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You come back to Japan with nothing but a backpack worth of stuff.
Even your toothbrush is the cheap kind you bought somewhere, the toothpaste travel-sized.
It’s been years, and the city is still as overwhelming as it was when you left.
Somewhere in this country, your mother waits for your phone call, believing you hundreds of miles farther away than you are.
Somewhere in this country, a different person picks up their phone.
“Want to get coffee?” You ask, breathless from your own feelings.
“Are you paying?” Akira asks back.
-
You remember your childhood well, your knees pressed against his under the Kotatsu, his sister's hands in your hair.
She liked to dress you up, like a doll, and parade you around the living room, asking her brother again and again what he thought of you.
“The lipstick leaves stains,” he complains every time, picking up the glasses filled with apple juice to take them to the kitchen. “On my hands, too.”
“One day you’ll be glad they do!” His sister snickered once and you blushed under her gaze, knowing her eyes were telling secrets you’re still too young to know.
-
“Your hair is different,” you greet Akira, his sight surprising enough to steal your breath.
He falters visibly, his shoulders hunching forward as he registers your words.
“Bad?” He asks, his mouth not quite forming a pout.
“No, not bad-” You’re looking for words, and the wrong ones slip out. “It makes you look attractive.”
“Oh,” his lips form the word almost without a sound, his mouth perfectly round.
“Right,” you hiccup, turning on your foot. “Shall we get coffee?”
-
There’s a picture frame in your mother’s place, neatly tucked between a few others on the living room wall. It shows you in a white dress, a flower crown sitting a little lopsided on your head, your wide smile with the tooth gap hidden behind a handful of wildflowers that you’re holding, your other hand tucked into Akira’s, his eyes wide as he looks at you.
You’ve looked at this picture often, wondered if he’d been struck by emotion once, or if he just spotted a ladybug on your ear.
It’s the only testament to a game you played almost daily in those early years, dozen of weddings officiated in his backyard, his sister dressed up as a priest.
He’d never once complained.
-
Akira doesn’t ask why you're back. He doesn’t even ask why you left.
His knee presses against yours under the too-small table, and his eyes crinkle slightly when he tells you a funny story from his College days.
He works at a bank now, a fact that leaves you slightly untethered.
“It’s not my dream job,” he marks as if noticing your unease. “But I don’t live for my work, I work so I can still enjoy my life. I still play some volleyball on the side, just because I enjoy it, not to win some prize for it.”
Akira’s quiet for a moment. “Last week, we played Beach Volleyball with Kageyama. Do you remember him?”
“Sure,” you say, because he’s still a bit of a sore spot, one of the biggest fights you and Akira ever had. “How was it?”
“He didn’t try to beat us into a pulp,” Akira jokes lightly. “He brought some friends from his team, and we made sure the teams were well mixed. It was fun.”
Quiet settles over your table. His knee presses into yours.
“Where are you living?”
“Not sure yet,” you admit. “I need to find a Hotel for tonight. Mom wrote me her new address, but I have to look it up first.”
“I have a spare room. My sister uses it when she needs to get away from the kids. Don’t tell her I told you, though.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You?” His eyes remind you of chocolate when he looks at you now. “Never.”
-
“Kindaichi,” Akira introduces a boy to you. “He sits next to me in Class.”
“Hi,” you smile at the boy with the weird hairdo. “Nice to meet you.”
“H-Hi,” Kindaichi stutters before turning to Akira like a helpless little puppy. “She’s pretty,” he whispers much too loudly.
“Who?” Akira asks.
Kindaichi points at you as if you’re both blind and deaf.
“Thank you,” you offer as politely as you can when Akira turns to look at you as if checking Kindaichi’s statement. He doesn’t add anything to that, and you’re not sure if it hurts or if you’re just too used to it by now.
“Are we doing our homework together after school?” You ask, folding your hands behind your back. “Or are we playing something first?”
“I want to go to Kindaichi’s first. He’s got a PlayStation.”
You turn to Kindaichi, who blushes furiously. “Y-you c-can c-come too.”
If Kindaichi ever feels like a third wheel, he doesn’t mention it. But you don’t suppose he does.
It’s mostly just you and him, talking, Akira sitting by the side, listening.
He’s not much of a talker, never has been. You wonder if he prefers this, others leading the conversation without him having to work for it.
Only once does he lose his cool.
You never figure out what triggered it, but Kindaichi ends up with a black eye, and Akira’s hand is bruised for a week.
