moamiswriting – Page 31

The crime scene is an abstract artwork of leaves and blood. It’s difficult for the inspector to nagivate her way through the mess all over the forest ground, and she tries not to breathe too much into the stench of moss, wet earth and copper. There are five bodies, a policeman walking by her side informs her while they carefully round the scene, and they only know that because they counted – she chokes a bit when hearing that – the remains of what must have been human heads just a few hours ago.

If she hadn’t been told on the way here that people had been torn apart by some wild animal here, she wouldn’t have been sure what or who had died on the clearing in the middle of the forest.

“There are no traces leading away,” the policeman says then, flipping a page on his notepad, “seems the victims were campers, died about three hours ago. A jogger found them.”

“Of course.” The inspector sighs. Who else would find a body in a forest, if not a damn jogger. “Where is he?”

“Being questioned right now,” another voice says behind her. It’s one of the forensic guys, clad in white from head to toes, waving a gloved hand at her. “We got a survivor, though. A little kid. Looked pretty horrified, splattered with blood.”

The inspector nods and opens her mouth to ask some more questions, but –

A wail echoes through the forest. Everyone jolts, weapons are drawn, the inspector’s hand twitching to her own belt, “come out slowly-!”

It’s a man. He stumbles out from behind a tree, eyes wide and snowy-white. Blood has dried on his face and then he falls, body crashing down, the stump of his left leg hitting the ground with a horrible thud. A few seconds pass.

Then, they’re all at his side, turning him around, “ambulance!” someone yells. The inspector’s on her knees, barks a few orders.

“It,” the man whimpers. His mouth is full of dried blood. “It. Where. Are they.”

“It’s okay,” the inspector says. Her voice is calm now, she moves to let a policeman push on the stump where the man’s pants are tied to hold the bleeding. “Don’t move now. Where’s the ambulance, did they drive off with the kid already?”

A hand claws at her arm. “Hey!” Someone yells, but she lifts her hand, carefully pulls the man’s fingers away. “What is it? Stay down. Breathe.”

The man’s eyes are filling with blood. “No kid. There was no kid.”

“What?”

“Inspector,” a policeman yells behind her, “we have a call, the ambulance – “

“It,” the man sighs. A wave of blood and saliva gurgles out of his mouth. “It came, we, we didn’t know, they screamed and its fangs were there and it bit – ”

Everything goes quiet. The inspector stares at the man’s face. The last blink of light fades from his pupils. “It was so hungry.”

“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.”

“How can you love something like me? The only good thing I have is you. I’ve got nothing for you to fall for.”

“No. I’m the one who’s allowed to let you be loved, but I didn’t make you lovely. You’ve been that all along. And never could you be anything less than that.”

“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.

Daichi knows that something is going on, and it can’t be good. Training camp is exhausting his team, he’s got to make sure they work hard but don’t strain themselves, and the heat isn’t helping either. But Daichi still isn’t blind. He notices things in the periphery of his vision.

So when Kuroo moves to stand by his left side and Bokuto’s arm slides around his shoulder from the right, Daichi can reduce his wincing to a minimum. He doesn’t even get to say hello.

“Lovely day, isn’t it,” Kuroo says. Daichi squints at him. This is going somewhere that he most definitely won’t like.

“Absolutely peachy,” Bokuto grins. His golden eyes are far too fixed on Daichi’s face. “Perfect conditions.”

“Indeed.” Daichi shakes Bokuto’s arm off and takes a step back. “May I help you two-”

“You know who’s also very lovely?” Kuroo’s lips twitch at one corner.

“I know!” Unbelievable. Bokuto actually fucking puts a finger to his chin as if he’s thinking. “That setter of yours, ah, what’s his name again?”

“Hm, I forgot it too,” Kuroo says, faux sadness clouding his face. “I only remember that cute voice and his nice legs.”

“His name is Suga,” Daichi growls. He gets ignored.

“Yeah, those are damn nice.”

“Irresistible even.”

“Impossible to miss. Especially when you’re around him all the time.”

