Tag: haikyuu!!

“I need to get out.” Tooru says one night. They’re on their backs in Hajime’s garden, a cigarette passing between their fingers. Hajime came over as soon as Tooru’s parents left for some trip. He’s been here ever since.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Tooru turns his head to him. There are drops of dew in his hair, because it’s summer but the night is above their heads still, sending shivers of cold into the grass and wetness of silver through the garden. Hajime’s mouth tastes like smoke and the too-sweet lemonade Tooru made himself because what’s a summer night without lemonade, Hajime, and who’s going to mind if we put a bit of rum into it? It had tasted awful. They shared it.

“My uncle has a car,” Tooru whispers. His lips are close, sugar-glinting and apart in softness. “We can take it and drive. We can go somewhere. I don’t wanna be here anymore.” 

“Okay,” Hajime says. He wraps his fingers around Tooru’s chin, slides the other hand into his neck. “Where do you want to go?” 

Tooru makes a tiny noise, deep in his throat, and Hajime loves him, loves him, could spend years just kissing the longing out of the crinkled edge of his gleaming eyes. “I don’t know,” Tooru says against his mouth. “You’re gonna come with me, right? I wanna go, but not without you. Come with me. Will you?”

“You’re stupid,” Hajime tells the sweaty skin below Tooru’s lower lip, and kisses his chin, his jaw, tracing warm breath up to his temple, “if you think you have to even ask.” There’s not much time before two different colleges will take their wrists and pull them apart.

“Hajime.” Tooru grabs his shirt, their foreheads knocking together, and Hajime rolls on top of him just in time for Tooru to catch his mouth in a gasp of kiss.

It’ll have to be enough. 

Daichi comes to an end on the Friday after his graduation. Everything is set up to be a nice and relaxed night. He would have preferred getting food and drinks over karaoke, sure, but Asahi and Kuroo are looking like they’re having far too much fun with their version of Fantastic Baby (including dance performance, Christ; Daichi did not need to know that Asahi’s hips could move like that).

And how he ended up crammed into a tiny karaoke room with the other former third-years from Seijouh and Nekoma, well, Daichi doesn’t know. Dammit, let him enjoy the night and Suga’s hand on his arm in peace. It’s such a nice hand. Suga has the most beautiful fingers. Not that Daichi has ever told him, not even now that his head is sitting comfortably on Suga’s shoulder, and they could almost be holding hands.

Then the song changes, and Suga twitches by his side. “I love that song!” 

“Mhm?” Daichi glances up at him. “’s that so.” Shit, he’s so unfairly pretty. The first thing Suga did after graduation was to get his ear shell pierced. Daichi is very gay, and happily so.

“C’mon, let’s dance!”

“I don’t dance,” Daichi says.

Something glints in Suga’s eyes. He tilts his head, flashes a grin. “I know you can,” he sing-songs.

Before Daichi realizes the trap, his lips move. “Not a chance, no,” his mouth sings back.

The silence afterwards is stunning. Daichi prays to everyone that nobody’s heard them, but there’s not a chance (Oh god. Fucking. Damnit.) that Suga didn’t catch that he just referenced to Chad’s and Ryan’s courtship song.

“Daichi.” 

“I, well – “

A hand grabs his arm, and Suga is pulling him outside. Daichi barely catches a glimpse of a very drunk Kuroo taking a stand against Oikawa with something that suspiciously sounds like I Will Survive.

Then they’re outside and Suga is laughing. His dimples are perfect, his mouth is perfect, and Daichi feels numb and burning from the inside all at once. His head is dizzy. Suga’s fingers are in his, thumb tracing Daichi’s sweaty knuckles.

“First off, I know for a fact that every guy who knows the words to that song from High School Musical two has some kind of rhythm. And second – what other dark musical secrets have you been hiding from me?”

“Uhm.” Daichi swallows. It’s very hard to think when Suga steps even closer, and then Daichi’s hands somehow finds a way to Suga’s cheek. “I… like anything where characters sing about what they’re doing?”

Suga smiles, wide and soft. “How about we go to my place then, you don’t laugh at me for liking musicals almost as much as I like you, and then you… you could tell me about it, stud.”

Daichi’s throat is dry. He manages to nod, too many times and too hard, but Suga doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers squeeze Daichi’s. “Okay. That’s convenient, because,” Daichi clears his throat and starts walking, dramatically gesturing at the empty street ahead. “My place is just a jump to the left.”

