1000% Tsukki simp

All that’s to say, you’re not exactly feeling bright and bubbly at the moment and the sarcasm isn’t helping.

When the doors—predictably—still don’t budge after more grunting and huffing, you finally surrender. It’s probably for the best, anyway. It could be dangerous—you never know when the elevator might start back up.

With a resigned sigh, you slump against the wall opposite him, sliding down against the cool metal surface until you’re sitting in a heap on the ground. You keep your gaze trained on the floor, tracing the diamond-patterned inlay with your eyes, refusing to look up at the I told you so smirk hiding behind his hand.

It was a bit exciting at first. An unexpected blip in your day to tell your friends and coworkers about then inevitably forget by the weekend. Not to mention, the man you’re trapped in here with is good-looking. Tall, lean, muscular, with a full head of blonde hair and black-rimmed glasses framing honey brown eyes. You’ve seen him in passing around the museum and always imagined him as quiet and kind, a gentle giant type.

Obviously, you were way off.

The minutes really drag when there’s nothing to do.

There’s no cell reception this far underground. Glasses barely responded to your earlier attempts at conversation. You’ve sat and waited, stood back up, sat down again. Pushing the floor buttons does nothing, walking around the car for the hundredth time has lost its appeal.

A loud gurgle cleaves through the silence—your stomach—as if you need another reminder that lunch was hours ago. You should be sitting at your desk, fighting drowsiness, still a little over-full from your meal. Not slouched here, fantasizing about the ten-don place around the corner.

At least the air conditioning is still running. The faint sheen of sweat on your forehead has dried now that you’ve stopped exerting yourself.

“Here.”

Two packets are tossed into your lap. He tears open a third, head tipping back against the wall as he tucks an almond between his lips, accentuating the long line of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

You almost roll your eyes (of course this man eats plain, unsalted almonds), but not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you tear in to the first pack with a quiet thanks.

It slowly makes you feel better, enough to make another attempt at conversation.

“What are those?” You point at him, and then at your own wrists. The details are hard to make out from across the elevator, but some kind of cufflinks glint on his wrists.

He brightens. “They’re Tambatitanis.”

At your blank look, he elaborates, “have you heard of Brachiosaurus? Brachiosaurus are sauropods like Tambatitanis.”

If you squint, you can make out the golden skeleton of some long-necked, long-tailed creature. “So it’s a….dinosaur?”

“Yes, it’s a dinosaur.”

“Oh. Cool! So you like dinosaurs then?”

The sigh that he lets out sounds long-suffering. “Yes, I do.” He doesn’t elaborate further, and you fall back into an awkward silence.

Finally, the emergency speaker crackles to life, causing you both to jolt upright.

“Maintenance has arrived. Everyone please stand back from the door. We’re going to turn the power off. We should have you out in a few minutes.”

True to their word, after a small lurch and some metallic groaning, the two of you tumble out. You gulp down the musty basement air as if you’ve been trapped for much longer than a few hours.

By the time you look up, he’s already disappeared into the stairwell, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Thankfully, your manager is sympathetic enough to give you the rest of the afternoon and the next day off to recover. (You don’t end up doing much, but you’re happy for the opportunity to catch up on your shows, try a new cafe, and loosen up the knots in your muscles with a long, hot bath.)

Your mood is so good that you’re unfazed by your manager’s request to report to her office upon your return. You turn left, away from your cubicle and toward Ota-san’s office at the end of the hall. Muted conversation seeps out, the murmurs becoming more coherent the closer you get until you’re standing in front of the door, left slightly ajar.

Inside, you hear a man’s voice. “…could include fieldwork footage to get students excited about the paleontology summer camp.”

“That’s a great idea, Tsukishima-hakase! I’ll be sure to let our media tech know,” Ota responds.

You give a perfunctory knock before pushing open the door.

“Ah- here she is now.”

You greet Ota-san with a polite bow, and she beams back warmly, gesturing toward the other person in the room.

“Welcome back. This is Dr. Tsukishima Kei, curator of paleontology.”

The man stands up, turning as she introduces you, and you both stiffen in surprise. He’s in a completely different outfit, but the same dinosaur cufflinks gleam at his wrists and the same disapproving frown cuts across his face. For the sake of professionalism, you reach out to shake his hand, which he accepts with reluctance.

You’re not quite seated before Ota launches right in.

