ushijima-lea

im just a girl, standing in front of tumblr, asking it to love her fanfics 4life

[miumiumoon]

painted scars on my body

is it blood or red paint? a bokuaka AU fic

chapter one one and only chapter two forever chapter three artist's paint brush chapter four sweet thing, rotten place chapter five like a dream chapter six wake up chapter seven black and blue chapter eight knight in shining fists chapter nine friends chapter ten saving grace chapter eleven deadline chapter twelve get away chapter thirteen dead-end chapter fourteen did you go? chapter fifteen all's well chapter sixteen it ends well chapter seventeen careful what you wish for chapter eighteen dept paid chapter nineteen don't leave me, you promised to save me chapter twenty time's up chapter twenty one who cares? chapter twenty two shibuya

wrote this with my eyes closed, take care it's a wild ride,,,

updating every friday :)

[miumiumoon]

forever chapter two

make friends with pain, and you've got a friend for life. unknown

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Nothing pleasant brought Kōtarō from Onomichi to Tokyo. A bunch of overdue debts his father left him after running away from the face of the world and disappearing into a dark corner of the earth; some shady deals made to repay them while also keeping himself alive; a shake of hands in a binding, contractual agreement for a job that would ensure the men in charge would get their fill of the money.

Burakku Taigā, the place where Kōtarō worked, was hidden somewhere in Kabukicho, and its entrance was located deep in the back of a deserted-looking izakaya with rotten stools, creaking floors and sticky countertops.

Tokyo's most elusive yakuza nexus and underground ring with the highest number of yen spent in illegal betting. The home of fixed fights, red stained walls and spiked sake.

Those were the rumors circulating the Japanese media surrounding Burakku Taigā, though no officer of the law, detective or too-curious journalist had ever discovered its location.

Of course, the reality of it all was significantly less dramatic than anything continuously rehashed in the news or between cityfolk. No actual members of the yakuza hung around in the club, apart from some low-status gang affiliates, and though the cash coming and going was mouth watering, the policy was for the fights never to be fixed—even if the place was more or less trashed every time a big customer lost money.

But the club was a dark place, a maze where the one and only exit was sealed and if you ever managed to escape you'd have to dig your way through the ground and come out the top with blood-stained hands.

Bokuto Kōtarō was a breath away from freedom.

Seven years in this hell hole, climbing ranks like they were stepping stones, leaving bodies wrecked and blue on his way. Handing his checks straight to his boss, living off of tips and bets made under the noses of his superiors, because fighters aren't supposed to bet. Staying in friend's houses and eating food from convenience stores, sleeping in the day and fighting at night.

Countless hours spent in his best friend Kuroo's apartment, a resident doctor, getting patched up after a nasty brawl, days spent in recovery from a boundless fight, debt increasing instead of decreasing for the amount of time he spent away from the club.

All of that was about to end on a random Wednesday night.

Seven years, and one final fight to put it all behind him, to go legit.

Well, or so he thought.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

'Would you please, for the love of everything that is good and pure, get your stinky feet off my coffee table?'

Bokuto laughed and scratched his naked chest. 'My feel aren't stinky, first of all, and second of all, let me fuckin' live, would ya, Kuroo? I've got to go get beat up in a bit.'

'Oh, nice,' Kuroo mused, 'emotional manipulation for the win. Nice one, Bo,' but he doesn't pester him about his feet on the coffee table.

There's always a sort of serenity in Kuroo's apartment that Kōtarō cannot find anywhere else. Nothing out of the ordinary occurs there, neither is the layout or decor any different than other apartments. In fact, Kuroo was quite messy.

Clothes were scattered everywhere. Paperback novels and textbooks stood tattered in piles on counters, squeezed in shelves. More often than not, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, and the living room area looked like it belonged to an American frat house.

Yes, Kuroo's apartment was messy. But it was home.

'What time do you think you'll be back tonight?' Tetsurō asked, hopping over the couch cushions and falling flat on his back on the seat next to his friend.

Bokuto grinned, knowing it was the last time this conversation would happen, knowing it was the last time his friend would have to worry about him, the last time he'd cross the threshold of that hell.

'Not early enough,' he gave a vague answer as always. Fights could last from one minute to fucking forever. But, Bokuto didn't care. His mind was far from there, from that god-awful place he had to give parts of his soul to, just to survive.

His head was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere brighter.

Starting the next day, Bokuto would lead a different life, built by himself only, following his own rules; a life he only dared to dream when he laid in hospital beds and dirty floors, not knowing if he'd ever breathe out another sigh.

This was the end.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Entering the izakaya like always, deep in the night and dressed in clothes that would not attract unnecessary attention, Bokuto tried to reel in any joyful emotions showing on his face.

Nobody liked seeing others happy in this place.

The routine commenced as always for the young fighter. He sat down on one of the bar stools, nodding to the bartender like a regular would, waiting for his order patiently. Pretending to be calm, pretending as if he wasn't eager to get on with that night, was the hardest thing Bokuto had to do. Maybe even harder than fighting.

The bartender hazardously dropped the short and wide glass in front of Bokuto, the clear liquid slashing around. He grabbed it quickly, rolled his eyes once he realized it was just water, and downed it in one go.

Quite impatiently, Bokuto left some cash on the counter, and walked to the door with the bathroom sign hanging on it.

Last time I do this, he thought. Last time I touch this handle, last time I walk through this door, last time I spend my night in fear.

It was a funny occurance; Bokuto couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Seven years he wasted here, holding onto each check given to him by the old man behind the bar at the izakaya just long enough to hand it to the boss. Seven years looking over his shoulder for the next problem to appear, for the next threat to strike him, the call into the boss' office to let him know he owes more money.

This simple, seemingly never-ending nightmare is finally ending. Bokuto is waking up.

Past the pretend restroom door is a dark, dirty hallway leading to the actual entrance of the club. Bokuto raises his hand in greeting to the burly man slumped on a plastic chair, and walks past him into the arena.

The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke burns Bokuto's nostrils. People crowd the place, yelling and throwing water on the two fighters going at it in the ring. The faces of the two are familiar to Bokuto, who by-passes the throng to walk into the back rooms. Nobody is there to greet him, and he is thankful he gets that short time to himself.

