#kunimi fluff

it’s wednesday morning, the hallway smells faintly like floor polish and anxiety, and kunimi is standing in front of his locker, staring at yet another pink envelope like it personally offended him in a past life.

he does not sigh because sighing would take energy and he is frugal with that kind of thing. but something in his face does the emotional equivalent.

the problem: people keep trying to confess to his girlfriend.

the bigger problem: his girlfriend is you.

it’s not your fault, obviously. you exist. you laugh. you fix your hair and the wind messes it up and somehow make astronomy club flyers look like couture accessories. you sit next to him at lunch and talk about wild things like how grapes are just tiny water balloons wearing jackets. and every single person with functioning eyes goes, ‘oh.’

kunimi learns early that saying “she has a boyfriend” only invites follow-up questions. the world is full of people who see a fence and immediately start measuring how tall it is.

he tried, once.

“she has a boyfriend,” he’d said flatly to some first-year clutching a gift bag like it was a life jacket.

“oh,” the first-year had said, eyes lighting up with the dangerous optimism of someone about to rent a ladder. “but does he treat her right? are they serious? how long have they been—”

kunimi had walked away mid-sentence.

𓏵

new strategy.

it’s not elegant. it’s not noble. it’s not even particularly sportsmanlike.

he just takes the gifts.

quietly. efficiently. like a very calm raccoon with morals.

someone tries to intercept you after practice with a box of chocolates? kunimi is suddenly there, a ghost with bed hair and unimpressed eyes, and somehow the chocolates migrate into his hands. letters tucked into your desk? gone. little plushies left in your shoe locker? vanished, like they were never born.

people don’t argue with kunimi because he doesn’t give them anything to push against. he simply appears, looks at them like they’re a pop-up ad, and extends an open hand. it’s not aggressive. it’s just… inevitable.

they hand things over because resisting feels awkward, like refusing a vending machine that already dropped the drink.

you, blissfully unaware, walk through school like a princess guarded by a very non-talkative dragon. and kunimi, who theoretically should be annoyed by the administrative labor of romance management, instead feels something warm and fizzy expand behind his ribs every time he thinks: ‘mine.’

(not the bad kind, not the sharp kind — just the soft, ridiculous kind, like hugging a giant warm milk bread.)

he doesn’t hide you out of shame. far from it. if anything, he has this strange, quiet pride about you that could light a small city. it’s just that he likes having you without commentary. without everyone poking and asking and speculating like you’re a limited edition sneaker drop.

you have no idea any of this is happening. why would you? your life is normal. you go to class. you text kunimi pictures of aggressively cute dogs you see on the street. you show up at practice sometimes, leaning against the wall with that look on your face that says ‘i like watching you,’ and he pretends he is not immediately ready to commit legally binding acts of affection.

and he knows—really knows—that you only look at him like that. you’ve made it absurdly clear. you’ve said his name like it’s fluently spoken in your bones. you’ve taken his hand in yours and looked at him like he hung the stars up just so they wouldn’t be lonely.

still.

other people looking at you makes his brain go slightly static.

so he hoards.

his locker becomes… a situation.

it starts as a corner. then a neat stack. then a less neat stack. then, at some point, when gods were busy and no adult supervision existed in the universe, it becomes a geological formation.

envelopes in every shade invented by stationery companies. keychains. a frankly alarming number of rabbit plushies. chocolates (he checks expiration dates with the grim seriousness of a pharmacist). a scarf knitted with the sort of fierce determination that suggests late-night youtube tutorials.

he doesn’t throw anything away (unless the chocolates expire.)

not because he cares about the gifts themselves—he doesn’t—but because they touched a story involving you, and his brain, despite its famously low energy mode, refuses to be careless with anything that brushes even remotely close to you. so he keeps them. quietly. like a museum of failed attempts.

no one knows.

or so he thinks.

