[file:Archive]

He, a dashing third-year under whose scrutiny all newbies trembled, approached Akashi the first day of club activities and said: “This is a swimming club.” His voice was firm and practiced in laying out facts.

“I know. I joined it,” Akashi said, his voice had a soothing property of silk. Midorima touched the bridge of his nose, as if he were trying to push up some invisible glasses. It must’ve happened a lot since he hadn’t shown a hint of embarrassment from this failed gesture.

“Your leg is broken.”

“Merely a temporary setback due to a series of unfortunate events.”

Midorima glared at him from where he stood. Perhaps it wasn’t a true glare, Akashi mused, because his eyebrows seemed to be permanently pressed together, and his eyes wore the finest green of meadows in late spring and Akashi didn’t feel intimidated at all. Midorima crossed his arms, the muscles of his chest tightening with the motion. Akashi could tell with one subtle sweep of his eyes across Midorima’s body that water was his second home, and had been for many years.

“I hope you can back that confidence up with a decent performance someday,” Midorima said.

“I will.”

Akashi came to the pool every day after class.

II

Akashi stayed at the pool until everyone went home.

It was habit forged by two facts: one, Akashi didn’t like people looking at him as he walked on his crutches and two, Midorima was without fail the last one to leave the pool every day. He saw club’s activity through from beginning to the end.

Akashi laid his notes down next to him and pressed his elbow to his good knee to get in a more comfortable position to observe Midorima. He was swimming laps, tireless even after regular practice which was intense in and of its own. Midorima’s backstroke was beautiful especially when it mercilessly cut through water. Toes on Akashi’s broken leg wiggled in restlessness.

Akashi’s desire to race him was threatening to swallow him whole.

The sun had already begun its slow descent when Midorima climbed out of the pool; the hard lines of his muscles were pulled taut form exertion. He brushed his wet hair out of his face and it stuck at the top of his head. Akashi licked his lips; Midorima looked good with his hair pulled back.

“You wait here every day,” Midorima stated as he sat next to Akashi on the bench and began wiping himself with a fresh towel. He had a knack for doing that, stating the obvious.

“I do.”

“The club activity has ended.”

Akashi made sure he looked Midorima straight in the eye when he replied: “I like watching you swim. I am hardly able to wait until I can race you.”

The frown returned to Midorima’s face. “You can’t possibly be that eager to lose.”

“I won’t lose,” Akashi’s responded with Akashi-esque confidence.

Midorima fought hard to resist a smile that was tugging at his lips. “Heal faster. Now I can’t wait to race you.”

III

“Captain, what’s that?”

“None of your business. Get down to doing those stretches.”

Akashi covered his mouth with his hand as he glanced at the item sitting on the bench next to him. It was the ugliest piece of ornament Akashi has ever laid his eyes on and he’s been living with his father, who thought expensive equals tasteful, for the entirety of his 15 years. It looked like it could be open at the sides but Akashi feared what could come crawling out if he did open it.

Captain dearest seemed to be even worse at hiding his peculiarities than he was at pretending that he was strict and ruthless when he cared for his team so much that nobody ever quit.

IV

“Did you know that when you’re in the pool, your eyebrows are relaxed but the moment you leave the pool they,” Akashi said and crossed his index fingers in front of Midorima’s face. It only served to deepen Midorima’s frown.

He ran his hand through his hair, Akashi’s eyes following suit. “Water doesn’t stress me out. People do.”

“And yet you’re the captain of a swim team. Full of people. ”

“Somebody has to make sure those eager fools don’t get leg cramps while they swim,” Midorima defended, earnest. “Besides, I won’t be one for long.” Midorima spoke with a melancholy of third-year and there was nothing Akashi could do for him but lay his hand on his damp shoulder. Midorima shoulder grew tense at the contact, skin cold underneath Akashi’s warm palm, but he hadn’t brushed it away. “Don’t worry; I’ll stick around long enough to leave you in a trail of water dust.”

Akashi chuckled. “Water dust?”

“Yes,” Midorima said and adjusted his invisible glasses.

V

“Why watercolours and paint brushes?” Akashi inquired during what he had began to call his private 5-daily-minutes with Midorima after he had done swimming his heart out.

“Today’s lucky item,” Midorima replied and Akashi both understood and didn’t understand at the same time. Midorima cleared his throat as if alarmed by Akashi’s silence.

“How long until you take off your cast?”

“Doctor said about two more weeks.”

Midorima opened palette of watercolours. “Do you mind, then?” The brush in his hand was circling around the watercolours as if indecisive.

“Go ahead.”

Without a warning, Midorima pushed the bench, with Akashi still on it, closer to the pool and sat to Akashi’s right. Then he pulled Akashi’s leg in a cast over his lap. He dipped the brush into water and then into the blue colour.

“I am taking requests,” Midorima announced, a playful smile bright on his lips.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re a captain of the swimming team, honor student and talented in arts?”

“You’ll see,” Midorima teased as he fiddled with the brush in his hand. Some of the paint dripped on the cast.

“Surprise me then.”

Midorima painted Akashi’s entire cast in an endless sea of various shades of blue dancing and merging in harmony with the waves. Akashi was pulled into the tranquil world unfolding on his leg until he spotted a few poorly drawn stickmen swimming in the sea.

Akashi arched his eyebrows. “I take it drawing people isn’t your strong suit?”

A blush settled high on Midorima’s cheekbones. “Nobody’s perfect.”

VI

When Akashi was freed of his cast, the heavy feel of it still lingered over his leg for days to come. He came to practice nevertheless, clad in a swimming suit and his and Midorima’s eyes met simultaneously.

Midorima approached him. “At last,” he said. “I won’t race you now, though.”

Akashi tilted his head. “Oh, getting cold feet?”

Midorima gave a brief smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t healed properly yet.”

“I know. Wait for me for just a bit longer.”

VII

Akashi spent most of that day’s practice dipping both his legs in the pool, swinging his legs and feeling the surface of the water undulate as people entered or exited the pool until there was nobody left in the pool but Midorima.

His backstroke was impeccable, as always, but it wasn’t his backstroke only that now captivated Akashi’s attention. He felt irrational jealousy towards the large body of water that spread before him; it had Midorima in a way that he never would.

He splashed the water with his now healthy leg as if that alone was an act of revenge.

Midorima, who noticed, swam to where Akashi was sitting at the edge of the pool. When he straightened his back, half of his chest was out of the water. Akashi spread his legs, on instinct, and patted the water between them; Midorima quietly crawled in the space Akashi’s created for him. The tips of his fingers shyly pressed into Akashi’s knees.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” Akashi said and brushed some of the damp hair off Midorima’s forehead.

Midorima lips were drawn in a tight line. “I’m still waiting.”

Akashi couldn’t discern what exactly Midorima was referring to but he didn’t pull away when Akashi leaned down and pressed his dry forehead to Midorima’s wet one.

“Thank you for your patience then, captain.”

II

Akashi has only ever had his eyes set on the first place; he overlooks anything that doesn’t shine as bright as the golden plate with the winner’s name on it.

And yet he finds himself skipping steps to reach the unused storage room on the third floor where Midorima Shintarou allegedly paints. He opens the doors swiftly as if he’s offended they haven’t opened for him on their own.

Midorima Shintarou’s green eyes snap at him, his brush stuck midway between a palette and the canvas. His hair is pinned up like an open curtain showcasing his Apollonian face.

He looks like the last sunset before the end of the world; all heart and no regrets.

“Akashi Seijurou,” Midorima says, and Akashi is not surprised he knows his name. “Did you come here to gloat?”

“You think so lowly of someone you don’t even know,” Akashi reprimands in a tone befitting a mother warning her child.

Midorima’s lips curl into a tight-lipped smile. “My apologies. Why are you here, then?”

“I came here to watch you paint, if that’s alright with you?”

Midorima gives an indifferent shrug, but a dash of pink graces his cheeks. Akashi pulls up a chair and sits next to Midorima. He doesn’t speak, instead, he follows each stroke of Midorima’s brush in hopes of finding whatever it is that he is lacking.

III

“How long have you been painting?” Midorima inquires. That day, Akashi pulled his chair up a bit closer to Midorima; maybe what he is looking for flickers for a brief moment before it disappears. He hasn’t touched a brush in the past three days he has been spending time up here with Midorima.

“For as long as I could hold a brush,” Akashi replies. Whatever Midorima is painting, he can’t make it out but the vibrant reds and cold blues pull at his heart strings for reasons he doesn’t dare seek.

“Do you love painting?”

Akashi hums as if deep in thought. “My father loves it and I’m good at it.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Midorima warn, eyebrow raised. His nimble fingers are splotchy with paint.

“I don’t have an answer,” Akashi says, curtly and abruptly. Midorima’s lips press into a tight line but he doesn’t press the issue. He makes scarlet swirls across the canvas and Akashi begins to make out roses; the kind you want to give to someone you would dedicate your life to.

“I bet you do,” Midorima murmurs and Akashi pretends he didn’t hear it.

IV

Akashi has been pulling his chair closer to Midorima every day. First it was an arm’s length away, then it was half of that, and now their knees are touching. Akashi wonders if Midorima will complain but Midorima continues splashing colours onto his half-finished painting.

“Do you think you’ll win with this one?” Akashi wonders out loud, he is leaning on the back of the chair.

“I will try.”

“You’re not going to succeed, though. Not when I finish my painting.”

Midorima quirks his eyebrow curiously; he is a breath away from a smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I am always right,” Akashi teases.

“Yet you’re still hanging out with a loser every day.”

Akashi considers for a moment. “You’re not a loser. You’re just the kind of winner they don’t have an award for.” Akashi catches Midorima’s gasp before he regains his composure and hides his honest eyes behind his long lashes. He continues, “You have what I don’t. Passion.”

Midorima chuckles and attempts to suppress his laughter with his free hand but he ends up poking himself in the cheek with the brush; a red blotch sticks high on his cheeks. He pays it no mind. “You can’t learn passion, if that’s what you’re here for,” Midorima says and Akashi’s heart skips enough beats to leave him heartbroken. Before he could collect the pieces, Midorima takes his hand and Akashi allows him to guide it to the canvas where Midorima presses it down into wet paint. “But you can feel it. And that’s a start.”

Akashi feels the wet paint move under palm; the fiery reds and icy blues try to communicate through coy touches but Akashi doesn’t understand their language as much as he doesn’t understand why he cares more about Midorima’s palm holding him down than about anything else.

He withdraws his fingers.

“And?” Midorima asks.

Akashi looks at his palm, colours mixed in a bruising purple. “I felt nothing,” Akashi lies.

Midorima clicks his tongue. “There’s always another day.”

V

“Akashi, are you trying to distract me?”

It’s a week before the contest. Midorima has left Akashi’s palm in the middle of his painting; out of his fingers, flowers are blooming, some of them are crying. Akashi doesn’t look at it much anymore; his mouth is too busy peppering kisses down Midorima’s neck, where his t-shirt is loose and carelessly open.

“Is it working?” Akashi asks and when Midorima laughs, Akashi feels his smile tremble across his lips.

“No,” Midorima says. “But shouldn’t you be painting too?”

“But I am. I have planted a garden on your neck,” Akashi touches the column of Midorima’s neck, wiping his saliva off. “But I am still going to win the contest” Akashi says, so sure of himself that he has decided to stay late that day.

VI

Akashi never questions victory; it is a given, rightfully his when the conditions are right – and they are always right so long as he puts active effort into defying defeat. He takes his 1st place trophy and smiles triumphantly at the crowd. This was his last contest before he quits the club.

He wants to burn, Akashi concludes, like Midorima’s paintings do. He wants to end up as a dry battery, shining brightly until it runs out. He will have to leave the safety of the path that has been paved for him until he finds a muse he’s willing to borrow inspiration from.

Akashi glances at Midorima, who is standing behind his 2nd place painting, and he can’t tell which of the two shines more brightly. Midorima smiles at him as if he knows Akashi has already found his answer.

II

Midorima Shintarou is ten years old and he’s not allowed to take books out of the family library anymore. He waits outside early in the mornings until Akashi appears, his satchel of newspapers in tow. However, this morning, he is carrying a small pouch as well.

“Do you want to see what’s inside?” Akashi asks and taps the pouch. Midorima nods. With tantalizingly slow movements, Akashi pulls out something akin to a muffin and offers it. Midorima cocks an eyebrow. “Trust me,” Akashi nudges him.

Midorima takes the muffin and gives it a swift sniff before he bites into the soft, creamy texture. It tastes better than what his maids make him. “Delicious.”

“Of course. I was the one who made it.”

“Only you?” Midorima asks, feeling sweet himself as if enchanted the chocolate in the muffin.

Akashi clicked his tongue. “Well… my mother helped a bit but still. It was I who did most of the work,” Akashi pauses and his expression softens. “I’m glad it was to your tastes.”

Midorima knows by this point that everything Akashi is suits his tastes; his boldness, his voice, his eyes…

III

Midorima Shintarou is twelve and Akashi is asking him to follow him somewhere. Midorima has learned to stop hesitating; he gives a cautious glance at his mansion and slips through the gates. Akashi leads him around the mansion, towards the woods. Midorima has been told never to go there.

“Akashi, we shouldn’t go here,” Midorima warns. He tries to remind himself that his body is too big for cowardice now. Akashi’s back is smaller but assured as he stomps on overgrown grass.

“Trust me,” Akashi reassures him. Then he offers his hand. “If you’re afraid.”

Midorima shakes his head; his green fridge makes it past his glasses and pokes him in the eyes. “I’m not afraid,” he almost shouts, but he has calmed now.

“Oh,” Akashi’s voice is a slow burn against Midorima’s skin. “Then why are you holding my hand?”

Midorima looks down, where his hand is clasped tightly around Akashi’s. He can’t tell if he’s sweating or Akashi is. He offers no reply and allows Akashi to lead him.

They end up on a clearing, an artificial hill that overlooks the other part of the city; the dirty browns and greys of the slums.

Akashi points his finger towards a spot only he can pin-point. “There. I live there.”

Midorima remains silent. Akashi’s hand is still firm on his own. “But one day, I will earn enough money and move out. Do you believe me?” Akashi looks at Midorima, his eyes, alive and fiery, boring into Midorima’s memory.

Midorima swallows. “Yes.”