The boys don’t talk about it, though you suspect it has something to do with you.
How else could you explain Kindaichi keeping more distance from then on, no longer blushing when you talk to him?
-
Akira still uses the same shower gel.
You press a dollop of it onto the palm of your hand, sniff it like one would with good wine or pretty flowers.
It’s been years since you’ve sat close enough to notice his scent, no longer the three of you trying to fit onto two seats at the back of the bus or napping on your bed after a study session.
You barely remember what you used back then. Something flowery, maybe? Or did you use the strawberry-scented perfume Akira’s sister gifted you, claiming she was too grown up for such a sweet scent? You wonder if he notices a difference, if he can tell that you’re no longer the girl he knew. You wonder if you’ve changed at all.
There’s no second toothbrush sitting by the sink, no sign of a possible girlfriend, but the box of pads by the toilet, though you heavily suspect they’re his sisters.
Half of you knows why it still matters to you, but the other half decides to ignore it.
“Is it really okay for me to stay here?” You ask when he leads you into the spare bedroom, makes you help him put on fresh bedding.
“Your mother raised me well,” he jokes. “Don’t think I don’t know what she’d say if she knew I’d let you stay in a Hotel instead.”
“She’d be furious that I didn’t call her first.”
“You think so?” He seems surprised. “I think she would understand.”
Your mouth opens in wordless surprise. Akira turns away before you can gather yourself, and the moment is lost again.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” he claims moments later. “Will you be okay on your own? I’m sorry I can’t offer more entertainment.”
“I’m fine,” you promise, watching his retreating back.
He’s grown into himself, you realize once more. The boy you used to love is now a man.
-
“I don’t want you to spend time with Kageyama,” Akira tells you pointedly one day, the hot summer sun burning holes into your back.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he’s quiet even when he’s angry, too lazy to fully sound out his vowels. “He’s an asshole.”
“He’s not,” you defend him. “He just thinks a bit differently.”
“What,” Akira scoffs, “Are you in love with him now?”
“What? No! I’m just saying-”
“You can decide.” Akira folds his arms in front of his chest. “Decide who you want to be friends with. Me and Kindaichi. Or Kageyama.”
Your mouth opens in wordless surprise, a flame of hurt bursting into a wildfire in your chest.
“I can’t believe you’re this awful,” you tell him, straightening. “What has he ever done to you? Volleyball isn’t that important.”
“So you’re choosing him?” Akira’s eyes glint with an unknown fire.
“I’m not choosing anyone,” you tell him hotly. “But if I had to, I’d choose the person who doesn’t make me choose.”
“You’re a fake friend,” he hisses.
“And you’re an asshole, Kunimi.”
He stumbles back as if hit, and you wonder what hurt him more, the insult or the use of his last names after years of knowing him.
You don’t stay long enough to figure out.
-
You can’t sleep.
Jetlag has never been a thing you believe in, and it’s coming back to bite you.
Or maybe it’s the place you’re staying in, Akira so close and yet so far away from you.
You slip out of your room, past his closed door, and out onto the tiny balcony, your face reaching for the moon.
How can it be that you’ve grown this old and stayed the same age still?
How can a heart hold onto a person after all this time, all this distance?
You only notice him when it’s too late.
His face is pale in the moonlight as he takes a seat next to you on the cool floor. He’s not looking at you.
“Did I wake you?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he claims, knocking his shoulder into yours. “Tell me, how was life for you?”
You let your head rest on your knees.
“Different and yet still the same. Did you know you can never get rid of yourself, no matter how often you move?”
“Hmm, sounds sketchy, but keep going.”
You laugh, the sound familiar but unused, a child’s laughter in a grown woman’s mouth.
“I missed you,” you admit. “I kept turning to look for you in conversations. Because you always used to sit by my side, even when I didn’t want you to.”
“Even after all this time?”
“Even after all this time.”
Silence settles between you like a blanket.
You’re back under the Kotatsu at his home, but there’s just you and him this time.
“Did you ever love me like that?” You ask, hoping he will understand without you having to explain. It’s a memory so ingrained in you, you don’t know how to conjure it in someone else.
“I married you, didn’t I?” Akira asks back, his hand gentle as he reaches for yours.
His touch is warm, his shoulder steady as he stays by your side.
-
“I’m sorry,” Akira declares in your doorframe, his shoulders hunched forward. “What I said about you and Kageyama.”
You stay at your desk, your heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Why did you say it?”
“I don’t like him,” Akira drags his socked feet over your carpet. “I don’t like it when you like him more than me.”
