You know Summer is coming when the window stays cracked open and the plants start to sweat. I sit in my rocking chair with a cup of tea warming my hands, steam tickling my nose, a small stream settling in my stomach.
I wasn’t quite ready to part ways with winter- with the wandering and wondering, and so many almost love stories. The only love story I really should have wrote was the one with myself.
I could settle in today’s overcast flirting with the heat and the breeze but instead I’ll run back to the safety of my pen.
I’m whispering prayers to the paper- Please let the summer be good to me. I want to be stronger than porcelain this time, I want my hands to be less clumsy and my words to birth life. 
a/n: lowkey considering making a part 2 of this, or maybe a series with the rest of the captains. anyway, this 1.5k baby was supposed to be short and nasty, but i got in my feels again.
"thought you'd be at the inarizaki party," kuroo says, dropping into the empty seat beside you, plopping his textbooks in front of him.
" i could say the same about you, mr. frat president," you counter, moving your notebooks to create more space. "certainly seems like everyone else is there."
it's 9pm on a friday night and the library is deserted, the secluded nook you had chosen earlier that evening even more so.
"didn't feel like waking up with a hangover tomorrow," he replies opening the hardcover book (organic chemistry, you note) and taking out a few sheets of paper from his bag. " and you? thought you liked that kind of thing."
you hum slightly, typing more words of your essay before looking towards him, your eyes meeting hazel ones.
"dunno," you say slowly, nibbling on your lower lip. "wasn't feeling so hot, i guess."
" that so?" his eyes flicker downwards briefly, before returning back to yours'.
"yeah," you lean back in your chair, breaking your eye contact first. "plus i have this huge essay due for econ on monday, which i'd like an A in. the professor's a notorious hardass ya know."
he nods quickly and the two of you resume your work- well start, in his case.
you wouldn't say you and kuroo were friends exactly, but you definitely ran in similar circles, and he was definitely handsome enough for you to have given him a second glance (or multiple glances). you had often seen him in parties and around campus, almost always accompanied by bokuto, president of another frat on campus. from whatever you had gathered from your friends' numerous gossip sessions on the presidents of the various frats of your college, kuroo was slightly more laidback when it came to hookups in general, preferring a casual one night stand every once in a while or even a relationship. he was one of the nicer frat presidents too- practically an angel in comparison to aoba josai's president.
the two of you had been working in companionable silence when a sharp ahem interrupted the both of you.
" the library will be closing in 10 minutes. please proceed accordingly," the old librarian stands before your table, her bag in hand, beady eyes darting between the two of you.
" right we'll leave now", kuroo replies, straightening up and rolling his shoulders.
you nod too, saving your work and closing your laptop.
the two of you pack up and make your way outside, the campus clock chiming in the distance, signaling 11:30.
"well this was a lot better than getting blackout drunk with bo," kuroo jokes, slipping a hand into his hoodie's pocket, the other reaching to hitch his backpack higher.
" glowing praise, definitely one for the resume," you tease back, stepping off the curb. "time to head back then."
"wait, i'm driving you back. there's no way i'm letting you walk back to the dorms alone."
'i'll be fine," you argue. " i can take the campus buses."
" i wasn't asking, doll. c'mon i'm parked close by," he walks off, leaving you no choice but to follow.
" you really don't have to do this," you say again, as he reaches for the passenger side door, opening it and gesturing inside.
" i know," he smirks. " maybe i have alternate intentions for you."
"like what, teaching me the proposed mechanism behind the clemmensen reduction?" you shoot back, as you slide inside.
you look up to see him still standing there, eyebrows faintly raised, the smirk having turned into an amused grin.
"that's not something most people know."
"maybe you just hang out with dumb people."
he barks out a laugh at that, sounding strangely like a hyena. " that, i most certainly cannot refute."
closing your door, he rounds the car, slipping inside. the car smells like citrus and kuroo himself, the scent of his woodsy cologne engulfing your senses. it grows stronger as he grips the back of your seat, head turning as he reverses out.
you try to not let your eyes linger on his strong jaw, clenching slightly, highlighting his strong neck and pronounced adam's apple.
"so," he says, turning forward, lithe fingers gripping the steering wheel. "where do you wanna get dinner?"
" i'm sorry, what?"
" you know, dinner- like food eaten at night. usually they say the ideal timin-"
"kuroo i know what dinner is, i'm asking when we agreed to get dinner together."
"well," he says slowly, drawing out the word. "i'm hungry, you haven't eaten anything in over two hours and we're together right now, seems like the logical conclusion, wouldn't you say? i promise i can show you the best ramen place on campus."
you sigh, toying with the hem of your t-shirt. he was right- you were pretty hungry and ramen sounded like a really good idea.