Then Suga is laughing even more, his forehead falling against Daichi’s neck, and they make it home in each other’s arms. Daichi doesn’t really remember how much of Grease they end up watching, but when he wakes up the next morning, his and Suga’s clothes stink of sweat and night air and a tiny bit like each other, from falling asleep in a tangle of limbs and with Daichi’s hand in Suga’s soft, familiar hair.

“Get your big thing out of the way, Iwaizumi.”

“My instrument is perfectly reasonable-sized, thank you very much.”

“And yet you just play the grumbly low background tune.”

“Oh? Jealous that you’re just one of many in your rows? Size complex much?”

“Just move aside.” Kuroo’s grin almost splits from one ear to another, and he bumps his fist against Hajime’s shoulder when pushing past him. It’s tradition by now: before every practice, they banter and insult each other a bit to let off steam. Violins and cellos are bound to have a bit of a rivalry, so the teasing never stops. Hajime doesn’t mind. This is the first orchestra he’s playing in since graduation, and even though it’s not yet the Berlin Philharmonic’s yet, but he’s getting there. 

“How ‘bout we grab some food after work?” Hajime adjusts a peg on his cello when the others start tuning next to him. “I’ll treat you,” he adds, only half listening to the notes humming in the background. His fingers work automatically, the strings of his cello trembling slightly as he touches the bow to it. 

“Sure,” Kuroo says. “I’ll bring Akaashi, if you don’t mind, and Bokuto – “

“Everyone, please take a seat, we’re getting started.” The orchestra falls quiet, all remaining chatter dies out in an instant. Their conductor approaches, her dark hair looking as silky as ever and really, if Hajime wasn’t as straight as the scroll on his beloved cello, he’d be swooning throughout every practice. But Kiyoko’s eyes are glinting like she knows a secret nobody else does. That means she’s up to something. It means serious business.

A moment later, Hajime understands why.

“Listen, please. I have someone to introduce to you. This is Tooru Oikawa.”

Hajime thinks that he can feel a string snap inside his chest. The man that walks up to Kiyoko’s side is simply gorgeous, in a way that has Hajime’s jaw drop all stupid and stunned. Breathing is unnecessary. The guy has soft brown hair that tickles along his cheekbones (god, who even has that much in the genetic lottery, Hajime is going to file a complaint), and he lifts a hand to wave.

“Hello. I’m sure we’ll get along well, sweethearts.”

Shit. Hajime forces his mouth shut and tries not to blink too much when staring at the guy’s face. Is it just his imagination or did that guy just wink? And – at him?

“What do you play?” Someone asks. All eyes are on Hajime, including Kiyoko and that too-beautiful-to-be-real (oh yeah, Tooru is his name, Hajime memorizes in a newly named “to tap list” in his brain) are staring at him. Oh no, did he really just ask that? 

Tooru is the first to recover. He laughs, teeth too fucking white to be real or fair, and pulls the black bag that Hajime just now notices down from his shoulder. “See for yourself, big guy. But don’t worry, I’ll be in your line of sight, in case you wanna burn me with your eyes some more.”

Five minutes later, Hajime knows better.

Of course it’s the flute. Of any instruments that exists in this goddamn wonderful orchestra (and there are lots), it’s the silver artwork of intricate keys that Tooru puts his long fingertips on. His nails are short, just a sliver of white at the tip. Hajime may or may not be in love with how his lips push against the mouthpiece, and it seems like Tooru kisses every single note that leaves his flute.

It’s only after ten minutes into practice that Hajime gets elbowed by Sawamura next to him, whispering “focus! Our part is coming up” that Hajime can shake off his fascination. The music pulls him in as it always does, tunes of copper and quicksilver mingling into the sympony they’ll be playing two months from now. Practice blends into a blur of music and Kiyoko’s voice working them through the first part, into criticism and nods and short remarks while everyone’s fingers change between scribbling notes into the sheet music and flying across their instruments.

They work overtime, again. Nobody complains, and yet there is a collective exhale when Kiyoko nods and calls it a day. Hajime makes sure that everyone with a string instrument is getting their stuff cleaned up. He’s so occupied that it takes two taps on his shoulder to make him turn around.

