Chapter Text
Kenma was rewrapping his bandages when he heard a knock on the door. Rising from where he was sat on the floor, he meandered his way to the door, pulling it open to face none other than Daishou.
Kenma barely reacted as he opened the door wider to allow him in, avoiding the box pressed close to the door way. Daishou smiled, flashing a toothy grin that didn't extend to his eyes. He walked past Kenma, moving to lean against one of the bare walls. Kenma followed in suit, brushing his hair from his eyes.
“So it’s true, hm?” Daishou said, taking a look around the flat, at the boxes stacked and littering the room. “You’re moving.”
Kenma hummed and nodded, stretching his arms behind his back. “We waited for the funerals, but the both of us were antsy to leave.”
Daishou nodded, his smirk faltering. “God, he was always good at running things. I’m not nearly as people-oriented as he was.”
“You’ve got charisma. Besides, he only got what he wanted by being scary. You’re plenty scary.” Kenma mused.
The air was silent between the two as Daishou picked up the cat that had been rubbing against his legs since he had arrived. He let out a deep sigh, cuddling the cat closer. “I miss him.”
Him, an unsaid name, a face with a charming smile and brown swept hair. Him, the boy who gouged out eyes for fun. Him, the lion who loved the lamb.
“Hajime never said anything,” Kenma said, moving to take the cat from Daishou’s arms. “But I think he knows.”
Daishou shrugged. “Still doesn't mean he deserved to die that way.” He looked down at his feet, swearing. “I miss the fucker.”
Kenma sighed. “So do I.”
Daishou rolled a shoulder, a knife slipping from his garments and clattering to the ground. He looked down at it mournfully, picking it back up to twirl in is fingers. A nervous twitch, a habit. He looked almost human, standing there in Kenma’s empty flat.
“Kiyoko is gonna miss you.” Daishou stated. Kenma shrugged. He’d miss her too, but he doubted they’d talk again after he left.
Daishou rubbed the back of his neck, taking a step closer to Kenma. “He’s a good guy, y’know.” He said, averting his eyes. “Kuroo, I mean. He’s a cop, but it’s not personal, what happened between us. At least, to me. He’s good for you, I’m glad you two are leaving together.”
Kenma looked up from his sock feet in surprise. Daishou rarely said anything with sincerity, and despite his ability to let things go, he always brushed it off as not caring. But there was something different this time, about the way Daishou’s face was relaxed, the newfound softness in his eyes.
“It’s a miracle he survived.” Kenma replied. Translation: thank you, unsaid, but as loud as the howling winds outside.
Neither mentioned the certain ginger boy who had brought him to that state. Neither mentioned Kageyama either. Kenma hadn’t seen him since that night, but he knew Daishou had.
Daishou spoke up again, brushing his hair from his face. “I’m gonna miss you too.” He said.
Kenma nodded. So will I, He thought.
Daishou handed him the knife he was twirling, a silvery blue thing, the hilt a sleek black. Kenma accepted it, admiring the grooves in the blade as he tucked it away. When he looked up, Daishou was already gone, and so was the howling wind.
Five years later-
Kageyama pressed his sword through the man’s body in front of him, momentarily entranced by the way surprise road over his feature before the lives left through his eyes. He pulled out as quickly as he pressed them in, jumping to slice through another man’s neck as he moved through the room.
He made quick work of the entire thing, slicing through bodies with vigour, not even stopping to breathe. When the final body crashed to the ground, Kageyama let his guard drop, letting an exhausted sigh slip through his lips.
He stepped over the officer’s body, freezing when he spotted it. A head of ginger hair, a flash from the corner of his eye. He turned around, eyes wild, only to spot the body slumped against the wall. The man was large around the middle, nose much to big, but the sight of orange hair was enough to send Kageyama into a frenzy.
He knew, he knew it wasn’t him, knew that what was left of Hinata was in the necklace that sat against his chest. Kageyama leaned against the brick wall, for a moment, catching himself remembering a whirlwind of a boy, with vibrant hair and a vibrant smile to match.
In hindsight, everything was a mistake. Hinata was always moving, always running from something he wasn't able to catch. Kageyama was headstrong, stubborn enough to think that he could run beside him, that he could keep with his pace forever.