“As you know, the museum’s 150th anniversary is coming up…promotional videos with each department…highlight reel for the exhibit, maybe a ‘day in the life’ type video following our curators around…and then for children’s day, we were thinking…”

The details for the project barely register as you sit next to Tsukishima, already feeling the tension again in your neck and shoulders.

With their shining armour, gleaming swords and most importantly, the respect of his fellow man, it was a tantalising fantasy and one he had harboured since the day he was saved by one. The details didn’t matter, and in truth, he was too young to recall the event, but everyone had told him that a knight had been the one to save him and his mother from the brutality of drunkards. 

At the age of fourteen he started training when everyone else had gone to bed for the night. His body might have been weary from the day’s chores, but his determination saw him through the routines he had memorised from watching the soldiers and the knights practising in the yard. He oftentimes pushed himself until he was physically sick from the exertion; muscles aching from overuse, legs trembling and head swimming, and yet he never gave up. 

And it paid off. 

Now, at the age of twenty-three, he was a part of the elite training unit. Yaku was no knight and never would be, he knew that, but he was still a part of their world. However, he was still underestimated, especially by new recruits, and he sorely enjoyed proving them wrong and quickly too. No one was more skilled or proficient in hand-to-hand combat than he, and in his mind, he deserved a little more recognition than he got.  

Those destined to join the illustrious ranks of the knights had a way of looking down their nose at Yaku, and it never failed to rub him the wrong way. Those chosen to fill in with the ranks of regular soldiers didn’t bother him as much, not unless there was someone looking to prove themselves and unwittingly deciding that Yaku would be the easiest target. It never ended well for those ones. 

So, here he was; mud seeping into his boots which had one too many holes in them and a steady trickle of rain impairing his vision and bringing his sandy hair low across his brow. That same mud was splattered across his opponent in dirty streaks; his backside sodden from where he had landed and a nasty cut to his temple from where Yaku’s fist had caught harder than intended. The man looked stunned from being knocked down by someone nearly a head shorter than he, his face twisting into an ugly sneer as he planted two hands into the muck in an effort to right himself. 

“I think,” came the voice of the instructor, Sir Nekomata, “that is enough training for one day.” 

Yaku was about object when a hand landed on his shoulder, the fingers squeezing with enough strength to carry the warning. He had always liked Nekomata, and of all the retired knight captains, he was the nicest to him. He didn’t talk about him behind his back, didn’t scoff when he was called up to demonstrate strategic moves to be used in the event a knight lost his sword, and he even smiled, which in itself was a rarity. 

“You two,” Ser Nekomata called to two soldiers standing to the side laughing behind their hands like hyenas. They stiffened at being spoken to, the laughter dying in an instant and their bodies jerking into action from years of rigorous discipline. “Take this one to have his wound tended then report back to your squad captain, and let this be a lesson to you all… never underestimate your opponent until you see them fight.” 

One by one, they all left until it was only Yaku remaining. He huffed loudly, the cold air shocking his lungs, but at least the rain had stopped. There was a thrill in his heart at hearing Nekomata’s words, and as he stood in the centre of the training circle clenching his fists, he wondered if you had been watching. 

He didn’t know your name, just that you were the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on. Soft generous curves, supple skin and the warmest smile. You laughed often whenever he saw you in the courtyard and the sound followed him home on those nights where his body ached the most. What he wouldn’t give to hear that laughter and know he was the reason, not for you to laugh at him, but with him. He reckoned it would make his world all the brighter. 

Once or twice, he had caught your eye in passing, although he was always quick to avert his gaze and once, he thought he had glimpsed you reaching out to him from the corner of his eye. It was probably wishful thinking on his part, the household staff rarely mingled with the outside staff, and he was nothing special to warrant the attention from one so beautiful. 

To his disappointment, the courtyard was quiet. It made sense given the weather, but he couldn’t help the sense of regret which lingered upon his skin much like the sweat rapidly cooling on him did. He had been paid a rare compliment, and you hadn’t been around to hear it, not that you would have heard it even had you been present because again, why would you pay him any mind? 

Yaku turned in the direction of his barracks with only thoughts of tending to his wounds and hopes of a lukewarm bath before dinner was served. He picked up his modest medical supplies and let his feet carry him in the familiar direction of where he went to patch himself up away from prying eyes, or worse, mocking tongues. 