“Tooru,” he says, and fuck, he’s even more overwhelming up close. “If you have questions, you should maybe consult Tobio. He’s responsible for the wind instr-”

“You know, I never believed my old music teacher.” The smile that stretches across Tooru’s lips makes Hajime’s heart bolt against his ribs. The flute is still in Tooru’s hand, silver reflecting the light and shining it on Tooru’s arm. 

“Excuse me?” Breathe, Hajime tells himself, but he ends up licking his lips.

“Oh, just. The cello really is the most erotic instrument. We should get dinner sometime, Iwai- no, Hajime. Don’t you think?” And if there’s a brush of pale, warm fingers against Hajime’s elbow before Tooru passes by, humming the tune of Hajime’s cello part, well then those looks Tooru threw him during practice not just mere imagination.

But he’s still wrong, Hajime grins while packing up. A few hours ago, he would have agreed with Tooru’s music teacher in all instances. Now, there’s a certain soft mouth pressing to humming metal that rivals even Hajime’s finger skills.

“You know, why are we still wearing those friendship bracelets?”

“Huh?” Hajime looks up from his plate.

He almost didn’t understand what Tooru said over the loud conversation of their friends. It was a good idea to invite everyone over for equinox, or midsummer’s night or whatever Tooru had called it when enthusiastically preparing the barbecue and decorating the long table outside with wildflowers. Sometimes Hajime can’t believe that he’s really this lucky. Even Hanamaki’s here, all the way from France, kissing some salad dressing from Matsukawa’s cheek.

Hajime has stopped counting the number of guests after the entire former team of Karasuno has started to swarm into their garden.
Theirs. His and Tooru’s, the wild and unruly jungle of flowers and trees behind their house.

Hajime swallows the last bite of his meat, tilting his head at Tooru. “What do you mean? Don’t you like them anymore?” He reaches for his own neck, touches the leather necklace. Their bracelets hadn’t fit anymore after middle school and so Tooru had turned them into long leather necklaces to wear below their team shirts.

It kind of hurts to even imagine going without them. Hajime frowns. “Don’t you want to – what do you mean?” They had even added simple pearls to it; after their first kiss, after graduation, when they’d moved in together after college.

Does Tooru not – he doesn’t –

“I think it’s time for something new. Something else.” Tooru takes a deep breath, gives Hajime a bright smile before standing up. He’s gorgeous, hair a bit longer, eyes warm and twinkling.

Hajime barely notices that everyone else has fallen silent. A soft summer breeze whirls through his hair, toying with the sleeves of Tooru’s shirt.

“I think,” Tooru says and he reaches into his pocket, bringing out a small black box, “that we change our necklaces for something simpler that’s going to last longer than leather.”

Hajime forgets how to breathe. Tooru smiles, smiles, looks at him like he’s the pulse of the earth, like he’s the last of Tooru’s dream come true, and the box clicks open.

“If you agree, I think that platinum in the form of a ring will suit us much better.”

“When you said that your perfect first date was ‘mythology’, I didn’t think about this. I thought we were going to a museum, maybe watch a movie.” Hajime stares at the 400 page thick book ‘A Brief History of the Wolf in Fables and Legends’ that he’s got propped up on his chest. There are about five different coloured post-its sticking out of the first half. The rest remains white and untouched and that is exactly the problem. “I thought we were gonna do something normal for once.”

“If you wanted normal, you shouldn’t have made us friendship bracelets when we were five.” There’s no sympathy coming with the amusement in Tooru’s voice. He’s sprawled out across Hajime’s legs, one wrapped around his waist and the other serving as a (really terrible) makeshift book stand and stationary display. 

Hajime squints down at him. Tooru has his glasses on, and it does things to Hajime’s chest. It’s so stupid – just a bit of black plastic and a reflection of himself in the glass. Maybe it’s because hey, this is his childhood friend wearing them, the person that Hajime trusts most in the world. The one who said yes to a date with an exasperation that sounded like Hajime should have asked earlier, not only just in college. The soft peck Tooru had pushed on his cheek still felt warm.

But seriously. “This is not a date,” Hajime mumbles.

“I never said it was,” Tooru points out. He arches a perfectly shaped brow when Hajime groans and collapses into the pillow. “No more, please. I get it, you need a topic for your thesis, but do you really need my help? You’re gonna ace this. There’s a reason your professor fucking adores you.”

Tooru laughs. “Oh he does, that’s true. Not as much as you though.”

