grey!

HAIKYUU.

⤷ tsukishima kei ; philophobia | ☆ |  one ; two ; three

⤷ tsukishima kei ; luminescence | ★✯ | one

⤷ oikawa tooru ; regalia | ★✯ | one

⤷ kenma kozume ; stars in his eyes | ★✯ | one

JUJUTSU KAISEN.

⤷ megumi fushiguro ; darkroom chemicals (fluff ) | ★☆✯ | one

⤷ inumaki toge; sanctum (fluff) | ★✯ | one

⤷ inumaki toge ; last words of a shooting star | ★✯ | one

⤷ choso kamo ; laundry & taxes | ★ | one ; two

DEMON SLAYER.

⤷ the hashira ; where do the lost go / the weight of a name | ☆ |  one

ONE PUNCH MAN.

⤷ garou ; teach me how to be soft | ★☆ |  one

⤷ garou ; what the earth could not bury | ☆✯ |  one

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA.

⤷ tokoyami fushiguro ; kiss me (until my lips fall off ) | ★✯ | one

⤷ shinso hitoshi ; two feet to the left | ★✯ | one

⤷ shinso hitoshi ; silence of the mind | ★✯ | one

⤷ tenko shimura ; god please reveal me the truth | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; bloody mary | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; ego syntonic | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; dead on arrival | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; the spaces in between | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; chronostasis | ☆✯ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; cardinal sin | ★☆ | one ; two

⤷ touya todoroki ; dreamless in early graves | ★☆✯ | one

⤷ touya + shouto todoroki ; born a weapon | ★☆ | one ; two ; three ; four

⤷ touya todoroki ; when hell freezes over | ★☆✬ | one ; two ; three

⤷ touya todoroki ; born to die | ★☆✯✬ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; you cried wolf, so i came running | ★☆✯✬ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; 11:11 | ★☆✯✬ | one

⤷ touya todoroki ; rotten dog | ★☆✯✬ | one

whenever he has to pay with a bill he’ll iron it out every single time, whether that be on a chair or a railing. lev bought him a mini iron after seeing him do it for the first time.

always has some shit in his pockets and has ruined multiple washing machines because he forgets to take them out every single time

gets genuinely upset when people throw away something that could’ve been recycled

doesn’t correct people when they pronounce his name wrong. doesn’t see the point

takes screenshots of texts that make him feel good and keeps them in a locked folder

used to hate the smell of coffee but now drinks it black just to prove he’s grown up. still hates it

sometimes types messages and deletes them before sending, even when he has something important to say. will take photos of it just to say that he ‘did’ it

doesn’t really like eye contact. will look at your forehead instead and hope you don’t notice

gets motion sick in cars but refuses to sit in the front seat out of politeness

had a recurring nightmare in middle school that he forgot his locker combination. still sometimes dreams about it

never had a favorite color because he always thought it was too hard to choose

downloads fonts for fun and never uses them, but likes to go through them just to feel something

learned how to make origami cranes during a particularly bad anxiety phase and began to leave them everywhere he went

doesn’t know how to explain what’s wrong, but always knows when something is up

gets really attached to characters in books and then refuses to finish the story if he knows something bad is going to happen

bought a candle once and was too scared to light it because he didn’t want it to go away

only keeps photos of people he’s not afraid of losing. 

used to eat lunch in the school bathroom until he got to nekoma.

prefers reading short stories over novels because finishing a whole book feels like too much pressure. will not read poetry though.

if you ask him what he’s listening to, he’ll always lie unless he trusts you completely

sometimes practices conversations in his head and still fumbles when they happen

guilty pleasure is shitty mobile games. probably level a million on candy crush

allergic to cats but found a stray in his neighborhood and couldnt just leave it so he took it home anyway. he is still allergic to cats.

really terrified of bugs but will not kill them and will escort them outside even if he’s crying

thicks socks with sandals are peak practicality even if he knows its ugly. does not gaf

tried to be vegan once because he suddenly got self conscious eating calamari (it wasnt breaded thick enough and he could see the parts of the tentacles) and it lasted four days

still refuses to eat meat that he can make out what it was though unless its hidden

that one guy who can just figure out the different notes of a fragrance

has very strong opinions on when things need to be washed 

lovesss romcoms dude he does NOT play about queereye bro

keeps his nails trimmed short and clean even after graduating. doesnt understand how some people (tanaka and noya) live with the feeling of long nails

takes incredibly long showers

actually wears glasses but suga used to make fun of him for it because he said it made him look like a hippie so he started wearing contacts in second year until he stopped after graduating

doesnt leave the store without buying one thing because he’s afraid people will think he's stealing but the way he walks out of the store all nervous and clutching the item makes people think he’s stealing anyway but doesnt ever stop doing this and he has so much useless shit

thinks about deleting all his socials at least once a week. isnt even online enough that it would make a difference. has 0 posts and 0 tagged but like 4k followers

always burns his bread. he’ll put it on the toaster oven and it wont even be hot, so he’ll turn the crank a little further, and then the next time he checks on it itll be charred

gets emotional seeing old people and has cried multiple times during outings and still refuses to tell anyone what it was about

walked into a glass door once and still thinks about it every time he sees one

always overestimates how much food he needs to cook and ends up having leftovers for the next two days

thinks iced tea is disgusting and is not afraid to say so

has a weirdly formal email signature

will never admit it, but he really likes being needed, even if its just to reach the high shelf 

can lift an insane amount of weight but still lets old ladies cut in line at the grocery store

learned how to play the guitar just enough to accompany himself when he sings, but never tells people he sing

allergic to a lot of things but eats them anyways because life is too short to be held back by a stomach ache and half an hour in the bathroom

writes in all caps like a law student

got himself toe shoes once as a gift to himself 

does not know how to ride a bike

part of the knitting club at his local library that only has old ladies in it

does not fear death but will literally refuse to jaywalk

speaks slowly and directly not because he doesn't know what to say, he just wants to say it right and not be misinterpreted (it does not work)

walks the same route home every single day. hates it when people talk about ‘the scenic route’

learned how to cook because everytime his dad would make food he wouldnt seperate it and would pile them all into one bowl and mix it and he had a breakdown over it

really fucking hates his sheets bunching up so he safety pins them to the mattress 

one time he was at a baptism and everyone was handing around the baby and he didnt know they were doing the sign of the cross so he just scratched the baby’s forehead lightly and the lady next to him was like what the fuck are you doing

has strong opinions about shoe storage and gets uncomfortable if there’s a pile at the door.

does not wear shorts outside of practice

hates elevators and will literally take the stairs even if he were at the burj khalifa 

not great at video games but really enjoys simulators, especially ones for ‘niche’ businesses

thinks ghost stories are interesting and doesn't believe in them fully but will NOT sleep with any part of his foot outside of a blanket

has memorized the emergency exit locations of every building he frequents.

scared of butterflies

dislikes it when people call him ‘a big strong man’ because he feels it just categorizes him

buys those weird flavoured chips and oreos at the convenience stores just to ‘find out’

cant do pushups or planks correctly but is still the strongest person on the team

kind of guy to fake water plants ‘just in case’

people think he’s expressionless but they just never make an effort to notice

was nonverbal for a majority of his childhood but most people who knew him then and now dont notice that he isn't anymore

walks exactly in rhythm with his breathing. if his steps get out of sync, he has to stop and reset.

