“Boys don’t cry,” his father says when Tooru comes home crying, his knee scraped red like the sunset outside and like the panic that bleeds on Hajime’s cheeks as he drags Tooru inside, wailing for someone to take care of the hurt. Tooru is four years old.
“You’re not a girl. Stop crying,” his father says when Tooru limps home, his knee swollen, his mother helping him out of the car and into the armchair in the living room. Hajime calls later that night and offers to talk until it gets better, to bring ice for his knee every day and, in a softer, nervous voice, to listen when Tooru has to let out his tears. Tooru is twelve years old.
“Real men don’t cry,” his father says when Tooru stands before him, fists curled by his side, his suitcase packed and the train to his new college just half an hour away. His mother sighs and leads him outside, but Tooru grits his teeth and pulls away, just to wrap his arms around his father in one last awkward hug. There’s a moment of silence. Then, a hand pats his back. “This will be good for you, being on your own a bit. Study hard.” Tooru is nineteen years old.
“Crying is weak,” his father tries to say, but Tooru lifts his head and yells. Hajime stands by his side, proud and silent, not as Tooru’s sword but as his shield if hell should break loose. His fingers are laced up with Tooru’s, two silver glints of metal pressing together, Tooru’s mother is in tears and laughs and begs her husband and above it all, Tooru screams.
“It’s okay to cry,” Hajime says when Tooru lies in this arms that night. They’re back in their flat, back in Tokyo, warmth in their veins and tears falling from Tooru’s cheeks as if he’s been saving them like silver coins for this moment. His father hasn’t looked at Hajime when he said goodbye, but there was a hug, and just before they fall asleep, Tooru whispers:
“I think he said ‘sorry’.”
“You don’t need to forgive him,” Hajime whispers back and kisses Tooru’s forehead. Tooru closes his eyes. “I know. It’s… a start.”
They fall asleep with each other’s breath, the moonlight dancing over the silver rings on their hands.
Even ten years later, Hajime will always remember exactly where he was when Tooru’s service ace wins his team the Olympic golden medal. He’s in his dorm, glued to the tiny tv screen, and because of the fucking time zones he startles his flatmate awake with his howl of victory in the middle of the night. Hajime doesn’t apologize. He calls Tooru an hour later, and there are tears on both sides; Hajime keeps whispering his name, says that it’s okay and that everything has paid off, “I’m so proud of you” – but Tooru repeats one sentence through his happiness-drunk sobs:
“I need to tell you something when I’m home.”
Hajime is at the airport when the team arrives. Their team jackets seem to glow in the late afternoon light. They look tired, exhausted, but Hajime can see their smiles from a mile away. They’re victorious, it’s in their step, it radiates from their skin. Tooru is walking ahead. When he spots Hajime, his mouth opens into a yell. He’s crying before they even hug.
“H-Haji – I’m – we d-did it, and that means. Th-that I can finally-”
“You were incredible,” Hajime grins, and looking back, he should have noticed how Tooru struggles for words that aren’t about winning or losing. “You took their breath away, fuck, I gotta show you the tape, I recorded it all, their damn faces, Tooru!”
“I love you,” Tooru says and starts sobbing.
Hajime falls silent. The team is standing around them, greeting their own families, but Hajime feels their watchful eyes on him. They must know, he realizes. They’re waiting for me to hurt him. “Tooru.” His lips somehow form words. He doesn’t get to say them.
“I did it. I’m at the top.” Tooru’s face is buried against his shoulder. That bastard is still taller, holding Hajime tight, he stinks like sweat and dry skin from the long flight and he’s so beautiful that Hajime wants to hide him below his heart and keep him there forever. “Tooru,” he tries.
“I th-thought that if I win this…” His tears soak Hajime’s shirt. The sun reflects off his hair. He’s all that Hajime’s ever wanted. “That you could love me if I p-proved that I’m the best. I’m… not a girl, I know that, but. But, for you, I could-”
“Idiot.” The kiss that Hajime’s lips press onto his hair is softer than a whisper. “I fell for you when you were on the ground. I’m not leaving, no matter if you fall or fly. It’s too late to ever stop loving you. But I’m glad that you’re not a coward like me. God, I lov-”
The team breaks into another roar of victory when Tooru lifts his childhood friend up and kisses him right as the first camera begins to flash.
