant. Many fountains decorated the campus, and most attracted viewers from hotspots such as the courtyard and the front of the administration building. However, Akashi knew that Kuroko referred to the fountain behind the communications center. No one could simply happen across the fixture without already knowing it was there, and so it was the ideal spot for a private conversation.
Akashi briefly thought of making an excuse, but one look at Kuroko’s serious face terminated that idea. Besides, he could not run forever, especially not from his roommate, not from the one person who knew him better than anyone.
“Of course.”
…
The fountain was originally a project of the art department, and that was part of the reason why it hid behind the communications building. The water spiraled in a turbulent current down into the fold at the base while a statue of something between a running stick figure and a flexible ribbon watched from its place at the center.
Lights that flashed between green, blue, and purple lined the rim, so though the sun dipped into a dim twilight, Kuroko and Akashi still viewed every detail of each other from their seats on the edge of the fountain.
“Many people have trouble with their eyesight. It is not something to be ashamed of,” Kuroko opened gently.
Akashi fought the urge to look away. He might have perfected the art of masks, but Kuroko perfected the art of observation long ago. His pale hand crossed the distance between them and cupped Akashi’s in a warm embrace.
“It is not an issue,” Akashi insisted.
“It is an issue if it interferes with your life. I know you memorize readings before you go to class or meetings. Akashi-kun, you can no longer read menus or books without glasses.”
Actually, Akashi could no longer read anything at all without glasses. PowerPoint presentations showed nothing but vague lines to him, and he could not check his phone outside the privacy of his dorm where he had the assistance of his glasses.
“And I know you have headaches,” Kuroko added quietly.
“What do you wish for me to say, Kuroko?” Akashi all but sighed. “There is nothing you can do. If my eyesight is failing, it hardly affects you.”
He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips. Kuroko did not flinch exactly, but clear hurt bloomed across his face. However, Akashi should have known that Kuroko would push through his own pain to help someone else.
“You are my friend, Akashi-kun, so of course I care about something troubling you. Your eyesight will only get worse if you continue to strain yourself like this.”
“My eyesight will grow worse regardless,” Akashi snipped.
Kuroko squeezed his hand, a connection between them even as emotions rose and melded. “What makes you say that?” he inquired softly.
Akashi watched as the lights of the strange fountain flashed across Kuroko’s kind face, blue and then green and then a vivid violet. He remembered a time when his eyes would have caught every minute flicker of emotion, and his mind would catalogue the tiniest of gestures of body language. Now only his knowledge of Kuroko himself helped him interpret the situation.
“My eyesight is not simply growing weaker from reading too often or age,” Akashi admitted, almost a murmur.
Kuroko’s lips parted in realization. “Your Eye,” he whispered.
Akashi nodded. “I always knew the risk, and that is why I never used the gift without significant purpose. Emperor Eye puts a great strain on me.”
“You’ve overused it, and now even your ordinary eyesight is affected,” Kuroko finished grimly. Somehow, throughout the exchange of words, Kuroko inched closer, and now their sides pressed together.
After the loss of the Winter Cup during his first year, Akashi worked himself even harder than before. He acknowledged Kuroko’s basketball, and he improved his relationship with his team, but he still trained relentlessly to make up for his failure. His true self could not use Emperor Eye as accurately, but he still employed every skill he possessed for victory.
Sometimes it still was not enough.
Akashi noticed the weakness his eyes during his first year of university. He chose not to play basketball in college as Kuroko did as well, but the damage had already been done. They were in their second year now, but the symptoms had recently grown worse.
“You ought to visit a doctor, Akashi-kun,” Kuroko hinted.
Akashi tensed, and though Kuroko melded against him, the anxiety did not leave. “I already realize my issue, and I have incorporated solutions,” Akashi rebuked.
“Yes, but the doctor could give you an accurate prescription for glasses and contacts. If you had contacts, you could see clearly for classes and meetings.”
After all, they both knew the problem. No matter what, Akashi would not admit to this weakness, not even to Kuroko who he trusted more than anyone. His whole life had revolved around victory and perfection, and nothing that even resembled a disability could fit into that picture.
Because though they spoke in terms of weakening eyesight, they both knew the truth. This was not ordinary strain, and neither was the damage.
If Akashi was not careful, he would suffer-
blindness
-permanent damage.
“I have a solution,” Akashi insisted.
Kuroko shifted, so their eyes met. Despite his neutral expression Akashi recognized his disappointment. “Akashi-kun, you are not an idiot. You know that denial can only last so long.”
…
The next day, Akashi woke with a migraine.
Kuroko turned off the lights and closed the blinds. He left aspirin and a bottle of water beside his bed, but he said nothing before he left for class.
…
“This is getting ridiculous, Akashi-kun.”
Despite the relentless pain that occupied every corner of his mind, Akashi went to class. Not only that, but when Kuroko returned to the dorm after his own late classes, he found Akashi reading at his desk. He wore glasses, but they weren’t a precise prescription, so he still leaned close to the textbook.
Since Akashi did not answer, Kuroko continued, “At least see Midorima-kun. He can set you a private appointment, so your father will not know.”
“No.”
The word was clipped and more cold than Kuroko had heard in a very long time.
“I don’t need help,” Akashi clarified, and Kuroko fought the urge to sigh.
Of course Akashi would not want to admit weakness, especially to his middle school teammates. Despite all his progress there was still the underlying need to appear strong and infallible no matter what. Kuroko sympathized with his pride, but he was not going to Akashi suffer more than necessary for it.
…
Depth perception became almost worse than the headaches. If he was not concentrating carefully, Akashi might clip his shoulder against door frames or reach his hand for something just a few inches from where he thought it to be.
Luckily, these incidents mostly took place when he was alone, but frustration and shame still colored his cheeks when they happened.
…
“Enough is enough.”
Akashi glanced up at the sudden declaration. Tonight had been like any other between them. Akashi studied at his desk, glasses perched on his nose but still peering closely to study a passage he might be called to read the next day. Kuroko read on his bed up until he made his statement.
“Care to elaborate?” Akashi inquired.
A pink cloth slipped over his eyes, and darkness washed over him. Akashi tensed in his chair, and his next words came out as a stern warning. “Tetsuya.”
“If I am making you nervous, I will stop, but I have a point to make,” Kuroko explained.
Akashi could guess at Kuroko’s point, and he half wanted to stop this farce right away. The cloth over his eyes, the scarf Momoi knitted him for his birthday as he guessed, only reminded him of what his future likely resembled, and he knew that Kuroko largely gambled off this. Nevertheless, perhaps Kuroko would leave him alone if Akashi let him have his way.
A hand slipped within Akashi’s fingers and squeezed. He felt Kuroko’s chest against his back, his rhythmic breathing lulling him into a soft sense of comfort. When Kuroko made no gesture to speak, the silence washed over them in a gentle wave. Vanilla wafted around them.
Only when all the tension left Akashi’s muscles did Kuroko finally speak.
“Your sight, unique or ordinary, does not define you as a person. You can feel, you can hear, and you can smell,” Kuroko murmured into his ear.
“I think you missed one.”
The warmth against him shifted, and soft lips brushed across Akashi’s.
“You can taste,” Kuroko added. “Even if you lose one, you have the others. Even if you lose them all, none of us will think any less of you. I won’t love you any less.”
Akashi tensed, but then the cloth lifted from his eyes. He blinked to slowly adjust his eyes to the lighting, and he found himself focusing on two piercing shades of blue.
“Knowing that, will you go to a doctor’s appointment with me tomorrow?” Kuroko finished.
Akashi nodded, and he closed the distance between them to taste Kuroko’s lips once again.