doesn’t understand lies. not out of morality, but because he literally doesn’t see the point.

you had a few pesos jangling in your fist that you had stolen from under the couch cushions, and you had every intention on spending every last centavo on a sweet treat. the sari-sari store was only a few streets over, its wooden counter still damp from the rain. candy sachets dangled like flags in the window, and the freezer hummed faintly from the back. 

it was run by an old couple who’d been around since before your were born. you and iwaizumi always went to them after school, so they knew you well, and they were never surprised to see you in the store, side by side.

you asked for two ice cream cups, standing up on your tip toes to see over the counter.  isang cheese, isang ube. twenty-five pesos each. and some for the road. you both sat on the curb beneath the flickering street lamp, the pavement slightly warm from the afternoon sun. your shoulders almost touched, his knee brushing yours. 

you finiyoud your ice cream quickly, turning your paper cup upside down and licking the last traces off the sides. your tongue was yellow, his purple. when you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, a streak of it was left on your forearm. iwaizumi snorted, then tried not to laugh at the mess you’d made.   

he always ate ice cream as if he had all the time in the world.  small bites first, then in little scoops from the middle to the edges of the walls; a spiral motion. counterclockwise, then back again.

“c’mon,” he said, already standing up. “daan tayo sa base.”

you didn’t have to say anything. your feet already knew the way. the ‘base’ wasn’t really a base—not in the way kids on cartoons had them, anyway—but it was yours. the half-built house near the bend, framed in rusted scaffolding and peeling cement. no windows, no doors, just the wide-open skeleton of someone else’s unfinished dream.

he picked up the trash, holding the sticky wrappers in one hand, and you followed behind barefoot, slapping puddles as you walked. the street shimmered gold in the dying light. your shadows stretched long behind you.

it wasn’t a secret. it wasn’t really a base either. just an abandoned squatter house with a caved-in roof and a family of stray calicos. vines crept along the ground, and even the chain-link fences were rusted and pulled into the ground.

there was something sort of magical about that place; the trees towered over your head, blocking out the hot sun. there weren't any proper parks around, or anywhere in the philippines for that matter, but this was close enough.

you and iwaizumi had discovered it when he was trying to find his ball, daring each otyour to go inside in hushed tones and giggles but since then, your secret base had become your special spot, even if you did little else than go inside to lay around. despite the time that had passed, the house still smells like mold and the earthy kind of wet. you’d cleaned out most of the debris, leaving a clear space on the middle of the floor. 

the inside was dim, the kind of light that filtered through cracks and slats in the roof, scattering into ribbons across the concrete. the walls were bare and grey, patched with moss and peeling paint, and the floor was still slick in places, puddles pooling where the rain had snuck through

a few months ago, you’d convinced iwaizumi to go dumpster diving and bring back some stuff to make the base feel more like a hideout and less like some abandoned wreck. you had a beaten up couch that smelled like smoke and damp, some throw pillows with questionable stains, and a coffee table propped up by a cinder block.

you dropped to your knees and started poking at a puddle in the far corner of the room. the water shimmered with the oil-slick colors of old rain, and little insects skated across the surface, their legs barely touching the water. iwaizumi joined your, pulling a stick from the floor and using it to swirl the water, careful not to splash.

they knelt side by side, dragging sticks through the puddles, watching ripples spread out like slow explosions. you dug a rock through the middle to make waves, then tried to catch a beetle that had crawled out from under a plank of wood. it curled into itself when you touched it.

they kept digging through the damp earth—finding worms, bottle caps, a zesto packet... each thing was a discovery. every flick of a finger unearthed a new secret. digging your hands deep into the soil, you pulled out a button, half-rusted, shaped like a star. you showed it to the girl next to your with wide eyes.

“this is magical,” you whispered, like they were both in on some ancient secret. “baka galing diwata.”

“ha?” iwaizumi raised an eyebrow, but tyoure was a smile tugging at the edge of your lips. “sure ka hindi galing lang sa t-shirt mo?”

you shoved your with a huff. “shut up. it’s special.” you clutched it a little tighter before placing it on the coffee table like an offering. then you lay back on the mattress with your arms stretched wide, listening to the sound of the world breathing outside.

“ikaw yung special,” iwaizumi muttered under your breath. it was the kind of jab you made all the time, meant to be sarcastic, just to tease, but this time it was so soft that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

you lay back on the mattress with a sigh. you scooted closer, arms barely touching, heads tilted to the sky peeking through the slats. the light had gone gold. dust swirled like magic in the air.

in the hazy, half-light, iwaizumi’s face had lost all its sharp edges. your hair, soft-dark and curling over your forehead. you could see the purple and yellow from their ice cream had rubbed off on iwaizumi’s chin and lips, a streak of color against your dark skin.

neither of them were talking much. just laughing sometimes, leaning close, chasing after something invisible and gone before they could grab it. time didn’t move the same way inside the base. it slowed down. stretched, softened.

the street outside glowed amber, lit by old lamps and the last breath of sun. puddles caught pieces of sky. you walked slower now, feet bare again, slippers in hand, the concrete warm and soft beneath their soles. you walked side by side, iwaizumi on the side closest to the cars, even though they were both walking in the road.

they were walking the long way home for no reason except that neither of them were ready to say goodbye yet.

a beetle flailed near the edge of the sidewalk, flipped on its back. you paused, but iwaizumi was already crouched beside it, flipping it over with an unusual gentleness.

“kawawa,” you said, brushing your hands on your shorts. “probably got frightened in the rain.”

you looked at your—mud on your knees, hair curling from the humidity, lips stained a little purple—and something flickered in your chest, soft and golden.

“ano?”

“wala lang.”

iwaizumi started walking again, and you followed.

barangay ; neighbourhood

sari sari store ; local convenience store

isang cheese, isang ube ; one cheese, one ube [sweet purple yam]

daan taayo sa base ; let’s pass by the base.

zesto ; popular brand of orange juice

baka galing sa diwata ; it might be from a diwata [mythical creature, usually a nature spirit]

ha? sure ka hindi galing lang sa t-shirt mo? ; what? are you sure its not just from your t-shirt

ikaw yung special ; you’re the special one.

kawawa; poor/pitiful thing

ano ; what?

wala lang ; nothing.

your feelings have always been intense, strong and burning, like you can’t help but feel everything all at once, to the greatest extent you can. and it was like that with him, too. it was love,  a kind of intensity that left you reeling and almost dizzy, with the way it consumed you. as if you had lost all other thoughts beyond him.

it didnt happen all at once. it was a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until you looked down one day and realized you were already stripped bare. he started showing up with blood on his knuckles and bruises blooming down his arms, and you stopped asking where he'd been. there were unspoken rules between the two of you—don’t ask, don’t follow, don’t name what this is.

still, you learned the rhythms of him. the way he knocks twice on your window when he needed somewhere to sleep. the way his eyes flicked to the side when he was trying to hide the truth. the way he touched you, hesitant and trembling, like he’d never been allowed to want something before. and you let him have you. every part, every inch, without asking for anything in return.