“I hate you.” I just wanted to cuddle, Hajime thinks. And maybe kiss. A bit.

A beat of silence passes. Then, Tooru shifts. A book is slapped shut, pens pushed around the sheets. Tooru appears in Hajime’s field of vision, kneeling on top of him. “We don’t need dates,” he says. Oh. Hajime swallows. Breathing becomes so much more difficult when Tooru’s lips curl into a smile, the tip of his tongue darting over his bottom lip. 

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” Tooru leans down, pushes their foreheads together with a softness that surprises Hajime. He reaches out, finding Tooru’s hand to put his own around and rest it by his head. “And why not?”

“Dunno.” A shrug, and Hajime hums when Tooru’s mouth pushes against his jaw, warm and gentle. “Maybe ‘cause we’ve kinda always been together? And now stop thinking. Because I’m gonna grant us a short break and I intend to spend it right here, with my mouth on yours.”

‘A Brief History of the Wolf in Fables and Legends’ tumbles to the floor, but neither of them really cares over the soft noise of Tooru’s lips opening up below Hajime’s kiss.

“Hi, Mrs. Oikawa.”

“How often have I told you, Hajime, it’s Miko. I’ve known you since before you could walk.”

“Sorry, yeah, I know. ’s just that I was phoning Tooru’s physiotherapist earlier, and the formal stuff kinda stuck.”

“Sure, sweetheart. …physio? Again? Is he hurt? He’s overworking himself, right? Don’t lie to me.”

“You… you know how he is.”

“Yes. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Are you – ”

“I’m making sure that he’s okay, yeah. Forced him to eat and go to bed early. No more training until next week. I made miso soup, actually, after your recipe that he loves.”

“Hajime. I wanted to ask whether you’re okay.”

“Oh. Yes? I mean, yes. I’m fine, thanks.”

“Honestly! At this point, I’m more worried about you than him. I know that you’re always with him, by his side, putting up with those shenanigans.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t. Take care of yourself though, okay? I’ll send you two some care packages. I think your mom brought one to the post office earlier, too.”

“You really don’t have to – okay. Thank you. Ah, I think he’s awake, do you wanna talk to him? He’s been napping, I can’t even sit on my own couch. Unbelievable.”

“Mhm, just hand him the phone. Ah, and Hajime?”

“Yeah?”

“Get it together and ask him already. That ring is beautiful, after all.”

“…okay, Miko.”

“No problem, sweetheart. Now let me talk to my son so I can scold him a bit more softly than you usually do.”

“We have to get out of here.” Bokuto’s voice cracks like glass. The metal bar that he’s shoved through the door’s handles is creaking with every impact from the outside. 

Kenma doesn’t hear him.

“Fuck, fuck, come on – don’t touch him!” 

Kenma reaches, careful, and his fingers tremble when he brushes a bloody strand of hair from Kuroo’s forehead.

Bokuto’s scream pitches into a sob. “He’s fucking turning, Kenma, we can’t help him, we can’t, we can’t, we have to get outta here!”

No. His vision is black and crimson. Kuroo’s eyes are wide and dead and then they’re alive again, and his body starts to seize. The white of his eyes, the soft brown of his iris that Kenma loves more than himself is flooded by darkness.

“Please, please.” Bokuto’s knees hit the ground by his side. “Kenma. They bit him. Kenma, Kenma.” They can’t help, the camp with the cure is far away, but Kenma can’t just watch and do nothing, not after how Akaashi – 

The door behind them howls with another impact. Bokuto falls silent. His fingers dig into Kenma’s shoulder, all nails and force, but when Kenma finally goes pliant and yields, it’s too late.

Kuroo, or what he used to be, surges. There’s no time to scream, because Bokuto’s rifle knocks against the top of his head, so wild and desperate that it would have killed anything that’s still alive. But Kuroo’s teeth are already sinking into Kenma’s hand, through bone and muscle, something snapping between his jaws. 

Kenma doesn’t know how it ends. Screams echo through his dreams, a wave of other voices, their group having found them. When he wakes, something feels like it’s missing. A look down his body, past filthy clothes and blood all over himself, tells him that he’s back in the camp. 

His wrist is empty. There’s a bandage around the stump. 

And across the room is the cage, the one where they’d done terrible things to not-anymore-humans to find a cure, and Kuroo’s in it with eyes that flicker between black and brown. A needle is still stuck in his arm. The timer on the cage stands at 30:57, counting down from sixty minutes. So there’s half an hour left to know if they got the cure into his veins in time.