Hinata loved like the whirlwind he was, and he left Kageyama in the dust. All or nothing, black or white, one or the other for the boy who lived exclusively in colour and god, Kageyama felt the ache throb through him as he remembered it. Remembered blood, warm and sticky on his clothes, remembered staggering away from the warehouse with him in his arms.
He let out a shaky breath, because there was never a scenario without Hinita laying on his chest, bleeding out, in the end. And Kageyama let himself settle in the reality that there was no variable outcome where Hinata and him were happy.
And there never would be.
It rained often, and Kageyama hardly noticed the sun.
Keiji opened his eyes with the sun, humming as she cast her warmth onto his arms. The room smelt earthy, a scent he wasn’t quite acustom to, but loved nonetheless. He sat up, stretching out his arms as he kicked his feet over the edge of the bed, feeling around on the floor for a discarded shirt to wear. He pulled it up, taking deep breath. Koutarou’s scent covered the garmet, and Keiji revelled in the aroma as he pulled it over his head.
Boxers were next, and as Keiji dressed, he listened to the sounds of pots and pans clanking from the other room. A shrill shriek accompanied them, followed by a woman’s shouting. Keiji laughed to himself, tucking his shirt into a high waisted pair of jeans. He made his way to the attached bathroom, looking at his reflection with contempt. There were bruises littering his neck, wanted, adored, from the voice he could hear yelling loudly about something or another. Keiji smiled again, fingering the faded spots, dusting a power to hastily conceal them, not that it did much.
When Keiji slipped out of the washroom, he was greeted with the sight of Koutarou chasing two girls out of the kitchen with a spachula, yelling about how bad girls don’t get to try his Amazing And Wonderful Breakfast.
Keiji shook his head, a fond smile on his face as the two girls greeted him before running off. They were the youngest, aged seven and nine. Their hair was white, a gene in Koutarou’s mother’s family. Koutarou’s mother smiled at him from the kitchen table, beckoning him over for coffee as Bokuto slipped back into the kitchen, not noticing his lover appear.
Koutarou’s mother looked lively, despite the children running amok the house. She was young, only forty-six. Keiji had since learned Koutarou was the result of a teenage pregnancy, and that his mother was more than happy to raise him. It wasn’t until later in life that she decided to have more children, despite still living on her own.
Keiji smiled, accepting the coffee before pouring cream into it. She smiled knowingly at him, eyes lingering on his neck for a second longer than Keiji would’ve liked before she leaned over the table to place a kiss on Keiji’s forehead.
“You know,” She said, grabbing his hand. “We’ll miss having your help on the farm.”
Akaashi took a sip of his coffee, smiling slightly. “Me and Kou will just be in town, we can come for dinner whenever you like, or you can come over. It’s pretty spacious, but I think that’s because it’s above the restaurant.”
“But you’re right across from the docks!” She exclaimed. “It’ll be great, you two can go swimming and collect shells, the whole bit.”
Keiji’s smile grew. “Maybe my next novel will be about the sea.”
Bokuto’s mother stood, moving to ruffle his hair. “Now that you finished school, I expect more reading material. How will I, and your adoring fans, survive without it?” She said, before leaving the table to help with breakfast.
Keiji sighed, sipping his coffee as someone took her place, another girl at her side. Koutarou’s other sisters, twins aged twelve, sat down, giggling about something or another. Keiji continued to drink his coffee as they chattered, bouncing excitedly before they began to bicker, Keiji’s cue to snatch his mug and move to another room and Koutarou’s mother ducked back in, telling them off.
Keiji laughed, opening the patio door and moving to sit outside, the sun’s rays warming his face as he moved to lean against the wooden rail, looking over the acres of farmland in front of him. Already leant against the rail was a girl, older, her black hair swept into a ponytail away from her face. She was petting the dog beside her, a mastiff, as she looked out at the view.
Joining her, Akaashi bumped her shoulder lightly. It hadn’t been long since they had started speaking to each other again, him and his sister, but he cherished every moment they spent together, even if she never said much to him either way.
Even now, Eshima simply nodded, her piercing eyes not meeting his as she continued to pet the dog at her side. The girl and the dog were inseparable, and even when she went to work in the fields on the farm, he would follow along.