you started locking your front door out of habit, but leaving your window open on the nights you thought he might come. sometimes he didn’t. sometimes you’d wait for hours, curled under a blanket with the lights off, listening for any sound that might be him. and when he did come, he’d slide under the covers like he belonged there, like he never left. he’d press his face to your neck and breathe you in like you were the only safe place he knew. he’d never say thank you, never say he missed you, but he’d stay until the sun began to rise.

and this is how it goes; you leave your window open at night, even on the coldest nights. sometimes he will come in, slip under the sheets with you in the darkness and bury his face in your neck like he hates you. except he won’t hate you. it’s never hateful, the way he touches you. his hands find your waist, your ribs, your thighs. he touches your body like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, like he’s afraid of breaking you despite it all. and all the while his hands are on you, he will pretend he’d rather be anywhere else.

he returns to you on the nights when the world becomes too much for even him. after the bloodletting, after the screaming, after he’s played god again; deciding who gets to keep breathing and who doesn’t. he doesn’t always kill, but sometimes you wish he did. because what he leaves behind is worse. heroes without hands. without hope. men who will never step outside again for fear of the shape in the shadows.

and yet, he knocks on your window like a boy coming home from school. crawls into your bed with silent feet and a lowered gaze.  he never says what he’s done, and you never ask. but there are nights when he doesn’t bother to clean up first. his hands are still damp. his shirt clings to him, stained dark. he holds you like he didn’t just tear someone open. presses kisses to your spine like you’re holy, even as blood from another man soaks into your sheets.

you don't want to know the number of names he’s taken or the ways he made them beg. you only know that when he comes to you, his body is sore and his knuckles are raw, but his touch is always soft. his violence never follows him into your room.

or– at least, not always.

there are nights he slips under your sheets and you smell it on him before you see it. copper and iron and something hot. blood clings to his shirt, soaks into yours, pools faintly between your bodies like a secret neither of you dares speak aloud. and you never do. you let him curl around you as if he’s clean. you run your fingers through his hair like it isn’t sticky. and he will sigh, tremble, maybe press a kiss to your collarbone.  you let him hold you. you let him sleep. you tell yourself it’s still him, underneath it all.

you will wake up with the sun. the space next to you will be empty, an indent where he used to be. but he would have left with the covers kicked off and your skin littered with bruises. he slips out before the first bird can sing, always vanishing before the sun crests the skyline. 

when you reach across the bed, his side is cold. he never fixes the sheets. he never wipes away the stains. sometimes, you’ll wake to brown, blooming patches on the pillowcase or the faint outline of his body in red on the sheets. he never means to leave a mess, but he always does. still, you never wash them right away. sometimes you lie there, breath held, and pretend he’s just gone to the kitchen. that he’ll come back. that he won’t disappear like smoke the moment your eyes are closed. once, he left his shirt. you folded it and placed it under your bed, like a relic, like a sin.

even when he leaves in the early hours of the morning when the sun is just starting to rise, even then you love him. you pretend to be asleep so he won’t realize you hear him putting his clothes back on, the soft sound of his footsteps as he goes. you pretend not to hear as he leaves, pretend you don’t know that he never sleeps whenever he’s in your bed. you pretend not to feel that deep hurt in your chest, the hollow kind of heartbreak that never really leaves you.

and every morning, you lie there for a while, watching the blood dry, telling yourself you’d do it all again.

the next time he comes back—and he will return, he always does—you will see the same tiredness in the way he moves. the weariness that sits heavy on his shoulders. and you will reach out, take his scarred hands in yours, and pull him to your bed once again.

it’s only been three months. it’s too early for love, but you’re falling so hard that you stop thinking it matters. or maybe it’s early enough for love because the first few months are served on a platter. it’s everything you ever wanted and more. and you know it isn’t perfect love - but at the time, none of that stuff seems to matter. at the time, none of it matters as much as the thought of being with him all the time.

you know its wrong. of course it is, why wouldn't it be? but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. a dragon, maybe even a god level threat, taking shelter in a civilian’s house. slipping into your bedroom when the sun sets and leaving before it rises.

you know it’ll never be anything more than this. you know he’ll never settle down, that he’ll never let you have him how you want. but you tell yourself it’s enough to have him in any way. you’re a desperate mess, and you know he knows it, too.

one would think it would be terrifying, the thought of a monster in your house, in your bed, the thought of something that could kill you at any second. but the thought is just as exciting as it is terrifying. it makes your heart flutter at the thought of his hands on you, his mouth, the way he only touches you under the cover of the dark. you shouldn’t want it. but you do. you do, you do, you do.

it’s not normal, you know. you know you should feel trapped, you should be screaming and calling for help, but you’re not. you’re looking forward to night, looking forward to the moment your window will creak open and you’ll wake up to the feeling of hands on you, dragging you out of your bed and into his. you’re looking forward to being in love with a man no one should want.

and you wonder sometimes; is the danger something he wants to be close to, does he feel some kind of perverse joy at the thought of it? or is he simply using you to run away from it, some way to forget about everything. is your body something to use, or is it a safe haven. you wouldn’t be mad if it was the former, and at the same time, you want desperately for it to be the latter.

in an ideal world, you could pretend that you were only a bystander. caught in the crossfire, held against your will. but you both know better. you leave your window open for him every night. cook an extra meal, and leave a blanket or two for him.

and you know that even something like this could end your life. if the hero association ever so much as catches an inkling of an idea of what you’ve been doing—housing the hero hunter— you’d be eviscerated on the spot. they'd make you disappear, ruin your image so bad you'd never want to step foot out of the house. or, if they were feeling merciful, kill you dead on the spot.

but garou still comes to you every night is a secret of the most delicate caliber, the kind that, if it so much as brushed the edge of their attention, would make both your lives hell.

but it didnt stop you the first time. and it wouldnt stop you now.

it would be easy to call it stupidity, to say you let your heart lead you. but what garou is to you goes beyond that. it will never be easily defined, what he means to you. all you know is that the moment you saw him, you knew he was it for you—the moon, the stars, and the sky that held them.

you can see it in the way he looks at you—that fire in his eyes, the way he holds your body under his like it’s his to keep. it’s impossible, the way he looks at you. it fills your chest, makes heat rise to your throat.

keep me safe, garou,  you want to say, keep me with you. 

the words never make it to your tongue. the same way he can’t say it, you can’t either. this is just another of the secrets you keep, this thing between the two of you.

the first time you kiss, it’s after a fight. he’s soaked in blood, both his own and someone else’s. his hair is messy and dirty, his clothes are torn, his hands are clenched into fists. he smells like copper and dirt and sweat and all you can think, all you want, is the warmth of him in your arms and his mouth on yours. 

and as you look at him through half-shut eyes, garou glances over at you and away quickly. he is a man who does everything with intent, every step and gesture carefully chosen. except, somehow, when he looks at you. he will take you in unabashedly, openly, like he is starving and his only salvation is seeing you.

it is love, and foolishness, and everything in between.

you can never get enough of his hands in your hair. his mouth against your neck. the way his eyes never leave yours in the rare moment that he lets his guard down enough to show the truth behind all those walls. you can’t get enough of the way he wants you, the selfish, greedy thing inside of him that can’t help the way you consume his thoughts, the way he comes back to you time and time again.