Kenma lies back down, holding his empty wrist, and waits.

His first thought is: This is a lie.

“It’s true,” Tooru says into the silence. His last words thrill through Hajime’s bones, a pulse in his heart.

“You love me,” Hajime says. It sounds like a question.

Tooru looks at him. They’re no children anymore, Hajime thinks. His fingers reach, a touch against the skin of Tooru’s temple.

“Since when?”

Tooru’s eyes fall shut, and he speaks, and Hajime can’t breathe through the rush of blood in his ears.

“There’s no ‘since’. I don’t remember a start. I can’t imagine an end. You’re in my earliest memories, in my latest, everywhere in between. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember myself.”

“Tooru.” His arms are around Tooru’s body, trembling fingers somewhere in his hair. Their foreheads touch. Hajime whispers, something he should have said too long ago, finally.

“I don’t have a ‘since’ either. But if you want to…”

Tooru’s shoulders start to quiver after the soft words that Hajime mumbles against his lips, with his own, for the first time.

“You don’t need to imagine an ‘until’ for us.”

“We don’t have a lot of – oh fuck.” There’s a vulnerable grace in the curve of Kuroo’s throat, so Kenma puts his mouth against it and brings a kiss down. It’s narrow in the equipment room of the club, but it’ll do, it has to. A nest of their training jackets and Kuroo’s shirt keeps the ground’s cold off their knees and allows Kenma to sit between Kuroo’s legs, grants him the privilege to run his curious fingers over trembling skin. 

“We,” Kuroo starts again, the words sounding heavy in his mouth. It’s all red and swollen, Kenma thinks when he looks up at him, letting go of his throat for barely a second. “Not much time. I know. How much?” Not that he really cares for a reply. Kuroo’s the responsible one here, his eyes are the gold that focuses on the clock hanging across the room while Kenma loses himself in touches, whispers, his own nails raking flickers of white down Kuroo’s darker skin.

“Five. Not more, and if the others – God. You’re gorgeous.” 

Kenma lets a soft, tiny noise escape his lips when Kuroo touches his chin. His eyes flutter shut, hand pressed to Kuroo’s warm stomach, the other drawing circles by the ivory of his hipbones. “Kiss,” Kenma demands, quiet as always. 

Kuroo gives. He gives in and gives away, granting Kenma whatever wish he has, be it the fact that he accepted Kenma’s awkward confessions months ago or that he kissed him on the last day of training camp, where they had sneaked onto the roof and held hands under too many stars above their heads.

Then he’s back in reality. Kuroo has an arm around his back, hand smoothing against Kenma’s ribcage with a reverence that has been stealing his breath since they were twelve and Kuroo had hugged him as Kenma’s first friend ever. Now, their skin melts together in a harsh twitch of bodies. Kenma curls one of his leg around Kuroo’s waist, and he moans in a broken shadow of his own voice when a soft tongue pushes between his lips, bringing heat and slick pressure to his mouth. Kuroo shifts when Kenma kisses him back, and a noise seeps into the air trembling between their lips. Oh, Kenma thinks, spreading his legs over Kuroo’s lap, he’s hard. 

“Kitten.” Kuroo says it like a prayer, when Kenma’s hand finds a way down, and his eyes are liquid gold, home, a ray of yes I want you I have chosen you and we’re each other’s. “You don’t have to – “

“You never make me do anything.” Kenma kisses him, tugs at Kuroo’s lips with careful teeth, until they’re so out of breath that the entire room seems to fill with nothing but them. “I want to. I really, really want to. If you don’t, I won’t, but – can I, could I.” 

Kuroo doesn’t let the insecurity spread. His hands are on Kenma’s cheeks, thumbs tracing his breathless mouth. A brush of lips sears against his forehead. “Okay,” Kuroo rasps, “okay. I want you to. Kenma, Kenma.”

They’re late for training. Kenma’s hand is warm, his mouth and cheeks feel like they’re woven from fire, and his skin smells like Kuroo had poured his entire being all over Kenma (when really, he’d gotten his release with a dark noise in Kenma’s hand, lashes black and mouth a cherry-fever that Kenma would never forget). “I want to do that to you, too,” Kuroo had said after they got dressed.
Kenma had smiled.