Getting ready to fight is the final moment of peace. Bokuto ripped off his shirt, and dress pants, pulled up his blue sweat shorts. He wrapped tape around his fingers and wore his mouthguard. He looked himself in the mirror.

Bokuto thought he hadn't lost the innocent, childish look on his face. But every time he catches a glimpse of his eyes...

His eyes are tired, colourless, with no spark.

Sometimes, after a rather difficult fight, after extending his arm to grab onto dirty money so he can book a room at a dodgy hotel and take a proper shower, have a proper meal, not hijack any of his friend's couches--Kōtarō prayed. To nobody in particular. To anyone who's listening, he'd say, please get me out.

He was getting out.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The guy Bokuto was fighting called himself 'the curse'. He was known for going for hits below the belt, across the face, dirty plays and so on.

It wouldn't be an easy brawl, of course, but the adrenaline coursing through Bokuto's veins made him feel invincible. He could take on anyone and anything. He saw nothing but the way out.

Maybe that's why he didn't question why no one came to greet him, why the boss wasn't anywhere to be found, why Omar, the boss' right hand, pulled Bokuto aside only a second before the first match started, and told him to take a few punches and take the fall.

Bokuto saw nothing but the way out.

So, he took a few punches straight to the jaw, released some of his tension through fists to his opponents side, and took the fall smiling.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

'Ey, Bokuto!' Omar yelled from the end of the hallway. 'Come 'ere.'

Bokuto was on pins and needles, blood rushing to his head, making him dizzy. The excitement pumping inside him caused dots to appear in his vision, and if it wasn't for the four fights he'd already had, Bokuto would be jumping through the walls.

He wanted to get whatever it was over with, so he walked over to Omar in two long strides.

Omar wasn't looking at him when he gestured to the boss' office.

Darkness and the familiar stench of the boss' cigar enveloped the room. Omar psuhed Bokuto inside, and with a hand on his shoulder, had him sit his ass on the chair facing the long, wooden desk where he was lounging.

'Sato-sensei,' greeted Bokuto with a bow, 'wanted to see me off?'

A deep, rumbling laugh left the fat, luxurious man Bokuto sat before. 'Y'always made me laugh, Kōtarō. Yeah...y're a funny guy, aren't ya.'

'Tryin' my best.'

'Hah, I bet. So,' Sato clapped his hands and leaned further into Bokuto's space, 'today's your last day, I hear.'

With those words, the atmosphere around the men changed. As if a switch flipped, the temperature dropped, the walls closed in,

and Bokuto realized,

Omar's hand had not left his shoulder.

He didn't know what it was, maybe intuition, maybe common sense, but Bokuto did not open his mouth to speak.

'Here's the thing, though, Kōtarō. Here in this establishment, we don't tolerate rule-breaking. Even on last days. And I hear, you broke the rules.'

Bokuto wanted to scream, but he sat frozen, hypnotised by the incoming train wreck.

'We don't fix fights here, Kōtarō. And certainly not so clients who bet against the house can take home stacks of our money. Now, I don't know what you agreed with Yuta-san, but this is just not going to work. Take this,' A piece of paper falls in front of Bokuto, right on his shoes.

Through the darkness, through the fear, through the confusion, Kōtarō could clearly read the number written on there.

'This is what you owe the club. Now, I'm assuming you don't have it in cash right now, so...'

To anyone who's listening, he'd say, please get me out.

He could take on anyone and anything. He saw nothing but the way out.

Blood.

Scars.

Fear.

Bokuto wasn't getting out.

'I guess I'll see you tomorrow night, Kōtarō.'

Forever.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

author's note: i hope it wasn't rushed! i tried to put Bokuto's hopeful spirits in a bunch and when the time for his reality to flip came, i wanted it to feel final and inescapable, that's why it's so short. idk if i succeeded in any of that. oh well. SEE YA NEXT FRIDAY!

[miumiumoon]

i kinda feel bad about bokuto but it's #4theplot...

[miumiumoon]

forever chapter two

make friends with pain, and you've got a friend for life. unknown

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Nothing pleasant brought Kōtarō from Onomichi to Tokyo. A bunch of overdue debts his father left him after running away from the face of the world and disappearing into a dark corner of the earth; some shady deals made to repay them while also keeping himself alive; a shake of hands in a binding, contractual agreement for a job that would ensure the men in charge would get their fill of the money.

Burakku Taigā, the place where Kōtarō worked, was hidden somewhere in Kabukicho, and its entrance was located deep in the back of a deserted-looking izakaya with rotten stools, creaking floors and sticky countertops.

Tokyo's most elusive yakuza nexus and underground ring with the highest number of yen spent in illegal betting. The home of fixed fights, red stained walls and spiked sake.

Those were the rumors circulating the Japanese media surrounding Burakku Taigā, though no officer of the law, detective or too-curious journalist had ever discovered its location.

Of course, the reality of it all was significantly less dramatic than anything continuously rehashed in the news or between cityfolk. No actual members of the yakuza hung around in the club, apart from some low-status gang affiliates, and though the cash coming and going was mouth watering, the policy was for the fights never to be fixed—even if the place was more or less trashed every time a big customer lost money.

But the club was a dark place, a maze where the one and only exit was sealed and if you ever managed to escape you'd have to dig your way through the ground and come out the top with blood-stained hands.

Bokuto Kōtarō was a breath away from freedom.

Seven years in this hell hole, climbing ranks like they were stepping stones, leaving bodies wrecked and blue on his way. Handing his checks straight to his boss, living off of tips and bets made under the noses of his superiors, because fighters aren't supposed to bet. Staying in friend's houses and eating food from convenience stores, sleeping in the day and fighting at night.

Countless hours spent in his best friend Kuroo's apartment, a resident doctor, getting patched up after a nasty brawl, days spent in recovery from a boundless fight, debt increasing instead of decreasing for the amount of time he spent away from the club.

All of that was about to end on a random Wednesday night.

Seven years, and one final fight to put it all behind him, to go legit.

Well, or so he thought.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

'Would you please, for the love of everything that is good and pure, get your stinky feet off my coffee table?'