you see that part of him, that you see him behind all the sharp angles and harsh edges he tries to hide behind, is something he cannot bring himself to give to anyone in this world except you. something about the way your hands fit in his, the way you meet his eyes without fear, the way you seem to know him without him needing to say anything—it breaks him apart and builds him back just a little softer every time you let him close to you.

you know, for all he is worth, could kill you instantaneously, if the hero association doesnt first. wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze until you go purple. plunge two fingers into your arteries until you bleed out. dismantle you limb by limb while you're fast asleep, and dispose of your body parts in whatever backwater place he came out of. kill you every which way he so pleases, and do it again.

this is never the man that comes to you at night. the man that climbs under the covers with you and touches you with careful hands is a different person to the one the world knows. because he changes. he softens, and the hands that could kill are suddenly gentle, the mouth that could maim is instead pressing soft, reverent kisses into your skin. the monster turns into something else when he’s with you, into something you find yourself loving more and more. the thought of all that power, all that strength, all of it under your control, it’s intoxicating. it makes the fear worth it.

the world knows a wolf, but it’s a dog that lays his head in your lap.

the heroes call him a monster, a killer, a threat to peace. and maybe they’re right. he’s their worst nightmare come to life—rage in motion, vengeance in human form. every time he walks out your door, you know someone won’t be walking back through theirs. sometimes you hear about it on the news, sometimes you don’t. but he always comes back.

and when he does, he drops the snarl, the fangs, the fury. he sets them all at your feet like offerings, like he’s begging to be seen for something more than the blood beneath his fingernails.

you sit him down and cradle his jaw in your hands like he isn’t the most dangerous thing in the world. like he doesn’t smell like iron and ash and rot. you wipe away the blood—his or someone else’s, you rarely ask—and kiss the cuts left behind. he lets you. sometimes, that’s the most love he knows how to give.

there’s always a question lodged between your ribs: why you? why does he keep coming back? you’ve asked him before, in the quietest hours of the morning, while the sheets still smell like steel and skin. he never answers. just stares at the ceiling like the stars might spell it out for him.

maybe he doesn’t know. maybe he does. maybe it's something in your eyes, your voice, the way you let him in when you shouldn’t. you never ask again.

you only know this—he is something feral made human by your touch. he bows his head when you kiss his knuckles. he goes still when you touch his back, like he's afraid you'll pull away. he never says thank you, but he never stops coming.

you try not to think too hard about what it means, what it says about him that he stays, about you that you let him. maybe you’re just as lost as he is. maybe you’re both fools, clinging to each other like driftwood in a flood.

and still, you try to keep him close. you memorize the planes of his face, the weight of his body against yours, the roughness of his voice when it drops to a whisper. he gives you almost nothing, but you take what you can. you trace the long scars carved into his arms, his chest, his ribs. press kisses to the wounds time forgot. press yourself into the empty spaces no one else dared to fill.

he watches you sometimes like he’s waiting for you to leave. like he's daring you to. but you don’t. you stay, again and again and again.

it’s like you’re playing house together. you know, like children pretending to be their parents and playing at having a family. you pretend this is a real relationship. you pretend he belongs to you, and you to him, and that’s the way things should be. he pretends he can’t stand you, and you play along with the charade like you don’t know any better. 

you make believe you’re his, and he’s yours, and that this is love in the ordinary way.

he plays along. pretends your touch is a nuisance. pretends your voice doesn’t steady him. pretends he doesn’t fall apart when you whisper his name like a prayer.

neither of you are particularly good at pretending.

your hands are the only soft thing he’s ever known. and when you touch him, it isn’t out of mercy. it’s out of choice.

he’s not easy to love. his moods turn like weather. his eyes never settle. he shies from affection like it burns. but you’re patient. you’re constant. you give him the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be returned, that waits, and waits, and waits.

and he fights it. god, he fights it. he snarls and flees and comes crawling back, like loving you is a war he cannot win and cannot bear to lose.

but still you offer. your hands. your home. your heart. every inch of you, piece by piece, night after night.

you found that he didn’t let people get close, but he let you orbit him anyway. at first out of convenience, maybe even pity. eventually out of need. not spoken, never admitted, but real. and slowly, you carved a space into each other’s routines, like two sharp things learning how to sit side by side without cutting too deep.

garou doesn’t remember when it started, or why he ever let this happen to him. the line between wanting and needing him gets lost somewhere between anger and affection. he tries to hate you for making him feel like this—that vulnerable, exposed thing that lives under his skin—but he can’t. every time you show up on his doorstep at midnight with takeout wrapped in your jacket sleeve (because you he always complains about when the food is cold), something shifts inside him.

he hates himself more than anyone else could ever hurt him.

so instead of gratitude, he gives sharp-edged insults and half-hearted punches to your shoulder. because that’s easier than admitting you matter too damn much.

you never talked about what you were, of course. not friends, not lovers. something in-between. something unnamed. but you knew his silences, his scowls, his rare, crooked smirks. and he knew how you pulled your sleeves over your hands when nervous. how you always tried to fill the silence with something light. he never said it, but you think he liked that about you. maybe still does.

tonight, it’s just the two of you in the dim light, and the rain hasn’t let up in hours. it taps against the windows like a second heartbeat, muffling the city beyond. the quiet wraps around you both, soft and thick like smoke. garou has long since moved in, his old apartment decimated in a demon-level attack. if you could call the shithole he lived in an apartment, anyway. 

he’s sitting across from you at the dining table, and though his body is still, you can tell he’s far away. you can always tell when his thoughts are eating him alive. he doesn’t speak, but his presence is heavy, like the moment before a flare-up. you’ve learned not to break that silence too soon.

you sit in silence for a while. the only sound is the occasional passing car, the distant buzz of the city. rain hits the window, tapping lightly, a lullaby. garou has his chin resting in his left hand, his elbow propped and legs stretched far enough to knock knees with yours . his eyes stare out the window, almost blank, the lines of his mouth tight, lips pressed in a thin, straight line. he is, you think, miles away, his thoughts unreadable. 

you find yourself staring at him. he’s still as beautiful as when you first met him.

the memory of that first meeting flashes through your mind, so vivid it could almost be real. the memory of that night—him against the wall, blood dripping from his split lip, eyes like storm clouds; and you, offering the old rag from your pocket, and him taking it, the gesture so small and so meaningful in that cruel moment. you feel a twinge in your chest, a painful pang for the innocence you lost that day.

but you blink, and suddenly he’s staring back at you.

garou’s eyes meet yours, that sharp gaze so familiar and yet... different. he is still beautiful, but those storm clouds have darkened into a tumultuous sea. a long moment passes, his jaw is tense, his shoulders are drawn into a tight knot. the air feels heavy. 

he slowly breaks the silence, his voice lower than usual, a low rumble. “you’re staring.”

his eyes narrow as they rake over you, a flash of something unreadable in them. he shifts slightly, turning his whole body to face you. he’s so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. your heart is a bird in a cage, its wings beating against your ribcage. “stop staring,” he says again, “it’s creepy.”

you feel a jolt in your chest. it’s the first hint of harshness you’ve heard in that deep voice in weeks. you snap out of your daze, your hand reaching up to scratch the back of your neck. “i wasn’t staring. i was looking.”

he scoffs, but it’s a half-hearted sound, lacking any real heat. for all his harsh demeanor, that sharp gaze softens slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he takes you in. 

