i think it’s so fun to be in the akaashi household. it’s so lively, it’s so lived in. the entirety of keiji’s childhood and juvenility is on the walls, with photographs of him squished between his parents, cheeks pinched at the age of three, volleyball team pictures with him smothered under bokuto’s and konoha’s arms. there’s his parents on dates, at their wedding, holding him chubby-cheeked and half asleep as a toddler.
there’s something always with sound, the television dramas, the radio crooning static, the distant chatter of his mother talking whatever friend is in on the phone with her, or whatever friend is welcomed into the akaashi home of keiji’s as if they live there, the gruff tone of his father recounting his day, or playfully arguing with his mother.
the house is tidy and cluttered the same: throw pillows and blankets, hastily folded from the last time someone fell asleep on the couch, keiji’s school books shuffled under his mother’s magazines, slippers and coats and shoes straightened by the door. there’s never a dirty dish in the sink, there’s always an overflowing flower vase somewhere, spilling cosmos over its edges. there’s a large black cat roaming, fuku, plump, fat, named for his mother’s good luck charm, always scratched under the chin before she leaves the house: nicknamed big guy from his father as he stretches him in the morning, always sleeping on keiji’s discarded sweaters or the open window sill.
his parents’ bedroom doors are always shut, the guest bedroom always clean for the next one, keiji’s bedroom door always ajar. (1)
(1. in it, a disorganized organization: he knows where his favorite pens are despite the clutter surrounding his desk, where his most used, loved books are despite his shelves being shoved with botany books, literary analysis novels, manga and poetry and nonfiction playing neighbors. a jacket from a friend the last time they were there on his desk chair, a note scribbled from someone as a reminder on his math homework, his bed made meticulously, his window partially opened with his mother’s flower bed underneath.)
and you! you’re in the same space, your favorite snacks in the cupboard, an extra plate pulled out at dinner, his father asking you about your hobbies, his mother patting your cheek upon arrival. your hands, sunk low into dish water as you listen to keiji chatter aimlessly about today’s events. your homework in his room, your spare toothbrush and towel and clothes in places where they should be.
it’s familiar, it’s so lived in.
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