Chapter Text
Age 6 (Kei) / 8 (Kuroo)
The table is too long.
Kei notices that first.
It stretches across the room like a polished corridor of dark wood and candlelight, silverware aligned with such careful symmetry that it almost feels deliberate, as though someone measured the distance between every fork and glass with a ruler.
The candles burn steadily overhead. Their light reflects in the crystal goblets, turning every small movement into a glittering flicker.
Kei sits straight in his chair.
Not because he wants to.
Because he was taught to.
His collar is fastened properly. His sleeves fall evenly over his wrists. His hands rest lightly beside his plate, fingers careful not to curl or fidget.
The adults speak in low, composed voices.
Words like lineage and tradition float across the table. They are important words. Kei knows they are important because everyone speaks them carefully.
Children, however, are expected to be quiet.
Kei is very good at being quiet.
Across the long stretch of polished wood sits the other son.
Kuroo Tetsurō.
Two years older. Slightly taller. Already too loose for the room he occupies.
His tie is crooked.
Not terribly crooked. Just enough to suggest it had been straight once and then abandoned.
One elbow rests on the table despite a subtle look from his mother. His foot swings lazily beneath his chair, rhythm uncontained.
He looks bored.
Kei watches him.
It is not a friendly look.
It is assessment.
Kuroo notices immediately.
He grins.
Not wide. Not childish.
Knowing.
Kei narrows his eyes.
The adults continue speaking, the conversation drifting from schooling to expectations and back again like a slow tide.
Kei reaches for the correct fork.
He remembers which one it is.
Under the table, something nudges his ankle.
He freezes.
Another nudge. Firmer this time.
Kei looks up.
Kuroo’s expression is perfectly innocent.
His foot presses again.
Kei kicks back.
Not hard.
Precise.
Kuroo’s grin sharpens.
The next kick is less precise and considerably more enthusiastic.
Kei’s chair scrapes slightly against the polished floor.
His mother pauses mid-sentence.
“Kei.”
It is not loud.
It does not need to be.
Kei stills immediately.
“Apologies,” he says calmly.
Across the table, Kuroo’s father clears his throat.
“Tetsurō.”
Kuroo straightens just enough to resemble propriety.
The conversation resumes.
A moment later, Kuroo leans forward and mouths something silently across the table.
Boring.
Kei should ignore him.
He does not.
His lips twitch—barely.
He presses them flat before anyone can notice.
The chandelier flickers softly above them.
Kei becomes aware of his collar again.
Too tight.
The room is warm, yet his fingers feel cold.
Across the table, Kuroo lifts his glass slightly in a mock salute.
Kei kicks him again.
This time Kuroo laughs.
The sound slips out before he can stop it—sharp and unrestrained.
It is the wrong sound for a room like this.
Too loud.
Too alive.
Silence falls briefly.
Several adults glance over.
Kuroo does not apologize.
He just smiles.
Kei watches him.
There is something strange about that smile.
It does not shrink.
It does not adjust itself to fit the room.
It simply exists.
Kei looks down at his plate again and straightens his back.
He keeps his breathing steady.
But somewhere beneath the table, beneath the polished silverware and the careful conversation, something unsettles quietly.
Kuroo does not behave the way he is supposed to.
And Kei cannot decide if that is infuriating.
Or interesting.
Age 8 (Kei) / 10 (Kuroo)
The tree stands at the far edge of the Tsukishima estate.
It is older than the hedges that surround it and less obedient.
The branches grow where they please, twisting toward the sky in uneven angles that no gardener has tried to correct. Leaves whisper softly in the afternoon wind, a constant, restless sound.
Kuroo likes it immediately.
Kei does not say whether he does.
“Bet you can’t make it halfway,” Kuroo says, already climbing.
He moves without hesitation, fingers finding the grooves in the bark as if he has done this a hundred times before. His shoes scrape against the trunk, sending a small rain of leaves down toward the grass.
Kei stands below with his arms folded.
“I don’t see the purpose,” he says.
“The purpose,” Kuroo replies from somewhere above his head, “is that it’s there.”
Kei looks up.
Kuroo is already balanced on a thick branch, crouched like a cat who has claimed high ground. Sunlight filters through the leaves behind him, turning his silhouette uneven and bright.
“You’ll fall,” Kei says calmly.
“Only if I do it wrong.”
“That’s not how falling works.”
Kuroo grins down at him.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is light.
Too light for the way it settles in Kei’s chest.
He hesitates.
He studies the tree instead.
The trunk splits into three main branches about halfway up. The lowest branch is thick enough to hold weight. The bark is rough but stable. The distance to the ground is manageable.