The spot he chose was his favourite place in the world. It afforded him a vantage of the sun setting in the west, the golden rays warming the kingdom below in radiant light and dancing upon the waters which curved around the isle which was his home. No one had ever disturbed him here as it took some twists and turns through the warren of paths which made up part of the defence of the castle. It was always peaceful here, far enough away from the hustle and bustle to allow the sounds of nature to reach his ears. 

Thankfully, it was mostly dry when he sat on the low roof arched over a disused doorway which had once led to the old infirmary. His back ached as it rested against the stone wall, the efforts of the day settling into his bones. He kicked out of his boots, tutting at the state of them, and knowing he’d had to use some of his saved coin to either have them repaired (again) or replaced.  

So distracted was he that he didn’t hear someone clearing their throat, not until they tried again, followed by a voice he knew all too well despite never having spoken to you. 

“I didn’t mean to snoop…” you said from the path below. Your hands rested on the white apron covering your dress, two forefingers interlinked as if it were some old habit deployed to prevent fidgeting. 

Yaku didn’t know what to say, instead he remained quiet, watching. 

“Your shoulder is bleeding. I don’t think you noticed and I would feel guilty if it went untended and you became ill. I can help. If that’s okay?” 

His heart was thundering a mile a minute because what the hell was he meant to say? His fingers came away wet and sticky when they touched the shoulder you had nodded towards, crimson turning brown as it mixed with the dirt on his hands. 

Your patience was clearly fraying, a frown tugging your brow low and your lips which were so often upturned into sunshine smiles were suddenly pursed. “I know you’re not a mute. Not when I’ve heard the filth that’s come from your mouth when someone tries to provoke you… I’ve never heard such colourful language.” 

“Sorry.” 

Yaku heard your sigh and watched your shoulders slump as if in defeat. Before he could think of something better to say or do, like excuse himself, you were rolling up your sleeves and eyeing the path which would see you up on the roof with him. His eyes widened because surely you were not going to do what he thought you were planning, and then, you were. 

All he could do was watch, utterly mesmerised, as you lifted your skirts and scrambled up using the footholes inset in the wall just as he did. You were formidable, and he felt like he was falling in love, if this was what love felt like… it wasn’t like he had any experience with it. 

He was pleased you were smiling again when you sat down beside him, triumphant in surprising him and rightfully so. There was a waft of the soap used in the laundry rooms mixed with a soft feminine scent he had never smelled before. It made him want to lean close and inhale it deeply, but that wouldn’t be polite. In fact, it was the type of thing which could very well see him punished if you were frightened by it and reported him. However, he had a sneaking suspicion that if you were, you’d punch him yourself. 

“I feel like I’ve known you for years, and yet we’ve never spoken. Is that weird?” you asked, eyes steady on his face. 

“No, I don’t think it is. I feel the same. You light up the courtyard with your presence, it’s impossible not to notice,” he freely admitted although he didn’t know where the courage to say such a thing came from. Perhaps he was simply done with cowing to the manners of others, it always seemed so avoidant, and he didn’t like that. 

For a long moment, you were quiet as if contemplating. When you met his eye again, you smiled. “Let me see your shoulder. I’m a seamstress so I can stitch it up if the wound is deep enough, if not I can at least wash it and apply some salve. Do you have some?” 

Yaku nodded, handing you the small pot of salve from his kit along with a clean rag and half full waterskin. Was it proper for him to disrobe in front of a lady? He didn’t have time to question it, not given the insistent look you levelled in his direction before you averted your gaze. He pulled his tunic overhead and laid it across his lap, turning to offer you his back and no more. 

He wasn’t sure if he should tell you he was ready, but in the end, he didn’t need to. Careful fingers touched his skin like feathers tickling silk, and it was all he could do to suppress the shudder from his spine. He had no desire to make you think he disliked your touch when the truth was far from it. 

“It’s okay if it hurts, I’m used to it.” 

“I’ve noticed,” you mused quietly as you worked to clean the wound. It stung but he grit his teeth so as not to hiss out loud. 

“You watch me fight?” he asked, curious. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a needle being produced from somewhere about your person. It made him smile to know you carried them around; happy you were armed with something should anyone dare to press their unwanted suit. The idea of you being harassed filled him with a cold fury like no other, and the feeling was disorientating as it was overwhelming. 

“I watch you beat the shit out of those new recruits, yes. It knocks them down a peg or two, and I have to thank you for it.” 

“Thank me?”  

He winced when the needle first bit into his skin, thread pulled taut and knitting the gash closed under your expertise.  