IV

Midorima Shintarou is fourteen and his family hasn’t given up on him despite his mischievous endeavours now and then. He keeps Akashi as his sweetest, dirtiest little secret; he attaches adjectives, whose meanings he doesn’t understand yet, to Akashi’s name and it feels safe, tucked away in his chest.

Akashi appears that morning, as usual.

“You’re leaving today?” He inquires, his eyes full of meaning Midorima needs a dictionary for.

Midorima nods. “In the afternoon. Are you sad?”

Akashi’s eyes widen, as if he didn’t expect Midorima to consider his feelings. “I don’t have many friends.”

Midorima covers his mouth with his hand to stifle a chuckle. “May I take that as an affirmative?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Akashi says and approaches the gates. The bars are still wide enough to fit his entire head through. Midorima can’t quite pull the same stunt. “Close your eyes.”

Midorima’s lip quivers. “Akashi…”

“Trust me.”

It’s a silent request, Akashi’s ‘trust me’; that’s what Midorima finally understands. And he wants to fulfil Akashi’s wishes, one more time. Midorima’s eyelids flutter closed and he waits.

Waits.

And waits.

Until a peck lands on his lips; cold like early winter, hot like late summer, crisp like the spring breeze on the day they first met, desperate like the flutter of leaves in autumn. Midorima opens his eyes and Akashi is inches away, gazing at him like he’s last masterpiece before gods burned the world down.

“I’ll catch up to you,” Akashi promises.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Midorima has never had a friend to lose.

“You’ve changed the curtains,” Akashi notices when he approaches the window. He touches the grey fabric and lets it slip between his fingers.

“Yes. They didn’t match the furniture,” Midorima explains and thinks of the rainy Sunday afternoon six months ago when Akashi stood bare next to the window, his lithe body wrapped in naught but expensive, dark blue curtains. Akashi’s scent lingered in the soft fabric long after Midorima has washed them and…  

Those curtains had to go.

Akashi sets his bad next to the couch and sits down at “his” corner. Midorima never sits there.

“It’s late. I was about to go to sleep. Do you need anything before I turn in?” Midorima inquires and crosses his arms. Akashi lazily drags his hand through his hair and pulls a thick file out of his bag.

“The usual, if you will. I have some papers to go through for tomorrow’s meeting and then I’ll hit the hay myself.”

Midorima is halfway to his bedroom to fetch a pillow and a blanket for Akashi – even though he is half out of his mind and ready to offer Akashi his own bed instead – when he stops and asks: “How long are you staying?”

“We are taking a train back to Kyoto in the morning two days from now,” Akashi responds and begins shuffling through his papers.

Midorima gives a slight nod even though Akashi can’t see it, and retreats to his bedroom. He takes out a big pillow and a brown, fluffy blanket he keeps in the back of the top drawer of his closet. When he returns to his living room, Akashi has already turned the coffee table into his personal mini office with all the papers scattered around it, organized in a way that only he can understand. Midorima sets the pillow and the blanket next to him.

“Good night,” Midorima says.

“Sweet dreams, Shintarou.” Akashi doesn’t look at him, his jaw is focused and his eyes are mercilessly scanning the pages and Midorima would feel left behind if he didn’t know that Akashi can only focus at one thing at the time.

Against his better judgment, Midorima leans down, his palm resting gently at the nape of Akashi’s neck, and presses a chaste kiss to Akashi’s scalp. His hair smells like traffic he’s fought through to reach Midorima’s apartment.

As he leaves, he notices a flicker of a smile on Akashi’s face and accepts it as it is.  

[…]

Midorima wakes up early from a dreamless sleep. The apartment is quiet and he tiptoes to his living room only to find Akashi still asleep on his back with his hair tossed messily on the pillow.

He goes to the kitchen and opens his fridge; there’s not much inside. Midorima rarely cooks and opts for takeouts instead. His fingers are capable of performing many tasks, intricate and demanding, but cracking a simple egg or cutting carrots seems to be out of his hands. But he likes to try for Akashi.

He takes eggs and decides to try his luck with tamagoyaki.  

Fifteen minutes later and the apartment is reeking of burnt eggs and spilled soy sauce. Midorima hears shuffling behind himself and he knows Akashi is awake. He hears footsteps approaching him and he quickly disposes of the wasted ingredients.

Akashi leans on the counter next to him and his voice is drowsy and husky when he says: “You only cook when I’m here; even though you’re bad at it. Why is that so?”

Midorima smiles, humourlessly, and faces Akashi in all his bed-hair, wrinkled-shirt and bedroom-eyes glory. “Maybe it’s revenge.”

Akashi chuckles, the sound of his guard tumbling down makes Midorima’s heart swell with pure bliss.

“Am I that cruel, Shintarou?” There’s subtle warning in the tone of Akashi’s voice, but Midorima has long forgotten to be afraid of boundaries.

“What do you think?”

Akashi looks at him, really looks at him, his eyes growing wide and amused the same way they did when he was faced with a challenge on a basketball court. But then they turn soft, maybe tired, and Akashi takes Midorima’s hand, dirty with ruined ingredients, and entraps it between his palms. His hands are cold, Midorima notices.

“I am cruel, aren’t I? I work there, you work here. I am busy, you are busy. I never call, you always try to. I come back here like there aren’t months of absence between us, and I’m surprised you don’t slam the doors in my face,” Akashi says. He never speaks this much. Midorima’s voice is stuck in his throat, his palms growing sweaty. “But Shintarou, being with you, here, is the best thing I have. No pressure, no games, no competition. That’s why I will keep coming back until one day you don’t open the door for me. And on that day, I will understand, and I will go stay in a hotel.”

Midorima doesn’t hesitate to pick Akashi up and press him into the counter. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss him, sloppy and rough, like he wanted to do last night. He closes himself off all the time, but Akashi opens him easily with words, even if they’re merely meaningless accessories to his actions. Akashi kisses him back, teeth clashing clumsily, as if he’s trying to erase the past six months with reckless violence and searing passion. It drives Midorima out of his mind when he wraps his long, pretty legs around his waist to draw him closer. But when Midorima rolls his hips into him, Akashi freezes.

“Shintarou, stop,” Midorima stops. “Put me down.” Midorima sets his feet down softly, his heart sinking with the gesture. Akashi presses a hand to Midorima’s cheek, reassuring. “Not now, I have a meeting to attend. But I’ll be home in the evening.” Akashi promises, and his hair is a mess, his eyes glassy and Midorima has just enough rationality left to realize that he is going to be late for work unless he detaches himself from Akashi.

Akashi wipes his lips and straightens his shirt; in vain, it is completely ruined.

“You can be quite cruel yourself, Shintarou,” he says, there’s smugness in his tone that comes out breathless and disappointed to be ruled by the clock.

II

At the first crack of dawn, Nijimura’s eyes flew open. He sighed exasperatedly and turned to his side so he could cover his ears with his pillow. That did nothing to drown the moaning and groaning from his neighbour’s apartment. The scene from yesterday evening was replaying at the same volume and intensity; Nijimura often wondered where his neighbour found the strength.

He got up and made his bed. His apartment was small, as it befitted a college student, but it served him well for the time he spent inside. His kitchen and living room were joined and his bathroom was separated from them by a thin wall. The bathroom was in the narrow hallway which led to the front doors.

And his neighbour’s moans echoed throughout his walls.

I never even met the guy, Nijimura thought bitterly as he cracked eggs and prepared to whisk them. He was in the mood for pancakes when he heard rain pounding on the windows.

Ten minutes later, the noise has died down; he heard the door to his neighbour’s apartment slam shut but Nijimura paid no attention to it. He has already made five pancakes and they were all perfectly shaped, not a single one was chipped on the side like his mother’s were.

While he was making the seventh pancake, his nostrils were suffused by the smell of something burning. It was a faint, distant smell but where there’s smoke, there’s usually a fire. He switched his stove off and rushed out of his apartment. There, before Nijimura’s eyes, was his neighbour wrapped in nothing but a towel, his lean chest wet and his hair damp, as he stared back into his own apartment from which thin wisps of smoke emerged.

“Is something on fire?” Nijimura asked, distracted by the hilarity of it all. He couldn’t find it in him to laugh, however.

“I left my breakfast on the stove while I took a shower. A bad call, it seems.” The neighbour turned to Nijimura, eying him up and down just like Nijimura did a few moments ago.

“You think?” Nijimura curled his lip in disbelief; disbelief at how he was less worried about smoke and more worried about how low his neighbour’s towel was hanging around his hips.

“Don’t worry, everything is fine. Except for my badly burned eggs,” his neighbour explained and flashed a humorless smile of pearly white teeth. He looked almost angel-like, with his black hair and messy fringe clumsily hiding his eye. Except angels didn’t usually go for setting things to fire.

Nijimura didn’t allow himself to think twice before he proposed: “You can eat with me if you want.”

“I’d love that, thank you,” his neighbour replied fast as if he had been waiting for the offer. He wore a small smile on his thin, pink lips. The soft features of his porcelain face belonged on a doll, not a lean young man who can’t even make simple eggs without burning them. “Let me just put some clothes on and open the windows.”

Unbeknown to Nijimura, this was yet another beginning.

III

“I can hear you, you know.”

“Hm?”

“When you’re having sex. You’re really loud.”

“And here I was trying hard to be as quiet as possible.”

“If those are your best efforts, I don’t even want to know how loud you are when you aren’t trying to be quiet.”

A brief smile graced Himuro Tatsuya’s lips but he made no further comments on the matter. They have exchanged nothing but names and college majors but the familiarity that unraveled between them put Nijimura at ease; he felt as if he might challenge the elusive raven-haired boy to a video-game duel after the meal.

Himuro finished his breakfast first and placed his plate in the sink and when he sat back down, he put his elbows on the table and rested his head on his clasped fingers. He stared at Nijimura until he began fidgeting in his seat.

“How about a deal, Nijimura…?” Himuro suggested with his eyebrow lifted in challenge. Nijimura should’ve known that beauty is the finest mask; there’s always something sinister lurking underneath.

“I’m listening,” Nijimura replied, his mouth full of a half-chewed pancake.

“If you make breakfast for me every morning, I’ll stop having loud sex.”

Nijimura didn’t even swallow his food before he answered: “Deal.”

IV

Nijimura fell asleep with a smile on his face as he imagined peaceful nights and quiet mornings but what came to him instead was a knocking on his front doors at the very same crack of dawn he had been awoken at before.

Nijimura groaned and stretched, his bones creaking like an old wooden floorboard. He trudged to his doors and opened them to find Himuro standing in a plain black t-shirt and tracksuit with a plastic bag full of groceries.

He was too dazzling for his eyes still unadjusted to light so Nijimura blinked a couple of times. Perhaps he was dreaming.  

“I was thinking of waffles this morning,” Himuro explained and raised the bag to Nijimura’s eyes. It roused Nijimura awake. Himuro’s voice sounded as if he had taken it for a jog this morning while Nijimura could barely scratch his out of his throat.

“It’s six in the morning,” Nijimura mustered.

“Isn’t this when you usually wake up?”

“No, this is when you usually wake me up.”

Himuro put his best efforts into holding back a grin but he completely failed, and looked comically pained while doing so. Nijimura rolled his eyes and ruffled the bird-nest that was his hair. He took ingredients from Himuro’s hand and grumbled: “Fine.”

Himuro’s presence dyed Nijimura’s apartment in strange colours; he sat at the tiny, round kitchen table, his long limbs sprawled and his head comfortably resting on his palms as he observed Nijimura working his way around the kitchen. Nijimura, albeit busy over the stove, felt Himuro’s eyes staring holes into his back and he remembered all those times he had heard him moan. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t feel uncomfortable around Himuro; instead, there was curious electricity at the tips of his fingers.

“So,” Himuro broke the silence, his voice melted like chocolate Nijimura was preparing for waffles. “I was wondering if we could extend our little deal to evenings as well.”

“No,” Nijimura refused right away.

“No?”

“No.”

Himuro was silent for a while so Nijimura assumed he was done with his senseless request.

“Even if I bring the limited edition of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels?” Himuro asked as innocently as he could but his intentions were clear as day; Nijimura glanced at him over his shoulder, knowing that he was about to step into a bear trap.

“You have the limited edition of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels?”

Himuro smirked. “Is that a yes?”

“Maybe.”

“I knew you were that kind of guy.” Himuro said. He sounded amused. Nijimura was quite entertained himself if he were to judge by a shameless grin he couldn’t wash off his face. He thought he heard a soft ‘click’ between them.

“Is that so… How did you know?”

“Takes one to know one.”

V

“Who do you think the killer is?”

“The spouse. It’s always the spouse.”

“You aren’t even trying, Tatsuya.”

Nijimura has had years of experience with late night crime shows but he has never had anyone to watch them with and somewhere between playing fighting video games and watching comedy-crime 90’s movies, he and Himuro switched to a first-name basis.

“How about this: if I end up being right, you’ll let me sleep over at your place.”

“No way. I don’t have an extra futon.”

Himuro grinned, a spark of slyness flashing across his lidded eyes. “You were so confident it wasn’t the spouse so what’s the matter now, Shuu? Afraid that I’m right?”

“You wish,” Nijimura clicked his tongue. “It’s on.”

Fifteen minutes later and Nijimura still didn’t have an extra futon. What he did have is a sleepy Himuro who was apparently grumpy when he was tired. Himuro took his shirt off and didn’t wait for Nijimura’s approval before he wiggled his way underneath Nijimura’s covers. The closeness of his body made the bed that much warmer - and cramped.

“Really now?” Nijimura asked and tried to sound annoyed when in fact he liked how Himuro’s hair tickled the back of his neck.

“Yes. Afraid I’m going to jump you?”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

Nijimura shrugged, vaguely aware of the gooseflesh migrating down his spine. “Didn’t know you wanted to.”

“I want to. But I’m tired and I’m still recovering from the spouse’s betrayal.”

“You knew it was the spouse,” Nijimura teased for which Himuro lightly punched him in the lower back.

“It hurts to be right sometimes. You should be comforting me, not messing with my heart, broken by betrayal.”

“You so full of shit, Tatsuya.”

Himuro let out a bout of badly-suppressed laughter. “And you let me in your bed.”

“I didn’t let you, you let yourself,” Nijimura said, drowsy. The light conversation was lulling him into sleep.