"fine then mr. frat president, let's go find out how good this ramen actually is."
SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED hung on the glass door of a quaint little shop you and kuroo stood in front of. distantly the campus clock chimed again- 12:00 am.
"shit i didn't think think they'd be closed."
"well now i'm definitely convinced that this whole thing wasn't meant to be a date."
kuroo groaned, running a hand through his perpetual bedhead- messing it up even further. how that was possible you didn't know.
"come on then, i promised you ramen- you're going to get ramen," he says, moving towards his car.
"uh, i don't think there will be any restaurants open right now kuroo. it's getting cold and i wanna sleep- just drop me off and order 24 hour take out or something," you whine, shivering slightly as the wind picks up again.
"no, we're not trying any more restaurants- we're going back to my apartment," he says, turning towards you.
whatever words you had to say snag, as he suddenly pulls his hoodie over his head, shirt rising along with it, giving you a clear view of his toned stomach. years of volleyball had done that boy justice and a jolt of heat goes through you as your mind helpfully supplies you an image of you sitting on those abs- with a lot less clothing involved.
"here put this on," he tosses you his hoodie, your hands reflexively reaching forward to grab the soft material.
you swallow, pulling the hoodie over your head and immediately you're surrounded by the warm material and kuroo's scent- making your head spin at it's potency.
"wait," you pause, his words registering through the haze. "what? your apartment? you're not serious are you? you have to know what this sounds like!"
his hand reaches to wrap around his nape as he sheepishly looks to the side.
" i know what it sounds like, with the ramen and the apartment and everything but i promise you my intentions go nothing further than dinner and maybe getting to know you better. i've always seen you around and i've wanted to talk to you, but the timing's just never worked out. i really am being serious here, cross my heart."
he looks at you when he says the last part, lips pouting slightly.
"i promise."
your hands wring the bottom of his hoodie as you toy with your lower lip, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.
"i-, look kuroo, we-" you pause again, as he continues to give you his full attention.
" i understand if i've made you uncomfortable, i can drive you home immediately. i'm sorry," he says, breaking eye contact and moving to open the door for you again.
"no, wait."
you move forward, tugging on his shirt.
" i wouldn't mind ramen at your place, and getting to know each other better. i was caught off guard a little. i don't usually get ramen at people's apartments at midnight."
he looks at you, grin slowly splitting his face.
"yeah? so i'm your first then?"
"shut up, you rooster," you shove him slightly and move into the car.
" why do you have an apartment anyway, i thought you lived at the frat house?"
" it's my sex dungeon," he leers, tugging on his seatbelt.
you roll your eyes, reaching forward to change the soft music that was playing.
"if asking girls to come over for late night ramen is your idea of a pickup line, i'm surprised you even know what a sex dungeon is," you settle on a song, the weekend's sultry vocals filling the car.
"haven't you heard? it's 'do you want to see my cat?' now. ramen means ramen nowadays."
you quirk an eyebrow at the bts reference, choosing to sit back and leaning your head against the window.
"you know," you begin as he pulls into the parking lot of an apartment building, " it's a shame ramen means just ramen, i was looking forward to, ah, getting to know each other on a more physical level."
kuroo freezes, before his hazel gaze meets yours once again, lips curling into a grin.
I'm a wasp in my own mouth — Dion Anja, from Motion Sickness (2022).
April is National Poetry Month and I have two full-length poetry collections out as an indie author. If you're looking for something fresh, you can buy Motion Sickness here to support my writing!
After his play, you take Atsumu out on an adventure
warning: use of alcohol, other than that it's wholesome fluff
A/N this might be my favourite piece I've ever written
Some people are Storytellers, and some people are story keepers.
And Atsumu is neither. He is the muse, the colour in the pages, the magic in the words.
An artist from another dimension.
Another dimension, that's what you think as you walk through the pompous entrance of the theatre. The old wood bends beneath your feet, tired from all the people it had carried. But the bohemian ambience quickly gives away to a wide lobby. The walls are covered with canvas, painted in bright neon colours, gold and silver glitter attached to them, and sparkling on the floor. It looks like a gallery from space. Flowers with all colours of the rainbow are presented to every side.
As far as you know, the play is one of those strange medleys of theatre and modern dance that only exist in a place like Tokyo. According to Atsumu, it's loosely based around A Midsummer Nights Dream if someone had filed Shakespeares' cadence smooth and cranked up the saturation.
The lobby bustles around you, strange music sounding through the room. You wade through the crowd until a stranger catches onto your arm. A boy, wrapped in a tattered deviant dress, green paint flourishes like abstract vines on his temples and cheeks, marking him as one of the actors of the show. Raven curls sprinkled with glitter adore his forehead.