𓏵

it’s after practice when the universe decides to flip him onto his emotional back like a helpless turtle.

the team is loud. oikawa is dramatic. iwaizumi is yelling at oikawa to stop being dramatic. matsukawa and hanamaki are narrating events like a chaotic nature documentary. it’s normal seijoh chaos.

kunimi, in the middle of it, exists like a calm punctuation mark.

he goes to his locker with the intention of: open, grab bag, leave, find you, continue breathing.

he turns the lock.

the door does not open.

it detonates.

not literally—but the hinge gives up with the heartbreak of a 90-year-old soap opera character, and suddenly the hallway is an explosion of pastel.

letters cascade like paper snow. plushies tumble out in a fluffy avalanche. something wrapped in metallic gift paper bounces off matsukawa’s shoe with a festive twang.

there is a silence so loud it rings.

oikawa, frozen mid-hair-flip, blinks at the mountain of gifts at kunimi’s feet.

then, very slowly, like his understanding is being delivered by snail, he says, “what. is. that.”

hanamaki wheezes, “is kunimi… running an underground convenience store?”

iwaizumi squints at the pile, then at kunimi, then back at the pile. “that’s… that’s a lot of stuff.”

someone lifts an envelope with tiny hearts on it. “to… y/n?” matsukawa reads, voice rising like a kettle.

you are very much a real person in this school. you are known. you are admired. you are the walking equivalent of that warm spot of sunlight cats find and refuse to leave.

everything happens at once.

“hold on hold on hold on,” oikawa flaps his hands like an untrained bird. “why do all of these say y/n? why are they in your locker? kunimi what is happening, are you being blackmailed to keep these—”

kunimi stands in the middle of the disaster, expression unchanged, like he is internally choosing between options on a vending machine menu.

“they’re for her,” he says finally.

“why do you have them?” iwaizumi asks.

a pause.

“because she doesn’t need them,” kunimi answers simply.

the team stares like they have collectively discovered a new species.

“why,” matsukawa says slowly, “does y/n not need… confessions?”

another pause. kunimi looks at them. then at the paper heart stuck on his shoelace. then back at them.

he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

“she’s my girlfriend.”

if the school roof had blown off, it would have been less dramatic.

oikawa makes a noise that sounds illegal in three countries. “EXCUSE ME?”

hanamaki points at kunimi like he’s accusing him in court. “you—you—you have a girlfriend? not hypothetical, not fanfiction, not a rumor from the bathroom third stall—an actual girlfriend?”

iwaizumi’s eyebrows hit the stratosphere. “and it’s y/n?”

matsukawa sits down on the floor without breaking eye contact. “i need a minute.”

“how long?” oikawa demands. “how long have you been secretly living a romantic shoujo manga life behind our backs?”

kunimi shrugs, which is his preferred form of poetry. “a while.”

oikawa clutches his chest. “he didn’t tell us. i thought we were friends. teammates. family.”

“you don’t tell family everything,” hanamaki points out. “i don’t tell you when i buy weird jam.”

“that’s different,” oikawa cries.

iwaizumi recalibrates. “so you’ve been… intercepting these. to keep people from confessing to her.”

kunimi nods.

“and your locker… exploded,” matsukawa observes helpfully.

kunimi considers the pile of letters like it personally betrayed him. “yes.”

there’s another silence, but this time it’s not shocked. it’s… impressed. confused. slightly fond in the way you feel toward a cat caught red-pawed in the bread box.

oikawa blinks. “wait. so she knows we exist? you didn’t just… stash her on some secret island away from all of us, right?”

the look kunimi gives him answers that question with such flat clarity that hanamaki actually snorts.

“she comes to practice sometimes,” iwaizumi says slowly, like he’s connecting murder board strings. “the girl with the smile and the sweater with the tiny bees.”

“yes,” kunimi says.

matsukawa points at him. “you were holding her umbrella last week.”

“yes.”

“you looked like a husband in a grocery store,” hanamaki adds.

“yes.”

oikawa dissolves into the floor with dramatic despair noises.

the teasing comes, inevitably, like rain arrives to a picnic.

“wow, kunimi, hiding a whole romance from us,” matsukawa grins. “what else are you hiding? a mortgage? three children? a savings account?”