Bokuto laughed and scratched his naked chest. 'My feel aren't stinky, first of all, and second of all, let me fuckin' live, would ya, Kuroo? I've got to go get beat up in a bit.'

'Oh, nice,' Kuroo mused, 'emotional manipulation for the win. Nice one, Bo,' but he doesn't pester him about his feet on the coffee table.

There's always a sort of serenity in Kuroo's apartment that Kōtarō cannot find anywhere else. Nothing out of the ordinary occurs there, neither is the layout or decor any different than other apartments. In fact, Kuroo was quite messy.

Clothes were scattered everywhere. Paperback novels and textbooks stood tattered in piles on counters, squeezed in shelves. More often than not, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, and the living room area looked like it belonged to an American frat house.

Yes, Kuroo's apartment was messy. But it was home.

'What time do you think you'll be back tonight?' Tetsurō asked, hopping over the couch cushions and falling flat on his back on the seat next to his friend.

Bokuto grinned, knowing it was the last time this conversation would happen, knowing it was the last time his friend would have to worry about him, the last time he'd cross the threshold of that hell.

'Not early enough,' he gave a vague answer as always. Fights could last from one minute to fucking forever. But, Bokuto didn't care. His mind was far from there, from that god-awful place he had to give parts of his soul to, just to survive.

His head was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere brighter.

Starting the next day, Bokuto would lead a different life, built by himself only, following his own rules; a life he only dared to dream when he laid in hospital beds and dirty floors, not knowing if he'd ever breathe out another sigh.

This was the end.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Entering the izakaya like always, deep in the night and dressed in clothes that would not attract unnecessary attention, Bokuto tried to reel in any joyful emotions showing on his face.

Nobody liked seeing others happy in this place.

The routine commenced as always for the young fighter. He sat down on one of the bar stools, nodding to the bartender like a regular would, waiting for his order patiently. Pretending to be calm, pretending as if he wasn't eager to get on with that night, was the hardest thing Bokuto had to do. Maybe even harder than fighting.

The bartender hazardously dropped the short and wide glass in front of Bokuto, the clear liquid slashing around. He grabbed it quickly, rolled his eyes once he realized it was just water, and downed it in one go.

Quite impatiently, Bokuto left some cash on the counter, and walked to the door with the bathroom sign hanging on it.

Last time I do this, he thought. Last time I touch this handle, last time I walk through this door, last time I spend my night in fear.

It was a funny occurance; Bokuto couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Seven years he wasted here, holding onto each check given to him by the old man behind the bar at the izakaya just long enough to hand it to the boss. Seven years looking over his shoulder for the next problem to appear, for the next threat to strike him, the call into the boss' office to let him know he owes more money.

This simple, seemingly never-ending nightmare is finally ending. Bokuto is waking up.

Past the pretend restroom door is a dark, dirty hallway leading to the actual entrance of the club. Bokuto raises his hand in greeting to the burly man slumped on a plastic chair, and walks past him into the arena.

The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke burns Bokuto's nostrils. People crowd the place, yelling and throwing water on the two fighters going at it in the ring. The faces of the two are familiar to Bokuto, who by-passes the throng to walk into the back rooms. Nobody is there to greet him, and he is thankful he gets that short time to himself.

Getting ready to fight is the final moment of peace. Bokuto ripped off his shirt, and dress pants, pulled up his blue sweat shorts. He wrapped tape around his fingers and wore his mouthguard. He looked himself in the mirror.

Bokuto thought he hadn't lost the innocent, childish look on his face. But every time he catches a glimpse of his eyes...

His eyes are tired, colourless, with no spark.

Sometimes, after a rather difficult fight, after extending his arm to grab onto dirty money so he can book a room at a dodgy hotel and take a proper shower, have a proper meal, not hijack any of his friend's couches--Kōtarō prayed. To nobody in particular. To anyone who's listening, he'd say, please get me out.

He was getting out.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The guy Bokuto was fighting called himself 'the curse'. He was known for going for hits below the belt, across the face, dirty plays and so on.

It wouldn't be an easy brawl, of course, but the adrenaline coursing through Bokuto's veins made him feel invincible. He could take on anyone and anything. He saw nothing but the way out.

Maybe that's why he didn't question why no one came to greet him, why the boss wasn't anywhere to be found, why Omar, the boss' right hand, pulled Bokuto aside only a second before the first match started, and told him to take a few punches and take the fall.

Bokuto saw nothing but the way out.

So, he took a few punches straight to the jaw, released some of his tension through fists to his opponents side, and took the fall smiling.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

'Ey, Bokuto!' Omar yelled from the end of the hallway. 'Come 'ere.'

Bokuto was on pins and needles, blood rushing to his head, making him dizzy. The excitement pumping inside him caused dots to appear in his vision, and if it wasn't for the four fights he'd already had, Bokuto would be jumping through the walls.

He wanted to get whatever it was over with, so he walked over to Omar in two long strides.

Omar wasn't looking at him when he gestured to the boss' office.

Darkness and the familiar stench of the boss' cigar enveloped the room. Omar psuhed Bokuto inside, and with a hand on his shoulder, had him sit his ass on the chair facing the long, wooden desk where he was lounging.

'Sato-sensei,' greeted Bokuto with a bow, 'wanted to see me off?'

A deep, rumbling laugh left the fat, luxurious man Bokuto sat before. 'Y'always made me laugh, Kōtarō. Yeah...y're a funny guy, aren't ya.'

'Tryin' my best.'

'Hah, I bet. So,' Sato clapped his hands and leaned further into Bokuto's space, 'today's your last day, I hear.'

With those words, the atmosphere around the men changed. As if a switch flipped, the temperature dropped, the walls closed in,

and Bokuto realized,

Omar's hand had not left his shoulder.

He didn't know what it was, maybe intuition, maybe common sense, but Bokuto did not open his mouth to speak.

'Here's the thing, though, Kōtarō. Here in this establishment, we don't tolerate rule-breaking. Even on last days. And I hear, you broke the rules.'

Bokuto wanted to scream, but he sat frozen, hypnotised by the incoming train wreck.

'We don't fix fights here, Kōtarō. And certainly not so clients who bet against the house can take home stacks of our money. Now, I don't know what you agreed with Yuta-san, but this is just not going to work. Take this,' A piece of paper falls in front of Bokuto, right on his shoes.