“you were staring. there’s a difference.” 

he is so close your knees are practically touching. you can smell the soap he borrowed from you, the sharp scent of his hair, the familiar notes that make your head spin.

“why were you looking, then? staring, looking, whatever. why?”

“you’re just.. pretty, garou.”

the words fall from your lips before you can stop them, unbidden, a raw truth blurted out to cover the true words you would not voice. you regretted them as soon as they left your mouth, but not because you didnt mean it. but because you knew what would entail.

his eyebrows shoot up, a small surprised look crossing his face at the abrupt compliment. it catches you by surprise, the way in which even this smallest, tiniest bit of affection makes that cold edge disappear. it wasn't often you saw him like this.

there is an imperceptible warmth in his voice when he replies, softer— “no, i’m not. not really.” that usual cynicism creeps back in. “and even if i was, that’s not any reason for you to..”

he falters, his eyes searching your face. he’s still so damn close. his eyes lock with yours, that guarded expression flickered over again. they are so close the warmth from his skin is almost tangible, his hair brushing your cheek when he shifts.

“you’re just…. you’re just ridiculous.”  there’s a bite to his voice, although you’re almost sure it’s not meant for you.  “you can’t go around calling everyone beautiful, or handsome, or whatever. it’s dumb. it’s a shitty thing to do. ’specially if you dont mean it. ”

his voice is a low murmur, eyes fixed to the window across the room. “what’s the point anyway? it’s not like anyone else would ever–”

it’s not like anyone else would ever think you’d be worth it.

those unspoken words hang unspoken between you, that ugly unspoken truth you’d both rather bury. you know it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy on your part.

“anyway…” garou’s voice is louder now, the words sharp and final, nailing the head on the coffin before the body was even cold. you look away, your eyes roaming the grooves of the table now, the sudden silence deafening. “that still doesn’t explain why you were staring.”

god, why was everything with him a battle?

he pauses, his eyes roaming your face. something softens in the lines of his mouth, that hard expression melting away. “or maybe you were just…admiring.” the last word hangs heavy, as if that thought were hard to say out loud.

there is a quiet pause between you. the rain falls. 

“or maybe it’s just because you’ve got a stupid crush on me.” 

“maybe i do.”

garou’s expression shifts. he seems suddenly lost for words, his mouth opening and closing several times. but that usual mask of annoyance is there, the one that covers the warm feeling in his chest. that wasnt a confirmation by any means, but he knows that look on your face.

“then you’re stupid.” he retorts, but it sounds flat, not biting. his voice takes on a harsh edge again, a cold mask of cynicism. but the words sound hollow, a defense against what you both know to be true. “you’ll just end up getting hurt. you’ll just end up disappointed. so stop, before it’s too late.”

the words are a plea, a warning, and they leave a bitter taste in your mouth. “stop thinking i’m some…prince charming coming to save your sorry ass. i’m not. and i never was. im a fuckin’ hero hunter, not some knight in shinin’ armour.”

you feel that bird in your cage twist again, its wings beating harder. “i just said you looked nice, garou.”

his hands ball into loose fists, nails digging into the skin. the rain beats against the window and he scoffs. 

“and like i said…” the words are a low rumble, rough and harsh, “you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment, because…”

garou pauses, his eyes flitting to your own. in that brief second, you see that flicker of pain, that flash of vulnerability beneath his steely gaze. 

“...i’m not worth it, okay?”

you know otherwise. youve always known otherwise, since the day you’ve met him. and youve never once thought that he wasnt worth it, even with all the problems that came with him. the incompetency and self-independence all at once, the mood swings, the sudden disappearances. you never thought of him once as an inconvenience.

you have known each other a long time—too a long time, in your opinion.  he was always your shadow, following you around like a lost puppy, as much as he hates to admit it, and you have long-forgotten the point where the line between ‘my best friend’ and ‘my everything’ had vanished.

garou is looking at you now, his eyes like storm clouds. the harsh light from the streetlamp outside the window sills makes his hair look as if it were glowing. you know that sharp gaze, even now, those eyes that see the real you. “you can do better than me.”

your hand slowly creeps over to where his rests on the counter. 

he watches as your hand reaches out to grasp his, your fingers curling around his in a loose, tentative grip, the touch like a spark in a damp forest. his hand is much rougher than yours, calloused over the years and thick with overlapping scars and defined creases. his jaw is tight, his eyes a tumultuous mix of emotions — frustration, pain, something deeper and more complex. something that, even all these years later, you have still yet to decipher.

the rain is still beating against the window, a steady drumbeat that seems to match the racing of your heart. his hand clenches around yours, his fingers a warm, strong presence against your skin. 

“you don’t get it.”

“then let me. i want to know you. is that so hard to understand?”

garou looks up. there is a flicker of something like pain in those stormy eyes, a flash of vulnerability. “there is nothing to know,” he says, the words harsh, almost a snarl. but that’s a lie, and deep down you both know it. 

but you do know him. the quiet, the loud—the way he smiles and scoffs, how he grumbles and growls like a little wolf when you tease him, the way his eyes soften when he thinks you’re not looking. the way he likes his coffee, and the way he doesnt like his crust on sandwiches. you know him. not the hero hunter. not wolfman. garou. your garou.

“you don’t know what you’re asking. you’re just talkin’ to talk.” 

and oh, you know he means it you know that behind those harsh words is a desperate plea. you know his secrets, his pain, the scars only visible in the dim, lingering look of his eyes. 

and you know that you love those scars, know the way that rough, calloused skin feels beneath your fingers, the way his hair feels beneath your hands, the way his touch sets your body aflame without even meaning to, every brush of shoulders in the kitchen, every lingering touch in the mornings.

garou wants to hide those scars behind a mask of indifference, a hard exterior, but he can’t hide them forever, not from you. you know the way his eyes flicker when you touch him, like lightning across a rainstorm, the way his mouth twitches, the way the corner of his lip curves up, the way his shoulders lose that tight edge. 

“you’ll hate me.” his voice is barely above a whisper, raw with the words held back for so long. “i hate me.”

there is nothing you can say now. not at this moment. so you wordlessly press your lips to his knuckles. 

his eyes close for a brief moment and his shoulders relax imperceptibly, that sharp edge in them dulling when your lips press against his knuckles. 

you see the way his shoulders sag, a deep sigh, like he is letting go of something, releasing a tension that has been coiled and wound so tightly for too long. that familiar scowl is back, a mask, but the eyes behind it are softer, the storm cloud in those golden eyes a little more muted.

talks to himself.

gets mistaken for a student at least once a year.

has the worst caffeine tolerance known to man but drinks coffee anyways

cannot parallel park to save his life.

hates calling in sick. will literally be on his deathbed and will still wonder if he could make it. 

has frequent dreams where he just forgets to write in kanji despite being a japanese lit teacher 

had a scene phase in first year and still sometimes logs onto his myspace to feel something

sets 5 alarms two minutes apart but always wakes up before the first one even goes off

stationery nerd. only grades with a 0.3 muji or nothing at all. also always keeps one on him.

used to be much shyer than he actually is, but forced himself out of it for the sake of his students.

