“So, would you care to explain where that bleeding nose came from?”

“If you’re asking like that, no, actually.”

“Hajime, this looks broken. What happened to you?! … let me look at your wrist. Oh my god, what is that? I didn’t know skin could turn that colour.”

“No. It’s nothing, really. Tooru – no – relax, I’m fine!”

“You’re not. God, what – why? You never pick fights, not since middle school.”

“I had to punch him. That guy in class, that asshole, he called you a slut.”

“…so?”

“You – I had to defend you! You’re not a slut, you never were! It’s not forbidden to enjoy sex, alright, and you’re my boyfriend now and I’m gonna fuckin’ stand up for you, Tooru, will you get that into your stubborn head one day?!”

“That’s got to be the sweetest thing you ever said to me, but I’m still taking you to the hospital. …and I love you, too.”

“Ugh, shut up. Just value yourself a bit more. You’re – you’re more than – you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Hajime.”

“…it’s alright. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine when you are. Now let’s go.”

part I here.

“I won’t leave him behind.”

“Tooru,” Daichi says, soft. His hand brushes Tooru’s shoulder, fingers then clenching tight, rough. “He’s dead. We can’t – “

“Don’t touch him.” And Tooru’s eyes are liquid fire when he stares back at Daichi, arms trembling around that beloved body, blood from the cut throat spilling over his skin. “I’ll carry him,” Tooru whispers. He licks his lips, looks down at Hajime, smiling as he brushes hair off his cheek.

“We can find a cure. I’ll carry him. You don’t have to do anything. Don’t have to get in contact with his – his b-blood. I’ll do it alone.”

When night falls five hours later and they finally find a hideout, Tooru pulls the cold shape of Hajime between his arms and legs. Daichi and Suga watch him sleep, face buried against Hajime’s slit neck, mouth breathing quietly. Hajime’s blood has dried and crumbles from his skin. It’s black as ink, rotting, dying.

“He’s gonna turn into one of those things.” Suga’s knuckles are white around the gun he’s hiding in his belt.
“I know,” Daichi says, and closes his eyes. “And he knows, too.”

The first Infected that Hajime kills is to save his own life.

The last he kills is to save Tooru’s – and when the knife slides into his own throat and blood dances through his vision, he can still see tears gleam in Tooru’s eyes, alive and warm, and they are the last he sees.

“You just fuck Oikawa because he’s pretty, right?”

Hajime drops the ball that he’s wanted to serve. The newest member of his university team has stepped next to him, watching him practice alone after official training’s over. Hajime’s never liked the guy. Now, he takes a deep breath, and swallows the wild animal rising in his throat deep down his chest.

The guy leans in closer. His grin has Hajime’s blood roar inside his veins. “I mean, he’s practically a girl, I guess. Pretty face, long legs. I get it. I get why you’re doing it, it’s convenient. But honestly, no matter how nice his lips would look around a dick, I don’t understand – “

“Yeah,” Hajime says, and turns. He stares down at the guy, letting his fingers curl into fists, his eyes going dark. “You don’t understand.”

And Hajime thinks of Tooru’s smile when he goes home to his family, when he hugs his mother and father and lifts his baby sister into the air, stroking her fuzzy hair. He thinks of the laughter echoing through the gym, Tooru’s hands gently guiding his little nephew’s fingers to touch the ball just right, Tooru’s mouth shy and warm against Hajime’s, Tooru curling in the bed they share and falling asleep with quiet peace on his pale skin and stars glinting in the freckles along his neck that Hajime has the unbelievable privilege to kiss.

His fist crashes down so hard that the guy falls right over. There is a horrible crack, echoing through the gym, and blood smeared over Hajime’s fingers. He steps closer, standing above the guy who whimpers like a child and holds his broken nose.

Hajime’s voice is a dark, wild snarl. He doesn’t hit the guy again, but he grabs his collar and lifts him to his feet – and his teeth are bared, white, ferocious.

“You don’t know anything about him, asshole. And I swear, if you talk about my fiancé like that ever again, I’ll break more than just your nose.”

When the numbers on his watch click to a weak shimmer of 12:00, Kenma pushes the window of his room open and jumps.

The bushes on the ground soften his fall, the backpack he’s hidden underneath dried leaves pressing into his ribs as he crashes onto it. Kenma lies there for a few breathless, horrible moments, and listens. The silence is overwhelming. No noise from the house, no dangerous growl of his name. Kenma exhales, slow. His phone chimes.

He gets up, snatches his backpack, and runs.

The train ticket costs all of the money he’s been able to save up and steal away from his father’s wallet. It’s just enough, and he prays that the ticket inspector won’t throw him out because he’s wet and there’s dirt on his shoes and mud splattered over his pants. But tonight, Kenma is lucky. The night is black as ink, stars blurring into white asteroids as he curls on his seat in the late night train.

He runs the rest of the way as fast as he can. His lungs burn like acid, his feet and fingers are frozen blue, but it’s all worth it when he presses the door bell and someone opens.
Kuroo smiles when he sees Kenma stand there. “Hi,” he begins, “you’re – “

“I’m eighteen,” Kenma says, breathless. “He can’t – can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m free. I don’t have to – “ The words tumble out of his mouth, useless fragments, and then he tastes salt on his lips because he’s started to cry. “Tetsurou.”

And Kuroo, perfect, wonderful Kuroo, slides Kenma inside and hugs him so tight that a broken sob falls out of Kenma’s throat. He can see a faint light from the kitchen, hears the quiet whisper of Kuroo’s parents. They’ve been waiting, Kenma realizes, and then he cries into Kuroo’s shirt and his knees gave in. They waited for him.