Through the darkness, through the fear, through the confusion, Kōtarō could clearly read the number written on there.

'This is what you owe the club. Now, I'm assuming you don't have it in cash right now, so...'

To anyone who's listening, he'd say, please get me out.

He could take on anyone and anything. He saw nothing but the way out.

Blood.

Scars.

Fear.

Bokuto wasn't getting out.

'I guess I'll see you tomorrow night, Kōtarō.'

Forever.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

author's note: i hope it wasn't rushed! i tried to put Bokuto's hopeful spirits in a bunch and when the time for his reality to flip came, i wanted it to feel final and inescapable, that's why it's so short. idk if i succeeded in any of that. oh well. SEE YA NEXT FRIDAY!

[miumiumoon]

is ‘and they punched each other a bunch’ adequate writing for a fight scene ?

asking for a friend



[miumiumoon]

i <3 using commas every three words !

[miumiumoon]

one and only chapter one

there comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it. Shannon L. Alder

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The night in Itabashi City is cold, windy and lonely for Akaashi Keiji. Walking back from Teikyo University to his apartment near Itaya Park didn't take long, but of course, after five classes and a meeting with his academic advisor, any distance seemed taxing to him.

At this time deep in the darkness, a bus or ride on the metro was not something Keiji longed to do, but after walking for a bit in the freezing night, he probably should've cast aside his disgust and fear of being around many people and gone with either one of the options. But then again, there's not a close stop near his apartment building, so, would it truly make much of a difference?

Ugh, why is he even pondering over such insignificant matter? Does thinking about what might have been have any value? No, so, why is he?

Keiji loves doing that, wasting time on things that cannot be changed.

Anyways, the night is cold and seemingly never-ending. Keiji keeps thinking over everything his mother told him in the hospital; it wasn't anything serious that led her there, but still, they wanted to keep her overnight and Keiji would only calm down if he saw her well-being with his own eyes.

And, yes, thankfully, his mom seemed healthy enough, considering.

Though his visit was brought upon with the purest intentions and the utmost care of a worrying son, the atmosphere in the private room in the hospital was less than warm. Even though he wasn't around (as if he would ever be), his essence was and Keiji's mom didn't waste time to attempt to convince Keiji to give him a call.

Not in a million years would Akaashi contact his father.

But his mom's macabre way of suggesting it kept repeating ad nauseam in his head, raising his already rooted suspicions that she isn't as healthy as she lets on.

Hokkaido is a long way from here, Keiji thinks, though the fading footsteps of a random passerby and the irrational hunch of foreign eyes stuck on his back, make his steps come and go just a bit quicker.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

'He's still your father, though.' Akuma grumbles through a mouthful of food. "Whatever he might have done, he deserves your respect."

Keiji rolls his eyes, sitting up from his seat at the table to drop his now empty breakfast bowl in the kitchen sink. What a rookie mistake it was, he thinks, to confide in Akuma about his parental issues. He's old-fashioned and very hard-headed and has an odd fixation with the idea of "respect''.

'He abused us, 'Kuma. I'm a bit lost on how I should still respect a man who abused us.'

'Yeah, I'm sure you think he did, Akaashi.' His tone is unwavering when delivering these words, and there's much strength that Keiji must conjure up for them not to touch his heart.

'Right, whatever.' He's running late, as always, and class won't wait for him to start. He hasn't had coffee and the apartment is a mess, the dirty dishes in the sink keep pilling up--but there's just no time to worry about all of that.

Keiji grabs his bag and pulls his windbreaker over his shoulders, all the while he struts around the place, frantically searching for his keys.

Akuma watches him from the kitchen, leaning back on the counter with a bowl on his one hand, a smirk covering his face. 'What time are you getting back?' He asks.

'I don't know--ten, maybe? My thesis advisor wants to meet after class and a faculty member wants to meet with me about that TA position I told you about.'

'Hmm,' Akuma hums, entirely out of it, with dark, heavy eyes that look as if they're seeing something completely different than a hurrying student. 'Well, get here soon. I didn't get enough of you this morning.'

Heat crawls up Keiji's cheeks, but he ignores the shirtless man in his kitchen, hastily grabbing his keys from under the couch and rushing to the door. 'Please lock up if you leave. I'll text you.'

Akuma chuckles, shaking his head.

Keiji shuts the door with force, leaning against it and letting out a long sigh.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Keiji met Akuma just over a year ago, at some get-together his best friend Konoha arranged at his house. He was a friend of a friend, who drank a lot and made conversation with everybody.

Akuma approached Keiji with a bold and striking manner, making it known within the first minute that he was interested in the shy college student Konoha was waxing poems about.

Of course, it took Akuma a while to crack Keiji open, for he had a slight antipathy to people outside his small circle, he saw it difficult to open up, to show bits of his soul to anyone.

Akuma saw Keiji as a game.

How long would it take to figure him out?

The answer was, two months and thirteen days, at least for Akuma's forceful nature and the fact that Keiji seemed hooked on the way he disappeared some days, not to give any sign of life until he became interested in Keiji again.

They weren't in a relationship, of course.

Well, some days they were, when Akuma saw a classmate of Keiji's stand a little too close to him, or when he was a little too high and a little too drunk in loneliness late at night.

But, no.

They were not in a relationship. They weren't single, either.

Keiji spent countless hours contemplating the status of his love life, his feelings on the matter, was Akuma good for him in the end?

Though, every time he considered giving up on the supposed relationship, Akuma brushed his fingers so softly atop his skin, made him sweat and laugh and cry in a good way; like magic, he weaved himself within Keiji's day-to-day.

Keiji, for better or for worse, could not let him go. He felt a spark flaring his ego, he felt pretty and sexy when Akuma was around, and with the load of work and studying that was piling up, the relationship was a relieving break.

It was fine, really.