Keiji accepted her silence, knowing better than to linger when she was making it clear she needed a moment away. He grabbed his mug, revelling in the sun for a moment more before ducking back into the house.
Koutarou was so kind, Keiji thought, asking his mother to employ him, and later, his sister, on the farm. They had left Tokyo in the dust, Keiji enrolling in online schooling, and Koutarou opening a homey restaurant in the small town near his mother’s farm. Yaku and Suga eventually left as well, both taking jobs on the farm and choosing to live together in the town. It made Keiji warm, knowing that at least some people from his past were able to make it out of it alive.
He heard a shot, signalling that breakfast was ready, and he made his way to the dinning room where Koutarou was placing a tray on the table. He sprung up, face lighting up when he spotted Keiji standing.
“Kei-ji~” He sang, engulfing him in a tight hug. “How’d you sleep?”
Keiji smiled into Koutarou’s shoulder, rubbing a hand over his bicep. “Like a rock.”
Koutarou pulled away with a grin before moving to lean down and plant kiss on Akaashi’s lips. The pair could hear his sisters fake gagging, but paid no mind as the split apart, still staring each other in the eye.
Breakfast was decadent, Koutarou’s cooking unfathomably good. Keiji released a strangled moan as he stuffed his mouth with eggs, causing Bokuto to puff out his chest and boast like he always did.
“Sickening.” One of his sisters whispered.
“They’re disgusting.” Another agreed.
“Sh!” The youngest said, mouth full. “They’wr win wuv.”
Koutarou and Keiji cleaned up together, stacking grease lad plates and wiping down the grimy table with more ease than effort. Koutarou hummed the entire time, his hands ghosting over Keiji’s back whenever they were close. Keiji sighed, enjoying his warmth as he finished scrubbing the dishes dry.
He turned around to face Koutarou, who was stroking an old cat with his foot. She looked pissed, but her purrs of contempt told otherwise. She moved, stretching out before walking out of the kitchen. Koutarou smiled as she left, eyes momentarily leaving Keiji, giving him enough time to pounce. Keiji lunged forwards, grabbing Koutarou’s shirt to tug him close and kiss him.
The kiss wasn’t sloppy, but it was wet, Koutarou’s tongue quickly swiping over Keiji’s bottom lip as he moved to press the raven haired man against the counter, looming froward as he wrapped his hands around his waist.
Keiji couldn’t help himself, smiling into the kiss as he trailed his hands under Koutarou’s shirt, running his nails over his back as they kissed.
Koutarou broke apart, a gleeful grin on his face. “I can’t wait to see Kuroo and Kenma tonight.”
Keiji hummed in response, laying his head against his chest. “Their house won’t be far from our new flat. We’ll probably see it from the dock. Now come back and kiss me.”
Bokuto laughed, deep and booming, leaning down to kiss Keiji, still smiling as he grabbed his hand, dragging him out of the kitchen and towards their room.
And Keiji couldn't help but let the laughter bubble up, because they were there, in a big farmhouse in the countryside, away from the drugs, away from the lingering touch of strangers, away from the bullets and blood that always seemed the fall. He had traded that life for the one with more smiles, one with less stress, with farm work and lots of children he never thought would like him.
And as Koutarou kicked the door behind them close and Keiji flopped onto the bed, he marbled in the way being sexual came without being a commodity, the way it flowed through his body without effort as Koutarou kissed up his stomach to his neck and began pressing open mouthed kisses to the bruises that already rested there.
It was home, home that smelt like earth and pine and Koutarou, Koutarou, Koutarou.
It was loud, Kenma thought. Loud, loud and wonderful.
Crashing waves, harsh and spectacular against the rocks his- their- house was perched upon. The waves were much lower usually, but it was high tied, and from the living room where Kenma sat, he could hear the ever steady sound of the water lapping against the stones. It calmed the anxiety that dwelled in Kenma’s chest, banished it to the corners of his head where the waves would crash and roll against, until the tide pulled out, left him to linger on the thoughts again.
His hair was about the same length, if not longer. He still forgot to re-dye his roots, opting instead to let them grow until his hair was more brown than blonde before hastily bleaching it. The wound on his ribs, an ugly scar among many. With every deep breath did not come physical pain, but the memory had settled in his bones.