Nijimura wondered if it was Himuro’s plan all along to wear him out, and then come as close as he was allowed to, because he had begun warily wrapping his hands around Nijimura’s waist to snuggle closer. Nijimura never had the intention of pushing him away but he noted how it made him feel.

“You know, Shuu, you let me let myself come closer to you.”

Nijimura pretended that he had already fallen asleep.

VI

After a month of intense hanging-out and an increased number of sleepovers, Nijimura had come to terms with the fact that, for once in his life, there was someone whom he wanted to keep by his side. But being with Himuro was like walking on a tight rope and he wasn’t well-versed in balancing on thin air. But there was their flirty banter, the shared knowledge of movies, a taste for a good video game brawl and compatibility of their bodies and how they occupied the entirety of space on the couch or bed – and all those made Nijimura want to join a damn circus.

He waited for two more weeks. Two weeks of Himuro prancing around his apartment with his silver tongue and his slender body and his smooth voice and with their late night conversation still at the back of his mind and Nijimura was ready to jump out the window with unwashed dishes in his hand.

“Tatsuya. I can’t do this anymore,” Nijimura turned to Himuro, a sponge in his left hand and a half-washed plate in the other.

“What is it?” Himuro asked, concerned.

“I have impure thoughts of you.”

“W-what…?”

Nijimura’s mind was running off on its own. “Yes. I want to bend you over a table and fuck the shit out of you and then watch Snatch. With you.”

Himuro all but burst into fits of laughter, his beautiful mouth stretching so wide his cheeks ought to have hurt after a while. But he kept at it until Nijimura felt stupid for saying anything in the first place.

He turned around swiftly and shoved the half-cleaned dish back into the dirty water. “Fine. Nevermind. Glad you find it funny.” He grasped around the water to check if he had broken the plate – lucky for him, he hadn’t.

While he was fuming in his shame, two slender hands wrapped themselves around his waist. Nijimura winced at the contact as if it burned him instead of offered him some comfort.

“I was laughing because you are adorable. You know, for a big, perpetually-annoyed guy who just happens to cook meals I adore so dearly.”

“You’re so full of shit, Tatsuya,” Nijimura repeated what he ought to have said before. He turned around and Himuro softly collided into him. “You’ve had this planned from the start.”

“Maybe.” Himuro smiled and pressed a feather-light kiss to Nijimura’s jaw. Nijimura thought he looked and talked like a soft kitten, but he had seen his claws and wouldn’t be fooled. “Maybe I’ve seen you yelling at the kids down at the park. Maybe I thought you were funny. Maybe I learned you lived next to me. Maybe I wanted to mess with you a little. Maybe I was just waiting for an opportunity. Maybe I accidentally fell for you instead.”

Nijimura wanted to cover his face to hide the embarrassment that must’ve painted his face crimson; his whole body was flush against Himuro’s and soaking in every word he said. He might’ve sensed it from the start but like Himuro had said: he let him. And he’d let him do it all over again.  

“Go finish your dinner,” Nijimura said.

Himuro wouldn’t detach himself from Nijimura’s waist. “And then?” He teased, his breath warm across Nijimura’s lips.

“And then I’ll bend you over a table.”

“And then…?”

“We’ll watch Snatch.”

II

Akashi Seijurou is sixteen, only a whisper of a man he’ll become one day, and he doesn’t communicate with Midorima much aside from a casual, passing nod. Instead, he revises history for his next lesson while he sits on the balcony and watches Midorima and his squadron leave through the main gates. He grits his teeth and puts the book down.

That afternoon, he goes to the library where his history teacher Reo is flipping through a thick book.

“You’re early today,” Akashi notes and Reo lifts his gaze from the book. He touches the pages as if they are sacred.

“So are you, my Lord,” Reo says and closes the book. He strokes the book as he continues, “I heard the new volume was in and I couldn’t wait to see what it has to offer.”

Akashi smiles, fondly. Reo is passionate and earnest like that.

“Shall we begin our lesson, Reo?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Akashi focuses on memorizing facts and strategies, but the only thing he truly needs to know he’s learned a long time ago – history repeats, inevitably so. History comes for the head of every king and every knight sooner or later. History makes walls of every kingdom crumble.

Akashi focuses and so he doesn’t think about Midorima, himself and their history.

III

When Akashi turns seventeen, whispers of war become his father’s orders and Midorima heeds them as if they were prayers by gods themselves.

“War is inevitable. Our kingdom is surrounded by two bigger kingdoms so he who strikes first wins,” Akashi’s father, the King, explains as he looks over a map of the world. There are many red crosses and lines over the territory and King’s forehead wrinkles, lips pressed in thought, whenever he looks at them.

Akashi nods and observes his father until Midorima’s squadron returns with their numbers cut in half. Ambush, Midorima explains to the King and there’s a cut on his forehead that he tries to hide but Akashi spots the angry red and purple behind Midorima’s fringe.

Akashi’s father is furious, Akashi can tell by the way his eyes are wide and ready to swallow the whole world, but he pats Midorima’s shoulder and tells him to rest until tomorrow morning when they’ll think of a strategy. No more dilly-dallying.

Midorima leaves and Akashi excuses himself to storm right after him.

“Shintarou!” He calls and Midorima stops mid-hallway and turns sideways. His expression is weary, his eyes lidded and their light almost out.

“Yes, my Lord?”

Akashi still finds it hard not to wince every time Midorima addresses him with ‘Lord’. “Take off your armour and come help me bathe.”

Midorima’s eyes go heavy with scrutiny. “You have servants for that, my Lord.”

“Indeed, but I want you,” Akashi quips. “Besides, you could use a bath too.”

Midorima’s lips press into a hard line. “Very well, my Lord.”

Akashi hurries to the bath and dismisses the servants waiting there. The bath is an oval room with wide mirrors covering two walls; they make the bath look like an extravagant ballroom of gold and glass. Towels and soaps, scents and candles are arranged around the large square bath in the middle of the room.

Akashi discards his clothes and folds them neatly on the table next to the doors. By the time he’s finished filling the bath, Midorima appeared clad in his robes. He stands awkwardly by the doors until Akashi lowers himself into the bath, mild water hugging him up to his chest.

“I don’t belong here,” Midorima mutters. It’s been years since he’s used this bath. He uses the one meant for knights. Sometimes even the one provided for servants.

“I am here, therefore, you belong,” Akashi reassures him.

“My Lord—“

“Come,” Akashi interrupts him and offers him a bar of soap. “Wash my back.”

Midorima approaches, his naked feet making little to no sound. He kneels by the edge of the bath and the soap slips from Akashi’s wet hands into his own. Akashi props himself up on his palms and sits up so his back is within Midorima’s reach.

Midorima’s hands are attentive but not too intimate. He washes every curve of Akashi’s back with such reverence that Akashi wonders if Midorima thinks of him as something holy. Akashi doesn’t indulge that thought.

“How long has it been since we’ve bathed together, Shintarou?”

“Years, my Lord.”

“I told you not to call me ‘Lord’ when we’re alone.”

“I can’t do that—” Midorima says and Akashi glances back to give him a scornful look. “—My Lord.”

Akashi sighs exasperatedly and leans back into Midorima’s touch. “You’re impossible.”

Akashi doesn’t have to look at Midorima to know that he’s smiling; mouth closed and eyes fond.

He lowers his voice as if somebody may hear them and asks: “Say, my father is really going to war?”

“I’m afraid so,” Midorima answers. He’s begun washing Akashi’s hair without being asked to. “You’ve learned your history haven’t you? The three kingdoms have always been at war. The Eastern Kingdom has crops, the Western Kingdom has weapons and ours has the army. We will always be at odds so long as we’re not complete.”

“History always repeats,” Akashi whispers. Midorima’s fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp, are lulling him into sleep. “When we were kids you wanted to teach history.”

“Fate wanted me to write history instead, it seems. ”

“Your Fate also has me chained to the throne when all I want to do is travel the world with you… and read books,” Akashi pauses. “But mostly you.”

Midorima says nothing so Akashi rolls his eyes and allows Midorima to wash his hair in silence. Once Midorima’s finished, he gets up and wraps a towel around his waist. “Aren’t you going to bathe too, Shintarou?”

“Once you leave the bath, my Lord.”

Akashi tilts his chin upwards in challenge. “I could order you.”

“You wouldn’t, my Lord,” Midorima seems so certain. “I know what you want but I can’t give it to you anymore.”

Akashi gets out of the bath and wipes the rest of his body with a separate towel. He moves as far away as to the doors and begins putting his clothes when Midorima undoes his robes and steps out of them. Akashi doesn’t look away.

“Do you remember what we dreamed of when we were kids? What we wanted?”

“I do, my Lord.”

“If we could do it now, would you?”

Instead of an answer, Midorima turns around, droplets of water racing down his sculpted torso and a thin smile on his face. Akashi’s eyes drift up and down before Akashi could cut their independence short.

“You’re staring, my Lord,” Midorima dodges the previous question.

Akashi returns the smile. “You’re truly impossible.”

IV

A month later Akashi enters the throne room, alarmed by the commotion. He approaches his father after he takes note of Midorima who is standing, arms crossed, by the doors.

“What happened, Father?”

The King turns his head to Akashi but Akashi didn’t meet his gaze, he looks at his pointy chin instead. “We’ve caught one of them – a warlock. I offered him everything he could ever want but he still refuses to lend us his power.”

Akashi winces at the tone of his Father’s voice but holds his ground nevertheless. “Should I speak with him?”

“Nonsense! As if I’d let my only son speak with such abomination.”

“Perhaps he’d feel less threatened. It’s worth a shot,” Akashi reassures and puts his hand on his Father’s shoulder. “Please, Father.”

The King shakes his head and rubs his forehead. Akashi’s hand gets shaken off in the process.

“Fine, alright. But if he tries something—“

“He won’t. Dungeons?”

“Yes.”

With that, Akashi hurries for the dungeon, his feet running as fast and deep as his excitement. He climbs down a massive spiral staircase and pushes the large doors at the end of a long, narrow hallway. Inside, he spots two guards standing next to an occupied cell.

“Leave us alone,” Akashi orders. The guards exchange confused looks. Akashi dismisses them with a hand, “King’s orders.” Knights, albeit still unconvinced, leave the room glancing behind them more than once.

Once alone, Akashi looks inside a dark cell and finds it empty, its dark corners quiet. He comes closer and puts his hands on the bars.

A pair of golden eyes appear inches from his face and he almost jumps out of his skin.

“Hello there,” the voice says, sweet like honey, deadly like viper’s venom.

Akashi’s eyes narrow. “You can escape anytime.”

The blonde warlock twirls around the cell, his hair, as golden as his eyes, seems to glisten in darkness. He returns to Akashi and presses his forehead to the bars. “Indeed,” the warlock flashes a pearl-white smile.

“So why aren’t you?”

The warlock twirls along the bars, his back and then chest pressing into them in what seems to be a painful dance. Akashi watches his every movement.

“I sensed trouble brewing, so I came to check it out myself. Let them,” the warlock says and returns to where he stood before, inches away from Akashi’s face, “catch me.”

“But my Father said you wouldn’t help us.”

“Oh,” the warlock’s golden, feline eyes widen. “So you’re the King’s son. Prince. And no, King has nothing of interest to me. I thought he would, but he doesn’t.” The warlock speaks so fast that Akashi occasionally has trouble catching what he says.

“How about me? Do I have something you want?”

The warlock stops his twirling and looks at him; looks as if he sees something in Akashi that Akashi himself didn’t know is there. He comes close, so close that once he spreads his fingers they almost touch Akashi’s face.

“Yes, you do” he whispers. “You would give it to me in exchange for a wish?”

“What is it that you want?”

The warlock grins, viciously. “Your eye. One is enough,” he says and Akashi’s breath dies in his throat. “I’ll give you a fake eye in exchange but you won’t be able to see with it.”

Akashi leans closer, pushes his head as far as the bars allow him. “If I give you my eye, you will do anything I ask of you?”

“Anything.”

V

A quarter past one in the morning, the castle rose to its feet. Akashi opens the doors of his chambers and slips into the poorly lit hallway. He knows the path to Midorima’s room like the back of his hand. He pushes the doors to Midorima’s room open and isn’t surprised to find nobody’s here.

He sits on the bed and touches the covers. They are warm.

And then he waits until the commotion settles down and Midorima returns to his room, hair dishevels, his robes ever more so.

“Hey,” Akashi greets so Midorima doesn’t turn on the light when he spots a figure on his bed.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, voice incredulous. “My Lord.”

“What’s going on?” Akashi inquires, but he knows.

“The warlock has escaped, killed both guards.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“He did seem quite resourceful.”

Midorima scoffs at that and sits next to Akashi, a hair’s breadth away.

“Shintarou, do you remember when my Father first brought you here? You were a scrawny kid four years my senior yet you were dubbed the smartest, most promising child in the kingdom. My Father loved you more than he loved me.”

“I doubt that’s—“

“I loved you more than I loved him too,” Akashi continues and his heart jumps a beat when he hears the way Midorima’s breath caught in his throat. “You stood by my side, always as my equal, until knighthood took you away.”

“My Lord…”

“You promised you’d take me away,” Akashi gets up and stands before Midorima. Midorima looks up at him, a crown of moonlight around his head. He’s beautiful, Akashi thinks. Gently, Akashi places his knees on either side of Midorima and hovers over his lap.

Akashi puts his hands around Midorima’s throat and feels him stop breathing. When Akashi speaks next, his voice is low, almost a whisper: “No matter what I say, you will go to negotiations tomorrow. Even if it means your death?”

Midorima blinks, puts his palms on Akashi’s wrists and squeezes. “Yes.”

“Will you listen to me, then, for the last time?” Akashi leans in so close that his eyelashes touch Midorima’s cheek.

“Yes.”

Akashi pecks Midorima’s lips, gouges for his reaction and then bites his lower lip. Midorima arches into the kiss but never once tries to take control.

“Listen to me, Shintarou,” Akashi whispers. He kisses Midorima again. “Listen.”

Promise me you’ll listen.

Listen.

VI

“Father, what do you think will be the success rate of these negotiations?”

The King purses his lips. “I’ve offered the Western kingdom peace treaty if they help us with weapons for the war against Eastern kingdom. Once we beat Eastern Kingdom, we’ll attack Western Kingdom.”