Keiji was fine.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

author's note: new story here we gooo!!!! if you want a small spoiler on Keiji's relationship w/ Akuma, translate the latter's name from Japanese to English :P that's all, see you next friday!!! xoxo

[miumiumoon]

ok, before i start uploading the chapters for the new fic, I need to finish writing this short story for a writing contest, soooo…

WHO WANTS TO BE A BETA READER PRETTY PLS W A CHERRY ON TOP 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

[miumiumoon]

OH WAIT I DIDN'T RECOGNISE YOU BECAUSE OF THE CHANGED PFP AND USERNAME HEY

it's ok you're still the same ushijima-lea to me

even my keyboard knows who you are

i love that username sm 🥹🥹🥹 but my soul ACHED for a change idfk i swear

BUT HEEEEY we’re so back

[miumiumoon]

ok I realized my writer’s blog happened because I don’t want to write smut, so

i just made my blog here go through a change in aesthetic so now im going to write soft-ish angst au !

underground boxer!bokuto x art school student!akaashi coming 🔜

[miumiumoon]

@ a basketball game, court FULL of straight men, thinking about 392993016 different gay fanfiction wips

[miumiumoon]

@life-is-not-daijoubu thanks to your comment and overall support, i have pulled out a glass of strawberry daiquiri, my trustee writing buddy/helper (kageyama) and im writing chapter two of how to lose a friend.

WISH ME LUCK

@life-is-not-daijoubu U ARE THE BEST THANK YOU

[miumiumoon]

me about chapter two bc im hit with an insane writer’s block #fuckmylife #sendhelp

[miumiumoon]

masterlist (two fics lol)

𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃

"the moon is beautiful, isn't it?" finished

painted scars ongoing

𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃

hello! i am lea, a writer, a dropout journalism student, a lover of books (contemporary literature and manga), anime, coffee and summer.

fanfiction may actually save my life.

life is a lil sucky at times so, let’s have fun giggling over fictional characters yearning and kissing!!

𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃𓂃 ོ𓂃

[miumiumoon]

i decided—im just going to write another bokuaka fic :P because,,,who’s gonna stop me????

[miumiumoon]

Tsukiakari, chapter nine

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

"Jus' wanna be close t'you," Akaashi mumbles, pushing his face into Bokuto's chest, his burning skin that Kōtarō can feel as he carries his...friend to the bedroom is driving him insane. How could he let him get sick? He should've dried his hair better, should've given him some vitamins earlier, or...something.

"I'm right here, Keiji, okay? Gonna put you to bed now and I'll be back with some medicine." Bokuto is scared. He's never cared for a sick person before, and now this person, his person has such a high temperature and he's shaking and he's groaning in pain and Bokuto doesn't know what to do.

Keiji curls into the mattress the moment Bokuto places him on the bed, keeps shivering even though he has three blankets and a cover on top of him.

Bokuto doesn't know if Keiji will stay awake to take his medicine, but he goes into the kitchen to grab it either way, thinking that if needed, he'll just wake him up for a moment.

Fuck, this is Bokuto's worst nightmare.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Tap-tap-tap-tap. The only noise to be heard in the apartment is the one Bokuto's foot makes when repeatedly hitting the floor in impatience. If it were up to him, Kōtarō wouldn't even think to leave Keiji's side, but when he spoke to his mom, she told him to stay in the living room and just check up on him from time to time.

The wait is at the least traumatic. The love of his life is burning up on the other side of the apartment and Bokuto's supposed to stay away, doing nothing?

The moment the thirty-minute alarm rings, Bokuto springs up from his seat, silencing it and running to the bedroom. He cracks the door open first, just to let the sliver of light in and sneak a glance. He doesn't want to wake Akaashi up, but there's no way he can stay outside for much longer.

Thankfully, a weak groan is heard, and Bokuto can step into the room without fear of disturbing Akaashi.

"Hey sleepyhead." He whispers. "It's almost noon. I've been awake for a bit, been checking up on you every now and then. How you feeling?" Another groan comes from his friend, pulling a soft giggle out of Bokuto.  "Yeah, I figured. I'll save the I-told-you-so's for when you're healthy. C'mon, get up now."

Kōtarō grabs Akaashi's waist softly, pulling him to his chest, the heart beneath it fluttering at the contact. But the brain, hah, the brain is too busy worrying to let the heart enjoy the moment. Kōtarō rearranges the pillows to stay up against the headboard, and swiftly places Akaashi to sit up with them. The groan slipping from Akaashi's lips digs another crack across his soul and Bokuto huffs a breath to somehow relieve his anguish.

"Is it okay if I change you out of these clothes?" Bokuto asks with a shaky voice, the very back of his head making it very difficult to stay calm. Akaashi's health is the priority right now, but there's a small, whispered voice reshaping the situation inside Bokuto's thoughts, telling him that he is undressing Akaashi.

It's nothing sexual, nor is there anything sinister behind the motions of taking the sweaty sweatpants and hoodie off of Keiji, it's—it is the fact that Bokuto is taking care of him right now. He is the shoulder Akaashi is leaning on, the person who witnesses how vulnerable and soft he's being because of his sickness. Bokuto feels so fucking lucky to be in this position, another moment he's gifted from his love's precious life.

But the happiness does not last long—a moan of pain, raspy and ruined shoots out of Keiji the moment Bokuto drops the dirty clothes on the floor. Fuck, fuck! He's cold and he's in pain.

Kōtarō's heart starts pounding against his breastbone, his legs growing weak and almost folding in panic. He fumbles with the fresh clothes, hurrying to put them on Keiji's shaking body.

"I know, baby, I know. I'm sorry, but I need to get you in some clean clothes, okay?" Bokuto rushes out, voice cracking in most words, unable to keep calm as his person aches before him. "It'll only take a second, okay?" And in less than a minute, Bokuto has dressed him up, and he sighs out in relief the moment Akaashi melts on the bed. "Can you handle standing for a bit so I can lay down new sheets for you?"

Akaashi shakes his head with a frown, and Bokuto slaps himself in the head mentally, for suggesting something so stupid. "Okay, okay. I'm going to lay you down now okay?" After a low hum, Bokuto softly drags Akaashi down, covering him up with all the blankets and heavy cover, patting his sides to make it safe and snug.

He stays there for a bit, staring at Akaashi's form. "I am so in love with you." Bokuto whispers. But the room remains silent, save from the soft snores from the sleeping beauty.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

This time, Kōtarō doesn't walk to the living room, but stays just on the other side of the barely open door. He tried to sit on the couch, but every time he checked his phone, the numbers on the screen would remain unchanged, mocking him and driving him further insane.