has the spice tolerance of a thai person. makes keishin embarrassed because he cant handle spice.

gets drunk so unbelievably quickly that you cant even pregame with him

everyones favourite teacher. does not have a moment of peace during the school day because  students greet him in the mornings, eat lunch with him, and say goodbye to him in the afternoon

gets so unbelievably sunburnt so easily even if he wears spf 100. burns like a white man.

loves crosswords and sudoku and trivia and anything in that genre of puzzle

gets really excited about snow days but pretends to be annoyed like all the other staff.

used to be that kid that would be hyped as fuck to clean the blackboard at the end of class

unironically has a mug that says ‘i teach, what’s your superpower?’

waters down his soda instead of buying a non-fizzy version because keishin doesnt sell it

always has a window cracked open in the classroom even if its the dead of winter

insists on walking everywhere even if it takes longer

is always convinced that he left the microwave on everytime he leaves the house even though he literally doesnt own one

deathly scared of deep water but still goes to the beach because he loves hanging out with people

secretly dreams of publishing a book but won’t admit it

is the type to bring snacks for everyone without being asked.

uses a paper planner and color codes everything. digital calendars give him anxiety.

his eyesight is actually so unbelievably bad that he pays extra to get thin lenses so people dont make fun of him despite him literally being a grown man

calls his mom every friday night, no exceptions.

gets stressed out by online forms. will call customer service before trying to fill one out. keishin is the other way around.

was a vegetarian for two years. not for health. just couldn’t justify eating meat. still eats mostly plant-based, but is a little more forgiving to himself now.

gets really into history documentaries and has surprisingly strong opinions about ancient rome.

ended up getting a license to substitute at karasuno. tells people who ask that its ‘for extra cash’ but its really to make it up to takeda for all hes done. wont say it out loud though.

always keeps gum in his pockets but half of it has probably turned to lint by now

used to be that metalhead that had insane hair but it was so fried he had to buzz it all off. did not learn his lesson and bleached it twice a year until he turned 30

hates ironing clothes. wears everything wrinkled unless he really has to

drinks black coffee when hes out with people but when he’s alone he drinks the fuck out of a mocha dude

has a group chat with old teammates that’s been active since 2007

once tried yoga and pulled something. never went back after that

actually a really good cook but pretends he’s not because he doesn’t want to do it often

did most, if not all of his piercings himself with a safety pin and lighter.  the only ones he got professionally done are his bridge and lips.

also has some questionable stick and pokes on his ankles that he never bothered to go over despite having a whole finished sleeve

sometimes forgets he’s a coach and starts playing during practice

still has the bike he bought in highschool but barely uses it now because takeda always drives him around if they’re going somewhere (he pretend he hates it but he knows hes getting too old for it)

crazy good at any card game and at shuffling cards

quit smoking a little after everyone graduated by switching to nicotine gummies and putting them inside of an icebreaker container and letting god decide if he decides to be fried or not

has the worst handwriting youve ever seen in your life like im actually so serious

honest to god gets violent if he gets a paper straw with his drink and will go on a rant everytime

his fridge has beer, leftover curry, and maybe one onion

wears the same watch every day even though it’s been dead for months

snores like a fucking sailor to the point where after the first overnight team outing takeda bought him a cpap because he thought it was sleep apnea. turns out hes just like that.

has a stash of energy drinks “for emergencies” but drinks them recreationally

claw machine victim. has never won one ever but tries everytime. its like microdosing gambling

says he hates drama but knows everything. such a chismoso but pretends otherwise.

that guy who falls asleep anywhere. standing up, sitting down, in a bar, anywhere. out like a light.

has a very specific bedtime routine but gets mad if anyone asks about it

believes in tough love but not cruelty

the two of you are still just kids, really. nineteen, maybe twenty. students clinging to discount bento boxes and dreams you can barely afford to chase. he wants to be an editor. you want to write. so you both work. a lot. not smart, not easy—just constantly. minimum wage jobs stacked like sandbags against a flood of rent and bills and the kind of hunger that instant noodles and a sapporo can’t fix.

nights are often the hardest, if you’re even home for them, anyway. you constantly wake up, teeth chattering, the futon empty beside you once more. keiji’s usually out until eleven, playing in a small-time jazz band that pays him in beer and a few thousand yen  at most, so there’s nobody to spoon behind, nobody to cling to and beg for the smallest bit of warmth.

some days you pass like ships in the dark. you sleep in shifts. you eat in silence. you text each other from 'opposite ends of the city, little things like ‘there’s leftovers in the fridge.’ or ‘don’t forget your umbrella.’ and somehow, in the middle of all that exhaustion, you fall into something bigger than just survival.

sometimes you both get home, exhausted from classes, and crash onto the tiny secondhand couch and binge watch movies until you pass out. he lets you lean into his shoulder or use his lap as a pillow. he always complains about it, but he never pushes you away. he never even moves an inch when your hair accidentally gets into his mouth. 

keiji cooks cheap meals for you since he’s the better cook. you have a joint savings account—for emergencies—that you use half the time just to get each other random things that remind you of the other.

sometimes you two argue over what movie to watch, what takeout to order, when to get groceries. it’s never serious, and it never last more than a night.  you think you bicker more than necessary, but he looks at you with that crescent moon smile like he’s waiting to see what you’ll say next.

and oh, how you love him so.

you fall in love again, every day, in the same damn apartment with the same damn boy—just in new, quieter ways. like the way he always warms your side of the bed. like the way he lets you steal his sweaters, even when it’s his last clean one. like the way he listens, really listens, when you read your stories aloud.

he’s gentle when it counts, when he’s helping you with homework or making you both dinner. but he’s rougher than he looks, though. his skin is littered with scrapes and scars from volleyball or whatever dead end job he’s picked up this week, some newer than others. he never asks for help cleaning them, not until you forcibly pin him down to treat them.

he tries for the, ‘its just a scratch.’  excuse, but you've heard the story enough times to know better. he'll put off taking care of himself for days. every time he finally lets you wrap up his arm or disinfect a cut on his knee, it’s deep and raw, and you know without having to ask that it’s been hurting for an ungodly amount of time before he decided to tell you. 

keiji’s stubborn. but you’ve taken to picking your battles. he drives you insane, in the best possible way.

and here’s the worst part—he’d  met other guys in university. good-looking ones, nice ones, ones who asked him out with a cocky confidence that he thought was mildly attractive if he was drunk enough. ones who called him pet names and pulled him into them and bought him coffee and gifts. but he turned them all away, quietly and politely, the same way he did as a child. because he realized a long time ago that he couldn’t love anyone else the way he loved you.

he can’t even begin to count the times he almost—almost—let someone else’s hands run along his hips, or caress his cheek, or tuck his hair behind his ear so it’s out of his eyes, the same way yours do. 

keiji’s not stupid. he knows he’s handsome. he knows he’s attractive, and  he knows people want him. he just doesn’t want their hands on him. he can only tolerate yours.

he’s loved you in one way or another, since he was thirteen. the kind of love that stays quiet, waiting patiently to unfold into something louder. something real. his fate was sealed the day you gave him your last stick of gum during finals, closing his fingers over them as if it were something special.