Kuroo was by the docks; he had left when Kenma was napping. It left Kenma alone, left him to contain the panic that always ensued. Time heals wounds that are less than skin deep, the rest scab over and are left to be picked at, time after time, until they bleed again.
Kenma threw open the sliding door in the living room, seeking solace by the ocean. His dress billowed in the wind as he carefully made his ways down the side of the cliff, clinging onto the rocks for support as he stepped on the slippery wooden stairs barefoot.
Low tide left pools of crabs and crustaceans, with coral and small fish swimming in the small chambers. Kenma sat beside on, trailing his finger in the cool water as he breathed in the salty air. It was cool, and Kenma pulled the sleeves of his sweater down to his fingertips, not minding that they soaked with water.
Kenma wasn’t easy to read, but Kuroo had gotten to know him inside out, gotten to know the way he flinched and the way his withered and the way he smiled, and, on rare occasions, laughed. And yet, Kenma had hidden one thing he knew Kuroo could never know, hid the one thing he desperately wanted to scream, but kept silent, choked down. It was only amongst the sea creatures and ocean that he was able to whisper it through bitten lips.
“I made drugs for a living.” He muttered, closing his eyes, inhaling through his nose.
Facing the wind, he left the ocean run over and through his toes before racing back. He wasn’t sure how long he spent there, but when he opened his eyes, Kuroo was sitting next to him, sifting through the pools while watching Kenma through the corner of his eyes. He was wearing a sweater, but had a worn jacket thrown over his shoulder, the one Kenma always stole. Kuroo smiled, holding up a clam before throwing it into the bucket he was holding.
“I knew you’d be here.” He said, moving to sit next to him. He draped the sweater over Kenma’s shoulders, moving his hand to intertwine with Kenma’s. “You’re dress is all wet.”
Kenma shrugged, leaning his head on Kuroo’s shoulder. “You can wash it, then.”
Kuroo laughed, laying his head atop Kenma’s. It was silent, except for the sounds of their breathing and the gentle trickle of the water between their toes. Kuroo had shucked off his shoes as well, and his toes squirmed against Kenma’s, tickling him as he held him close.
It was silence, what was between them. The ocean was plenty loud, and the wind blew through them, strong as ever. Neither spoke, silently vowing to let the nature around them shift instead of their voices.
Kuroo was the one to break it.
“I think I always knew.” He spoke, his voice warm and low and everything that should be comforting Kenma, but instead sent shivers through him and forcing him to freeze.
He heard me, Kenma thought, breath shortening and eyes widening. He knows, he knows, he knows he knows-
“But it makes sense, in retrospect. You were on the streets, a kid with enough knowledge to be useful. You get swept up in it, become attached to the wrong things.” He continued, staring straight out at the grey-blue expanse of the sea. “But you left. That’s what matters, you put it behind you, you deserted it.”
The waves and the wind seemed to quiet, as if they were eavesdropping on their conversation. Kenma’s heart beat in his ears, loud and threatening as he tried desperately to time his breathing to the tide, each inhale with the pull, each exhale with the wave.
“I’ve done terrible things, Tetsurou.” Kenma whispered when he spoke. “The leader of Shiratorizawa, he shot me, so I pulled out his eye and broke his bones.”
“That’s different,” Kuroo stated. “He shot first, besides he’s a criminal.”
“Like me.” Kenma shot back.
“You had no choice, didn’t you?” Kuroo said. “I would’ve done the same thing.”
Kenma relaxed, because Kuroo was right. He was right, and he was forgiving, and he knew that there was a part of Kenma that was dark and twisted beyond his understanding. And as the tide continued to pull, leaving crabs and shells at their feet, Kenma allowed Kuroo to place a delicate kiss on his lips. He tasted like salt water, the kind that flowed from the oceans and your eyes, and Kenma’s sighed as Kuroo brought his hand up to his face, caressing his cheek.
Kuroo continued to press forwards, and Kenma responded by bringing his hands up to tangle in his wild black mess of a hairstyle, allow Kuroo to pull him into his lap and pull Kenma close to his chest. They stopped kissing for a moment, eyes both half lidded, as Kenma leaned over him, their foreheads touching, lips so close, sampling breathing in each other.