Soft, painful to hear sobs echo inside, and Kōtarō is up on his feet and crossing his bedroom to his bed the moment he catches up on the sound. He is next to Akaashi in an instant, turning his body to face him, frowning at the wet face before him. The way Akaashi clings on him, Bokuto feels his heart crash and burn on impact.

"'M g'na get you sick," Akaashi mumbles, crying harder after.

"I don't care, I don't give a fuck." Bokuto says with conviction, rubbing his one arm up and down Keiji's back, tightening his hold with the other. "Please don't cry. I don't care if you get me sick. I wish I could take the sickness from you and put it on me, I swear, I swear." And Akaashi shakes his head but pulls Bokuto closer, and Bokuto needs nothing else to jump on the bed and hug him entirely, pulling him as close as he can, hoping the pain will just magically transfer to his own body.

It does not take much more time for Keiji to fall asleep again, tears staining his handsome face. Bokuto does not follow him into heavy slumber, staying awake, his eyes on the man in his arms, making sure he is okay.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The empty apartment is Kōtarō's personal hell.

There's food on the table and a letter he reads again and again, trying to soothe the ache in his heart.

Akaashi had to go home eventually, of course, but his absence leaves Bokuto completely ruined.

He cannot keep being his friend. There is no world where Bokuto can keep himself sane if he does not have Akaashi in his arms, kissing the top of his head, letting him cry, or ramble, or laugh at a funny scene on TV. He wants all of his moments, the good ones, the bad and difficult, the moments Akaashi wants to stay alone; Bokuto wants to be the one Akaashi comes back to after.

Not as his friend. Not anymore. There's no fiber in Bokuto's being that can handle to hide the love for that man for any second more.

Tomorrow. He will go find Akaashi, and he will confess.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Bokuto wakes up with a start, feeling as if he's slept too much, shuffling around to look for his phone. Usually, it's somewhere tangled in the sheets, or under his pillow. Akaashi hates that. Every time Bokuto answers his call on the second beep because he had the device under his head, Akaashi had started off the conversation listing everything bad that could happen because of it; something to do with radiation, or whatever.

But, to be fair, those morning calls are exactly why Bokuto keeps his phone under his pillow.

Some nights even, he turns off the alarm completely, just to oversleep and have Akaashi call him to wake him up.

Today, there's no call, no alarm and, apparently, no phone.

Bokuto looks everywhere; on the bed, under it, in his closets somewhere in between folded shirts, the bathroom, under the couch cushions, the fridge. His phone is absolutely nowhere to be seen. It's a headache, really, thinking of replacing it, and Bokuto falls face first on the floor of his living room when he realizes he's lost all of Akaashi's pictures.

At least he has his polaroids.

The time is, late, Bokuto guesses, and he's definitely missed weight-lifting training, a fact he can't wait to get yelled at for later at practice. Right now, he doesn't care. His whole body is locked up, fear of something much bigger than rejection wrapping up his spine and rendering him almost useless to do anything but lay on the floor and think.

What if he doesn't love me the way I love him?

Nothing's changed about me. Do I even deserve his love?

Who cares about deserving...I will take it either way if he gives it to me.

The anticipation is too much for Bokuto, and his contradicting thoughts are no help to his frantic feelings. He must do something now and, save for showing up at Akaashi's workplace (which, admittedly, doesn't sound like a bad idea to him) Bokuto figures that if he can't speak to Akaashi at the moment, he can at least get everything ready.

The ideas flowing in, one quickly after the other, sprouting new, more extravagant ideas, are enough motivation to get Bokuto off the floor, into his training clothes while packing other fresh, clean and sharp-looking ones, and out the door in less than an hour, with a small smile playing at his lips.

First stop is, of course, the flowershop. The one close to Akaashi's apartment which he's a regular customer at. The choice is instant and made with zero hesitation. One hundred anemone blue flowers. They're just like Keiji's eyes. A few extra thousand yen and the order will be expedited so that the flowers will be at the apartment this afternoon.

Next stop is the sakaya that Akaashi eyes every time they walk past it together, too expensive to go in himself and too timid the man to accept Bokuto's offers for his treat. But Bokuto knows, and the choice in there is also made quickly, with no hesitation. It's a sweet, smooth-tasting wine, light in its flavor and burning just enough to enjoy completely. Two bottles will do.

Final stop, the konbini just under Keiji's apartment, that hosts his favorite late-night snack of famichiki and onigiri. Bokuto gets a bunch, thinking Keiji will return from work famished and tired and he'll need the extra food.

At the registry, Bokuto catches from the corner of his eye, a grey, round stuffed owl. Its eyes are too big, yellow with a black slit, the two stitched lines make its mouth look like it's smiling.

This night is supposed to be just for Akaashi, solely focused on him, and everything Bokuto feels for him.

But the idea that Bokuto can give him something that looks just like him...the thought of Akaashi having a little piece of him in his home...Bokuto grabs the plush animal in an instant.

In a stroke of luck, Bokuto meets the men delivering the flowers right outside Akaashi's apartment building, and they all go inside together. Bokuto lets the men do their job with minimal instructions, while he gets busy putting everything else he bought on the table near the entrance.

Bokuto bows low as the flower men leave, and after checking everything is placed perfectly, he leaves for practice.

He's jittery, entirely lost in his own thoughts and unable to focus on the actual court. He apologized to his coach for being absent from weight-lifting training, but other than that, his mind is still at the apartment. In the end, he excuses himself before practice is completed, saying he is not feeling well, saying he needs to go home.

At Akaashi's apartment, he takes a shower and puts on the button-up shirt, pants and nice shoes. He sprays himself with cologne and grabs the stuffed owl he got, standing next to the table of food and drinks.

His heart is hammering against his breastbone, breath short and impatient.

Bokuto has never felt this way before. Never, not before any game, any friendly date with Akaashi, never. Time moves agonizingly slow, each minute feeling like a whole year, the sky darkening more and more with every glance Bokuto shoots from the window next to the living room behind him.

Once he hears a key plugging into the lock, Bokuto's nerves explode within him.