“And I mean, we’re all just men, you can’t just keep your eyes from wandering a bit-”

Daichi’s hands clench into fists. He shouldn’t say anything, fuck, of course Suga is gorgeous, brilliantly so, even guys can pick that up, and the other captains are known for picking partners by attraction and not what’s between their legs, but does it have to be his Suga?

Wait. No. Suga isn’t his boyfriend. Maybe, just maybe, Daichi kind of wouldn’t mind if he was.

“It’s interesting,” Kuroo keeps going, “that you knew I was talking about him when I mentioned that he’s hot.”

Daichi wants to die. He looks away from those idiots, searches for an escape. “I was guessing.”

“You didn’t deny that he’s attractive.”

“Well, judging from an objective basis-”

“Dude.” Bokuto slaps his shoulder so hard that Daichi starts coughing. “He’s so into you. But I mean, if you don’t care for a guy as sweet and dang hot as Koushi-”

“Don’t use his first name. He doesn’t like that.” Daichi runs a hand down his face. Then his brain catches up on what Bokuto said. He stares at the other captains. “…he what?”

“Finally,” Kuroo nods, looking like a very pleased father. “He’s catching up with the newest information.”

“Because we were so kind to help out.” Bokuto wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “I almost went to kiss poor Suga myself, just to make captain dense here jealous.”

“He wouldn’t like that.” Daichi’s voice is tiny. “Are you guys joking? Is. Am I…” He clears his throat. His entire face burns. “Is it that obvious?”

Bokuto wraps an arm around Kuroo’s shoulder. “Our job here is done. Look who’s coming over to check on his captain’s safety.”
Daichi can’t help but turn around. He doesn’t hear the other captains run off, a high five clapping through the gym somewhere far away from Daichi’s mind. Suga is striding over to him along the side lines. There’s a dark crease between his brows and his eyes ask a silent question: Are you okay?

Daichi swallows. Absolutely not. He’s so fucked and in love and has been for longer than he’d ever admit. But when Suga is by his side, there’s somehow enough courage in Daichi to reach for Suga’s hand and hook their little fingers together.

Daichi doesn’t know what Suga’s face shows when he pulls him back towards the team. He hopes that it’s something good – the shy squeeze of a sweaty palm against his own seems to be a nice omen.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Kuroo had told him. “You’re eighteen. It’s time to let your gay out a bit.” Alright, maybe he was right, but Bokuto still wasn’t prepared for all of – this. The name of the club had flashed in front of his eyes for just a moment, high above the long line of people trying to get in. Kuroo had pushed at his shoulders, fumbled with both of their IDs, and then they were in.

The crowd is a trembling ocean of lights and skin blinking from beneath dark clothes. Bokuto can’t recognise any faces, can’t even see exactly what’s going on along the walls, where the bar is, but Kuroo’s hand is at his elbow. “You wanted to dance, right?” – “Yeah,” Bokuto shouts back, because it’s loud and the song that comes on goes straight to his blood, roars through his bones. “I’ll just go and – you’ll find me again, yeah?”

Kuroo just grins and claps his shoulder. There’s no way he’d ever let Bokuto out of eyesight. Fuck, Bokuto thinks as he moves, pushing himself through the people standing around, to the dancefloor where the lights dance in so many colours that he just has to open his eyes wider, drinking them in. He’s wanted this for so long, to go out and be himself, like this, to feel the rhythm and just be.

Then, it’s easy. He finds space somewhere, fits himself into the waves of other humans, and the beat floods him. Everything is all at once. The music is thunder with twitching lightning as the melody, and Bokuto puts his hands over his head, neck bare, feet following some pulse he didn’t know he could feel.