"You're not adorned," he says with sober sincerity, and paints gold dust on your cheeks, the brush's touch feather-light.
Though he looks uneasy, his features all cramped up. Still, he is undeniably beautiful.
"He's overexcited to show you his play.", he says knowingly, the corners of his lips twitching to a faint smile. Roses bloom through your cheeks as you wonder how Atsumu must've talked about you attending the show.
Suddenly bells chime through the lobby, and the artistic sprite vanishes back into the crowd as you continue towards the theatre doors.
You smile at the mysterious acquaintance, as another actor, a tangerine-haired man with rose gold on his cheeks and a smile that would make Dionysus jealous, hands you a branch. Which's leaves are too green to be real.
It took you some time to find your seat, rather in the middle of the theatre, with a great view of the stage. Excitement shudders through you as the lights go down, and the curtain goes up on a kingdom of neon and spray-painted steel, and there is Atsumu in the middle of it all, lounging on a throne in a pose that is pure goblin king.
His hair curls up in a high wave, streaks of purple and gold carving the lines of his face into something stunning and strange. And when he smiles, it is easy to fall for him. When the two of you are together, it feels like you're nineteen again, a tangle of lust, loneliness and far off dreams. And when Atsumu speaks, his voice is crystal, reflecting across the theatre.
"This," he says, "is a story of gods."
As the stage fills with players and the music begins, you could swear you feel his eyes on you. Though it's hardly possible due to the stage lighting and the mass of people around you. Still, an electric shock pulse through you and this fantastic dream suddenly becomes lucid.
Towards the end of the play, there is a scene that will press itself into the dark of your mind, exposed like a film of light.
Atsumu, the Bowery King, rises from his throne as rain falls, a single sheet across the stage, and even though, moments earlier, it was crowded with people, now, there is only Atsumu. He reaches out his hand, skimming the curtain of rain, and it parts around his fingers, his wrist, his arm as he moves forward inch by inch until his whole body is beneath the wave.
He tips his head back, the rain rinsing gold and glitter from his skin, flattening the perfect waves of curls against his skull, erasing all traces of magic. Turning him from a languid, selfish prince into a boy; mortal, vulnerable, alone.
The lights go out and for a long moment, the only sound in the theatre is the rain, fading from a solid wall to the steady rhythm of a downpour, and after to the soft patter of drops on the stage.
And then, at last, nothing.
The lights come up, the cast takes the stage, and everyone applauds. You cheer, standing up from your seat, and now you see it for sure. His warm brown eyes set on you, a proud grin plastered all over his face. Like he is bowing just for you; like he was playing just for you.
You stand there until the cast disappears backstage and so you too, leave the hall. The crowd in the lobby thins out until it's mostly family and friends waiting for the artists to reappear.
Finally, Atsumu comes bounding into the lobby, his eyes shining with ecstasy, the aura of an actor on his peak. He throws his arms around you and holds you tight for a few seconds, you can even feel his heart pounding in his chest.
"My adoring fan!" he says, in a thespian's ringing alto. You snort, and almost sneeze from the glitter that descends from his hair into your nose.
"You were great!" You chime, and it is true. Atsumu is great - he's always been great. Stuck between your teeth for these last months, you never felt more alive. The trifecta of dance, music, theatre, drama and nights out has drawn you together.
You run a hand through his hair, beaming at the glitter that rains onto the ground. Like a shower of blessings and good luck. Dry, his hair has the colour of the moon, a shade somewhere between daffodils and snowdrops. Atsumu leans into the touch, resting the weight of his head into your hand. When you pat his arm, he straightens as if revived, renewed. He smiles widely and says, "How about we spend the rest of the night together? I'm in the mood for an adventure."
"Well don't go opening pandora's box." The boy with the dark curls notes passively as he passes by. Sightly relieved that the crowd is now gone. Atsumus face drops as if someone has slapped the back of his head. "You're just jealous omi-omi." He snarls as he regains his posture.
"We would never do something like that." you intervene, "we only go as far as blowing things up with homemade dynamite."
"A couple of rebel top gun pilots with nowhere to belong," Atsumus states as you point up at two helicopters that circle over the city. You don't know each other super well, but you get the feeling he might be the same as you: normally abnormal. "Well you seem creative today, how about I take you to the wonderland?" there's a challenging gleam in your eyes, one that Atsumu first noticed about you. He loves a good competition, lives it with passion. "Yeah, I'd like that."
And so you walk through the streets, laughter echoing from the house facades, fingers loosely intervened. You spin around street signs and dance, even without any trace of music.