“i’m genuinely happy for you,” iwaizumi says, punching his shoulder lightly. “just… next time, maybe tell us? we could’ve given you advice.”

kunimi looks at him, unimpressed. “i didn’t need advice.”

hanamaki wiggles his eyebrows. “because you’re so in lo—”

he stops, wisely, because there is a particular softness in kunimi’s expression that feels private. like sunlight in a jar.

oikawa leans forward, eyes glittering with scandalous curiosity. “does y/n know you’re a gift-stealing raccoon?”

kunimi hesitates.

you do not, in fact, know.

the team howls.

“tell her,” iwaizumi says, half-laughing, half-genuinely concerned about the ethics of dessert confiscation. “before she finds out because your locker turned into a piñata in front of the entire school.”

𓏵

you hear about it before he finds you.

of course you do.

people whisper like wind. hallways carry gossip the way rivers carry leaves. you’re putting your shoes on when someone walks by saying, “i heard kunimi’s locker exploded,” like this is normal weather conversation.

you blink.

another voice: “full of love letters to y/n.”

you stop blinking.

your heart does something extremely acrobatic inside your chest, like it suddenly enrolled in gymnastics without informing you.

you find him outside, near the gym, sitting on a bench with the air of someone whose day did not go according to any known plan.

there’s a tiny paper heart stuck in his hair.

you go to him.

“hey,” you say softly, and the way his shoulders lower when he hears your voice makes the entire sky feel too small for how much your chest tries to hold.

he looks up at you, and for a second, everything in him is naked and earnest, like a book with all the covers peeled away. then it’s just kunimi again, calm, a little tired, with that look he only ever has when it’s about you: like he would put the whole world in a drawer if it ever made you frown.

“locker incident?” you say, lips twitching.

he exhales through his nose. “…yes.”

you sit beside him, your knees bumping his, casual and enormous at the same time. “i heard there were a lot of letters with my name.”

he doesn’t look away. “yes.”

a breeze nudges your hair. a leaf skitters by. somewhere, volleyballs thump, whistles blow, life continues with rude indifference to the very important moment of your heart deciding to glow like a toaster.

“you took them?” you ask gently.

“yes.”

there’s no shame in his voice. no insecurity. just simple truth, like the sky is blue and he likes your hand in his.

“why?” you ask, not accusing, just curious, like you’re peeking into the drawer of his mind with clean hands.

he thinks, and then he answers in that straightforward way that makes everything feel more serious and more funny at the same time.

“because they don’t matter to you,” he says. “and i don’t want people bothering you. you already chose me.”

it’s not pompous. it’s not triumphant. it’s quiet certainty, the kind built from a thousand tiny moments—your head on his shoulder on the train, your hand wrapped in his jacket sleeve when your fingers were cold, the way you say his name like it’s a light switch that turns your whole face warm.

your throat goes soft.

there are a thousand things you could say—poetic, dramatic, witty—but what comes out is simple, a little wobbly, absolutely real:

“come here.”

you tug him by his sleeve, and he leans in, obedient in the way someone is when they are choosing it, not being pulled. your forehead presses against his. your noses bump. his breath mixes with yours, and the world, rude as it is, blurs like a camera refusing to focus on anything but him.

“you know i pick you,” you murmur. “every time. with both hands. like grabbing the biggest melon at the supermarket because it looks like it would be sweet.”

a laugh escapes him—soft, startled, unguarded.

you smile, triumphant in the way a scientist smiles when an experiment explodes into confetti instead of smoke. “you don’t have to protect me from every letter. i don’t even see anyone else that way. it’s like my heart is a phone with only one contact and i forgot the passcode for adding new ones.”

his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve, holding, like he’s anchoring himself to something that’s moving very fast in a beautiful direction. his eyes, usually so sleepy, shine with something so warm it could bake bread.

“i know,” he says. it’s almost a whisper. “i just… didn’t want them near you.”

you lean back, just enough to see him entirely, as if the universe framed him. “you’re—”

you stop.

there are words you could use, but none of the sharp ones, none of the tired ones. instead, you say, with a grin that feels too big for your face:

“you’re my favorite silly dragon.”

his ears turn the color of strawberries that know they’re being watched.