“You’re home now,” Kuroo says. “It’s okay.”

It’s barely the hint of a touch, when Hajime drags his nail along the soft skin of Tooru’s thigh, along a swirled galaxy of spit-slick bruises, but Tooru whines like it’s all he has, all he needs to crumble and break for this man who owns him down to his naked soul. “Hajime,” his throat works around the name, lips red-fucked from Hajime’s cock earlier, the taste still heavy there, warm, lingering. “Please, oh please, I need – “

“I know.” The kiss on his hipbone is feather-light. But oh, Tooru jolts from it, tries to speak, and fails miserably. Because Hajime’s fingers curl deep inside him, sliding and fucking dragging over the soft rim of his hole that Hajime’s fucked open so well, where he’s made him come and spread him pliant and dripping wet.

And when Hajime’s dark voice growls “you’re the sweetest thing, darlin’, falling apart for me like that” into his bared neck, Tooru sobs. He shatters, white behind his eyes bursting, his skin and broken whimpers and everything, anything, it all belongs to Hajime. The fingers have stilled for a moment, and Tooru’s throat is raw when his back arches, bends into any form that Hajime wants him in, anything to get him deeper, oh please.

But Hajime’s grin is warm and his chuckle rumbles through Tooru’s skin when he kisses Tooru’s thigh once more, and says: “Not yet, love. I’m not done with you yet.”

‘Oikawa’s Diary.’ || one.

It’s so stupid, but sometimes I wish we were still children.

He loved catching bugs with that little net, beetles and butterflies and even a worm, one time. I don’t think I’ve spent a single summer without him. God, I was such a crybaby, and he knew. Of course he knew. He put a beetle on my arm, and would make fun of how I froze right where I was sitting. But when I started crying, he’d stop laughing and take it away.
He never really hurt me, back then. He never has until now.

I hope he won’t ever forget those summers. Well – at least I’ll remember, even if he doesn’t.

I couldn’t ever forget how Hajime became my friend.

Kageyama’s life could have been easy.

Then, Hinata kisses him.

Just like that, his tiny soft mouth against Kageyama’s chapped, raw-bitten lips. It’s after their last spike against Shiratorizawa slams into the floor, victory pouring over them like a hurricane, waves from the crowd’s ear-shattering cries crashing down on the court. It’s Hinata’s last spike, and winning has never been sweeter than with Hinata’s ragged breath flooding into his body and curling around his heart.

One hour later, they fight. Kageyama says things he doesn’t mean, Hinata yells back, and then there’s horrible white silence because –

“You don’t love me,” comes out of Kageyama’s mouth. “You love the tosses I give you and the volleyball I play. Not me. You don’t, because you hate it when I touch you and you flinch, and you hate that I call you names – “

Hinata cries. It’s not pretty. His cheeks are red, eyes swollen. “You don’t get it,” says his soft voice when he grabs Kageyama and pulls him into a strong hug. Kageyama fights, struggles, tries to escape. He only goes silent when Hinata sobs something into his chest, face wet and salty.

“Yes, I like your hands when they toss, but I like them more when they hug me. I like when you yell commands and scream about winning, but I like it more when you kiss me and are really quiet or tell me that – that I’m your f-favourite person.” Hinata trembles, curls into Kageyama’s arms. “I wanna… be that, you know.”

“You are,” Kageyama says, and it comes out natural, gentle. And then – “okay.”

His life could have been easy, but he’s in love with Hinata. Nothing ever goes perfect for them, and that’s fine. Kageyama swears he’ll never stop trying.

Whenever the doubts crash down on Asahi like a dark, dark wave, his fingers trembling after training’s over, head low and heavy, Noya knows what to do. He takes Asahi’s hand, gentle, leads him to a bench and sits him down.

And as Asahi takes deep breaths and focuses on that quiet melody that Noya hums, Noya loosens his hair band and begins to braid his hair with fingertips dancing over Asahi’s skull.

It helps, every time, like a healer’s charm.

“My father called,” Hajime says when Tooru comes into their dorm room.

It’s all he needs to say. Tooru drops his bag, slams the door shut and strides over, falling down on the bed where Hajime’s sprawled out. “Tell me.” He kisses the corner of Hajime’s mouth, curls himself into the curve of Hajime’s chest where it hurts the most. He smells like lavender and sweat. Hajime turns his head to bury his nose into the warmth of Tooru’s neck.

“We didn’t talk long.” He speaks slowly, carefully. Every word weighs on his tongue, iron-heavy and thick. “Of course he asked how mom is. If she’s got a boyfriend. Told him to fucking call her himself, but I know he won’t.”

“And then?” Tooru’s chin is pressing into his scalp, hands warm and still on his shoulder blades. Hajime feels small. It had taken months for Tooru to convince him that opening up didn’t mean that someone was going to ram their claws up his soul and twist until he bled. Tooru is patient when he wants something. He never lets Hajime doubt that he wants him, always has, maybe always will.

Hajime closes his eyes, breathes into the dark. “He asked if I still had a boyfriend.”

The warm hands on his back twitch. “Haji,” Tooru says, gentle.

“I said yes. He hung up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hajime whispers into Tooru’s skin, and his fingers go tight and angry in Tooru’s shirt. “Just – don’t be sorry for… for – “

“For loving you?” Tooru says, and then: “Never. Not for that.”

“Good.” His blood still aches and coils, but Tooru then kisses the edge of his mouth again, and Hajime lets him. Tooru gives him the silence he needs. He’s simply there, all evening, until it’s dark outside and Hajime kisses him back.