he’s been your constant, your steady. you don’t know your future, you don’t even have a plan for the next day, but he’s the thing you’re sure of. you love him, you think, like you’d love a well written story. because keiji isnt good at writing stories, he’s good at reading them.

and it's been years. highschool has long passed, as has volleyball, at least for him. he found a steady job at a publishing house and works there from nine to five. quit the job at the konbini, and the sketchy animal cafe. the apartment stays the same, as does he. 

keiji still has the bags under his eyes, but he’s more put-together now. his hair is always cut in a way that doesn’t require more than a quick comb, choosing wearing it slightly shorter so it doesn’t fall into his eyes, much to your dismay. he doesnt quite understand what you mean by angels losing their wings when you’re standing right in front of him.

he’s more polished: button-up shirts and slacks instead of jeans and band tees, slacks instead of sneakers, a real watch not the shitty 15 year old digi casio his mother gave him.

he gets his first small-time promotion after a year, and the second a year later. he stops playing in the jazz band, instead choosing to come home to you.

but he still has that quiet, almost-disinterested thing about him that most people take for boredom, but you’ve gotten used to it enough to know that the eyes looking at you over the rim of his glasses are anything but bored.

keiji buys you random gifts, still—a video game you mentioned once, the coffee blend you like best, a pair of scissors that you'd complained about losing. sometimes he wakes up with a bad headache, and you bring him cups of tea. sometimes he forgets to eat because his work is stressful, and you bring him a quick lunch. sometimes you're both overwhelmed, and you crash and spend the entire day in.

he knows you better than anyone. he knows you like horror movies with terrible acting, hates your birthday, and still read your old childhood diary when you were teenagers because you kept it under your bed. he still has a stash of his old poetry written in the margins of your notebooks. he knows your first memory, your favorite food, and what you hate most in yourself. 

the first time you kiss each other, it’s both as awkward and as natural as you thought it would be. it took seven years, but he still tastes like coffee and cheap beer.

it takes him a moment to react, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. but he recovers quickly, wrapping a hand around your waist and using the other to cup your jaw. his fingers run underneath your chin, pulling you a little closer to chase the taste of you.

he’ll never admit it, but it had probably consumed his thoughts for years. he’d been waiting for it in every dream, and every time he’s looked at you.

“your lips are chapped, baby.” you whisper, thumb grazing his bottom lip. “always bitin’ your lips.”

keiji sighs. he sighs the way he always does when he’s tired but trying to hide it. then he leans back in and kisses you on the forehead, right at the corner of your hairline like he always does. the touch of his mouth is gentle, almost too careful. 

it’s still a learning curve. being with each other, you mean. sometimes you think you’re too blunt for him. you say what you think too often, he says you’re too straightforward. he always hesitates too much before he speaks. you say he could do without a filter. 

there are times when you can’t figure him out, despite it all. the quiet, closed-off moments, where he gives a one-word response and won’t look you in the eye. the times when you can’t tell if he’s irritated or sad or angry. 

his hands are always warm though. the one that’s not busy playing guitar chords or stirring a pot of soup or tapping out an essay always seems to find the skin of your wrist, of your elbow, of your shoulder, and it’s always just a little bit longer than absolutely necessary.

but he’s gentle, so considerate it makes you want to cry sometimes. he’s the kind of guy who folds your old sweaters when he’s doing laundry. the one who looks through all your emails and pays bills before you can even think about it.

sometimes you think he’s afraid, sometimes you think he’s insecure, but mostly you think he just needs to be shown what you feel. he needs to be told when you’re thinking about him. he needs to be reassured. he needs to be touched—not just in the bedroom, but in those quiet moments in the kitchen, those moments when you’re both tired and watching old movies. 

you still bicker, sometimes. you still want to scream at him and shake him until he speaks instead of shutting down. keiji often has the mindset of not saying anything at all in hopes of not ruining your relationship, but you want nothing more than to talk it out with him. hes gotten better over the years, but in the heat of the moment, you’ll watch as he slowly zones out, eyes focused on one spot in the room.

but the way he kisses you—carefully, then suddenly, then hungrily—makes you want to cry. he does it often, just grabs you by the waist and pushes you into the nearest wall and kisses you, desperate and messy. 

you don’t even mind getting slammed into a bookshelf or the kitchen counter, because his breath against your jaw, the way he lets you tilt his head by the chin to match your kiss, it’s all too much and you still can’t get enough.

keiji’s till just as quiet as he always was, despite the way he kisses you desperately. sometimes he touches you reverently, like he’s afraid his rough hands will bruise, but he trusts you enough to keep him grounded. you kiss the corner of his mouth, the slope of his nose, press the ghost of a kiss to where his dark circles are the heaviest. 

its raining when you come home again, and the heaters barely hanging on. your umbrella turned inside out three blocks from the station and you’re soaked down to your socks, but none of that matters when you see keiji, your keiji, sitting cross legged on the floor, trimming the silver jade you two had rescued just a week prior.

he’s humming something soft. something you recognize, maybe from that old jazz record he picked up at a flea market. he doesn’t look up when you kick your shoes off and drip all over the rug, but he pats the towel beside him like he already knew what kind of day you had.

you dry off and crawl into the nest of blankets he’s pulled onto the couch. he lets you lay there in silence, lets the thunder roll in the background while you pretend not to cry into the sleeve of his sweater you’ve taken.

later, you find him in the kitchen, one hand stirring a pot of miso soup while the other scrolls through a list of forgotten recipes on his phone. he’s tired, you can see it in the way he nods off every few seconds, but he still tastes everything before he serves it to you, blowing gently on your spoon like you’ll burn yourself if he doesn’t.

you end up falling asleep on the couch without meaning to, the scent of dashi lingering on your skin and the weight of the day finally letting go of your shoulders.

keiji doesn’t wake you. he moves slowly around you instead, dimming the lights, tucking another blanket over your legs, kissing the crown of your head like a reflex. when you stir sometime later, the room smells like fresh rice and steamed vegetables, and there’s soft music playing again—something instrumental, warm.

you join him at the low table. he doesn’t say anything, just slides you a bowl and a sleepy smile that means: i love you like this, too, even when you’re quiet.

you sit across from each other, knees almost touching. he’s still wearing the apron you bought him for your last anniversary, the one with a dumb pun about eggplants. you said it made him look like a husband. he doesnt argue.

later that night, keiji murmurs soft things like a prayer,  and you want to learn it all over again, every time he whispers it into your skin.

the ceiling is black and the room is warm and full of the scent of his cologne and the scent of you-mixed together in a way that’s both familiar and new. the bed sheets are soft between your hips, and he’s holding you against his chest, fingers tracing up and down your spine in a way he’s done a thousand times before. 

it’s the kind of quiet moment that you both cherish, the ones where the only thing to hear is the steady rhythm of his heart. his thumb rubs slow circles into your hip, and you’re sure that when they dig up your bones when you die, there’ll be a permanent indent where his hand rested night after night.

keiji tells you that you’re the closest thing he’s had to home in years. he says it softly, curled up with a cup of tea in hand and his head in your lap, while you finish an old book that you’ve found on the top shelf of the closet. 