“An excellent plan, Father.”

They spend that afternoon waiting for the first squadron to return with good news. Or bad news.

With the first signs of dusk, the troops returned. Midorima is nowhere in sight.

King leaves his throne and approaches the second in command.

“And?” He inquires, his lower lip trembling. “What is their answer?”

Second in command pulls out a purple rag and unfolds it clumsily, his hands shaking.

“This is the message we were told to give you,” he says and when the rag is completely unfolded, Midorima’s head tumbles out. His once beautiful eyes are now open in horror, mouth agape, mourning the detachment from his body.

Akashi falls to his knees, his hands clutching his chest. His Father is yelling. Orders. Curses. Akashi can’t tell, can’t focus.

“Is this the history you want to write…Shintarou?”

Akashi thinks about history lessons.

VII

The next morning, the King opens his son’s chambers to find him dead on the bed, throat slit, face mutilated beyond recognition.

The kingdom mourns.

Tears don’t hold enough power to prevent the war.

VIII

Spring sky opens the path as two hooded figures make their way through a bustling village.  

“Was giving up your eye worth it?”

“I’m pretty sure the warlock gave me a discount,” The red-haired, taller of the two says. “Two body doubles and freedom in exchange for an eye.”

The taller figure looks at him, really looks at him. “Where do you want to go first, my Lord?”

The red-head crosses his arms. “Shintarou.”

Midorima Shintarou chuckles like he hasn’t in a long, long time. “Where do you want to go first, Seijurou?”

Akashi Seijurou smiles and they continue down the street. “I’ve heard Eastern Islands have libraries so big that some people get lost in them.”

“I’m not sure I want to lose you already,” Midorima teases, his eyes sparkling with hope underneath his brown hood.

“Don’t worry, I have another eye.”

Midorima stops mid-road and gives Akashi an incredulous look.  

“Too soon?” Akashi asks. His eyes are smiling. His soul is smiling.  

Now, CCG didn’t do executions. But Akashi was so notorious that they wanted him humiliated, as an example to others of his kind, especially since he hadn’t told them what they wanted to hear.

Midorima had the front row view. He watched the lion being torn apart by a bunch of sheep; puppeteers disassembling their favorite toy. Akashi’s eyes met his but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, Midorima thought about all those times Akashi and he kissed, and when the excitement of not knowing whether he’d be eaten this time took him to new levels of ecstasy. He thought of the bruises he was hiding underneath his clothes, and of playful banter and of promises darker than the night and of all those time he broke the rules just to lay down with a monster – anything to get some blood to his cheeks.

It was over faster than Midorima could wrap his head around the blood on the usually spotless floor of Cochlea. It was already being wiped away.

It was over.

Midorima was patted on the back again. “Your promotion ceremony is tomorrow. Good job, Midorima. We didn’t get much information from him, but at least we’ll be able to sleep better at night knowing that Akashi Seijurou is gone.”

“We won’t be able to sleep until they’re all gone,” Midorima dictated like a machine. It earned him a smile from his superior.

Midorima slipped out of the facility without saying goodnight to his colleagues.

He drove across the ward to a hotel room he knew better than the pockets of his suit; that room with a pointless wall-length window that met nothing but a brick wall of the neighboring building. His feet were feather-light when he entered his room.

Their room.

“It is over,” Midorima said to the poorly illuminated shadow sitting at the table near the window. The shadow turned its head towards Midorima. Even in the darkness, Midorima knew all about the look he was being given. It sent his knees into a bout of shivers.

“Come here.” The shadow’s voice was silky but demanding, and Midorima was compelled to move forward. The burning anticipation in his stomach was like yearning for a kiss from your lover while knowing there’s poison on their lips; it was worth the risk every time.

Midorima approached.

“Sit.” The shadow commanded and patted the surface of the table. Midorima obediently pulled himself up and the shadow drew the chair closer.

But it was no shadow pulling Midorima’s legs apart.

It was no shadow biting hard into the inner side of his clothed thigh.

It wasn’t a shadow’s name he whimpered when the pain and pleasure sank deep into his loins.

“Akashi…”

Akashi Seijurou chuckled, breathy, his nose still buried in Midorima’s thigh. “I still cannot imagine it worked.”

“Me neither. We were lucky. Your doppelganger was good. Nobody’s ever seen your face in the light before.” Midorima spoke in short sentences. Even that was taking all his self-control with the way Akashi was nuzzling his thigh. “So what are you going to do now that you’re free…?”

“I will never be free from this hunger,” Akashi murmured. His hands were rubbing circles into Midorima’s outer thighs. “But I can have a fresh start elsewhere, without the Doves breathing down my neck if I’m more careful this time.”

“Overseas, then?”

“Yes,” Akashi confirmed. He looked up at Midorima, his gaze covetous. “Will you come with me, Shintarou?”

Midorima never broke the gaze. “No. My life is here.”

Akashi smiled. But it might’ve been a mischievous dance of the shadows across his face.

“I see, I thought you’d say that,” Akashi sighed, but his tone was resigned. “So this is where we part.”

“Indeed.”

Akashi took Midorima’s hand into his and nibbled his nails, then kissed each knuckle.

“I should’ve eaten you the day I laid my eyes on you. That way you would’ve been mine forever.”

Midorima’s body shivered, even if he knew he shouldn’t be happy to hear about the broken promise of his death. But even when Akashi spoke of death and ugliness and hunger, Midorima’s whole body listened and followed and gave in as if in a trance.

“But you didn’t,” Midorima said.

Akashi stood up and planted his palms on either side of Midorima’s face. “I didn’t.” Akashi repeated and kissed him, eating his name off Midorima’s tongue for the last time.

The next day Midorima was promoted.

II

Three Fridays later and Midorima’s fingers were as disobedient as ever.

But he sat down on that stool, closed his eyes and inhaled as deeply as he could for his greedy lungs.

He saw smoke in the corner of his eye, a shadow burning on the side and leaning on a support pillar.

Midorima didn’t want to be afraid of the fire.

His eyelids fluttered shut and he sang.

Halfway through the song, he forgot what the lyrics were about but the words were coming somewhere from his cowardly heart; his voice stayed strong.

When he finished, the audience clapped.

“Thank you,” he thanked the audience and trudged to the bar. He was sweaty under his armpits but gleeful on the inside as if he had just found a way to build Rome in a day. He gently sat his guitar aside and ordered a glass of orange juice.

“I’m proud of you, Shin-chan. This kiddie drink is on the house,” Takao’s smile as he was handing Midorima his drink spoke volumes of how relieved he was.

Midorima reciprocated the smile even as he drank.

“I’ve been deceived.” The red-haired man appeared beside him and sat down.

Midorima regarded him with a confused look. “Excuse me?”

“I always thought you ran away because you were diffident. Or because you were bad,” he explained. “But you are neither of those.”

Midorima felt light-headed; the rush of his first successful performance was still coursing through his veins. “What I am is scared. Taking off is hard, but staying in the air is even harder.”

The red-haired smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be fine so long as you don’t fly too close to the sun.”

Oddly enough, Midorima thought he radiated warmth much more intimidating than the sun’s.

III

“What I know about him? He doesn’t drink alcohol and he only became a Friday-night-regular after he saw you run down the stage with your tail between your legs for the first time.”

Midorima shot Takao an affronted look.

“That how it is,” Takao defended. “Maybe he has a thing for tortured souls of aspiring musicians.”

“You think?” Midorima looked up hopefully. He was all too eager to hold onto anyone who brought a lit torch into his temple.

“Please don’t be so excited. But yes. He only sticks around for your performance anyway.”

Midorima drank to that.

IV

Standing on the stage came easier each time. Midorima made a home of it; the hard, wooden stool was his walls, the microphone his windows and the audience a flourishing garden. He dared sing his songs sometimes.

The red-haired kept knocking at his doors from the corner in which he stood and Midorima was all but too eager to let him in.

Two weeks later and Midorima was approached by the head of a small company presented by independent artists. It was the greatest reward for years of reaching and even more years of sitting on his creaky bed and writing lyrics until deep in the night.

Takao shamelessly and loudly bragged to all those people in the bar and announced a free round for everyone that night.

“Should I stock up on autographs?” The red-haired once more found himself by Midorima’s side. Midorima learned how to sense his presence even when he couldn’t see him.

“Maybe,” Midorima assumed the teasing tone. “Or— you could have the privilege of saying you’ve been on a date with a future star.”

Midorima wanted to see how far he could push his luck. He felt invincible.

The red-haired man put his index finger to his chin as if deep in thought. A ghost of a smile on his lips gave him away; it went to help flowers bloom in the pit of Midorima’s stomach, butterflies fluttering around for their sweet scent.

“That’s a privilege I can’t allow to pass me by. How could I possibly repay you for such an honour?”

“You could tell me your name.”

“Akashi Seijurou.”

Akashi Seijurou.

That was a name Midorima could start a song with.

V

Midorima was Prometheus and there stood the fire he has been yearning for.

The fire he claimed as his own.

“I dedicate this song to you,” he said as he pressed his fingers to the strings of his guitar. The ‘you’ rolled off his tongue in such a way that the person it was meant to would know it was for them.  

Akashi Seijurou no longer stood in the corner.

II

“Do you live alone?”

“No.”

Seijurou walked over the threshold of that boy’s home without asking for his name. Nobody in the house called his name either. Seijurou cautiously trailed behind him as they walked up the stairs. He had decades of observing experience to know what naivety brought to those who easily trusted their fellow man.

But Seijurou felt safe, even when his bare feet entered the boy’s spacious room. All furniture was next to the wall, leaving an open area in the middle of the room.

“Let’s clean your wound first,” the boy said and sat Seijurou at the chair next to the desk. Seijurou followed every move of the boy’s hand as he prepared a cotton swab. When he pressed it to Seijurou’s chest, he felt nothing. Dry blood was slowly disappearing. The boy swabbed for a while and then stopped. “There’s nothing.”

Seijurou smiled reassuringly and touched his now spotless skin. “It must’ve healed.”

The boy smacked his lips together. “Those doors lead to the bathroom. Go wash yourself. Do you know how?”

Seijurou raised his eyebrow in challenge. “So, you believe me now?”

“I’ll prepare some clothes for you,” the boy brushed past Seijurou’s question and went to search through his walk-in closet. “You can stay the night.”

“Why do you trust me?”

The boy smiled, there were shadows in the crooks of his teeth. “I saw you fall down.”

III

“What is your name?” Seijurou asked. He was tucked in a futon at the foot of the boy’s bed. The sleeves of the shirt he was given reached to his elbows, but it must’ve been a perfect fit for its owner. He listened to the darkness until the boy spoke.

“Midorima Shintarou.”

“Shintarou. It suits you.”

“First name basis already…?”

“Angels don’t have a family name. We are all one family so there’s no point. My name is Seijurou.”

Shintarou’s sheets rustled.

“Seijurou… What are you going to do from now on?”

Seijurou tried to make out Shintarou’s face in the dark but he kept the blinds closed shut; not a speck of moonlight entered his room. “First, I’ll sleep. Then I’ll wake. And I’ll let you ask the questions you’re dying to ask later.”

Seijurou had received no reply for so long that his eyelids began sinking over his eyes.

“Good night.”

IV

Seijurou woke at the crack of dawn. Shintarou slept undisturbed as he slipped out of his covers and pulled the blinds open. The fall from Shintarou’s window wasn’t long but it rattled Seijurou’s his bones. He threaded on the pavement barefoot, his curiosity leading the way.

Most people passed him by. Some gave a scornful look upon seeing his feet. Some asked them where he bought his hair dye. Seijurou gave nothing away but he was well aware that the shade of his red hair wasn’t of this world; it glistened on the sun like feathers of a phoenix.

When the night fell, his stomach felt peckish. He hid in a shade and set his wings free. They were much smaller than before and perhaps a bit longer than his height. Seijurou surmised that they wouldn’t hold his weight much longer. So he took a running start, swung them once and ascended.

Nights were much colder and Shintarou’s cotton pants and shirt didn’t keep warmth close to his skin, but Seijurou kept flying until he dissolved into shivers and forcefully landed on a hill.

The hill was enclosed by a broken fence and but a single bench remained intact. He sat on it and went slack. Strength was leaving his body. When he was a whole angel, he could fly for days; his strong wings could take him anywhere above the clouds – but above the clouds only.  

Seijurou cast his eyes on the city and its dying lights.

He wondered what he would’ve seen if he had been human; if any of this actually mattered.  

V

Seijurou appeared on Shintarou’s window at midnight. The lights were on and the window was wide open. He wondered if it was for him.

“May I come in?” He asked, one of his legs dangling over the edge of the window.

“Do you think I just leave my window opened during the night?”

Seijurou retracted his wings as much as he could and gracefully landed into Shintarou’s room. It smelled like cleaning products today and his futon was put away somewhere. He noticed Shintarou was staring wide-eyed at him, his mouth agape.

“Oh, these?” Seijurou pointed to his battered wings. “I thought I could fly back here but… You can see what happened.”

His wings had multiple branches and thorns stuck among their feathers; some of them penetrated the skin, smearing blood all over his back. Shintarou’s shirt was completely destroyed.

“Bath. Now,” Shintarou said through his teeth.

Once in the bathroom, Shintarou stripped him of all clothes and helped him get into the tub. He filled it with just enough warm water to cover Seijurou’s dirty, frozen feet. He grabbed a pair of tweezers and hovered over his wings, insecure and fidgeting.

“You’ll have to pluck them one by one,” Seijurou instructed. He hugged his knees and bent his back lightly to provide better access to his wings.

“Will it hurt you?”

“Yes. But I’ll endure.”

Shintarou inhaled and exhaled a deep, shaky breath. Then he began patiently plucking away, wincing every time Seijurou did.

VI

“I’m sorry for getting you dirty,” Seijurou murmured. He was still hugging his knees but only to make more room in the bath for Shintarou. He was sitting behind him; long legs sprawled on either side of Seijurou’s thighs.

“It’s alright.”

Seijurou managed to retract his wings once they were spotless. He felt Shintarou’s breath on the back of his damp neck and sensed that a question was coming.

“May I touch you?” Shintarou uttered in a voice as thin as cobwebs.

“You may.”

Seijurou had, naturally, never been touched by a human hand. He heard other angels whispering about it often, but they didn’t know either.