There are only your shared rules, your dreams. And you're blind, getting inspired by the thrill of it.
You lead him down the street and around the corner to a nondescript steel door plastered with old posters. A man stands next to it, chainsmoking and scrolling through his phone.
"Phoebus," you say, unprompted, the man straightens and pushes open the door, exposing a narrow platform, and a set of stairs that lead out of sight.
"Welcome to the Fourth Rail."
Atsumus eyes brighten, no chance of fear in them as he takes your hand and pulls you through. You twist as the heavy door swings shut. "I have no idea where this is leading, but I know for a fact that there is no fourth rail," he says, without slowing his steps.
"Exactly."
This is what he loves about a city like Tokyo. It is so full of hidden stairs, infinite doors leading to infinite rooms, and if you have the time, you can find many of them.
One stairwell leads to another, the second wider, made of stone. The ceiling arches overhead, plaster giving away to rock, and then tile. Passive musters can be seen through the electric lanterns that enlighten the tunnel, but they are placed far enough apart that they do little to break the dark. A breadcrumb trail, only enough to see by, which is why you have the pleasure of seeing Atsumus face as he realises where you are. The Tokyo subway has nearly five hundred active stations, Shibuya being the most famous, but the number of abandoned tunnels remain a matter of contention. And many of them are secrets.
Atsumu murmurs your name, but you only hold a finger to your lips. Listening.
The music starts as an echo, a distant thrum, as much a feeling as a sound. It rises with every downward step, seems to fill the air around you, first a hum, then a pulse, and then, at last, a beat.
Ahead the tunnel is bricked up, marked only by a white slash of an arrow to the left. Around the corner, the music grows. One more dead end. One more turn and-
Sound crashes over you.
The whole tunnel vibrates with the force of the bass, the reverb of stone against the curb. Spotlights pulse, blue-white, a strobe reducing the hidden club to still frames; a writhing crowd, bodies bouncing to the beat; a pair of musicians wielding matching electric guitars on a concrete stage; a row of bartenders caught mid-pour.
The tunnel walls are tiled black and white, wide bands that wrap in arches overhead, bend down again like ribs, as if you are in the belly of some great, forgotten beast, the rhythm pulsing through its heart.
The fourth rail is primal, heady. The kind of place he loves.
You pull Atsumu towards the makeshift bar. The options are Shochu, Vodka or tequila, and a bartender stands waiting. You order two vodkas. There isn't much talk to do, not over the deafening music. A couple of fingers held up, a thousand yen laid on the bar.
You raise your drinks, and your mouths move together (you think he is saying cheers while you answer salut), but the sounds are swallowed up, the clink of the glasses nothing but a small vibration through your fingertips.
The vodka hits your stomach, and heat blooms under your ribcage. After you put your glasses down on the counter Atsumu grabs your hand, pulling you towards the mass of crashing bodies by the stage. Atsumu has always been in the middle of it all, always the centre of attention.
And he looks like he wants to say something but the music is too loud and the vodka is smoothing the edges of his thoughts, so he just keeps silent. Lives the dream as you mould into the crowd.
Up above it may be early spring but down here it is late summer, heated and heavy. The music is liquid and the air is thick as syrup. You're folding around each other and dancing until the music runs through your bodies, eyes holding a conversation of love, longing and adventure; words your mouth wouldn't dare to say. And so you stay, with the time bending around you, every clock from Tokyo to Rome stops ticking.
Atsumu, with his head tipped back, blonde strands of hair glued to his neck and sweat sliding down his cheeks like tears. And for a moment, he looks impossibly unbearably blissful.
And he looks at you and smiles, and you feel like this is all too good to be true, but at this moment, you're simply glad he's there.
You dance until your limbs ache.
Until sweat paints your skin, and the air becomes too thick to breathe. Until there's a lull in the beat and another silent conversation shared like a spark. Until he draws you out of the crowd, back to the bar and the tunnel, out the way you've come. The music fades with every step you take. Up the narrow stairs, your ears buzz with the white noise left in its wake.
Until you jump out into the fresh march night, filling your lungs with air.
And the first clear sound you hear is his laughter.
Atsumu turns toward you, eyes bright, cheeks flushes, intoxicated in a way that has less to do with the shots than with the power of the fourth rail.
He is still laughing as the storm starts.
A rumble of thunder and seconds later, the rain comes pouring down, soaking through your clothes in seconds, leaving you wet and pure. They say the rain washes everything away, but never could it break the magic of this moment.
You gasp at the sudden crash of cold.