“I love you, Kozume.” Kuroo whispered, voice husky. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The waves behind them crashed, and the wind howled, and Kenma leaned down, and connected their lips once more.
Tokyo was as busy as always. Bright lights on a cloudy evening, the sky beginning to darken into a haze, the neon signs littering the street casting their florescent glow onto the streets. Iwaizumi smelt like jasmine and lilies, the fragrance of the flowers laying next to him swirling around the car.
He walked through the gate, following the familiar path, counting the headstones to his right before pausing and turning right. The bouquet felt heavy in his hand as he walked up to the familiar grave, so bright against the frosted ground and pale grey stone.
Iwaizumi bent down, settling the flowers atop the grave. They sat among a small bundle of pink roses and carnations, and a crumpled bundle of tulips. That corner of the cemetery was secluded under a large willow tree, it’s branches hanging low overtop of Iwaizumi’s head as he straightened. It was rare he’d spot another person here, and even on this day, he was the only one.
His breath was shaky as he looked down, rubbing the headstone. “Hey, Tooru.” He said, “I’m back.”
“It’s been five years,” He continued, staring down at the message carved into the stone. meminerunt omnia amantes. lovers remember all. It was oddly fitting.
“Kuroo and his boyfriend, fiancé, whatever, invited to their house in the countryside. Bo and Akaashi live there, too, but I don’t think I could take seeing them all at once.” He said. “Especially Kuroo’s fiancé, Kenma. I know you two were close. I wonder if he was involved. They all were, looking back on it, probably. I don’t think about that a lot.”
“When I think about it,” He said, looking up at the willow tree, “I think about you. You and your expensive alcohol, bathing me in your huge porcelain tub. I think about you and me, as kids, stargazing, or watching your stupid X Files or bad action movies. We loved those, those nights spent in tents in our backyards. I like to say I wouldn't trade those moments for anything but, you know.” He said, clearing his throat.
The wind blew through Iwaizumi, chilling him to the bone as he remembered. Remembered how Oikawa always had his nails perfectly trimmed, how his hands were so soft, how his toes were so cold. He remembered how he would drape his toes over Iwaizumi’s warm lap in a desperate attempt to warm his body in the cold, and he remembered the sound of his laugh, his cry, his whines, his moans, the way he’d turn up his nose and scoff when he was in a mood.
And before he knew it, Iwaizumi was sobbing, the tears flowing down his face before he could stop them, his breath hiccuping against his will. He held his face in his palms, and shoved the memory of Oikawa holding him far, far away.
“You left me Tooru,” He choked, trying in vain to control the lump in his throat. “You left me crying and smiling at the same time twice, and you didn’t even say goodbye.”
And Iwaizumi let the sobs rake through his body, falling to his knees to become eye level wit the flowers placed on the headstone. The wind stopped feeling like wind, instead, it started feeling like knives pressing into his side as he regained composure, his breath steadying as the tears fell steady.
What a sick curse, Iwaizumi thinks, What a sick curse to place on a boy. To give him the heavens and to give him the one who is prepared to shelter him from the storm, only to learn that he is the hurricane, he is the blizzard and the lightning. And Iwaizumi is heartbroken, because blood is blood on hands clean and dirty, and although they can’t be compared, the night on the roof was accompanied by hatred for a phantom person, a phantom self. Iwaizumi could only pray that the stars and cards told that Oikawa lived happily in at one point.
(It was a foolish idea, he knew. He thought it anyways).
Oikawa, who grew up with bruises and later without a mom, Oikawa, who spent summers in Tokyo throwing knives and selling secrets, Oikawa who saved someones life by killing another, Oikawa, Oikawa, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi didn’t know if it was sickening that he still loved him, despite it all.
Iwaizumi stood, tears still slipping down his face. He leaned forwards, fixing the flowers on the headstone before taking a deep sigh, looking up at the grey sky. He looked back down, at his hand that had grown numb with cold, and smiled sadly.
“Would you look at that,” He mused. “It’s snowing.”
“My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white.”
― William Shakespeare, Macbeth