When Shintarou’s finger touched the tip of his spine, Seijurou realized that all stories were wrong. He threw his head back as a finger dragged over each vertebra, as if Shintarou were counting them. Once he was done with them, Shintarou’s palms blossomed on his ribs and trailed north to his nipples. It tickled, where Shintarou touched them, but it turned into a different sensation all together when Shintarou pressed his lips to the nape of his neck.

Seijurou whimpered; it was an involuntary whimper that sounded foreign even to his own ears.

Shintarou withdrew his hand, as if burned by the sound. “Why did you fall?” Shintarou inquired. Seijurou was displeased at the loss of contact. He petulantly leaned back into Shintarou’s chest and looked up.

“Life is meaningless if it stretches endlessly. There’s nothing to gain, nothing to lose. There’s no absolution because there’s no sin. Boring, boring, boring…” Seijuro paused to twirl a strand of his wet hair between his fingers. “The moment an angel thinks that, it’s already over for him.”

Shintarou said nothing after that so Seijurou took the liberty of leading his hands back to his chest. “You may continue.”

“I feel bad for doing this,” Shintarou admitted. His fingers dug into Seijurou’s side and remained still.

“Why? I want you to. If anyone should be feeling bad, it’s me. I’m merely using you to sate my curiosity.”

“I am curious too, you know.”

Seijurou chuckled. “All the more reason you should continue.”

So Shintarou did.

VII

Seijurou woke with ash in his mouth. He spat it to his side thinking that he must’ve been dreaming. Shintarou’s concerned, drowsy face told him otherwise.

“It happens,” he explained. It never happened. But Seijurou knew what it meant. He pretended to go back to sleep but his back itched and his throat was dry. He ate the eggs that Shintarou made for breakfast, even though he wasn’t feeling hungry, and truly pretended as if it merely ‘happenned’.  

“Shintarou, you never told me why you were beaten that night we met.”

“I expressed my honest opinion and somebody didn’t like it.”

“Sounds like our troubles aren’t all that different.”

“That might just be so.”

VIII

In the afternoon, Seijurou found a board of shogi underneath Shintarou’s bed.

“May we play?” Seijurou asked, his finger scraping the sides of the board. It was worn and well-used.

“Do you know how to?”

“I have a good grasp of the rules. I’ve often watched professional shogi matches.”

Shintarou chuckled, shyly his mouth with the back of his hand. “I almost feel bad for beating a newbie.”

Seijurou won all three shogi games.

Shintarou’s eyebrow seemed to be raised in disbelief for good. “Are you sure this is the first time you’ve played? It must be your angel mojo…”

“I assure you that I would’ve won even if I were completely human.”

“Such confidence. I demand a rematch!”

Seijurou lifted a shogi piece off the board but it slipped out of his fingers; they were growing number by an hour, sense of touch slowly slipping away. He used both his hands to successfully lift the piece onto its designated place.

“Rematch it is.”

IX

That evening, Seijurou spat out a mouthful of ash. The taste was bitter in his mouth and it took him three glasses of water to wash it off.  

“Are you sure this just happens?” Shintarou asked; he was pulling at Seijurou’s arm, intent on getting information.

Seijurou tucked his hair behind his ear and dodged: “There’s a place I want to go tonight. Would you take me?” The itch in his back was unbearable and he was losing feeling in his legs; it was like being dismembered by a cruel puppeteer.

Shintarou scoffed. “You’re not telling me something.”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

X

“Give me a piggyback ride, Shintarou,” Seijurou proposed, arms outstretched in front of him as far he could make it. Shintarou fixed his glasses and, without a moment’s hesitation, bent his knees so Seijurou could climb on his back. He hugged Shintarou’s neck as if they were in a vast ocean and he couldn’t swim.

“Lead the way.”

Streets seemed like a giant maze but Seijurou confidently navigated through the streets. He hummed his favourite song to chase the silence away.

XI

The spot at the top of the hill was as vacant as a day ago. Shintarou put Seijurou down on the bench. He took a few moments to catch his breath before he sat down as well.

The city unfolding before him was static, silent.

“Do you know why angels fall?”  

Shintarou shook his head.

“It’s punishment. Like I’ve said, your only betrayal is the desire to be like humans. We are exiled to get that chance.”

Shintarou all but snarled. “So you die for it? You are dying, right?”

“Correct. Our bodies aren’t compatible with this world,” Seijurou smiled at this cruellest irony; it smiled back. “We merely get a sample, a taste of your life. And then we perish.”

“That seems unnecessarily cruel.”

“It is the way it is. We all know it the moment we think about it. In all honestly, I thought I’d just die when I fell. But I was lucky. You found me.”

Shintarou might’ve smiled but Seijurou couldn’t tell. The sky was a starless tent.

“Are you sad, Shintarou?”

“A little. In all honesty, I don’t think the reality of your existence have hit me yet.”

“I see, that’s reasonable. Our time together was short,” Seijurou searched for Shintarou’s hand in the dark. When he found it, slack on the bench, he took it in his own. “Hold my hand until the morning.”

Shintarou squeezed his hand. The grip was strong enough for Seijurou to be able feel it. Ash slid out of his mouth in short coughs; his knees were feather-light.  

“Who would’ve thought that ‘remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return’ was quite literal.”

Shintarou didn’t laugh.

He held Seijurou’s hand until it crumbled into his hand just as the first rays of sun spilled over the horizon. He closed his fist tightly and walked to the edge of the hill. He opened his palm and let the angel fly one last time.

XII

There was a little hill that paid attention to. It was in fact so rarely attended to that nobody noticed a small grave with no body underneath, just a small plate with a single sentence engraved:

II

Midorima learned the charms of an Eskimo kiss one afternoon when he made himself a bed of a couple of chairs and lied on them like a dead man, with his hands clasped on his chest.

Akashi’s faced popped over his own, lingering close. Midorima’s eyes trailed across the curve of his pink lips all but inconspicuously.

“Shintarou. What are you doing?” Akashi asked, his breath tickling Midorima’s cheeks as much as the loose strands of his hair did.

“Sleeping.”

“I can see. But why?”

“I was tired. Do you need something, Akashi?”

Akashi hummed, lips pressed together in a firm line. “Not anymore.”

Midorima closed his eyes, hoping that the face hovering over his would be gone once he reopens them.

“Sweet dreams,” murmured Akashi and, a breath later, his nose was gently nuzzling Midorima’s.

He did it once, twice, three times and he was out and away before Midorima could properly return the favour.

Almost.

III

“You are avoiding me, Shintarou. Why?”

Midorima had stayed behind to practice as he usually did; it often happened that he stayed even longer. He wanted to put distance between Akashi and himself. He wanted to organize his thoughts in a way that would make sense. He wanted to distinguish the meaning behind Akashi’s actions.

Most of all, he wanted to make sure that what he felt was unravelling between them wasn’t in his mind only.

Midorima couldn’t think about any of that with Akashi by his side for his every move stole Midorima’s attention.

So when Akashi walked into the gym with a towel in his hands, Midorima continued shooting three-pointers and pretending he didn’t see a tall shadow in the corner of his eyes. He could ignore him no more only when he began stalking towards him.

Akashi stopped two steps away and said: “Shintarou.” Simple as that. But Midorima has long learned that there’s more to his name when Akashi’s mouth utters it in an empty room. He lowered the ball to his side and turned to Akashi.

With his index finger, Akashi motioned him to lower himself. Midorima hesitated and opted for wiping some sweat off his forehead in order to buy some time. In the end, he carefully began tipping his head lower.

As soon as he was within Akashi’s reach, Akashi carefully unfolded the towel and covered Midorima’s mouth with it. Midorima had no reason to panic because the next moment, Akashi’s lips were pressed to the corner of Midorima’s mouth, which were nicely outlined behind the towel. The surface of the towel was rough and scratching his face but all he could worry about was how a drop of his sweat might fall on Akashi’s face unless he breaks the kiss now.

As if beckoned by Midorima’s thoughts, Akashi separated from his lips.  

“Don’t overdo it,” Akashi murmured and left Midorima with a towel in his hands. He used it to wipe the sweat off his face; all but his lips.

Almost.

IV

Midorima was pacing around the room. He was thinking about almost-kisses, the lucky item he had forgotten at home and pi. None of them did anything to ease the pre-recital anxiety.

He was on three hundred and thirty sixth paces when Akashi walked into the room, silent as air.

“Shintarou, breathe.”

Midorima closed his eyes and inhaled. He was focused less on breathing and more on the fact that Akashi has come here. For him; or so he hoped.

“Your sheet music smells weird.” Akashi had his sheet music in his hands. It was Liszt’s La Campanella.

“Excuse me?”

“Smell it,” he said and handed the sheet music to Midorima.

Midorima reluctantly lifted the bundle of papers to his nose and took a long sniff. He saw the movement of Akashi’s body a second too late; he surged forward and pressed a hard kiss on the back of Midorima’s sheet music. His eyes fluttered closed.

Midorima began relaxing into the fervid touch of Akashi’s lips on his own over the paper, but it was over faster than Midorima had the time to return the kiss with the fervour he felt.

“Good luck with your recital,” Akashi said, voice thin as a like a whisper but overflowing with sincerity. He walked away before Midorima could even remember how to breathe let alone remove the sheet music from his mouth. He forgot what he was being nervous for.

Almost.

V

“Shintarou, I might be wrong, in which case feel free to stop me, but…”

Akashi leaned over the shogi board; he made sure not a single piece was disturbed when he used the edges of the desk as a support. He dropped all hints of hesitation when he caught Midorima’s lip between his teeth, like a beast would when it caught its prey between its canines; he gave Midorima a moment to wiggle away.

But Midorima closed his eyes and pressed into Akashi’s lips; he tasted like tofu, smelt like lavender, sounded like soft mewls of a newborn kitten… All of Midorima was sensitized to feel Akashi – only Akashi.

They broke apart when their lungs could no longer support the passionate dance of their lips.

Midorima opened his eyes to the sight of Akashi’s wet lips. It was liberating; knowing that it was him who had done that.

“That wasn’t an almost-kiss,” Midorima stated, his voice barely crawling out of his dry throat.

Akashi touched the smile on his lips with his index and middle finger. “It was an almost almost-kiss.”

Midorima cleared his throat, feeling bold and confident where Akashi’s lips touched him.

“You can drop the ‘almost’ from now on,” He said.

II

“Shintarou, may I borrow you for a while? Photography club asked me for help.”

Midorima raised an eyebrow. “Will I have to model again?”

Akashi offered no more than a curt smile in place of a reply as he began walking in the direction of the storage classroom. Midorima had wasted three seconds having second thoughts about following before he rushed after Akashi, anticipation prickling at the back of his neck.

Once alone in a secluded room, Akashi pointed to the same chair Midorima has had an opportunity to familiarize himself with before. This time, however, the chair was placed next to the window.

Midorima sat down, palms curled into fists on his knees. He waited until Akashi pulled out an expensive-looking camera that no ordinary middle-schooler could own. He adjusted the lenses and when he got down on his knees, Midorima did a poor job at hiding his bewilderment.

“Worm-eye perspective,” Akashi explained. “Of sorts, at least. Turn your head towards the window and look outside, please.”

Midorima might’ve become hard-of-hearing because all sound disappeared, especially those coming out of Akashi’s mouth. He was being dramatic, of course, but he couldn’t help recall those good movies with an outstanding soundtrack throughout, but once it died down, you knew something unexpected was bound to happen.

He definitely was being dramatic.

But Akashi was on his knees and his precious prim and proper uniform was getting dirty, and his fingers were playing with the strap of the camera, and he was looking up to Midorima with a playful glint to his eyes, and Midorima was looking down at him, and if he extended his hand he could touch Akashi’s face and…

Midorima could think of nothing else.

“Shintarou, you are blushing. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

Midorima might’ve been bad at hiding his puzzlement, but Akashi was equally as bad at hiding his knowing, tight-lipped smile. “Turn your head towards the window, Shintarou.”

He did as he was told; he had thought about a whole lot of sweet ‘nothing’ by the time Akashi was finished with taking as many photos as he liked.

III

“Shintarou, may I borrow you for a while?  Literature club asked me for help.”

“I cannot see how I could possibly help you with—“

Akashi offered him a slip of paper, neatly folded a couple of times. Midorima took it hesitantly, fingers feeling the smooth surface of the paper before he carefully unfolded it.

Inside was a poem of 14 lines, an octave and a sestet – a sonnet.

Midorima briefly searched Akashi’s face for any clues but his face was veiled by equanimity. He gave in at last and began reading the poem; its words were simple and seemingly pedestrian but they spoke of trees and green meadows on fire. They spoke of how hungry fire was whenever it saw an untouched piece of thriving land.

When he finished reading, he looked up at Akashi, and remained silent; his mouth gaping, words hanging on his tongue, not quite ready to leave his mouth. He thought of all those poets throughout the history who wrote about current issues, about what burned them inside-out, and wondered why he never smelled smoke on Akashi.

Until now.

“What do you think?” Akashi inquired as his lips quirked into a small smile.

“It’s beautiful,” Midorima exhaled, words forming merely as a casualty.

“Good, then you can keep it.”

IV

A week later, Midorima learned that no club has ever asked Akashi for help.

II

Akashi washed his laundry twice a week – at Fridays for dark clothing and Wednesdays for white and fine laundry.

While he was waiting for the laundry to be done, Akashi was reading a book.

A young man with an obvious hangover came stumbling down. He left without waiting for his laundry to finish.

Akashi kept reading his book.

Then entered a woman with a child who found Akashi’s red hair fascinating enough to give it a hard pull. She kept apologizing about it until their laundry was finished.

Akashi kept reading his book.

A couple who argued loudly left in the middle of drying their laundry.

Akashi kept reading his book.

It’s been two weeks until Midorima once again walked down into the basement, this time prepared to duck in time to avoid a fatal blow to his head.

Akashi put his book down.

“Long time no see,” he greeted with a small smile.

Midorima nodded. “Indeed.”

Midorima sorted his laundry according to their colour.

“You know,” Akashi said, tone suggestive, “most people have a schedule for washing their laundry. Mostly to avoid crowds of ten or more people.”

“Do they, now.”

Midorima’s question didn’t sound like one so Akashi took a moment to observe the flexing of his shoulders and the broadness of his back as he loaded the laundry into the washing machine.