“dragon,” he repeats, deadpan, but his mouth betrays him with the tiniest upward curve.

“yes,” you say firmly. “hoarding shiny things, glaring at intruders, guarding treasure. very on brand.”

“you’re the treasure,” he says, so casually and so sincerely that the air itself trips over its shoelaces.

your heart becomes a firework disguised as an organ.

“say that again,” you whisper, because you are greedy with sweetness now, shameless, like someone at a free hotel buffet.

he doesn’t repeat—he just looks at you like he already wrote it a hundred times in invisible ink across his life.

you bump his shoulder with yours. “also, a paper heart is in your hair.”

he blinks.

you reach up, pluck it free, and tuck it into your pocket like a joke you plan to giggle about later.

“the team found out?” you ask.

“yes.”

“are they alive?”

“unfortunately.”

you snort, and he watches the sound leave your mouth like it is an actual visible thing he wants to catch in his hands.

you lace your fingers with his, and it fits, like this was the only correct solution to an unsolvable math problem. he squeezes back, not hard, just sure.

“walk me home?” you ask.

he stands. “yes.”

it’s simple with him. no theatrics. no speeches. but his quiet is not empty; it’s dense with feeling, like cake that forgot how to be modest. (dense w a filling! haha sorry.)

on the way, he takes your bag from you without asking, like gravity, like of course. you argue for half a second, then let him, because it makes his shoulders straighten with that tiny, proud stiffness you secretly love.

people look. people whisper. you ignore them like background music in a bakery—present, but irrelevant to the main event, which is sugar and warmth and the boy beside you whose hand keeps brushing yours like it’s shy and brave at the same time.

he stops at your gate.

evening wraps everything in honey.

you turn to him. “akira.”

“mm?”

“thank you for… all of it.” you gesture vaguely at the universe, at the gift avalanche, at his very specific style of quiet chaos. “i’m not mad. just—tell me next time, okay? i want to laugh with you when your locker becomes a greeting card volcano again.”

he nods. then, after a second, he says, “i like you laughing.”

you feel something fizzy in your chest again. “i like you liking that.”

he is very still, and then he leans in and kisses you. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a secret handshake between souls that already know each other embarrassingly well.

the world does not explode.

it doesn’t need to.

you pull back, smiling so hard your cheeks complain. “see you tomorrow.”

he nods, but he doesn’t let go of your hand right away, like he’s testing how long two hearts can stay stitched together without thread.

you finally slip inside, and he stands there for a moment, looking at the space you left like it’s still full of you.

on the way home, he puts his hands in his pockets and feels the crinkle of paper letters, tucked there earlier, forgotten in the commotion. he doesn’t read them. he doesn’t need to. he just thinks of your laugh, your forehead against his, the way you called him a silly dragon with absolute seriousness.

he smiles—small, secret, enough to tilt the earth a fraction of a degree toward spring.

somewhere in school tomorrow, someone will try again with a ribboned box and trembling hands.

kunimi will be there.

quiet.

inevitable.

and later, when you take his sleeve, when you look at him like he is both the question and the answer, he will think, without drama, without doubt:

‘she already chose me.’

and that, honestly, is more than enough to turn every fence in the world into scenery.

n: oh my heart </3 my followers on ig are watching me lose my shit abt grape soda in a chiikawa can and gojo appearing on jjk s3 like i didn’t see him on the movie.

akira’s taglist

@lsirria @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @s1lly-bon @katzline @depressinglyobsessed @ghostwifeyy @michexoxo @crystal-lilac @forgottensniper @eri0-0 @fiannee @wensurr @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @olliesoxenfree @poeticsorcery @starzlytoetsie @kuroofangirl67 @whoizmae @n1koolya @applepiblog @jjunnixzz @renriiwrites

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

#2 matsukawa issei

- he freaking laughs. like, you hit him pretty hard too, and you were so confused when you heard his laughter. yea, he leaned forward a little, but for the most part, he just shakes it off as nothing and continues on with what he’s been doing. weeks later, when you're talking to a good friend of yours, he decides to come up behind you and slap your butt. hard. you let out a yelp of surprise while mattsun and your friend bursted out laughing.