“After they’ve taken their lumps from you, they tend to be nicer to us girls. I don’t know exactly why it changes them, or maybe it’s just the fear that there is someone amongst them who could and would put them down if necessary. You’re not the same as the knights; you’re more like one of us.” 

You seemed to sense how he slumped at those final words, rushing on to clarify. “You’re better than them and they fear that. I didn’t mean to offend… should I stop talking?” 

“No. Please continue, but I do wish you would tell me more about yourself since you seem to know me very well and I know so little about you.” 

The next thirty minutes was spent listening to you raptly. He finally had a name to put to the face, and what a beautiful name it was. It laid as yet unspoken on his tongue, waiting for the perfect opportunity to be used.  

You were born on the castle grounds; your mother having been the queen’s personal seamstress until arthritis stole her ability to hold needle and thread. She lived comfortably thanks to her good relationship with the queen, and you were now the seamstress to the queen’s two young daughters. You worried that one day they would marry and move away, you wouldn’t wish to leave the only home you had ever known and not while your mother still lived. 

Your favourite colour was orange and before you had even said it, he had guessed and been correct. It suited you perfectly, just like this moment with the burnt orange hues of the sunset in the distance. It made him think of a roaring hearth in winter, of the orange zinnias which signal the transition from spring to summer, and most of all, of happiness. A bright, bold colour for a bright, bold woman. 

You loved sneaking into the kitchens when you weren’t supposed to and gossiping with the maids, often over freshly baked scones with warm honey butter. 

“Here, all done,” you said with finality and one last smear of salve over the neat stitches. 

It was like waking from the most pleasant dream; Yaku blinked and turned, completely oblivious to his half naked state. He reached for your hand after you put away the needle in the folds of your dress and drew it close to his face. Your fingers were so pretty, the nails short and perfectly clean, and not a callous in sight despite your craft. He traced a whorl into your palm with one finger, making sure to touch your heart and your life lines. 

“Thank you. I don’t deserve such kindness but thank you and your magical fingers.” 

He had never been this close to a woman before, his eyes roaming your face to drink in every detail he couldn’t decipher from far away. You had faint laughter lines at your eyes, your cheeks were soft and round, and that smile… from across the courtyard you dazzled him, up close you entirely bewitched him. 

“Everyone deserves kindness, Yaku,” you all but whispered.  

He didn’t know what the expression you wore meant, having so little experience with the opposite sex, and it bothered him more than he would admit. What he did know is that he wanted you to use his first name since you had been gracious enough to gift him yours. 

“It’s Morisuke… please.” 

Your hand gently slipped free from his and you shuffled closer to the edge and the path to retreat. It hurt to watch you go, but neither of you could stay much longer given that the sun had nearly fully set and the hour grew late. 

“What about Mori?” you asked with a grin when you reached the path unharmed once more. 

“If it pleases you,” he conceded, wiping a hand through his hair. 

There was no answer, only a smile which stole his breath, and with that you left. Unknowingly you parted ways having kept a piece of his heart, and he hoped this wouldn’t be the only interaction you would have or he would be an incomplete man for the rest of his days. 

Yaku started coming to this secret spot more regularly after that fateful encounter, even when he wasn’t tending his own wounds or cooling off from the insults hurled at him from men who could not even best him at footrace let alone a weapon less brawl. He always hoped you would come, and he was not disappointed. 

It became a habit to spend as many sunsets here as possible, and each time he arrived to find you already perched in your favoured spot, he felt his heart growing larger and fuller. 

You snuck him sweet treats from the kitchens, helped to clean his knuckles when his fingers refused to flex in the way they should, provided a sympathetic sounding board for his frustrations and above all you made him laugh. That musical sound which followed him into sleep every night only grew brighter and more brilliant. 

He recalled the day you had waved at him when your eyes had met in the crowded courtyard; him leaning by the railing of the training grounds waiting to be called forward and you walking behind two older women with kindly expressions. He waved back without thought, and only when he realised the men around him had stopped conversing to stare at him did he realise his ears were a burning crimson. 

Sir Nekomata had noticed too and offered the slightest inclination of his head. The gesture had nearly toppled him from where he stood, and Yaku recognised the acknowledgement with all the gratitude he had for the old man. 

To acknowledge him so publicly was surely a sign that you weren’t ashamed to be associated with him. What if he were to ask you on an outing, or a date as he knew them to be referred by some. He heard the men talking about the dates they had been on, and whilst he was certain half their claims were wildly exaggerated, it would be nice to go somewhere together for a bit longer than an hour at sunset. 