“Yes. I heard Friday and Wednesday evenings are the best days for this particular chore.”

“Fridays and Wednesdays, you say.”

When Midorima glanced at Akashi, Akashi saw a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

III

Aside from a brief chit-chat upon their meeting, Midorima barely spoke. He sat close to Akashi and told him to feel free to continue reading his book. Then he’d stare at the wall and hum under his breath. Akashi found himself reading through a page only to realize he hadn’t read anything at all.

More often than not, Akashi put the book down and for once read the silence instead of words.

The low hum of laundry machines sounded like a lullaby.

IV

Akashi learned important facts about Midorima when he didn’t even ask for them.

They were sitting in silence on a Friday night when an upset lady plodded into the laundry room. She clumsily shoved all her laundry into the washing machine as she spoke on the phone: “I told you I can’t go. You know I can’t dance, I’ll just embarrass myself again…”

Midorima raised his head when he heard her words and waited patiently until she hung up the phone and heaved a heavy sigh. Akashi thumped his fingers on the cover of his neglected book and waited for what would happen.

Midorima harrumphed and began: “Miss, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I’ve heard you can’t dance?” She looked at him, her eyebrows raised but she didn’t look ready to interrupt him yet. “If you’d like, I could teach you any dance you need.”

She bit her lip and looked around even though the three of them were alone in the basement. “Even Viennese waltz?”

Midorima tipped his glasses up, somewhat smugly. “Even Viennese waltz.”

Akashi’s eyes eagerly followed Midorima as he got out of his seat and strolled to the lady. She waited for him to take the initiative.

“How fast can you learn?” He asked the lady as he took her hand, the other safely placed on the small of her back.

She grinned, widely, and looked lax and small in Midorima’s firm arms. “Fast enough, I hope.”

And fast enough did she learn.

Midorima long limbs led her step by step, across the dusty basement floor. She stumbled over her own feet or stepped on Midorima’s at times but he corrected her with patience and tenderness of someone whose lithe body and clear mind were experienced with the inexperienced.

Even when sweat gathered on his brow or when his bangs stuck to his forehead, Midorima hadn’t lost a touch of his concentration or grace. The lady must’ve felt the same because she hadn’t fallen back once.

Occasionally, as he twirled, Midorima’s eyes landed on Akashi.

Akashi hadn’t blinked once in fear of missing a single moment.

V

“What is it?”

Midorima had cocked an eyebrow when Akashi offered him his hand.

“Dance with me,” Akashi stated, his extended hand still hanging in the air. Midorima took it, albeit suspiciously.

“Where’s this coming from?”Midorima asked.

“I didn’t know you can dance before.”

Akashi led him away from the benches. They had approximately half an hour left until their laundry was finished; less if somebody interrupted. But Akashi wanted to try dancing, even for a while; it had been on his mind since he saw Midorima moving his body last week.

“I work part time at my sister’s dance studio. I have to know how to dance,” Midorima explained. His hand in Akashi’s wasn’t clammy at all.

“I see, so there are no problems then. Dance with me.”

Akashi was used to being the leader and having the upper hand, but the moment Midorima’s hand found its way to his lower back, Akashi knew he’d have to give up the reins.

Just like that, Midorima twirled Akashi around the room, the low hum of washing machines serving as their beat, and sped up or slowed down the rhythm according to how well Akashi could keep up. The hand on the small of Akashi's back pushed him closer at times.

“Do you think you can lift me up?” Akashi asked. Midorima, who had avoided any eye contact so far, looked down at him. Being the shorter one of the two had its perks, Akashi thought, because seeing Midorima’s bedroom eyes from this angle was almost like tasting the forbidden fruit and then starving forevermore.

Midorima’s hand traveled from Akashi’s back to his waist where he squeezed gently, like one would dip a toe in the sea to check the temperature. “Maybe.”

Midorima sped up to gain momentum, then he grabbed Akashi’s waist with both hands and lifted him up, barely a few centimeters off the ground, but due to Akashi’s involuntary flinch Midorima began stumbling. For a moment, Akashi feared they would fall but Midorima reacted quickly. He purposefully collided with one of the empty washing machines and sat Akashi safely on top of it.

They were both out of breath.

“That didn’t go as planned,” Midorima said, voice completely spent. His open palms were on either side of Akashi’s hips while his own were between Akashi’s legs and pressing into the washing machine but he seemed oblivious to all this; he focused on regaining his breath instead. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

“I never said I couldn’t,” Akashi replied and leaned in closer so that every word that came out of his mouth would brush over Midorima’s lips.

Midorima’s eyes flitted from Akashi’s eyes to his lips. He stayed put.

“What else can you do?” Midorima asked, voice low enough to reveal the implication.

Akashi’s mouth was quick to cover Midorima’s.

Midorima leaned into the kiss and hugged the back of Akashi’s neck with his palm. His tongue grazed over Akashi’s lips but that was as far as Akashi would let him go. Akashi bit Midorima’s bottom lip and sucked it between his teeth.

With a low groan, Midorima put his other hand on Akashi’s thigh.

That’s when the laundry machine’s ‘ping’ interrupted the moment.

Midorima reluctantly pulled away, his breath lingering over Akashi’s wet, red lips.

“Our laundry will get crumpled,” he said, his eyes still focused solely on Akashi’s mouth.

“And we can’t have that, can we?”

VI

“You don’t bring a book with you anymore,” Midorima observed. He sat by Akashi’s side, intently staring at the wall as usual.

“Hm, I wonder,” Akashi hummed. His shoulder was touching Midorima’s. He wore a navy blue cardigan that smelt like burnt pancakes. Akashi smiled to himself at the thought of Midorima’s poor attempts at cooking.  

“Mind if I use your shoulder as a pillow?” Akashi asked; a redundant question, considering he had already predicted the answer.

“Be my guest.”

VII

Akashi was folding his clean, dry laundry into the basket. In the corner of his eye, he saw Midorima carefully checking whether any stains were left on his clothes. A wave of sentimentality washed over Akashi when he realized having Midorima near him put him at ease.

He began thinking that this basement laundry room wasn’t a paradise, but rather a purgatory. And he had been sent an angel.  

“Let’s meet in a place with windows,” Akashi suggested, keeping his tone as casual as ever.

Midorima remained silent as he proceeded to fold his clothes. If Akashi hadn’t paid close attention to his every move, he would’ve missed a split second in which Midorima smiled before he said: “My apartment has two fine sets of windows and a brand new coffee machine.”

II

Midorima Shintarou had never quite crossed paths with a man quite like the one with vibrant red-hair. He had noticed him, immediately, when he walked in for the first time; his step was like a rustle of autumn leaves and his eyes like a compass needle endlessly on its quest for paradise. One didn’t forget a presence that smelled so strongly of purpose.

Unlike the rest of the library users, he never came up to the desk and asked for a book. He sauntered around the shelves, alone on his journey, until he returned with a book he held gently in his hands as if it were sacred.

Midorima, as a man who was taught to take care of things that couldn’t take care of themselves, respected that and thought it charming to see such reverence for the written word in the modern age.

All these playful thoughts were meant to stay as such; just one curiously peculiar library user who presence Midorima appreciated for its blinding brilliance and mystery.

However, when the red-haired man handed him his library card, Midorima had finally found it in him to look at his name properly, not just skim over it to make sure it’s there like he did with many others.

Akashi Seijurou, it said.

Midorima knew that Akashi saw him linger on his name a second too long.

III

Five times, Midorima had counted.

Five was the number of times Akashi’s eyes flickered from the bookshelves to Midorima. He knew because he was watching too. It was hard not to when he had a whirlpool of questions dancing violently in his mind.

Was the quote really for him?

What should he do about it, if it was?

Should he make the first move?

The book Akashi had returned today lay before him, a green post-it sticking out almost as if it were mocking him. Midorima tapped his nails on the desk, impatiently.

When Akashi emerged out of a labyrinth of bookshelves, he was carrying a book much thicker than usual. There was no way he could read it in a day.

While he was writing down the number of the book in Akashi’s library card, Midorima mustered the courage to ask: “You are a fast reader?”

“I get addicted easily if a book catches my interest. I just can’t put it down until whatever is inside it is mine,” Akashi answered with a polished smile. “But I guess that goes for more things than just… books.”

This was the first occasion in which Midorima had heard Akashi utter more than one sentence but he could tell that he was someone who can make one word carry a litany of meanings.

Akashi took his book and went for the exit when Midorima called: “Sir, you left a bookmark again.” He said for no other purpose than needed more proof.

“It is there for a reason.” Akashi repeated without as much as a shrug of his shoulders.

The moment the doors closed behind Akashi, Midorima opened the book.

“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”

A justification, an explanation, a dare… It could be a number of things.

Midorima pulled the bookmark out and put it away in a drawer.

IV

Midorima was carrying a pile of books in his arms. His co-worker, Takao, fell into a habit of leaving the returned books on the table and never taking them back to their designated place on the shelves. It was an unsightly display, Midorima thought, to leave a helpless book away from home.

He was mumbling to himself when he had bumped into what he thought was a book cart, until the ‘book cart’ winced.

“I apologize,” Midorima said, still only able to see over the book pile in his arms, not underneath.

“That is quite alright,” answered the person whose voice Midorima had recognized immediately. “May I help you somehow?”

Midorima cleared his throat, glad he could hide behind the books in his arms. “No, I am fine. I am sincerely sor—“

Before he could finish, a couple of books from the top of the pile were lifted and Midorima came eye-to-eye with Akashi. His hair was combed back today and a whisper of eye bags lay underneath his eyes.

“Let me help you,” he said and Midorima couldn’t find it in him to refuse.

Akashi followed after him, silently, just an echo of footsteps, and handed him the book he had asked for at each shelf. Midorima could handle poor attempts at conversation, but silence weighted heavy on his shoulders.

“If you’re here today, it means you’ve managed to read that long book.”

“I have, indeed,” Akashi replied in a low voice and then continued. “More importantly, do you like the quotes I have bookmarked so far?”

Midorima hoped he had done a good job at concealing his nonchalance when he said: “Yes, they were quite exceptional.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Akashi said and Midorima heard a smile in his voice. It did a number on his gnawing nervousness. “So it would be alright if I continue?”

Midorima stopped, one last book remaining in his hands; there was no reason for Akashi to follow him around anymore. He turned around towards Akashi and got swept away by the air of strange anticipation.

A smile blossomed on Akashi’s lips the moment the words left Midorima’s lips: “Yes.”

The thick book lay on the desk and Midorima opened it on the bookmarked page as soon as Akashi was gone.

The familiar arrow was pointing to the words that made him feel a tad shy:

“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”

Midorima pulled the bookmark out and put it away in a drawer.

V

It had happened while Akashi was waiting to get his library card back.

“Shin-chan, do you know where the ladders are?”

Midorima froze; out of the corner of his eye, he could see a glint of amusement in Akashi’s eye. He ignored it for a moment and gave his attention to Takao. “Yes, you have left them in the foreign literature section.”

Takao scratched his nose and bowed his head apologetically. “Whoops… that’s right. Thanks, Shin-chan!”

When Takao disappeared among shelves, Midorima returned to scribbling down numbers on Akashi’s library card. He was hoping that if he had pretended this had never happened, so would Akashi.

“So, Shin-chan,” Akashi said. It was almost a mewl, and a mocking one at that. Midorima felt the tips of his ear grow hot.

“Shintarou. It’s Shintarou.”

He lifted his gaze at last and met Akashi’s unrelenting gaze. Something about it made Midorima feel very small, despite being the taller of two. He handed the library card back.

“Thank you. Shintarou.”

When Akashi said it, it was so sudden that if felt like it gripped Midorima’s gut and pulled it out.

Like diving in a pool of honey, that was how Midorima’s name sounded on Akashi’s tongue; warm, thick, syrupy.

Midorima must’ve been speechless for a while because Akashi had found his way to the doors.

“I hope you like today’s quote,” he added and disappeared.

With shaky hands, Midorima lightly tugged at the bookmark and the book practically opened by itself.

“You are what you are and that fascinates me.”

Midorima pulled the bookmark out and put it away in a drawer.

VI

When Akashi appeared before him the next day, Midorima greeted him with poised confidence.

The routine went on all the way up to the moment Akashi handed Midorima his library card.

“Do you mind if I recommend a book to you?”

Akashi raised an eyebrow. “By all means…”  

Midorima rushed to the bookshelves and knowingly followed the path, like a pirate who knows the spine of a map, and plucked the book out of its shelf. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to do.

After all, Midorima Shintarou was a lot of things but daring wasn’t one of them. He always chose the widest path to success; one he could follow with no fear of failure so long as he kept going. Having a companion on the way never crossed his mind.

That’s why Midorima took another deep breath as he walked back to the desk.  

There, followed by Akashi’s ever-curious gaze, he pulled out a bookmark of his own and planted it on a page. He quickly drew a small arrow and handed the book to Akashi.

“I hope you will find it to your enjoyment.”

“I certainly will,” Akashi said, and only when he walked out had Midorima realized that there was smug satisfaction hidden in his smile but he was too focused on the bookmark peeking out of the book that Akashi had just returned to ponder any longer about it.

Midorima pulled at the bookmark, the book opened and what he found were lines that he felt were the truest of all so far. After all, he had felt its truth on his own skin in the form of goosebumps, thin like cobwebs and much stronger than his willpower to resist:

“With you, intimacy colours my voice. Even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here’.”

Midorima pulled the bookmark out and put it away in a drawer.

VII

It was near closing time and Midorima kept checking on the clock, hoping time would be lenient this once. Midorima was afraid Akashi wouldn’t come.

Did I overdo it? Was he put off?

He occupied himself with putting away books, wiping dust off the shelves, going out of his way to make the time flow faster but also stop and when the doors opened for the last time that day, Midorima was already half out of his mind.

But it was Akashi; in his suit, with his posture ever so proper, his eyes ever so inquisitive.

Midorima was about to greet him when Akashi slammed his opened palms on the desk and leaned in. Roused from his worries, Midorima regarded the shorter man with alarm.

“’Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire; what burns me now? Desire, desire, desire.’” Akashi recited with gracious ease, like he had been standing on a stage with Midorima as the lonely member of the audience. “Is that right?”