Akaashi appears, looking beaten down, chest heaving and face frowning. Then, he looks up, and—

Akaashi freezes.

Bokuto's in his apartment. What is Bokuto doing in his apartment?

"B—Bokuto?" Akaashi stammers out.

"Hey..."

"What, what are you doing here?" Akaashi's voice is barely audible, words soft and hesitant. His eyes seem to catch the scene behind the large man standing before him. It's almost as if he's looking in the mirror, seeing the dark blue color of his eyes in what seem like a hundred flowers spread around his living room.

Then, Akaashi's stare moves to his kitchen table. There's—his favorite wine. His favorite late-night snack. And to Bokuto's hands, he sees a small, adorable grey owl, and in a blink, Akaashi almost sees Bokuto replaced on its face.

Akaashi is numb. Can't think. Can't speak. He just exists, looking at the yellow-eyed man. Waiting.

"So, uhm..." Bokuto struggles to remove the ball of anxiety lodged in his throat. In a desperate attempt to get his feelings in a row, he looks out the window, searching for something to give him the strength, the final push he needs. Silver white crosses his vision, as the clouds move across the night sky. Bokuto swallows.

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it, Akaashi?" Shame crawls up his chest at his cowardice, failing to see the redness creeping up on Keiji's face. "No, no this is wrong," he says, hanging his head low. Then, in a second, he's looking straight into the gunmetal blue of Keiji's teary eyes. "I love you. I am so in love with you—have been so in love with you, for years. I can't see my life without you in it. I want it all. Your tears, your laughs, your sickness and your tired, post-work sulkiness. I want to wake up every morning with you in my arms, fall asleep with your drool on my shoulder. I want to travel the world with you, want to watch you watch me play, want to hear your voice as it cheers me on. I want to bring you lunch at work and scare off your endless fans. I want to be silent with you, try not to speak over the movie you wanted to watch. I want your touch and your whispers...and if you want me to have nothing of that, just let me have you, the way you want me to. Just you."

The plush owl in is squeezed under Bokuto's tight-gripping fingers, and there's no air coming in or out his lungs as he watches Akaashi, who's frozen in place. Then, Bokuto sees a single tear fall on his cheek, and another, and another and the owl drops on the floor as Bokuto rushes to Akaashi. "Why...why are you crying?" He asks, softly.

Their faces are so close to each other, with Bokuto leaning down to watch as Akaashi unravels before him, their breaths mingling, dancing.

With shaky fingers, Akaashi grabs Bokuto's palms and brings them up to cover the sides of his face, leaning into the touch. "I—I am so in love with you." He chokes out. "Bokuto—I've loved you since high school, and, and I want it all, everything you just said. I want to be by your side forever, for every win and every loss, I want to be the person you come to. I just—I just want to be near you, to hold you and, just, love you through every day, for—for the rest of my life."

Neither of them breathe. Neither of them; until, "'kaashi?" Bokuto calls, timid and low, almost in a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

And Akaashi nods, feverently.

And Bokuto leans in, and he captures Akaashi's lips slowly, deeply, showing him exactly, with every pull, with every soft bite, every tug of his hair, just how much he loves him. And they stay like that, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing, telling one another sweet I love you's, giggling and drawing their bodies closer and closer, for ages. They spend all night, making up for lost time, for every day they didn't spend like that. Until morning comes and finds them in bed, snoring easily, in a small corner of the bed, under the covers, together.

Forever.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

author's note: THE ENDDDD!!!!! THIS IS IT, i hope i did bokuaka justice...this is my first fic (def not the last) and it might've been short but i loved it. bokuaka is #1 in my heart ALWAYSSSS but next fic will be about another one of my very loved ships,,,BUT i will write three short epilogues about them, in different, random, domestic, fluff-filled moments after they got into their relationship.

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! SEE YOU VERY SOON!!!

p.s.: do yall like angst?

[miumiumoon]

"the moon is beautiful, isn't it?", epilogues

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Yakimochi o yaku, epilogue one

Ima, kono shunkan, sekai wa ore no mikata da, epilogue two

Akemashite omedetou gozaimasu, epilogue three

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[miumiumoon]

Ikidomari, chapter eight

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Akaashi wakes up feeling better than he has in weeks. It is as if he was never sick, as if his body didn't go through hell and back the past three days.

Akaashi wakes up feeling serene, feeling collected, feeling sure.

It's like the simple decision of finally confessing to Bokuto lifted an enormous weight off his shoulders, and he can carry himself much easier than before. The clouds have gone, the fog's been lifted and Keiji can finally see clearly. He can see forward, to where his future lays; it's clear, now, how inevitable it is that they end up together.

There is nobody else for Akaashi, that is as certain as the sky's blue color. And, maybe if Akaashi could brush aside every part of him that led him into overthinking, if he could separate the logic and the fear—if he could only think of the facts, maybe...Akaashi can also be certain for the reciprocation of his feelings from Bokuto.

And that, well, that makes all the difference.

The weather has improved into a chilly morning, an azure sky and no wind, and Keiji makes sure to savor the enjoyment he feels while walking to his office. He's sure he looks like a crazy person, smiling to himself and barely keeping his legs from skipping like a little girl. But, well, who cares?

It's like in the movies, with the sun shining, the birds singing and his heart expanding with joy with every breath he takes. Nothing could ruin his mood. Absolutely nothing.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The workday flows easily, with everything going perfectly for once. The office is full of people, of course, the meetings seem endless, and the actual work to be completed by the end of the day is mountainous. The only time Keiji can manage to take a breath is during lunch, when he shuts himself in a storage room (the only place with some peace and quiet) to call Bokuto.

He's sort of shaking, sort of not breathing, sort of spiraling into an overthinking black whole. The line beeps and he's waiting for Bokuto to pick up, and the thought that he might be sleeping still pops into his head so he ends the call quickly.

Akaashi sends him a short text, letting him know he called and that he'd love to chat at the end of the day, asking if he's alright, if he'd want anything, and then a short update on his workday.

He's flushed, thinking about how he must look to Bokuto, sending him one text after the other; not a usual occurrence of Akaashi's.