“Did you say something?” you asked when he made an unintelligible noise suddenly. 

Your name had gotten stuck on the way out, coming out like a garbled yelp. He flushed a brilliant red and was grateful for the sunset which hid the worst of the heat from your scrutinising gaze. 

He cleared his throat in an attempt to recentre himself. “I’d like to take out to the meadows the next day you have off… that’s… I mean… if you would like that. It’s okay if you don’t, I know I’m not a knight just a human punching bag.” 

You hummed softly, mischief painted into the smile you wore, the smile he loved. If he wasn’t looking at you with his own eyes, he would never believe the amount of playfulness you could pack into the sway of your head as you considered his proposal. 

“Tell me, Mori, why the meadows and what could we do there that we can’t do here?” 

His tongue was heavy in his mouth, he did his best to wet his lips, but all the saliva was gone. You would bring him to his knees with one simple crook of your finger, and he wasn’t sure you realised it, not yet at least. It would be so easy, and he liked the thought of it very much. 

“The zinnias are in bloom. They remind me of you because you love orange and you’re both so bright and beautiful, and… we could pack a lunch. I have coin saved so I thought I could buy a bottle of honey mead too. I’ve got a mate who brews his own and it wont leave you wanting to die the next morning either.” 

“Tempting,” you said, tapping your lip and making him want to be that finger which touched the plush of your mouth. Suddenly, he felt the little finger of your other hand touch his and soon enough the two were twinned around each other. 

“Would you kiss me there, Morisuke?” 

Yaku did his best not to let his gaze drop to your mouth, but he failed miserably. Not only did he fail, but his eyes also fell further south to the tight hold of your dress and the ampleness at your neckline. He would have whimpered had he not scolded himself at that moment and reminded himself that he was a gentleman and not an animal. 

“I’d kiss you here if you’d let me.” 

He didn’t need to hear your answer; it was written explicitly across your face. Your eyes were low-lidded, he could feel the warmth in your skin and see the shallow breaths which made your chest puff in the most appealing way. It was the easiest decision he had ever made, and also the best. 

A hand slid into your hair, his palm cradling your cheek as he kissed you for the very first time. It wasn’t in a field of blooming zinnias, and it wasn’t whilst tipsy on excellent honey mead, it was on your secret rooftop hidden away from everyone in the castle during the last sunset of spring. It was slow and it was sweet, a kiss which didn’t seem to have an end and neither of you seemed to mind.  

When your fingertips stroked over the scars on his knuckles with nothing but careful affection, he sighed and felt for the first time that he was seen for who really was and not a series of judgements based on prejudices. 

The counter at the bar was worn smooth by years of spilled bourbon and cheap beer, the exact kind of dive that you other best friend, Atsumu would call "lacking aesthetic" and Osamu would judge for its subpar fried food. Which was exactly why you and Aran chose it. It was your sanctuary from the others who would always find a way to join you two.

"You're so egoist." he muttered but you know he's joking. finally sliding onto the stool next to you. avoiding to look at you again for some reasons he can't tell. The wood groaned slightly under his weight. He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed a thick finger at your glass. "Whatever they’re having. Make it a double."

The race of being the early one to reach a spot was a petty, unspoken war you both had waged since you were eighteen. To anyone else, arriving ten minutes early looked desperate, but between you two, it was a secret challenge, which in six years, Aran had only ever won twice — almost like you possessed an almost supernatural ability to beat him all the time.

"Big day at the Falcons?" you teased, leaning your elbow on the bar to look at him.

"Every day is a big day when your setter thinks practices involves throwing a volleyball at the back of your head," Aran sighed, though there was that familiar, small tuck at the corner of his mouth that meant he was secretly pleased to be back in the chaos. He loosened the collar of his jacket. "But let's talk about you. How's the thing?'

"The thing?"

"You know, your life. your job."

You deadpan at him for using the word 'thing' for your life, but you know it meant no harm.

"It's okay, could have been worse." you continue, "spent four hours today explaining to a fifty year old man why he couldn't use a fancy font for a legal brief. My brain is soup. If I hadn't been doing a site visit three blocks from your apartment, I would have gone home and slept for a week."

"But you didn't." His voice dropped slightly, losing the sharp, sarcastic edge. It was lower now, mixing with the low hum of the bar's jukebox. "You came here."