Okay look, this really isn’t fair. Daichi’s just a man and he can only take so much, the line has to be drawn somewhere and if it has to be drawn along the soft curve of Suga’s lips, then so be it.
Who even caused this? Oh, right. Hinata. Daichi kind of understands him to some degree – it’s the peak of summer, and the entire team is melting away in the flaring heat of the gym. Even when training ends and everyone slowly changes from one pair of shorts into a more casual one, the sun is still burning down on their faces as they exit the gym. And then Hinata says “ice cream”, and before Daichi can help it, everyone’s dragging him to a small shop in the busier part of town and he’s a few hunded yen poorer.
It’s worth seeing Suga’s eyes light up, though. It’s also worth watching him excitedly choose lemon and almond for his ice cream cone, patiently waiting as the last in line just behind Daichi, all to calm Hinata’s enthusiastic bouncing and shut up Kageyama who keeps rambling about more practice and better tosses by getting them their ice cream as fast as possible. Everything’s well. Except.
Daichi hasn’t signed up for Suga eating ice cream as if he’s… kissing someone. Asahi, who’s far too aware of Daichi’s crush, is at least enough of a friend to shoot him a pitiful glance before shooing the team forward, giving Daichi and Suga some time to relax as they follow behind the group.
“Daichi.”
What? Oh. Suga’s called his name. Daichi looks at him, blinking. “Y-yes?” It’s really hard to focus when Suga smiles like that, his eyes warm and squinting against the setting sun, mouth a bit white-shining from the rests of melted ice cream. Daichi stares. It’s been so easy to fall hopelessly for him-
“Your ice cream is dripping.”
And before Daichi can react, Suga leans in and licks a drop of strawberry off his ice cream cone. Daichi feels his face grow hot. “I didn’t – uhm. S-sorry.” But Suga just laughs. “Why are you apologising? It’s your ice cream, not mine. Don’t let it go to waste, though.” He goes back to his own cone, leaving Daichi to stare down at his ice cream.
When he tastes the strawberry in his mouth, licking along the cold cream that’s rapidly melting away, Daichi can only think: an indirect kiss.
And then, he thinks: Tomorrow, I’ll make it a real one.
There is something about libraries that can’t be explained. Why is it that we walk into them and, as if we are being faced with the breathtaking sight of a thundering waterfall or a sun-lit forest full of life, we halt in our steps? Those who enter hold their breath. Our hearts start to beat faster.
The sight of thousands, millions of books waiting for us, the scent of centuries of knowledge and adventure, the thick backs bearing titles in silver and gold – all that sets our mind free.
In a library, our souls feel soothed, but why is that?
Have you ever wondered? Why a simple room full of books brings us such comfort and warmth?
Maybe because the treasure of knowledge never comes unprotected.
Open your eyes. See? The old woman at the counter who checks out your books or accepts them back – do you ever see her go home? Has she always been that old? Her fingers cradle the leather of that book that got you through a stormy night as if it was a child.
The young boy in the corner, flipping through a book that looks heavier than his fragile smile that never seems to fade – has he always been here?
The cat that sits on the windowsill outside, yawning, glancing inside with emerald-piercing eyes. The bookshelf that has never been replaced, that is older than the ceiling itself or the books that it bears with patience and silence. The one book that never seems to be taken away from its place, its cover simple black with barely visible letters, your eyes catching onto it and serenity floods your body.
Have you ever wondered why your mind comes to peace in a room full of books?
That’s because their guardians watch over the sacred knowledge that sits between ink and paper and dust of centuries.
And when you are with them, worshipping their letters with your young, curious eyes, the guardians smile at your back and keep you safe.
It was supposed to be a joke. Kenma hides behind the door of Kuroo’s room while he’s downstairs to get them some tea. Nobody else is home. This is a good prank, Kenma thinks, I’m going to scare him a bit and maybe he’s going to tickle me then. Maybe we’ll end up cuddling (that would be really, really nice).