Midorima looked away and covered his mouth with his hand. A wave of embarrassment washed over him. A small nod was all that he could do to confirm those lines were what he had wanted to convey to Akashi, this man he knew almost nothing about but for whom he felt a magnetic attraction; just like gravity pulled everything on earth toward its centre, so did Akashi pull everything that was Midorima Shintarou towards him.

As simple as that.

As complicated as that.

Slowly, but surely, Midorima removed his hand from his mouth and returned the fervent gaze.

The moment was broken when Akashi released the book he was holding and offered his library card. Midorima took it and confirmed the return of the book.

“You are not going to borrow a book?” Midorima asked; anything, anything to distract himself from the suffocating tension between.

“No, I’ll be busy this weekend.” Akashi said, with clear certainty and a fleeting smile.

And then he left.

Midorima waited for the doors to close to be able to breathe again.

He rubbed his eyes, a nebula in small unfolding before him, before he reached for the book. When he pulled it open, he noticed that the bookmark had no arrow drawn on it; no quote it wanted to bring attention to.

Instead, there were three lines of text written in neat, slick handwriting: a date (tomorrow), time (evening) and place (a restaurant).

II

Midorima’s photo shoot took a while. He was sweating buckets at first, his face contorting into weird grimaces that resembled a smile, but once he got a hang of it, his beautiful facial features and figure did the rest with newfound confidence.

But he still had ways to go.

Compelled by sly curiosity, Kise attached the raw, first photos of Midorima – ones in which he was nervous and awkward and a lot like a kid caught with his hands in a cookie jar – and sent them to Akashi.

III

Just as he had lulled himself to sleep, Kise received a reply.

Akashicchi [1:02 am] Make sure he wears lavender next time.

Me [1:04 am]: so you like huh?

Akashicchi [1:05 am]: Keep up the good work, Ryouta.

Kise smiled complacently. In the back of his mind he heard a whisper telling him he was doing something wrong, but he fell asleep before he could begin to worry about it.

IV

“Remind me again, why am I here?” Midorima asked as one of the stylists was trying to find a pair of shoes that would fit.

“To wear this beautiful lavender suit!” Kise exclaimed with an incandescent smile and pressed the suit to Midorima’s shoulders, convinced it was a perfect fit.

Midorima scoffed and regarded the suit with guarded annoyance.

He put it on nevertheless.

V

For reasons unknown, Midorima never turned out right in the first few shots; he was always looking the wrong way, his expression being a second behind the shutter and too nervous for someone so handsome.

And Kise kept all of them.

VI

Me [8:25 pm]: should I send you those that actually turned out good?

Akashicchi [8:38 pm]: No. These are perfect. I like him the best when he’s trying too hard

Me [8:40 pm]: that sounds very dirty coming from you akashicchi

Akashicchi [8:45 pm]: How about gold for the next time?

Kise smiled impishly at the message. When Akashi dismissed your statement, it was as good as confirmed.

Me [8:49 pm]: you got it

VII

They’ve kept at it for a couple of weeks, just enough for Kise to safely conclude that there was so much left lingering between Teikou’s captain and vice captain that a word as simple ‘enemies’ couldn’t possibly erase any of it.

Midorima’s face was in magazines almost as often as Kise’s; his name became known, much to his dismay. Sometimes he would get recognized on the street by star struck fans that were eager to latch onto someone new, and Kise was more than glad to ease him through it.

Eventually, Midorima made peace with the camera. Sometimes he’d share his opinions about the outfits. He looked great in a suit and his hair smoothed back.

However, the first few shots of every shoot were still very, very horrible.

VIII

“Explain. This. Kise.” Midorima said through gritted teeth as he shoved his phone in Kise’s face.

Kise took a step back and inspected the message opened before him.

Akashi Seijurou [1:36 pm]: For the record, I was a fan way before you became popular.

The message had a dozen of attachments.

II

As bleak as his days were, there was light at the end of the tunnel; a glimpse of salvation before the crash. Midorima abandoned his friend Takao, who was puzzled but complain, during lunch break and climbed three sets of stairs to get to the rooftop of the school – the only place where the static subsided.

And there he was.

Akashi Seijurou; a splash of red across the grey sky. He sat upright on the bench, his slender legs crossed and his hand resting on the back of the bench. When he heard Midorima approaching, he separated his gaze from the cityscape unfolding on the other side of the roof’s fence and rewarded Midorima with a brief smile.

“I didn’t think you’d come, Shintarou.”

Midorima crossed his arms. “I promised to defeat you.”

“Ah, we’ll be here even after the graduation then.”

Midorima huffed, displeased but he took a seat on the other side of the shogi board that lay on the bench.

“Shall we then?”

III

Midorima was only ever at peace when he was by Akashi’s side. They had been friends for as long as his memory unrolled to his liking. Akashi was Midorima’s anchor; he both kept him in place and pulled him down, but also provided security, a sense of belonging.

So long as there was Akashi, Midorima knew that there are heights he was yet to reach. And that offered Midorima a great sense of purpose.

“Sometimes I feel like you’re using me,” Akashi said as he moved his piece on the board. Midorima realized that if he made a wrong move here, he’d lose.

“What do you mean, Akashi?”

“I am a symbol, a metaphor to you, not a real person.”

Midorima moved his piece. Akashi momentarily seemed displeased; he won’t achieve victory this turn.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Akashi. You are my friend.”

Akashi gave him an uncanny smile. “Is that so?”

Midorima didn’t want to humour this typical self-indulgent conversation of Akashi’s. “Akashi, what is the meaning of this?”

Akashi made his move on the board. “Nothing.” He dodged. “I will claim my victory next turn.”

Midorima looked at the board and felt his shoulders drop.

There’s always tomorrow.

IV

“Shin-chan, lately you’ve been in a good mood,” Takao commented in between classes. He was munching on an energy bar and swinging his chair. He didn’t seem worried at all.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” He could still hear the static in his ears, but he was used to it now.

Takao stopped rocking in his chair and seemed almost bewildered for a split second before he smiled. “No, I’m glad. I really am glad.”

He squeezed Midorima’s shoulder when he got up to toss an empty energy bar wrapper in the trash can.

V

“Shintarou, where do you want to go?”

“To college,” Midorima blurted out immediately. Tokyo University, if possible. He knew that was where Akashi was aiming for as well.

Akashi chortled; it was such a peculiar sound coming from Akashi that Midorima wondered if he had even been real.

“I meant the world. Where would you like to travel?”

Midorima pushed his glasses up, ashamed. “No place comes in mind. We have exams to worry about.”

Akashi clicked his tongue; the leg that was crossed over the other started bouncing nervously. Akashi could be very childish when he didn’t get an answer he was hoping for. “Such a boring answer, Shintarou.”

“I suppose you have a place in mind then?”

“Places. I want to go everywhere,” he said and looked over to Midorima. His smile was radiant; it coloured everything around them. Midorima forgot he was worrying about something; something distant and drenched in darkness.

Exams, right.  

“Shintarou, will you come with me? After graduation. We could take two weeks for ourselves and just go.”

Midorima had never found an idea more appealing.

VI

One day, Midorima went to the roof before it was lunch break. The static in his ears was almost palpable, driving him insane.

When he got up there, the roof was empty, abandoned, and devoid of colour.

Right, Midorima mused, Akashi was always on time but never before time.

VII

The roof was wet, a gift of a morning shower. Luckily, the weather decided to spare them its fickleness during the lunch break.

Midorima felt like he could win today. His palms weren’t clammy and his mind was clear. Akashi seemed to notice as he took double the time to reconsider his move.

“Shintarou, you want it badly today, don’t you,” Akashi’s tone didn’t suggest a question, it was a statement. A correct one.

“I always want it.”

Victory. A volatile mistress. It seemed to prefer Akashi’s company to anyone else’s.

Midorima confidently moved his piece and waited for Akashi’s to counter it. He was mentally urging him to make a mistake. Today more than ever, his face seemed translucent in the cracks of sunlight the cloudy sky provided.

Like an angel, Midorima thought. As if he could hear his thoughts, Akashi’s eyes flitted over and he smiled. Then he made his move.

Midorima brushed Victory’s back with his fingertips.

A moment of silent gloating was broken by the sound of the doors to the roof opening. The static returned.

“Shin-chan? Why are you here?”

It was Takao.

Midorima felt cross over having his moment taken away from him.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m playing shogi with Akashi.”

Takao turned into a statue, frozen in time.

“Come here, Takao. You can watch me win.”

Takao obeyed. He trudged to Midorima’s side and then he firmly took a hold of his face.

“Shin-chan… Akashi died a month ago,” he whispered, voice trembling, his eyes widened in shock and guilt. “There’s no one here.”

The static was unbearable.

Midorima crooked to his right, as much as Takao’s cold, rigid hands allowed him to, and there he was – Akashi, smiling at him just like he had on the day he boarded the train that was bound to never reach its destination.

Midorima closed his eyes.

Tiny beads of sweat raced down his forehead.

He counted to three.

3

2

1

II

Needless to say, working at a kindergarten was a painstaking process of looking for children who took a game of hide and seek way too seriously or who mistook walls for canvas or who put small items in their pocket, forgot about them and then caused an ordeal.

It was not the working environment Akashi had been striving for. But he had bills and college tuition to pay and for that he’d endure those children.

Those children who only ever heard him when he called them for lunch.

And who couldn’t play shogi for their life.

III

“Whoa~~ shogi?!”

Akashi lifted his gaze from the board which was, once again, figuratively defiled by the same child as few days again. Above him stood Ryouta, one of the few kids whose name Akashi remembered solely because of his model behaviour, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Can you play?”

Ryouta grinned widely, revealing a missing milk tooth, and sat down facing Akashi.

“Yeah. Can I?”

“Of course.”

As if bracing himself, Ryouta tucked his golden hair behind his ears and took a deep breath, his rosy cheeks puffed; then he exhaled.

Twenty minutes later, Akashi was gaping at the state on the board.

Akashi had won, undoubtedly so, but not without having almost lost – twice.

“Aw, I lost,” Ryouta sighed and pursed his lips into a pout.

“Who taught you how to play?” Akashi asked. He deemed the idea of going easy on a child who was maturely accepting defeat unnecessary.

“My dad plays shogi a lot. I just copied what he does. But you’re very good, mister.”

“Is your father a professional shogi player?”

“No. He plays alone when he comes home from work.”

“I see.”

Whoever Ryouta’s father was, he was the closest to beating Akashi than anyone ever was – and he wasn’t even in the room when it almost happened.

Akashi’s interest was piqued.

IV

The very same day, Akashi caught a glimpse of Ryouta’s father; he was a tall man of broad shoulders, clad in a neat-looking suit, with fair facial features, long eyelashes and high cheekbones. On the bridge of his nose sat a pair of glasses which completed the look a well-mannered professional.

He definitely looked like someone who, given half a chance, could beat him at shogi.

He definitely looked like a distraction.

V

“Reo, what do you know about Ryouta’s father?”

“Hm… Not much.”

After he replied, Reo continued poking at his pudding, lost in thought. Until he jumped in his seat, eyes widening.

“Why do you ask? Please don’t tell me you have decided to go down the thorny, self-destructive path of pining for an older man with a child?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Reo. My interest is purely of professional nature.”

Reo rolled his eyes once and continued: “Well then, his name is Midorima Shintarou. Let’s see, he’s an up-standing man who is currently working under his father at the clinic nearby. One day he’ll inherit it. He’s a pleasant man to talk to when he does in fact talk, but a bit too reserved and formal for my taste.”

“I see.”

“Just promise me you won’t do anything embarrassing enough that I’d have to relocate my kindergarten into another district.”

“Reo…”

VI

Midorima Shintarou was before him.

Akashi took it as his noble mission to find something wrong with the man. He started with picking at Midorima’s emerald hair, but every strand was in its place and strangely so considering that it was the end of the work day and he had come by to pick up Ryouta. Akashi’s eyes travelled down the seams of Midorima’s grey suit, but not a single crease disrupting the well-polished look. Midorima’s hands were well-cared for, nothing but smooth-looking skin and long, bony fingers.

He looked like a worthy opponent.

“Please refrain from looking at me like that; my child is here,” Midorima said, breaking Akashi’s concentration.

“Looking at you, how?” Akashi feigned innocence as he removed his thumb from his chin.

Midorima pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose which almost – almost – successfully hid the smirk on his face. “You know very well what I mean.”

“Allow me to cut to the chase, sir, I’d love to play shogi with you,” he spoke in a way that would send Reo’s eyes rolling.

“Play shogi with me?” Midorima repeated, the crease in his brow becoming apparent.

“Not just play – win.”

Midorima’s lips quirked in amusement. “You are ten years too early to win against me.”

“I’d very much like to try.”

Akashi flashed him his finest challenging look and for a while they simply stared at each other like wild animals stuck in resin, unable to move until they’re both suffused with thick tension until one of them suffocated.  

It was then that Ryouta impatiently pulled at his father’s sleeve and dragged his attention away from Akashi.

“Dad, I want a bath.”

Midorima broke eye contact, nodded and patted Ryouta’s head.

“I’ll come by a bit earlier tomorrow,” he said and started for the exit. “I hope it will be worth it.”

“That I promise you.”

VII

Ryouta’s ‘brooom, broom’ in the adjacent room were the only sounds permeating the thick, tense air; a completely unfit background music for two enemies locked in a battle happening on the flat board on the table.

Akashi leaned in, his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers and hid his quivering lip behind them. The odds were not in his favour.

Midorima sat upright in his chair, shoulders straight and observed every Akashi’s movement as if he were a guinea pig.

Akashi moved a piece on the board; the first time he had ever doubted his decision.

Midorima took a couple of seconds to assess to situation before he moved his piece. Then he leaned back at last, his lips stretching into a humble smile.

“I win.”

It wasn’t as dramatic as in the movies, losing. That was a lot like having time freeze on you while you replay the same moment over and over again wishing you could’ve made a different call. And to Akashi, it felt like that very time strangled something – somebody – inside of him and locked his lifeless body away.

“You are good. But skill alone cannot beat experience,” said Midorima, showing concern in his creased brow.

Akashi wordlessly stared at him, unblinking.

“If I were your age, you would’ve won.”

Akashi had yet to find his voice.

“So, I have enough time for one more round. Do you want to go?”