The lunch hour is up, Keiji has eaten his sandwich and drunk the third, or maybe fourth, coffee of the day, and still, Bokuto hasn't replied to his text. It feels familiar, the fear and worry of not getting any answer from Bokuto and it suddenly dawns on him that they never got to talk about the why.

Why is Bokuto avoiding him?

Keiji desperately tries to rack his brain and find a moment, a clue, that can help him come to a conclusion. Sure, Kōtarō, well, he was surprized seeing him outside his apartment, but he didn't quite question it. Of course, he was too busy spiraling about Keiji's soaked state, and, well, then he was busy taking care of Keiji...and...and then Keiji...left?

He left a letter. No, he—he left a letter, he thanked him, he thanked Bokuto profusely, while sick too, but also in the letter, he did. Was it rude? Leaving like that? But then again, how much longer could Akaashi burden Bokuto with his physical health? And he'd gotten better, he had to go home eventually...

Is that the reason why Bokuto is ignoring him?

What about before? Before he went to Bokuto's apartment and before he got sick. It had been two days of complete silence on Kōtarō's side. What was it then? What had Akaashi done?

He is frantic, trying to figure it all out.

Sneakily, he sends more messages to Kōtarō, he even calls him from the restroom, ignoring his co-workers pitying looks when he asks to be excused from the meeting for the fifth time.

The sun goes down and while the cubicles in the office get emptier by the minute, Akaashi is stuck on his chair, staring at the screen of his phone, all previous joy and sheer determination slipped away from him.

But, when he was sick, Bokuto was nice to him wasn't he? Yeah, the memories of those three days are a bit hazy, but it's not total darkness up in his head. Kōtarō was definitely nice to him and not at all distant.

Would he really be anything else while Keiji laid before him sick?

Keiji sighs in defeat. Of course he wouldn't. Even if Bokuto hates him now, he would never leave him in such a dire state. And Keiji was so bad physically, he couldn't have been able to decipher the difference in Kōtarō's behavior, even if there was one. Now he could, with his clear head and temperature-less body, but he barely remembers what happened those three days.

Akaashi can't take it anymore. He gathers up his things and he clutches his phone tightly.

He has to speak to Bokuto.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Balls hitting the floor and the walls, creaks of feet sliding on the hardwood floors, and for a moment Akaashi is whiplashed into another time. A sweeter time, filled with cozy moments, late nights spent on school ground, wins, cheers.

MSBY Black Jackal's training unravels before Akaashi, quick, crowded and a little too quiet. There's Shouyou, of course, who manages to be loud and focused, and Atsumu who seems to be constantly bothering a calm yet irritated Sakusa—but the silence Keiji experiences comes from the lack of Kōtarō in the space. He looks around frantically, not only searching for the spiky, silver-haired athlete who's taken over his life and soul, but also trying to spot any traces of him. A bag, a towel, a pair of discarded shoes.

Anything.

The amount of nothing that's all over the court slaps Akaashi in the face. Bokuto is not here.

"Akaashi-san!" Shouyou's voice rings thunderously, and all eyes turn to him. Keiji smiles and bows his head a little, waiting for his friend to approach him. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Shouyou-kun." Lie. Keiji is falling apart. "You?"

"All good!" Hinata blabbers a bit about practice, and, honestly, Keiji struggles to pay attention. His heart is beating excessively, in sharp, intense booms that hit his eardrums, fingers curling inwards in an attempt to hide the tremors. With every minute that's dragged away by the ginger-haired ball of sunshine in front of him, Akaashi feels his chances of confessing slipping from his tight grasp.

There's no logic behind his fear, but it is as if something very ugly, very final rears its head, looking him straight in the eyes, saying, you've lost him. "—but, anyway, how come you're here? Bokuto-san has already left! He said he wasn't feeling his best."

Akaashi falters, "He's sick?"

"He seemed okay, physically, I think. But he was a bit lost and definitely not focused."

"Right," Keiji nods, avoiding Hinata's intense gaze. "Uhm, okay, yeah, I'll go—I will go check up on him then. Thank you, Hinata."

He's out of there before Hinata can get a word in, a question, or even a look shot towards Keiji. He's so shaken, Keiji is certain every emotion is displayed evidently on his face, and there is no way that he could handle anyone's scrutiny at the moment.

The streets are near empty, so Keiji can run like a crazy person freely, his mind working in never-ending circles, the center of which is always the same; I am too late.

It would be the utmost punishment, the cruelest of fates, to finally find the strength needed to confess his love to his dearest friend, his closest person, only for time to rob him of the chance. What will he do after? Can he handle a life without Bokuto? No. No he cannot. Maybe he'll beg, beg for another chance—accept anything Kōtarō asks for, whether that's time, distance, a sense of closure.

And he will wait.

Keiji will wait centuries if there's even one in a million chances that Bokuto will eventually love him back.

At the bottom of the stairs, Keiji abandons his stuff and the guilt that weigh him down, and runs the four flights to get to Bokuto's apartment. He has a key, he's grabbing tightly in his palm, its teeth digging into his sweaty skin. It won't be the first time he'll use it, but maybe it will be the first time he probably shouldn't.

Akaashi doesn't care though. He will knock, again and again, but if Bokuto ignores him, he's getting in.

At his floor, Akaashi is met with darkness and no answer on the other side of the door. The key shakes as it slides in the lock. The door springs open.

More darkness.

Akaashi runs all over the place, from the kitchen and living room to the bathroom, the makeshift gym, the bedroom and closets, under the desks and in sharp corners. Nothing, nowhere, Bokuto is nowhere to be seen.

Is he alright? Is he safe? Did he know Akaashi would be coming, and is that why he isn't here right now? Hinata could have told him in the time it took to get here, and maybe Bokuto didn't want to see him.

Akaashi is crying, tears running down his face and never stopping.

Maybe Bokuto has gone to pick up food, or maybe he is out on a run, to clear his head. It wouldn't be the first time.

But, for some reason, Akaashi knows. He can feel it, heavy and unmoving, deep in his gut.

That's it. He's lost him.

˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ˙⋆✮ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

author's note: NEXT CHAPTER IS THE LAST ONE LFGGG! can't believe im finishing my first fic. it might have been short and sweet (shoutout miss sabrina) but still!! im going to celebrate with champagne when i post the final chapter ehehehe.