#3 hanamaki takahiro

- you don’t even get to slap his butt, HE KNEW BEFORE YOU HAD THE CHANCE- curiosity plagued your thoughts when your hand slapped nothing but thin air, as you looked up to meet his stupid grin. “this is definitely interesting, right?” he asked, before grabbing your suspended hand and dragging you along his way. when you let your guard down and eased up after a short time walking, he playfully slapped your butt when you least expected it.

#4 iwaizumi hajime

- after he didn’t see you passing by him in the hall, you decided to slap his butt and run away. immediately blaming oikawa, he yelled profanities at him before makki and mattsun ratted you out. queue him looking around his surroundings, spotting you, saying “there you are,” rolling up his sleeves, and fast-walking towards you. by the end of the passing period, the two of you ended up at the guidance counselor’s office, promising to not slap each other’s butts on school grounds- while you iced your butt.

#13 kunimi akira

- poor boy was just laying on his tummy, chilling in bed and scrolling thru his phone, when you came up behind him to smack his butt before laying down next to him. while rubbing his butt, he looked over and asked “the fck did you do that for?” he didn’t expect for you to say that his butt was nice and squishy- giving you a soft smile, and calling you a “weirdo” under his breath, he sets his phone down and pulls you closer, taking an unexpected nap together.

#16 kyotani kentaro

- you’ve lost a bet with mattsun and makki, and as a punishment, you had to go slap your boyfriend’s butt. with him having a soft spot for you, you thought that you could get away with that unharmed. although, kyoken did not hesitate to throw a volleyball at you (not that hard tho- but it was also a head shot). “why are you like this, babe?” he asks, before letting you get a running head start because swiggity swooty, he’s coming for that booty.

——————————

masterlist

ohhhhkayyyy what was i on this was funny but what was i on

It’s been years, and the city is still as overwhelming as it was when you left.

Somewhere in this country, your mother waits for your phone call, believing you hundreds of miles farther away than you are. 

Somewhere in this country, a different person picks up their phone.

“Want to get coffee?” You ask, breathless from your own feelings.

“Are you paying?” Akira asks back.

-

You remember your childhood well, your knees pressed against his under the Kotatsu, his sister's hands in your hair.

She liked to dress you up, like a doll, and parade you around the living room, asking her brother again and again what he thought of you.

“The lipstick leaves stains,” he complains every time, picking up the glasses filled with apple juice to take them to the kitchen. “On my hands, too.”

“One day you’ll be glad they do!” His sister snickered once and you blushed under her gaze, knowing her eyes were telling secrets you’re still too young to know.

-

“Your hair is different,” you greet Akira, his sight surprising enough to steal your breath.

He falters visibly, his shoulders hunching forward as he registers your words.

“Bad?” He asks, his mouth not quite forming a pout.

“No, not bad-” You’re looking for words, and the wrong ones slip out. “It makes you look attractive.”

“Oh,” his lips form the word almost without a sound, his mouth perfectly round.

“Right,” you hiccup, turning on your foot. “Shall we get coffee?”

-

There’s a picture frame in your mother’s place, neatly tucked between a few others on the living room wall. It shows you in a white dress, a flower crown sitting a little lopsided on your head, your wide smile with the tooth gap hidden behind a handful of wildflowers that you’re holding, your other hand tucked into Akira’s, his eyes wide as he looks at you. 

You’ve looked at this picture often, wondered if he’d been struck by emotion once, or if he just spotted a ladybug on your ear. 

It’s the only testament to a game you played almost daily in those early years, dozen of weddings officiated in his backyard, his sister dressed up as a priest. 

He’d never once complained.

-

Akira doesn’t ask why you're back. He doesn’t even ask why you left.