He calculates.
Kuroo waits.
Not impatient.
Not mocking.
Just waiting.
“…Fine,” Kei says eventually.
He steps forward and places one shoe against the bark.
The first climb is awkward.
His hands are more used to books than tree trunks. The bark scratches his palms, leaving faint lines of dirt across his skin.
“You’re overthinking it,” Kuroo calls.
“I am not.”
“You definitely are.”
Kei ignores him and climbs higher.
The branch bends slightly when he reaches it.
His stomach drops.
He grabs for balance—fingers catching Kuroo’s sleeve.
For a moment the world tilts.
Leaves shake loose.
The ground looks farther away than it did before.
Kuroo steadies them both.
His hand closes around Kei’s wrist automatically.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
Kei’s pulse hammers in his ears.
The branch sways once more before settling.
Kuroo doesn’t let go immediately.
“Don’t look down,” he adds.
“That’s not helpful.”
“It is if you listen.”
Kei inhales.
The air smells like leaves and dirt and something alive.
It fills his lungs easily.
Kuroo releases his wrist only when Kei’s grip loosens first.
They sit side by side on the branch, feet dangling above the grass.
The estate looks different from up here.
The house is smaller.
The hedges are less like walls.
The sky is wider.
Kuroo leans back against the trunk, satisfied.
“Told you,” he says.
Kei exhales slowly.
“…You’re still insufferable.”
Kuroo laughs.
This time Kei laughs too.
It comes out louder than he expects.
From somewhere near the house, an adult voice calls their names sharply.
The sound cuts through the quiet afternoon like a command.
Kuroo groans.
“Race you down.”
“That’s not a—”
Kuroo drops from the branch.
Kei swears under his breath and follows.
When his shoes hit the grass, the impact jolts through his legs—but he remains upright.
He looks back at the tree once more.
The leaves rustle gently.
The wind moves freely through the branches.
The air feels different here.
Less measured.
Less careful.
He brushes dirt from his sleeves and walks toward the house.
Kuroo falls into step beside him.
“See?” Kuroo says lightly. “You survived.”
Kei doesn’t answer.
But his breathing is easier than it was at dinner.
Age 9 (Kei) / 11 (Kuroo)
The room is too bright.
Kei notices that before he notices anything else.
Light spills from the chandeliers overhead, scattering through glass and crystal until every surface gleams too sharply. Voices overlap in careful waves—laughter that is measured, conversation that circles endlessly around topics Kei does not care about but is expected to understand.
Another formal gathering.
Another evening of standing still.
Kei stands beside his parents near the center of the room, posture straight, hands folded neatly behind his back.
He has learned the rules by now.
Answer politely.
Speak clearly.
Do not interrupt.
Do not fidget.
Do not embarrass the family.
“And how are your studies progressing, young Tsukishima?” someone asks.
The woman smiles warmly.
It feels like being examined.
“Well,” Kei replies.
His father nods once in approval.
The conversation moves on.
Kei focuses on breathing.
In.
Out.
The air smells faintly of perfume and polished wood.
It feels heavy.
Someone laughs loudly behind him.
The sound echoes.
Kei’s chest tightens.
He inhales again.
The breath catches halfway.
He tries again.
Nothing.
The room tilts slightly—not visibly, not dramatically, but enough that the edges blur.
The chandelier light fractures.
Voices begin to overlap too quickly to separate.
Kei takes a step back.
No one notices.
That somehow makes it worse.
He turns toward the nearest doorway and walks out before anyone can ask a question.
The corridor beyond is dimmer.
Quieter.
He keeps walking.
The doors to the garden stand open, letting in a slice of cool night air.
Kei steps outside.
The sky above the estate is wide and dark.
Stars scatter faintly between drifting clouds.
He presses a hand against his ribs.
Inhale.
The breath still doesn’t reach all the way down.
His heart is beating too fast.
His fingers feel cold.
He hates this.
He hates that he cannot control this.
“Kei?”
The voice is familiar.
Kei closes his eyes briefly.
Footsteps crunch softly across the gravel.
Kuroo stops a few steps away.
He does not laugh this time.
He does not tease.
He just watches.
“Look at me,” Kuroo says.
Kei shakes his head.
“I’m fine.”
The lie breaks halfway through.
Kuroo steps closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
“Inhale,” he says quietly.
He demonstrates first, shoulders rising slowly.
“Like this.”
Kei tries.
The breath stutters.
“Again.”
Inhale.
Exhale.
The night air is colder than the air inside.
It reaches deeper this time.
Kuroo keeps breathing at the same pace.
Matching.
Steady.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is quiet now.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
An anchor.