The boy appears during the third song. He’s wearing all black, his hair’s a mess of sweat and lights pouring colour over his neck, and Bokuto can’t see his face. The lasers flitting around only throw tiny spots of red and blue, it’s anonymous and united, and so Bokuto moves. The boy, no, they’re all not teenagers and yet, he curves his body into a shivering wave, head fallen back, his skin gleaming almost white. Bokuto swallows. He shouldn’t, it’s just someone he doesn’t know, but that man moves like he’s been born to slither his way into Bokuto’s head, hypnotizing and utterly gorgeous –

A hand grazes his arm. Bokuto’s eyes whip forward. The man is facing him, and just now the lights have dimmed, so his expression is impossible to read. Anything after that is a blur in Bokuto’s head. He remembers that his hands find slender shoulders, thumb brushing against collarbones, that his thigh pushes against hips that roll softly into his motion. Songs pass by, music drowning into his bones, skin burning where the other man shows him a new dimension of what dancing is, and Bokuto’s fingers grasp at a shirt, naked skin over thin hipbones.

It could have been hours, or years. The music goes quiet, light flickering through the room – and Bokuto blinks. The crowd has dissolved. Almost nobody is left. It’s almost silent, then, and from the corner of his eyes he finds Kuroo, leaning at the bar, mouth agape.

The man stands before him. Bokuto’s hands are on his hips, and that face, he would recognise that anywhere.

“Akaashi?”

The smile on Akaashi’s lips is tiny, trembling. “Is that the moment where you pull back and say that you didn’t mean it like that?”

He’s gorgeous, God, he’s incredible, Bokuto thinks and lifts Akaashi’s fingers to his lips in an impulse. “No, I just – you were so – I didn’t know you could move like that.” His mouth brushes Akaashi’s knuckles. “We should do that again.”

Akaashi’s smiles softens. “We should,” he says, and then he winks at Kuroo who’s still speechless and looking like he tries to comprehend all of this. “But somewhere more private, where I can look at you, and you can see me.”

beechichi:

Hey remember that time where @moami and I accidentally created an AU? Here’s some more 😀 Also Happy Kuroken Day (5/1)~ ❤

Kenma’s prediction did, over course, come true. The council approves his application with gritted teeth and fear sitting in their eyes. Kuroo almost ruins a sword when he hears the restrictions that have been put on, without a doubt, the most gifted and skilled magician that the council has seen in centuries. Still he is there to wait for Kenma to leave the sacred room where the rituals is performed. It takes two days. Kuroo can’t imagine the things they must have done to him.

But Kenma smiles when he exits the council’s holy halls. His silver jewelry, forged in the fire of Kuroo’s smithy without magic, gleams on his skin as if it had grown into his body. “They allow me to practice as I wish,” he says, closing his eyes as Kuroo wipes a tear off his cheek.

“And they made you cry,” Kuroo growls.

“Only a little.” Kenma flicks his fingers. A rush of wind curls around the both of them, and the guards standing by the council’s holy halls jump back with a cry.

They don’t walk out – they soar. Kenma’s magic radiates in gold now, having had its limitations removed by the council to give him access to his full potential. “What did they forbid you?” Kuroo whispers into his ear. He clings to Kenma, arms around his stomach, as they sail over the city, the wind obeying Kenma as if it was a cat that had found its true companion.

“Oh, a lot of things.” Kenma’s lips twitch. He sighs when Kuroo kisses him by his neck, careful not to touch the jewelry that echoes with powerful magic. “They,” Kenma mumbles, and his fingers slide to lace up with Kuroo’s. The touch sends a surge of warmth through Kuroo’s bones, oh, so that’s what it’s like, loving a man who could let his soul crumble to dust.

Kenma catches his breath as they sink to the ground. Kuroo’s smithy is quiet, no smoke rising from the chimney. When their feet touch the earth, Kenma’s cowl slides from his head. A wave of golden hair pours down his shoulder. “They said that I should not abuse my power.”

Kuroo grins. “A very loose definition.”

“Indeed.”

“You know, all this magical stuf sounds really adventurous. And I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure.”

Kenma’s smile is tiny when a white light flares up in the palm of his hand. A soft howl whirls through the air, invisible power lifting his gown, fluttering behind him as if it was… wings. “What a coincidence. So did I.”