His knee presses against yours under the too-small table, and his eyes crinkle slightly when he tells you a funny story from his College days. 

He works at a bank now, a fact that leaves you slightly untethered. 

“It’s not my dream job,” he marks as if noticing your unease. “But I don’t live for my work, I work so I can still enjoy my life. I still play some volleyball on the side, just because I enjoy it, not to win some prize for it.”

Akira’s quiet for a moment. “Last week, we played Beach Volleyball with Kageyama. Do you remember him?”

“Sure,” you say, because he’s still a bit of a sore spot, one of the biggest fights you and Akira ever had. “How was it?”

“He didn’t try to beat us into a pulp,” Akira jokes lightly. “He brought some friends from his team, and we made sure the teams were well mixed. It was fun.”

Quiet settles over your table. His knee presses into yours.

“Where are you living?” 

“Not sure yet,” you admit. “I need to find a Hotel for tonight. Mom wrote me her new address, but I have to look it up first.”

“I have a spare room. My sister uses it when she needs to get away from the kids. Don’t tell her I told you, though.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You?” His eyes remind you of chocolate when he looks at you now. “Never.”

-

“Kindaichi,” Akira introduces a boy to you. “He sits next to me in Class.”

“Hi,” you smile at the boy with the weird hairdo. “Nice to meet you.”

“H-Hi,” Kindaichi stutters before turning to Akira like a helpless little puppy. “She’s pretty,” he whispers much too loudly.

“Who?” Akira asks. 

Kindaichi points at you as if you’re both blind and deaf. 

“Thank you,” you offer as politely as you can when Akira turns to look at you as if checking Kindaichi’s statement. He doesn’t add anything to that, and you’re not sure if it hurts or if you’re just too used to it by now.

“Are we doing our homework together after school?” You ask, folding your hands behind your back. “Or are we playing something first?”

“I want to go to Kindaichi’s first. He’s got a PlayStation.”

You turn to Kindaichi, who blushes furiously. “Y-you c-can c-come too.”

If Kindaichi ever feels like a third wheel, he doesn’t mention it. But you don’t suppose he does.

It’s mostly just you and him, talking, Akira sitting by the side, listening. 

He’s not much of a talker, never has been. You wonder if he prefers this, others leading the conversation without him having to work for it.

Only once does he lose his cool. 

You never figure out what triggered it, but Kindaichi ends up with a black eye, and Akira’s hand is bruised for a week. 

The boys don’t talk about it, though you suspect it has something to do with you.

How else could you explain Kindaichi keeping more distance from then on, no longer blushing when you talk to him?

-

Akira still uses the same shower gel.

You press a dollop of it onto the palm of your hand, sniff it like one would with good wine or pretty flowers. 

It’s been years since you’ve sat close enough to notice his scent, no longer the three of you trying to fit onto two seats at the back of the bus or napping on your bed after a study session. 

You barely remember what you used back then. Something flowery, maybe? Or did you use the strawberry-scented perfume Akira’s sister gifted you, claiming she was too grown up for such a sweet scent? You wonder if he notices a difference, if he can tell that you’re no longer the girl he knew. You wonder if you’ve changed at all.

There’s no second toothbrush sitting by the sink, no sign of a possible girlfriend, but the box of pads by the toilet, though you heavily suspect they’re his sisters.

Half of you knows why it still matters to you, but the other half decides to ignore it.

“Is it really okay for me to stay here?” You ask when he leads you into the spare bedroom, makes you help him put on fresh bedding.

“Your mother raised me well,” he jokes. “Don’t think I don’t know what she’d say if she knew I’d let you stay in a Hotel instead.”

“She’d be furious that I didn’t call her first.”

“You think so?” He seems surprised. “I think she would understand.”

Your mouth opens in wordless surprise. Akira turns away before you can gather yourself, and the moment is lost again.

“I have an early morning tomorrow,” he claims moments later. “Will you be okay on your own? I’m sorry I can’t offer more entertainment.”

“I’m fine,” you promise, watching his retreating back.

He’s grown into himself, you realize once more. The boy you used to love is now a man.