Akashi’s silence seemed interminable.

Midorima didn’t appear to be fazed by it. “A famous scientist once said that the only source of knowledge is experience. I think it was something that—“

“Albert Einstein.”

“—said.” Midorima smiled briefly and fixed his glasses. “Right. So, another round?”

“Yes.”

VIII

It had become a routine. In the mornings and evenings, Midorima and Akashi played one round in the back room of the kindergarten. Reo threw a knowing glance in Akashi’s way every once in a while but he never rebuked him. Ryouta sometimes watched them play, in awe, as if a battle of epic proportions had been playing out before his widened, golden eyes.

Akashi aced all his classes. Loss in one field meant you were lacking in many others so he tried to make up for all his faults thinking that this would lead him to victory.

And two weeks after their shogi matches, Akashi still hadn’t won once.

He had analyzed and observed every move Midorima made; he had been over-thinking above and below, behind and forwards – but all in vain.

He felt like a would-be emperor who fell short just before he reached the crown.

However, the real problem arose when he no longer only wanted the crown but the person who was wearing it.

Midorima Shintarou.

IX

“Reo, I might’ve miscalculated. My interest in Ryouta’s father may be more than professional.”

Reo stared vacantly at Akashi for a few moments, as if he were absorbing the information and replaying it in his mind, before he clasped his hands together. “My prayers go to Midorima Shintarou.”

Akashi sighed exasperatedly. “Reo…”

X

Akashi had learned three things through Ryouta.

One, he only saw his mother on the weekends; that was her time with him.

Two, Midorima had a hidden drawer in his closet where he kept obscure, useless items that were valuable for one day only and depended solely on the horoscope.

Three, he never brought anyone home. Not friends, not colleague, not anyone.

XI

“That’s odd. You rarely study this late,” Reo commented and placed a hot cup of cocoa on Akashi’s desk.

Akashi took a small sip and winced as the liquid burned his tongue.

“You know, Reo,” Akashi said, ignoring Reo’s comment, “I’m starting to really like this job.”

Reo crossed his arms but he wasn’t mad; his mouth was smiling. “I hate to break it to you, but your job isn’t flirting with hot dads. You’re also fairly miserable at it.”

“Reo…”

XII

It was morning and Ryouta was playing with Reo in the next room. Akashi could hear the clacking of wooden toy cars. Its distant thumping, like some sort of a countdown, kept him in present and helped ease the drowsiness away.

His senses were dull. He barely got a wink of sleep last night.

This is why Akashi Seijurou didn’t do all-nighters; all-nighters did him in.

Midorima was sitting in front of him, observing the board, not paying attention to Akashi in the slightest; the stagnant, wooden pieces seemed to be more interesting. It irked him to his very marrow.

“Haven’t slept well?” Midorima spoke in a gravelly voice as if he wanted to rouse Akashi from his daydream, but his emerald eyes still glued to the board. Then he moved his piece.

Akashi suppressed a yawn.

“Yes, I was revising for an exam.”

“Exams are important but your health should come first.”

Akashi forced a smile. “Of course, doctor.”

When Midorima lifted his head, and their eyes met, something overcame Akashi.

He felt like certain things could be forgiven if he felt like he was in a dream. That’s why he lifted his leg off the ground and let his foot find its way to Midorima’s calf. Midorima’s eyes flickered immediately, he caught on. Akashi lazily dragged his foot up and down Midorima’s calf; he was testing the waters.

Midorima, aside from the crack between his brows, showed no sign of distress as if he was expecting Akashi to do this. Then he harrumphed loudly, purposefully.

“Focus on the game, Akashi.”

“I am. Life is a game, and I’m making my move.”

Midorima’s eyes flitted from Akashi’s face to what was happening below the table. He didn’t make a move to discourage Akashi’s foot.

“You knew it from the first day yet you kept coming back to play with me. You were also making your move,” Akashi stated simply.

Midorima fell back into his chair, a shameless smile now playing on his face. It made the wrinkles underneath his eyes all the more visible. And charming, Akashi thought.

“You have to understand why I have my doubts. The age gap, your fixation on victory, my son.”

Akashi interlaced his fingers, a nervous habit when he tried to keep the situation under his control.

“I understand. But I also understand that I’m willing to give it a shot. If you’re willing to as well.”

A brief exchange of a glance, that was all it took, and Akashi already knew the answer.

But Midorima wasn’t going to hand it to him for free.

His eyes flicked towards the wall clock and he darted upwards, fixing his uniform. “I have to go to work.”

Akashi followed him as he started for the doors. “Is that a yes?” Akashi had to hear it, after all.

Midorima halted his step. He threw a furtive glance through the half-open doors and then pushed Akashi into the wall. As he towered above him, Akashi realized why he never had a chance.

Akashi looked up into the flutter of Midorima’s thick, long lashes and saw hesitation trying to overpower determination. It was such an absurd struggle that Akashi couldn’t help placing his hands on Midorima’s cheeks.

“It must be hard to be a model adult.”

Midorima smirked. “Brats like you aren’t making it any easier.” With that, Midorima leaned in and placed a brief kiss on Akashi’s dry lips.

“Dinner, my place, this weekend. I’ll pick you up. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect.”

XIII

“I got a date,” Akashi said as a badly scribbled image of a dinosaur started at him.

II

Midorima had his next encounter with Akashi the following day.  

He was in the bathroom putting his ear piercings in; he felt relief upon seeing that the redness around them had almost disappeared. When he first had his ears pierced, he often tugged at the piercings or clasped them in too hard. It became a nervous habit of his. Lately, he’s got it under control.

That was when he heard faint scratching noise coming from his front door. He rushed to open them only to see an empty hallway. Puzzled, he attempted to close the door when he heard a soft mewl from beneath his feet.

It was Tei.

“What do you want?” He asked and looked down at the kitten. Tei’s ears wiggled and his beady light-blue eyes looked up at Midorima with expectation.

Midorima picked him up and held him on the palm of his hand while he was carrying him over to the apartment next door. The doors to the apartment were wide open. Midorima wondered if Akashi was fit to take care of a pet if he couldn’t even complete a simple task of closing the doors after himself. Perhaps Midorima had mistaken the knowing glint in Akashi’s eyes for something entirely different.

Midorima knocked on the doors, out of courtesy, and let himself into a narrow hallway without having heard a reply. He was closing the doors behind him just as Akashi walked in, massaging his neck as if it was stiff.

“Don’t tell me he ran out again?” Akashi said in a low voice.

“You should take better care of your pets,” Midorima warned; he only meant to lightly lecture him – it wasn’t his place to teach Akashi about his lifestyle after all – but he ended up sounding cross.

Akashi’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the remark before he regained his composure. “I apologize for the inconvenience, again,” he said, flat, and went over to take Tei out of Midorima’s palm, “but he had never run out of my apartment before. Until you moved in.”

“Are you trying to say it’s my fault?”

Akashi smiled disarmingly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, not at all. It’s just a curious coincidence.”

Midorima crossed his arms. “Well then, make sure to close your doors when you leave or enter from now on,” Midorima said and, expecting this conversation to be over, reached for the door handle.

“I had a good reason this time. Want to see?”

Midorima should’ve walked out of his apartment that instant but the way Akashi invited him in sounded a lot like a dare rather than an offer; an offer he could refuse, but a dare threaded in the territory of Midorima’s pride and curiosity.

That’s why Midorima followed Akashi into his living room.

The room was almost a mirror image of Midorima’s: naked, dull walls, two small bookshelves barely holding their ground under the pressure of numerous books and minimalistic furniture. There was a red litter box and a bowl of water and animal food in the corner, and two huge, heavy-looking boxes in the middle of the room.

Akashi sat next to one of the boxes and motioned for Midorima to sit down too.

“This is why I couldn’t close the doors. I barely brought these in…” Akashi spoke as he opened one of the boxes with a box cutter to reveal what might’ve been a myriad of ancient-looking books.

“How did you bring these in?”

“Like I’ve said, barely. My neck paid the price,” Akashi replied and began taking the books out, one by one. He brushed his palm over each cover, as if he were momentarily admiring it, and then put it on its designated place on the floor. Tei moseyed around the books, sniffing them and rubbing his nose onto those he found most ‘appealing’.

“May I help you? What are these for?” Midorima inquired; he felt slightly overwhelmed by the sight of so many books that looked foreign.

“I would appreciate your help, thank you. I need to choose which of these I love enough to keep and which I should give away to the local library.”

Midorima blinked, realization sweeping over him. “How am I supposed to help you with that…?”

Akashi was silent for a while before he replied: “You can’t, really. I just didn’t want you to leave my apartment.” When he looked up, the pupils of his mismatched eyes dilated and Midorima found himself unable to move a muscle.

They sat in silence; Akashi was going through the books quickly, touching each, estimating its worth, and then putting them on their designated piles. Midorima observed idly, touching only those books whose covers caught his eyes. He knew he wasn’t reading as much as he used to – downside of being a busy Medicine student – and being surrounded by so many words he had never read scratched an old itch.

Like that, the morning went by in a flash and Midorima had to excuse himself only when he had to leave for classes. Akashi (and Tei) seemed somewhat reluctant to let him go.

III

“Why do you keep a cat if you don’t get along with it?” Midorima inquired. His curiosity was sincere and sparked by yet another scratch across Akashi’s face – this time his right cheek.

It was night and they were both outside on their adjacent balconies. The autumn breeze was persistent, but tender across Midorima’s skin but he focused more on the way Akashi’s hair fluttered and how he hugged himself to keep himself warm.

“What makes you think we don’t get along?”

“You look like you wrestle a tiny tiger every day. And lose miserably.”

Akashi chuckled. Midorima must’ve imagined it.

“You mean these scratch marks?” Akashi said and touched the fresh cut on his cheek. Those on his lip were starting to fade. “Tei and I do get along. He just takes after his previous owner: good at sensing emotions and not cutting me any slack. Competitive and moody. We are quite alike, that’s why we may have our disagreements.”

As if he had been worried Midorima might ask more questions, Akashi continued: “Why are you up at this hour?”

Midorima had a tendency to study deep into the night. He found the silence soothing, and knowing that he was racing with the dawn gave him an incentive to work harder and faster.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Midorima countered but, upon seeing Akashi’s glance sideways at him with what could be ‘that didn’t answer my question’ look, added: “I study Medicine.”

Akashi leaned on the short wall between them and rested his head on his palm, his mouth half covered by it. He murmured: “What an unusual Medicine student.”

“Is it because of these?” Midorima asked and gently tugged at his piercings.

“Yes, but I like them. You’ll have to take them out eventually, though.”

Midorima brushed past the compliment. “I know, that’s why I want to wear them now,” Midorima tucked his hair behind his ears, self-conscious. “So, why are you awake?”

“I can’t fall asleep,” Akashi confessed with a weary sigh.

“Lie on your back and hug Tei; future doctor’s prescription.”

Akashi bestows a languid smile. “Don’t be silly, Shintarou, I don’t want to lose an eye.”

IV

Midorima rationalized his intricate desire to hang out at Akashi’s place with the fact that he hadn’t made any other friends in the apartment complex. Maybe he didn’t even try; maybe he would’ve if he hadn’t knocked on Akashi’s doors with his cat in his hands on the very first day.

However it may be, Midorima found Akashi’s company pleasant. Akashi was an intern at his father’s company who was still learning the ropes. When he talked about his future profession he didn’t sound nearly as enthusiastic as he did when he talked about books, many of which Midorima had never heard of. And once they had engaged in a conversation, it could last for hours, never once depleting in topics or arguments.

Tei was also significantly fonder of him than of Akashi. Akashi had tried numerous ways to acquire Tei’s affections whereas Midorima acquired them effortlessly. He had learned that Tei was particularly sensitive around his ears and when petted there, he fell asleep within minutes.

Sometimes, while Midorima was sipping on Akashi’s home-brewed coffee, Akashi would sit on the couch next to him and scoot over until their shoulders touched.

“He lets me pet him when he lies on your lap.” Akashi noted as he, indeed, stroked Tei’s head without being scratched or bitten.

Midorima was filled with awe at the serenity of Akashi’s face; he wanted to reach out and touch it for himself but he was afraid the moment might pass. So he sat and eased into the gentle tremor of his body whenever Akashi moved to pet Tei.

Midorima realized that he might’ve unknowingly adopted two unfathomable cats.

V

After one particularly exhausting day at college, Midorima swung by Akashi’s place for dinner and a cup of coffee before his nightly study-sessions.

He fell asleep on Akashi’s couch, cradling Tei in his lap, and woke up covered with a soft, green blanket that wasn’t long enough to cover his feet.

VI

Midorima had only meant to tease Akashi a little when he raised Tei to his face and said: “I want a kiss.”

Stone-faced Akashi blinked a few times and, before Midorima could comprehend what his intentions were, reached for the back of Midorima’s neck and pulled him down to press a close-mouthed kiss to his cheek.

“You could’ve just asked for it without shoving a cat in my face, Shintarou.”

VII

Somewhere between studying on Akashi’s couch, appreciating candid smiles he saw on Akashi’s face when he (albeit rarely) successfully gained Tei’s approval to pet him, and supporting each other with their studies did Midorima realize that this comfortable, homely atmosphere was what he had been searching for all along.

So when Akashi popped the question: “Shintarou, why don’t you move in with me?” Midorima almost spat out the coffee he was drinking.

“Did you just subtly skip the ‘will you go out with me’ question?” Midorima asked, fraught with worry that he had misunderstood the implication.  

“Depends. Are you going to say ‘yes’?”

Buoyed by Akashi’s appealing voice, Midorima answered: “Yes. Yes to all.”

VIII

“Tei, you are not to come in between us,” Akashi warned. Tei was lying in between them on the bed, keeping them separated. The kitten paid no attention to them once it had settled down.

“I don’t think he approves of our relationship,” Midorima concluded and stroked the fluffy fur on Tei’s back.

The bed creaked when Akashi repositioned himself to the other side of Midorima so he could snuggle closer without Tei as an obstacle. Tei reacted almost immediately and climbed atop Midorima’s chest where he made sure Akashi couldn’t make a move.

“Are you seriously competing with a cat?” Midorima raised an eyebrow even though he thought this childish side of Akashi was endearing.

“I never lose, Shintarou.”

Tei mewled, as if accepting the challenge.