"Obviously. Someone has to make sure you don't turn into a mad man from being too lonely, kita-san would kill me."

Aran laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates right through the sticky wood of the bar and straight into your chest.

It is a devastatingly familiar sound, the exact one that used to make your knees weak just a few years ago. Hearing it now, completely unfiltered and mere inches away, brings the old, familiar ache roaring back.

You feel like the same teenager you, who memorised the exact way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he is genuinely amused, helpless against a crush that had long since deepened into something permanent.

It is a brutal reminder that despite the passage of six long years, the career shifts, and the distance, you are still completely, utterly, and foolishly in love with him!

"Hey? you okay?"

His concerned voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, bringing you right back to the dim lighting of the bar. You quickly blink away the intense stare you hadn't realized you were giving him, clearing your throat.

"Yeah," you say, offering a quick, reassuring smile as you take another sip of your drink. "Yeah, totally fine. Just thinking about work stuff."

Aran nods, though his eyes linger on you for a second longer, checking for any real distress before he lets it drop. He swirls his own glass, the ice clinking softly against the sides. before taking a sip he says the words; "God i missed you."

Your eyes soften at the words, "I missed you too, how long has it been? four months?" you say gesturing at the bartender to get you another drink.

"yeah, somewhere around that."

you glance at him, "I guess that's adulthood, huh."

he hums, "Hey, when are you free next week?" a rare note of vulnerability slipping into his tone. He turns his head to look at you properly.

"Oh i don't know i have to check, why?"

"There's that new movie playing in the theatre — the sci-fi one we talked about months ago. I was wondering if you'd want to watch it with me. Like we used to."

You smiled, remembering all the movie marathons you had with him. "Yeah, okay. i'll let you know when im free, but you're buying the popcorn. And none of that weird seaweed flavor you like."

"It's not weird," Aran said, being defensive of his taste.

"It's disgusting."

"You're disgusting."

"Your face is disgusting."

"Your mom's face is—actually, your mom's face is very lovely. I ran into her at the market last week."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. This is the rhythm of you, the back-and-forth that has sustained you through adolescence and into the strange, liminal space of adulthood.

But as the bartender slid two fresh glasses across the sticky wood, the rhythm started to stutter. Six years is a long time to keep a secret, especially when that secret involves the way your stomach drops every time his shoulder brushes yours in a crowded booth. When you were seventeen, it was easy to hide behind the noise of the twins screaming over a lost set or Kita’s quiet, terrifying presence. Now, in the dim light of a bar in the city, with the specific weight pressing down on both of your shoulders, the space between you felt smaller. And much hotter.

Aran took a long, heavy gulp of his drink. His throat moved as he swallowed, and your eyes tracked the line of his jaw before you could stop yourself. Get it together, you told yourself. He’s your best friend.

Except Aran wasn't looking at the bar mirror anymore. He was looking at your hands.

"You’ve got a new freckle,"

he said abruptly. His voice had the slight thickness that came after two strong drinks on an empty stomach. He reached out, his thumb hovering just above the back of your wrist where your sleeve had hiked up. He didn't touch you —he never did, not unless it was a casual, high-five sort of contact — but the heat radiating from his skin was enough to make your breath hitch. "Right there. Near the bone."

"It's an age spot," you grumbled, trying to keep the sarcasm alive, but it came out thinned, breathless. "I'm decaying, Ojiro"

"Shut up," he said softly. "You look exactly the same."

Aran looked at you now, really looked at you.

Yeah, you've definitely not changed at all.

To him, you were still the most comforting sight in the world, He can still see the same features that he used to see on daily.

Is it weird that your best friend has memorized your features better than you did?

Over the few years, Aran had learned the art of admiring things from afar, while being extremely good at hiding it. It felt like looking at a beautiful gift through a shop window without letting the owner notice it; he could see it every day, but he knew he could never open it to see whats inside.

Just like you — his best friend who he knows should be off limits, yet you were the person who held his heart without ever knowing it. To Aran, you were a beautiful line he was never allowed to cross. He knew that taking one step too close could break the perfect world you had built together, so he stayed right where he was, loving you in total silence.

Is it a bit cliche to fall in love with your best friend?

the answer wouldn’t bother him anyway, since Aran Ojiro has been in love with you since he was seventeen years old, and he knew no matter what, there was no going back.

Sometimes he does wish for a supernatural power that would allow him to control his emotions and he'd stop himself from falling for you.