-

“I don’t want you to spend time with Kageyama,” Akira tells you pointedly one day, the hot summer sun burning holes into your back.

“What?” 

“You heard me,” he’s quiet even when he’s angry, too lazy to fully sound out his vowels. “He’s an asshole.”

“He’s not,” you defend him. “He just thinks a bit differently.”

“What,” Akira scoffs, “Are you in love with him now?”

“What? No! I’m just saying-”

“You can decide.” Akira folds his arms in front of his chest. “Decide who you want to be friends with. Me and Kindaichi. Or Kageyama.”

Your mouth opens in wordless surprise, a flame of hurt bursting into a wildfire in your chest.

“I can’t believe you’re this awful,” you tell him, straightening. “What has he ever done to you? Volleyball isn’t that important.”

“So you’re choosing him?” Akira’s eyes glint with an unknown fire.

“I’m not choosing anyone,” you tell him hotly. “But if I had to, I’d choose the person who doesn’t make me choose.”

“You’re a fake friend,” he hisses.

“And you’re an asshole, Kunimi.”

He stumbles back as if hit, and you wonder what hurt him more, the insult or the use of his last names after years of knowing him. 

You don’t stay long enough to figure out.

-

You can’t sleep. 

Jetlag has never been a thing you believe in, and it’s coming back to bite you. 

Or maybe it’s the place you’re staying in, Akira so close and yet so far away from you.

You slip out of your room, past his closed door, and out onto the tiny balcony, your face reaching for the moon.

How can it be that you’ve grown this old and stayed the same age still? 

How can a heart hold onto a person after all this time, all this distance? 

You only notice him when it’s too late.

His face is pale in the moonlight as he takes a seat next to you on the cool floor. He’s not looking at you.

“Did I wake you?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he claims, knocking his shoulder into yours. “Tell me, how was life for you?”

You let your head rest on your knees. 

“Different and yet still the same. Did you know you can never get rid of yourself, no matter how often you move?”

“Hmm, sounds sketchy, but keep going.”

You laugh, the sound familiar but unused, a child’s laughter in a grown woman’s mouth.

“I missed you,” you admit. “I kept turning to look for you in conversations. Because you always used to sit by my side, even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Even after all this time?”

“Even after all this time.”

Silence settles between you like a blanket.

You’re back under the Kotatsu at his home, but there’s just you and him this time.

“Did you ever love me like that?” You ask, hoping he will understand without you having to explain. It’s a memory so ingrained in you, you don’t know how to conjure it in someone else.

“I married you, didn’t I?” Akira asks back, his hand gentle as he reaches for yours.

His touch is warm, his shoulder steady as he stays by your side.

-

“I’m sorry,” Akira declares in your doorframe, his shoulders hunched forward. “What I said about you and Kageyama.”

You stay at your desk, your heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Why did you say it?”

“I don’t like him,” Akira drags his socked feet over your carpet. “I don’t like it when you like him more than me.”

You blink. “Are you jeal-”

Akira shrugs. “You’re my best friend,” he points out. “I don’t have that many that I can just go around and start sharing them.”

“Right,” you bite your tongue. “Right.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Not that easily,” you admit. “But you’re on the right track.”

“Good,” Akira finally allows himself to step into your room and drops onto your bed. “I heard Kageyama’s not coming to Aoba Johsai with us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, me, Kindaichi, and you, right?”

Akira lifts his head when you stay quiet for too long. “You’re coming to Aoba Johsai, right? We talked about this.”

“I,” you rub your nose awkwardly, “I got a scholarship.”

Akira straightens. “To Aoba Johsai?”

“Shiratorizawa. I’m taking it,” you rush to add before he can talk you out of it. “I even get to spend a year in a different country, it’s all paid for.”

“But-” Akira starts, clearing his throat. “I thought we’re best friends.”

“We are. But we don’t have to be in the same school for that, right? Like, we haven’t been in the same class for years, and it’s fine.”

“Right,” he says, though he sounds unsure. “Nothing will change.”