You blink. “Are you jeal-”
Akira shrugs. “You’re my best friend,” he points out. “I don’t have that many that I can just go around and start sharing them.”
“Right,” you bite your tongue. “Right.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Not that easily,” you admit. “But you’re on the right track.”
“Good,” Akira finally allows himself to step into your room and drops onto your bed. “I heard Kageyama’s not coming to Aoba Johsai with us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, me, Kindaichi, and you, right?”
Akira lifts his head when you stay quiet for too long. “You’re coming to Aoba Johsai, right? We talked about this.”
“I,” you rub your nose awkwardly, “I got a scholarship.”
Akira straightens. “To Aoba Johsai?”
“Shiratorizawa. I’m taking it,” you rush to add before he can talk you out of it. “I even get to spend a year in a different country, it’s all paid for.”
“But-” Akira starts, clearing his throat. “I thought we’re best friends.”
“We are. But we don’t have to be in the same school for that, right? Like, we haven’t been in the same class for years, and it’s fine.”
“Right,” he says, though he sounds unsure. “Nothing will change.”
-
You wake with a start, the unfamiliar surroundings confusing you.
It takes you a while to figure out where you are and why.
The apartment is quiet. You are alone.
There’s a note on the kitchen table. Akira has left for work, promising to return.
You make yourself breakfast. Call your mother. Write something like a plan on a piece of paper you find in the trash can.
And then you open the door to Akira’s bedroom, feeling only half-guilty about snooping around.
His bed is made, the room clean. Nothing is out of order.
Akira has always been too lazy to make a mess, so this doesn’t come as a surprise.
You’re not sure what you’re looking for, so you just open his windows to let fresh air in, stopping by the picture frames hanging above his bed.
There’s one with Kindaichi and what must be the Aoba Johsai Team. You recognize Oikawa easily, though most of the other boys are unfamiliar.
There’s another one, with Kageyama and Kindaichi, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, all three of them glaring into the camera. Neither of them has ever learned how to smile properly.
And there’s one more, sitting right above his head.
You recognize it easily, the picture burned into your mind.
You can still feel the weight of the flower crown in your hair, the scent of the flowers in your nose, Akira’s sticky fingers in yours as you hold his hand.
Your hands don’t shake as you take the frame off the wall and slide the picture out.
There’s a note on the back of it, the place and date written neatly in one corner.
You add to it, leave it on the kitchen table before you go and pack your things.
“I’d say yes if only you’d ask me.”
-
Akira is the only one accompanying you to the airport.
You bid your goodbyes already, asked your mother not to stay up this late. She’s not getting any younger, and you know she gets headaches if she misses too much sleep.
Besides, you wanted to savour those last moments with Akira, hug him one last time in the crowds.
His eyes are dark as he follows you around, one hand on your suitcase in case you forget it.
“You can come visit me anytime,” you promise. “It will be fun.”
“Sure,” he nods. “And you’ll be home for the holidays.”
“I think,” you admit. “It depends on how much work we have to get through. First Semester is tough, I’ve heard.”
“But you’ll write.”
“I’ll write,” you promise. “And you’ll write back.”
“Course,” his voice breaks awkwardly, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you more.”
“I doubt that,” he confesses, barely loud enough for you to hear. “You’ll have a new best friend in no time.”
“No one can take your place, Akira.”
He’s quiet after that, all his words spent on what he’s already said. He hugs you once more and leaves without once looking back.
You’re glad he doesn’t. You don’t want him to see you cry.
-
Your phone rings on the train, the sound pulling you out of your reverie.
Angry stares remind you that you’re back in Japan again, and you rush to silence it, your heart skipping a beat when you check the Caller.
“I’m on the train,” you whisper as you pick up, sending apologetic glances around.
“Come back home,” Akira says. “Please.”
You freeze, stunned.
“You promised to say yes,” he adds when you don’t answer. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out of your promise already.”
“That’s not the question I meant,” you hiss. “And you know that.”
“You know me. Have I ever done the unnecessary? I didn’t think I needed to ask.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I am,” Akira admits. “Especially when it’s about you. I realised that too late. So I’m asking you, and I mean it this time, so listen well… Will you come home to me?”
The train slows just as a single tear runs down your cheek. You get up from your seat, phone pressed against your ear, and stumble toward the exit.
The name of the stations blurs in front of your eyes, and you have to blink to catch it.
“Yes,” you answer, like you promised. “Will you come get me?”
“Always.”