He doesn't really mind it being a one sided thing though, he's okay with pinning over you for years and hide it deep inside his heart, because if there's anything Aran wants, it's to keep you near him, even if it meant being just a friend to you forever.

But oh how badly he wants to wrap his arms around you and tell you exactly what he's been hiding inside for years.

What am i thinking? aran rubs a hand over his face I need to get my shit together!

"You okay there?"

He glances at you, eyes softening at the sight, don’t you look too beautiful today?

"Yeah — yeah, I'm okay," Aran mumbled, his voice heavy from the alcohol. "Just thinking how beautiful you look — no, I mean...!" He froze, the words slipping out before his drunk brain could stop them.

You stared at him, completely taken aback.

Usually, you would tease him for saying something so silly, but Instead of laughing, you felt a sudden heat rush to your cheeks.

Aran’s eyes went wide as he realized what he just spilled. "I'm sorry," he whispered quickly, looking away. "It's nothing. Just the drinks." He immediately took another sip from his cup, trying to hide behind it. God, he really needed to stop taking sips.

"Ojiro," you said softly, breaking the quiet.

He didn't look up, but his hand tightened around his cup. "Seriously, don't worry about it," he muttered, his voice sounding small and desperate. "I'm sorry it sounded weird i sound weird and—"

"Ojiro," you whispered. "Are you... how much have you had?"

"Not enough," he growled, his face turning a dark, dusky red. He looked cornered, the way he used to look when three blockers closed in on his spike. He slammed his glass down. "Forget I said that. The alcohol is talking. I’m tired. The Falcons—"

"Ojiro." You reached out, your fingers catching the rough fabric of his sleeve, pulling him back before he could turn his stool away. "Don't do that. Don't do the 'forget it' thing."

That's just what you’ve been doing, that's what both of you keep on doing. Forgetting it, avoiding it. Putting things off for years.

But you don't want to do that anymore, not when you’re suddenly feeling so confident.

The bar seemed to lose all its ambient noise. The jukebox was still playing some old city-pop track, but your ears were ringing. You stared at him, your glass frozen halfway to your mouth.

"Yeah." He took another drink, his movements getting a little more clumsy, a little more deliberate. "Because I spend three months in Osaka thinking I’ve finally gotten over it, and then you show up with your stupid stories and your stupid hair, and I’m right back at eighteen, sitting on your porch wondering if you’d hit me if I tried to hold your hand."

He stopped. His broad shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath. When he turned back to you, his eyes were wide, glassy with the liquor but intensely focused.

"I've been sick with it," he said, the words spilling out now, rough and unpolished. "For years. Every time Atsumu asks why I don't have a girlfriend, I want to punch him because the only person I want to take out to dinner is currently complaining about my taste in popcorn next to me. do you see that? see how close we are? I didn't want to ruin this. Us. But I'm drunk, and you're here, and I’m just... I'm tired of pretending I don't look for you in every crowd after a game. Because im a coward who's in love with his best friend."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard it felt bruised. "You think you're the only one?" your voice cracked. "I literally took a job three blocks from your house, Aran. I don't even like this ward. I stayed here because I knew you'd come to this specific, terrible bar if I texted you."

Aran blinked, processing the words through the alcohol-induced fog. "You — what?"

"I'm in love with you, you idiot," you said, the honesty tearing out of you like a sob, though your face remained tight. "I've been in love with you since our third year."

He stared at you, his mouth slightly open. For a professional athlete capable of split-second decisions on the court, he looked entirely frozen.

He really hopes it's not the alcohol putting words into your mouth.

And you really hope it's alcohol getting rid of what was stopping him.

"You—you loved me?

"Thats what i said, didn’t i?"

When he pulled back, just an inch, "We're drunk," he murmured, "This is... you're going to wake up tomorrow and think the liquor did this."

"It didn't," you said fiercely, gripping the front of his jacket. "I’m making this official right now. I don't care about the booze. I'll still want this tomorrow."

Aran let out a low, shaky laugh, His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep and alcohol, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw.

"No," he said gently, his voice rumbling in his chest. "We’re going to go home. I’m going to walk you to your door, and I’m going to go to sleep. And tomorrow morning, when my head feels like it’s exploding and I’m completely sober — I’m going to come back to your place, knock on your door, and ask you to be my partner properly. That's where it will be official, Because you deserve more than a confession in a place that smells like old grease. "

You looked at him, your chest aching with a warmth that had nothing to do with the double you'd just downed. "You're a stubborn bastard, Ojiro."