-

You wake with a start, the unfamiliar surroundings confusing you.

It takes you a while to figure out where you are and why.

The apartment is quiet. You are alone.

There’s a note on the kitchen table. Akira has left for work, promising to return.

You make yourself breakfast. Call your mother. Write something like a plan on a piece of paper you find in the trash can.

And then you open the door to Akira’s bedroom, feeling only half-guilty about snooping around.

His bed is made, the room clean. Nothing is out of order. 

Akira has always been too lazy to make a mess, so this doesn’t come as a surprise.

You’re not sure what you’re looking for, so you just open his windows to let fresh air in, stopping by the picture frames hanging above his bed.

There’s one with Kindaichi and what must be the Aoba Johsai Team. You recognize Oikawa easily, though most of the other boys are unfamiliar.

There’s another one, with Kageyama and Kindaichi, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, all three of them glaring into the camera. Neither of them has ever learned how to smile properly.

And there’s one more, sitting right above his head.

You recognize it easily, the picture burned into your mind.

You can still feel the weight of the flower crown in your hair, the scent of the flowers in your nose, Akira’s sticky fingers in yours as you hold his hand.

Your hands don’t shake as you take the frame off the wall and slide the picture out.

There’s a note on the back of it, the place and date written neatly in one corner.

You add to it, leave it on the kitchen table before you go and pack your things.

“I’d say yes if only you’d ask me.”

-

Akira is the only one accompanying you to the airport.

You bid your goodbyes already, asked your mother not to stay up this late. She’s not getting any younger, and you know she gets headaches if she misses too much sleep.

Besides, you wanted to savour those last moments with Akira, hug him one last time in the crowds.

His eyes are dark as he follows you around, one hand on your suitcase in case you forget it.

“You can come visit me anytime,” you promise. “It will be fun.”

“Sure,” he nods. “And you’ll be home for the holidays.”

“I think,” you admit. “It depends on how much work we have to get through. First Semester is tough, I’ve heard.”

“But you’ll write.”

“I’ll write,” you promise. “And you’ll write back.”

“Course,” his voice breaks awkwardly, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you more.”

“I doubt that,” he confesses, barely loud enough for you to hear. “You’ll have a new best friend in no time.”

“No one can take your place, Akira.”

He’s quiet after that, all his words spent on what he’s already said. He hugs you once more and leaves without once looking back.

You’re glad he doesn’t. You don’t want him to see you cry.

-

Your phone rings on the train, the sound pulling you out of your reverie.

Angry stares remind you that you’re back in Japan again, and you rush to silence it, your heart skipping a beat when you check the Caller.

“I’m on the train,” you whisper as you pick up, sending apologetic glances around.

“Come back home,” Akira says. “Please.”

You freeze, stunned.

“You promised to say yes,” he adds when you don’t answer. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out of your promise already.”

“That’s not the question I meant,” you hiss. “And you know that.”

“You know me. Have I ever done the unnecessary? I didn’t think I needed to ask.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I am,” Akira admits. “Especially when it’s about you. I realised that too late. So I’m asking you, and I mean it this time, so listen well… Will you come home to me?”

The train slows just as a single tear runs down your cheek. You get up from your seat, phone pressed against your ear, and stumble toward the exit.

The name of the stations blurs in front of your eyes, and you have to blink to catch it.

“Yes,” you answer, like you promised. “Will you come get me?”

“Always.”

-

Join my Taglist

For @xoxojisu for the Spring Requests

@kaykaystrings @tsxkishimx @rory-cakes @cookielovesbook-akie

@a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @alexxavicry @theferretkids

@animegamerfox @applepie972 @qardasngan

@notsochillnerd @darthferbert @kyluskaye @moochiwoochi

@stellar-haikyuu @alienaiver @thelameone101 @haikyuusunsalad

@lemurzsquad @natdu @lees-chaotic-brain

@tsumtsumya @integers @zizishleezy5 @tetsuukuroo

@dog55teeth @ume17 @missmadness123

@venusxxsstuff @katbug37 @crystal-lilac @lonnie19