Kei nods.
He cannot say the word out loud.
Kuroo reaches out and grips his wrist gently.
“Then follow me,” he says. “Just breathe.”
In.
Out.
The tightness begins to loosen.
The world settles back into place.
The music inside the house sounds normal again instead of distant.
Kei’s heartbeat slows.
He realizes he is still holding onto Kuroo’s sleeve.
He releases it quickly.
Kuroo pretends not to notice.
They stand there in silence for a while, breathing in the cool night air.
Eventually the door behind them opens, spilling warm light across the gravel.
“They’re looking for you,” Kuroo says lightly.
Kei straightens his collar.
“I know.”
They walk back inside together.
The room is still bright.
The voices are still loud.
But the air does not feel quite as suffocating as it did before.
Age 11 (Kuroo) / 9 turning 10 (Kei)
The owl arrives in the morning.
It lands on the railing outside the breakfast room window with a sharp, impatient rustle of wings.
Kei notices it immediately.
Not because it is unusual.
Because it is not their owl.
The bird carries a thick envelope tied carefully to its leg, parchment heavy and sealed with dark green wax.
Kuroo notices it a second later.
“Finally,” he says.
He stands from the table before anyone tells him to.
The adults exchange small, knowing smiles.
Kei watches as Kuroo unties the letter.
The parchment crackles softly when it opens.
Kuroo’s grin spreads slowly across his face.
“Hogwarts,” he announces.
The word lands in the room like something inevitable.
His parents nod with quiet satisfaction.
“As expected,” his father says.
“Of course,” his mother adds.
Kei lowers his gaze to his plate.
He stabs a piece of fruit that he is not hungry for.
“Congratulations,” he says.
The words come out perfectly even.
Kuroo glances at him.
“You’ll get yours too,” he says easily.
“Obviously.”
Two years.
It doesn’t sound like much when someone says it aloud.
It feels much larger when it sits quietly between them.
The rest of the morning passes in polite conversation.
Travel plans.
Supplies.
Expectations.
Kei listens without really hearing.
That afternoon, they walk the grounds again.
The tree still stands where it always has, branches stretching unevenly toward the sky.
Kuroo climbs halfway up out of habit.
Kei does not follow this time.
“You’re leaving,” Kei says.
“Yeah.”
Kuroo swings down from the branch, landing lightly on the grass.
He brushes dirt from his sleeves.
“It’s just school,” he adds.
Kei nods once.
Just school.
Just somewhere far away.
“Do you trust me?” Kuroo asks suddenly.
Kei frowns.
“For what?”
Kuroo shrugs.
“I’ll wait.”
The words are casual.
They settle heavily anyway.
Kei looks away first.
He does not say yes.
He does not say no.
He says nothing at all.
Age 11 (Kuroo) / 9 turning 10 (Kei)
The carriage arrives early.
Morning mist still clings to the gravel road when the horses pull to a stop at the front gate of the estate. Their breath curls into the cool air in soft white clouds.
Trunks are loaded first.
An owl cage follows.
The adults speak in composed voices, discussing travel routes and schedules as if this were any other morning.
Kei stands beside his parents.
Still.
Composed.
He has learned how to stand like that.
Kuroo looks different somehow.
Not older exactly.
Just… already leaving.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Kei says quietly.
Kuroo grins.
“No promises.”
They stand there for a moment, neither quite sure what to do with the silence.
The coachman clears his throat politely.
Kuroo reaches for the carriage door.
Then pauses.
He glances back.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
The question is softer this time.
Not teasing.
Not playful.
Just familiar.
Kei exhales slowly.
He could say yes.
He could say no.
Instead he says the only thing that comes out right.
“…Go.”
Kuroo watches him for a second longer.
Then he climbs into the carriage.
The door closes with a solid click.
The horses begin to move.
The wheels roll across the gravel road.
Kei watches.
He does not move.
He does not wave.
He simply stands there as the carriage grows smaller, then smaller still, until it disappears beyond the hedges lining the road.
The estate falls quiet.
The tree at the far edge of the grounds sways gently in the wind.
Kei inhales.
The air reaches his lungs.
But it does not settle the way it used to.
He presses his hands into his pockets and walks back toward the house.
The gravel crunches softly under his shoes.
The door closes behind him.
The house feels larger now.
Emptier.
August 30
Private Entry
僕以外 幸せそう なんだ
笑うのが 泣くよりも 辛いんだ
今 我慢しても 耐えてみても
出来なくて 君の手で 抱きしめて
Everyone seems happy except me.
Sometimes smiling hurts more than crying.
I try to endure it, I try to hold it in,
but I can’t… so hold my hand.