It is supposed to be a joke. Kenma jumps out from behind the door and rips his hands into the air when Kuroo comes in. He wants to yell something, a funny quote from a movie, but his body freezes when-
It was supposed to be a joke. But then Kuroo’s on the floor, the tray is dropped, and Kenma watches how his best friend shrinks into a tiny ball and covers his head with both hands.
“Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.”
“Kuroo.” Kenma’s voice breaks. He drops to the floor, reaches out, halts. “I didn’t know that you – I’m so sorry. Kuroo, l-look at me. I won’t hurt you.”
It takes a moment until Kuroo lifts his head. The tracks of tears on his cheeks feel like a knife through Kenma’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking at Kuroo, not moving an inch.
It was supposed to be a joke. But five minutes later, Kuroo sits on the bed, the spilled tea is wiped away, and Kenma listens to the story of what Kuroo has been living through during middle school whenever Kenma wasn’t with him. And oh, Kenma didn’t know that he could hate other people so much, but he does when Kuroo tentatively talks about fists that make bruises bloom and how being gay has only started to feel right when high school came around and Kenma’s fingers laced up with Kuroo’s in front of the team for the first time without any pain raining down on him.
Honey. Oh, oh wow. This broke my heart. Thank you so much for this beautiful art. You’re a wonderful person. ♥
It was supposed to be a joke. Kenma hides behind the door of Kuroo’s room while he’s downstairs to get them some tea. Nobody else is home. This is a good prank, Kenma thinks, I’m going to scare him a bit and maybe he’s going to tickle me then. Maybe we’ll end up cuddling (that would be really, really nice).
It is supposed to be a joke. Kenma jumps out from behind the door and rips his hands into the air when Kuroo comes in. He wants to yell something, a funny quote from a movie, but his body freezes when-
It was supposed to be a joke. But then Kuroo’s on the floor, the tray is dropped, and Kenma watches how his best friend shrinks into a tiny ball and covers his head with both hands.
“Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.”
“Kuroo.” Kenma’s voice breaks. He drops to the floor, reaches out, halts. “I didn’t know that you – I’m so sorry. Kuroo, l-look at me. I won’t hurt you.”
It takes a moment until Kuroo lifts his head. The tracks of tears on his cheeks feel like a knife through Kenma’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking at Kuroo, not moving an inch.
It was supposed to be a joke. But five minutes later, Kuroo sits on the bed, the spilled tea is wiped away, and Kenma listens to the story of what Kuroo has been living through during middle school whenever Kenma wasn’t with him. And oh, Kenma didn’t know that he could hate other people so much, but he does when Kuroo tentatively talks about fists that make bruises bloom and how being gay has only started to feel right when high school came around and Kenma’s fingers laced up with Kuroo’s in front of the team for the first time without any pain raining down on him.
“Tooru,” Takeru asks him one day. “What does being in love mean?”
“That’s a difficult question,” Tooru says. He’s sitting on the bench, wrapping his knee with an ice pack that Hajime has stuffed in his spare shirt. It’s loud on the court. Balls hit the ground in quick succession.
Hajime looks over to them, waves, grinning. Takeru bounces on the bench and beams back at him, but he hasn’t forgotten Tooru. “So? Can you answer it?”
Tooru doesn’t look at him. He watches the light dance over Hajime’s face, catching in the dark of his lashes. “It means that you do very silly things,” Tooru says to Takeru. “You may even hide it from the person. Maybe you’ve loved them for a very long time, but you can’t tell them.”
“Why?”
For a moment, Tooru is quiet. Then he ruffles Takeru’s hair. His eyes have gone soft, shimmering like they’re wet.
“Maybe because people prefer a hopeful illusion over an unchangeable truth.”
Takeru looks at him and frowns. “I don’t understand that.”
“I’m sorry. Why don’t you go train with Hajime?” Tooru watches his nephew run off. His knees hurts. He pushes the ice pack off and stumbles back onto the court.
Fanart for @moami and one of their new fanfics. It was absolutely monstrous and I had to do at least one thing for it before class.
I absolutely adore the perspective that you drew him in, looking down on the viewer like that. Thank you so much for this! His horns are great, and are those the extra eyes on his forehead? Amazing! ♥
Moami 