“really?” you ask, and it comes out cracked, like you already know the answer.

it was in the way you pressed a cold glass of calamansi juice into his hands after practice, the way you scolded him for streaking mud across the tiled floors. it was in the way you laughed, in the way you softened your words when you saw frustration crease his brow. it was in the way you knew him. not as a player, not as the small giant who he had hoped he was, but as shoyo, the orange haired boy who did not yet understand that belonging was not something you had to earn.

he did not meet you in the way stories often dictate—no grand moment, no collision of fate. you were simply there, an echo in the places he passed through, a constant presence in a world that had yet to root him in place. you took him in, nothing more than an agreement of a helping hand. hinata washed dishes, swept floors, folded clothes with hands used to spiking.

and hinata did not know when the shift happened.  when your voice became the thing he sought at the end of the day, when your presence became something he could not bear to go without. he did not know when his heart, which had always belonged to the game, had made room for something else. for someone else.

but he knew this: he could not stay. he had not come here to love. he had come here to learn. he had always known this, of course, had told himself as much from the moment he stepped off the plane. he had counted down the days—not because he wanted to leave, but because he knew he had to. he was here to train, to become the best version of himself, to sharpen his skills so that when he returned to japan, he would be unstoppable.

but how could he leave when you were here? when he could no longer separate the rush of a perfect spike from the rush of your laughter? when the love he did not know he was capable of had already settled in his bones, warm and steady and unshakable?

to remain would mean letting go of the very thing that had brought him here in the first place. and yet—

when he looked at you, he wondered if there was a way to do both.

kageyama ✦︎ rivals to lovers

talent is cruel. it grants gifts without fairness, without reason, and it does not care for the hands that stretch toward it, desperate, aching.

kageyama tobio was given everything. his body was built for this, his mind wired for precision. he does not need to reach, to strain, to break himself apart just to touch the edge of greatness. but you—

you were not. you were not sculpted by gods or kissed by fate. every inch you have climbed has been paid for in blood, in breathless nights, in the weight of your own limits threatening to pull you down. you have fought for every second on the court, for every fleeting moment where it feels like you belong.

he notices you because you are loud in your defiance, because you refuse to bow, even when the game reminds you of your place. and it frustrates him, the way you do not yield. the way you chase him, even when the world tells you you’ll never win.

you have always believed that hard work was work enough—that if you ran fast enough, pushed hard enough, wanted it badly enough, you could close the space between yourself and everyone else. but kageyama was born standing where you fought to be.

he has never known the hunger that gnaws at your ribs, the way defeat carves itself into your bones like a second skeleton. where you claw your way forward, he soars, effortless, unattainable. the court bends for him, the ball obeys his command, and you are forever damned to watch.

at first, it’s contempt. then, it’s curiosity. and then, it’s something else, something that settles in the spaces between rivalry and something softer. something that lingers in the silence of long bus rides to tokyo, in the accidental brush of shoulders, in the way his gaze finds you in a crowded court.

he does not speak of it, and neither do you. not when he looks for your gaze in the aftermath of a game, even if you spent most of it warming his part of the bench. not when you meet him halfway, your breath sharp, your heart louder than the crowd. not when the distance between you is no longer a battlefield, but something fragile, something waiting to be named.

maybe this was never about winning. maybe this was never about talent or passion, about what was given and what was taken. maybe this was only ever about the chase.

and maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t mind being caught.

tsukishima kei ✦︎ forced proximity.

hate was not a strong enough word for what you felt about tsukishima kei of class four.

you were mature enough not to fall for his taunts, his sneers and side remarks. you barely ever spoke to each other during practice, and only said what you needed to any other time. nothing more, nothing less.

so when daichi handed you the bus seating chart and tsukishima’s name stared back at you, you nearly turned around and stayed home. eight hours from iwate to tokyo, plus stops. and he was the only space left beside you. you didn’t complain. not to daichi, not to him. you respected them both too much for that. but god, you were already drafting excuses in your head. a fever, maybe. your sudden death.

he didn’t talk. neither did you. the only sounds between you were the low thrum of the engine, the soft chatter of your teammates, and the occasional shift in his long legs as he tried not to touch yours. it was cramped. painfully so. your arms were close enough to brush when the bus hit bumps in the road. your knees kept knocking. every time you moved, he tensed. every time he breathed, you counted the seconds between.

nationals. it should’ve felt exciting. it should’ve felt like triumph. instead, your heart was stuffed with awkwardness, your chest too tight with everything unsaid. tsukishima never liked you. he was polite, just barely, but cold. analytical. never cruel, just… indifferent. and you were tired of pretending it didn’t sting.

the inn was worse. a traditional ryokan; picturesque and paper-thin. there weren’t enough rooms. not enough futons. and when the groups were decided, you and tsukishima found yourselves once again shoulder to shoulder. this time on the floor. this time, no seat belts or armrests between you.

you shifted again, trying not to think about how close his shoulder was to yours.

“can you stop shifting around?” he whispered.

you turned, face scrunched as you tried not to jump him right then and there surrounded by your teammates.. “can you stop acting like i’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“you aren’t.”

and, before you could interject, turn around and wrap your hands around his throat;

“i just don’t like this kind of closeness.” his voice dropped lower. “not with people i don’t understand.”

“tsukishima.” you tried, voice tentative as you figured out what exactly you were feeling in this moment. “you never let me.”

he turned his head, voice barely audible. “you never gave me a reason to.”

for once, you had nothing to say. you slept facing opposite directions, but you both stopped pretending.

yamaguchi tadashi ✦︎ unrequited pining.

unlovable people aren’t supposed to look at each other like that.

he watches you from behind his locker door, the metal slats slicing his view in half, as if the universe itself is trying to protect him from getting too close. you’re standing by the window, head tilted just slightly, bathed in that awful morning light that makes the classroom feel lonelier than it should.

you’re always like that—quiet, eyes turned down, sleeves tugged over your knuckles like you’re trying to disappear into yourself. you rarely speak unless someone addresses you directly, and even then your replies are short. curt. forgettable.

but yamaguchi never forgets.

he knows you aren’t the kind of person stories are written about. and he knows he isn’t either. you’re not loud. not remarkable. not beautiful in a way that catches people’s attention. not smart like tsukki, not athletic like hinata, not the kind of person who draws a crowd without trying.

and yet—your silence terrifies him.

 because it means you’re close enough to touch. and still entirely out of reach.

you should be attainable. reachable. understandable. he should be able to stand next to you and not tremble. he should be able to ask you for help with homework, or lend you his notes without second-guessing the way his hand shakes when he offers them. he should be able to give you a juicebox at lunch without planning the moment ten times over in his head and still bailing out.

but he can’t.

because the only memory he has of being near you—the only real one—was that day on the playground. a group of boys had pushed him down, spit cruel things between their teeth, and yamaguchi had curled inward, waiting for the worst of it to end.

and then, you.

you didnt shout. didnt throw a punch, didnt so much as move a finger. you just walked past, sharp and deliberate. and somehow, it was enough, scattering like birds on a wire. all you had done was help him up, not even asking his name or making eye contact before you left.

but yamaguchi never forgot. he still dreams about it, sometimes. not so much the fear, or the venom. just the moment your hand closed around his.

he’s never found the words to thank you, even all these years later.

and maybe thats his problem.

he thinks maybe he’d rather stay quiet forever, if it means holding onto the version of you that still looks back at him.