"Yeah," he smiled, leaning down to press one more small, lingering kiss to the tip of your nose, something he hasn’t done in a while. "But I'll be your stubborn bastard tomorrow."

Kita is absorbed in his thoughts, passing stalls until he finds something that catches his eye, and reaches for the last taiyaki that he doesn’t realize someone else is reaching for the same one. 

His hand bumps against yours and you both immediately pull away. Kita’s grey eyes take you in quickly. You’re wearing a yukata with a subtle floral design. Your hand clutches a small coin purse. Your lips are glossy, but from chapstick or some kind of lip gloss Kita couldn’t say. Still, he has to pull his eyes away from your mouth when he offers you an apology.

“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Kita gestures toward the taiyaki. “Go ahead.”

“But it’s the last one.”

“That’s alright. There are plenty other stalls around. I can find something else.”

You stare at the fish-shaped cake for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out to grab it. You hand the vendor a bank note and wait patiently for your change. Kita thinks that will be the end of it, he’s already thinking about the baked potatoes he spotted on the way over, but then you take him by surprise.

“Would you like to…share this with me?”

Kita’s eyes widen. To be honest, he feels it’s a bit forward of you to ask when you two only just met. But looking at you once more and the way you bite your bottom lip, how tightly your fingers hold onto the wrapper of the taiyaki, and the drop of perspiration he’s not entirely sure is solely due to the heat that slides down the side of your face, he finds himself a little endeared by your courage.

“I would like that,” he answers.

You both walk toward an empty picnic table and sit across from each other. You tear the taiyaki in half and offer him the bigger piece, which he politely accepts. You both bring your hands together and give thanks for the food before digging in. 

Kita feels stiff as he eats. He’s not sure if you can tell but it feels like his body has reverted to being a teenager, shy and uncertain in the presence of a stranger. An attractive one at that. 

But you fight through your nerves better than he does. You strike up conversation first and Kita finds that you’re easy to talk to, and he’s glad the conversation doesn’t end when you finish eating. You walk around the festival together while talking about his rice farming and your work at an antique store. 

Over shaved ice you find out that you both played volleyball in high school. You admit you only did it because your best friend was desperate to meet the minimum number of students needed to form the club, but you ended up really enjoying it and playing all throughout school. Kita shares his own experience and he feels something stir in his chest when you keep full focus on him. So much so that you don’t realize your ice has started to melt, dripping down your hand.

“Here.” Kita reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, patting away the moisture away from your hand. “There we go.”

The performances are long done. The singing of cicadas in the background slowly becomes less and less as the sun dips behind the mountain.

“Thank you,” you softly say, ducking your head to hide the way your face betrays your shyness. “Um…do you think you might want to—”

Suddenly, someone calls your name. 

You both turn your heads to see an older man and an elderly woman looking your way. The man is waving you over while the elder discreetly pinches his side in admonishment. Still, you stand and apologize for having to leave in the middle of your conversation. Kita says he doesn’t mind, even though his gut is telling him not to let you go. To say something that will guarantee he can see you again. But what?

All his thoughts come to a halt when you bend down and place a brief kiss to his cheek. It last only a second, but to Kita it feels like the world has slowed down as he watches you turn and make your way to that man and woman. He’s able to come to his senses quick enough to blurt out a goodnight when you’re halfway across the grass. You turn and also wish him a goodnight with a warm smile that makes his heart race.

Kita doesn’t see you for another month. You said you lived in the area, but he’s yet to see any sign of you. He didn’t ask for your phone number either, which he’s kicking himself about now. 

The summer heat is brutal and all he can think about is how cool and wet your lips were against his cheek when you kissed him. He feels slightly bad when he attends the group date arranged by the matchmaker, already comparing any prospects to you.

When he arrives there are already several other men and women. He finds a spot by the window and introduces himself to those who approach him. Most know about his family’s farm, and one or two ask him about his time playing volleyball in school.

It’s nearly time to begin and the organizer directs everyone to take a seat. Kita hears the door to the room open then close, followed by a faintly familiar voice offering apologies for being late.

Kita find a seat near the end of one of the tables. The seat across from him is empty, but just as he’s sitting down that seat is also becoming occupied. He glances up, not expecting for his heart to suddenly start beating double time in his chest, and his lips part in surprise.