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His name is Hajime, and he doesn’t know why there’s blood on his hands. 

He wakes in darkness, face-down, wet grass tickling his naked skin. His body drips red, and when Hajime forces his muscles to push himself upright, he discovers the fire. The giant building complex before him crumbles apart underneath roaring flames, smoke hissing across the black night sky. 

Hajime doesn’t know why there’s blood on his hands. He looks around, and doesn’t know where all of those dead bodies came from, either. They’re all wearing military uniforms, and only Hajime’s naked. Fear jolts through his head. He gets up and starts running, feeling his limbs and testing his skin. There’s not a single bruise on his own body. The blood isn’t his. Something black on his wrist catches his attention – a combination of letters and numbers. TELE-Ki-07. 

He runs for what feels like hours. There’s a forest he crosses, away from the fire, across a metal fence that snaps in half before him. The fear inside his head screams, his blood surging. He doesn’t look back once. 

He reaches the lights of a town when morning dawns. It’s dirty and loud and he hides before anyone can see him. There are no memories in his head but one – his name is Hajime. When sunlight spills over the horizon, he’s curled in an alley where his feet carried him, in front of a wooden door. He doesn’t move for a long time. The blood’s dried and breaks off his skin. He’s hungry and so, so scared.

Slow footsteps approach him when the sun’s high in the sky. He flinches, jumps to his feet, and the lid of a metal garbage bin flings at the man who stands before him. Hajime wants to warn him, yells something, but his throat just croaks. And then the lid stops. It hovers right before the man’s face, the edge pressed against his neck. The man smiles, and Hajime wonders why there are tears falling down his cheeks. 

“You’re back. You got out.” 

The lid combusts into dust. Hajime leans against the wall and expects his muscles to twitch, another strange thing to happen that he cannot control. But strangely, his body – relaxes. And then he tumbles forward, arms around the man’s neck, and it’s the scent of lavender and soap that makes him realize. He may not remember, but his body does. 

The man kisses his hair and pulls him closer, and pushes a key into the wooden door. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay, Hajime. You’re home now, and I’ll never let them hurt you again.” 

And Hajime remembers, one word. “…Tooru.” 

Tooru opens the door. Hajime clings to his neck, and follows inside. 

“I didn’t lie. I did love you. I still do. But this is a job, and I have to. I have to.”

Hajime’s tears drip silently. Tooru stares at him, mouth so pretty when red-kissed, the gun resting against his bottom lip. 

"You are the sweetest thing I’ll ever have to kill, Tooru.”

Could you write some fluffy drunk daisuga?

Sure. Have some warm gentle fluff. I have never written drunk people before.

“Do you ever think about turtles, Suga?” 

Suga did, in fact, not think about turtles very often. Not that he had anything against them. Turtles were cute. Lovely creatures, really. Suga didn’t have a personal problem with any turtle and had never started a fight with a tortoise (who were related to turtles, that much he could recall, and being mean to someone’s distant family members was never a good start for friendly relations). 

But the alcohol washing through his veins with a warm, soft hum didn’t allow any of his higher brain funtions to work properly, and that included any deeper rational senses as well as the possibility to wonder just why he and Daichi were lying in his sister’s hammock, staring at the stars above and talking about – well, turtles, apparently. 

 Daichi looked so cute when he was drunk, Suga thought and nuzzled his face into the neck of his best friend. The hammock was small (thank god) and Daichi was warm, so warm. Suga could listen to him forever, talking in that swaying voice, stumbling over words just a bit because fuck, they were so goddamn drunk. It had been a wild night at Nishinoya’s, and of course Daichi had insisted to walk him home. 

“Your cheeks get red when you drink,” Suga whispered into his neck and giggled. Daichi’s arm fit perfectly around him. He didn’t even feel cold, and Daichi smelt nice and why couldn’t they stay like this forever. “You’re cute. You’re so cute, Daichi. I want to marry you.”

Daichi nodded, very seriously. “Turtles, Suga. They’re just – they’re so important, you know?” 

Suga smiled at him and hiccuped, licking his lips. “’s there a star constellation for turtles? Is there one for you cause – cause you’re so cute, that they put you up ‘ere?” 

“I really, really think,” Daichi said and stared into the sky, “that a turtle carries the world on its back. Isn’t that nice? What a sweet turtle. I think if you were an animal, you’d be one. A very… small. Turtle, that is. A cute turtle.” 

Suga blinked. “You think I’m – I’m cute, too?” Warmth spread through his chest. The stars seemed to look brighter, white and endless and so breathtaking above his head. Daichi’s hand snuck into his neck. Suga looked up at him, felt Daichi’s forehead press against his own, a nose nuzzle against his. 

“Yeah,” Daichi mumbled. His eyes were falling shut, lips trembling. Suga could smell the chocolate liquor they’d drunk in his breath. “I think,” and a pair of soft, shy lips brushed against his own mouth, “you’re like, a turtle that carries me and the team, and you’d have a beautiful turtle forest on your back.”

Suga didn’t even know what that meant, but he still pulled Daichi into another kiss, mouths fitting together with a tiny sigh of their breaths. A kiss, another, and then warm fingers tracing Suga’s face, gently cradling him into sleep. 

Suga could still feel the kiss burn on his mouth when he woke the next morning, curled around his best friend in a hammock, the stars faded away above their heads. 

The injury had come to him at the worst possible time, and so Hajime had to watch Tooru and their team win Olympia in front of his tv instead of by his side. 

None of them had cried when they’d kissed each other goodbye on the airport. His teammates had all hugged Hajime before, wishing him well, pity in their eyes about the injury that had messed up his foot. But oh, Tooru had pulled him so close that Hajime lost all the air in his lungs. 

“I’ll count all the kisses you’re gonna owe me.” Tooru’s breath had been soft against his ear, voice heavy and silver with hidden tears. “One in the morning, one at night. One each time I cry, ten when I win, ten when we meet again.” 

“You’ll get all of them when you win,” Hajime had said. 
When. Not ‘if’. Some things are as certain as the sun rising in the morning. 

The airplane’s half an hour late. Hajime stares at the hallway where people pour out into the airport, and there they are. There he is. 

Tooru storms forward, eyes wide, the golden medal swinging around his neck over his open team jacket. He falls into Hajime’s arms, lips soft, salt-wet, begging and praying and whispering hello, it’s me, oh I missed you – 

But Hajime gently pushes him away, reaches into his pocket. “You counted?” He asks. Tooru nods, opens his mouth. 

“Don’t tell me the number”. 

“What?” Something bright vanishes in Tooru’s eyes. He frowns, shifts. “Haji – “

A last deep breath. Hajime’s whole body trembles when he pulls the black velvet box out of his pocket and opens it. “You don’t have to count. I give you all my kisses for the rest of my life. If – if you will.” 

And then, Tooru is crying. He sobs out loud, stumbles to his knees together with Hajime and whimpers like a child when the silver ring fits onto his finger, and Hajime’s lips touch his own in a soft reverence that says: welcome home. 

part I and part II

“It’s been twenty hours, Tooru.” 

Hajime’s body is ice-cold in his arms, jaw slack, throat bled dry and smeared with red. Tooru’s fingers shake when he carefully brushes dark hair out of Hajime’s closed eyes. “He’s going to be okay,” he says. “I said I’ll carry him. He – he’s not a monster, please, don’t – Suga, no!”

Sugawara’s gun presses against Hajime’s temple, and Tooru howls. “No!” His wild scream drowns out Daichi’s shouts. He rams his fist against the gun, slides his hands around Hajime’s temples, presses their foreheads together as a horrible wail rises in his chest. “Don’t, don’t do that, he’s going to be okay, we’ll find a cure. Daichi, please. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Daichi says. “But we can’t let him turn. He’s infected.” He doesn’t hold Suga back.
Tooru’s vision melts into tears. “We can save him. Th-there’s hope. He’s not dead,” he whispers, soft. 

“Not yet.” Suga is crying, silent, his voice calm. “Let him go. Get off of him, now, or I swear I’ll drag you away myself and tie you down.” 

Tooru’s scream dies in his throat when the body underneath him moves. Oh.

“..fuck,” Daichi says, somewhere far away. A strong hand hauls the weapon out of Suga’s hand, and an iron-firm arm wraps around Tooru’s waist. 

“H… Hajime?” Tooru stares down at the man who’s forehead is pressed against his own. There’s a jolt through the ribcage underneath him. 

And Hajime opens his eyes. 

arierruu:

“Don’t touch him.” 

Based on this zombie AU by the wonderful @moami!

This art killed me, oh my god. They are perfect. Just – just. I love how you put such a determination in Tooru’s face, how they look so exhausted and broken but Tooru clings to Hajime, still. The background is GORGEOUS – the dirty town, the sky with light peeking through, I am absolutely in love with this. Thank you so much, I don’t even know what words are right now. Thank you. ♥

“Why don’t you love me?” Tooru asks. 

 "I do,“ Hajime says. "But nobody’s ever enough to make you stay." 

You are, Tooru thinks. You would be enough.

He doesn’t say it. His throat is tight. His skin burns from all those people he’s touched, who didn’t mean anything, and he cannot speak.

Hajime waits, and waits, and waits. 

When Tooru finally finds the right words in his heart, Hajime is gone. 

Kageyama is kind of really, really pretty. 

Hinata isn’t exactly jealous. Black hair wouldn’t look good on him – he’s pale already, no thank you – and he’s never wanted those clichée sky-blue eyes either. It only works on Kageyama. 

“It’s unfair, you know,” Hinata whispers to Kageyama’s neck, where he’s buried his lips against soft skin and a slow-beating pulse. Kageyama is asleep. Training and homework exhausted both of them into a nap, but Hinata awoke first for once. He doesn’t bother with moving or untangling his fingers from the gentle grip of Kageyama’s bigger hand. 

They fit together so well, it’s ridiculous. Hinata closes his eyes, breathes softly. He’s counted all the freckles on Kageyama’s nose twice, has memorized the curve of his lips, the warmth of his skin pressing against his own. Like a cartographer, he knows Kageyama by the valleys and hidden glades of his body, from the crease between his brows to the kindness of his fingertips against Hinata’s chest, his stomach, sitting reverently on his hips. 

He smiles. “It’s unfair that you’re so beautiful, y’know.”