You are ten feet away from the nearest shelter, but neither of you runs to take cover. Instead, you smile up at the rain, opening your arms to welcome the phenomenon, let the water kiss your skin.
Atsumu looks at you, and you look back, and then he spreads his arms too, welcoming the storm, his chest heaving. Water clings to his black lashes, running down his cheeks, and rinsing the club from his clothes. He has never in his life felt like this: young
euphoric
alive
You pull him towards you, relishing in the hold of his body, warmth against the cold. You run your hands through his hair, and for the very first time, it stays back, exposing the sharp lines of his face, the hungry hollows of his jaw, his eyes a brighter, golden shade of brown than you have ever seen them yet.
He breathes your name, and the sound sends sparks across your skin, and when he kisses you, he tastes like salt and summer. But it feels too much like a punctuation mark, and you aren't ready for the night to end, so you kiss him back, deeper, turn the period into a question, into an answer.
And so you run, not for a shelter, but for the train.
After his play, you take Atsumu out on an adventure
warning: use of alcohol, other than that it's wholesome fluff
A/N this might be my favourite piece I've ever written
Some people are Storytellers, and some people are story keepers.
And Atsumu is neither. He is the muse, the colour in the pages, the magic in the words.
An artist from another dimension.
Another dimension, that's what you think as you walk through the pompous entrance of the theatre. The old wood bends beneath your feet, tired from all the people it had carried. But the bohemian ambience quickly gives away to a wide lobby. The walls are covered with canvas, painted in bright neon colours, gold and silver glitter attached to them, and sparkling on the floor. It looks like a gallery from space. Flowers with all colours of the rainbow are presented to every side.
As far as you know, the play is one of those strange medleys of theatre and modern dance that only exist in a place like Tokyo. According to Atsumu, it's loosely based around A Midsummer Nights Dream if someone had filed Shakespeares' cadence smooth and cranked up the saturation.
The lobby bustles around you, strange music sounding through the room. You wade through the crowd until a stranger catches onto your arm. A boy, wrapped in a tattered deviant dress, green paint flourishes like abstract vines on his temples and cheeks, marking him as one of the actors of the show. Raven curls sprinkled with glitter adore his forehead.
"You're not adorned," he says with sober sincerity, and paints gold dust on your cheeks, the brush's touch feather-light.
Though he looks uneasy, his features all cramped up. Still, he is undeniably beautiful.
"He's overexcited to show you his play.", he says knowingly, the corners of his lips twitching to a faint smile. Roses bloom through your cheeks as you wonder how Atsumu must've talked about you attending the show.
Suddenly bells chime through the lobby, and the artistic sprite vanishes back into the crowd as you continue towards the theatre doors.
You smile at the mysterious acquaintance, as another actor, a tangerine-haired man with rose gold on his cheeks and a smile that would make Dionysus jealous, hands you a branch. Which's leaves are too green to be real.
It took you some time to find your seat, rather in the middle of the theatre, with a great view of the stage. Excitement shudders through you as the lights go down, and the curtain goes up on a kingdom of neon and spray-painted steel, and there is Atsumu in the middle of it all, lounging on a throne in a pose that is pure goblin king.
His hair curls up in a high wave, streaks of purple and gold carving the lines of his face into something stunning and strange. And when he smiles, it is easy to fall for him. When the two of you are together, it feels like you're nineteen again, a tangle of lust, loneliness and far off dreams. And when Atsumu speaks, his voice is crystal, reflecting across the theatre.
"This," he says, "is a story of gods."
As the stage fills with players and the music begins, you could swear you feel his eyes on you. Though it's hardly possible due to the stage lighting and the mass of people around you. Still, an electric shock pulse through you and this fantastic dream suddenly becomes lucid.
Towards the end of the play, there is a scene that will press itself into the dark of your mind, exposed like a film of light.
Atsumu, the Bowery King, rises from his throne as rain falls, a single sheet across the stage, and even though, moments earlier, it was crowded with people, now, there is only Atsumu. He reaches out his hand, skimming the curtain of rain, and it parts around his fingers, his wrist, his arm as he moves forward inch by inch until his whole body is beneath the wave.
He tips his head back, the rain rinsing gold and glitter from his skin, flattening the perfect waves of curls against his skull, erasing all traces of magic. Turning him from a languid, selfish prince into a boy; mortal, vulnerable, alone.
The lights go out and for a long moment, the only sound in the theatre is the rain, fading from a solid wall to the steady rhythm of a downpour, and after to the soft patter of drops on the stage.
And then, at last, nothing.
The lights come up, the cast takes the stage, and everyone applauds. You cheer, standing up from your seat, and now you see it for sure. His warm brown eyes set on you, a proud grin plastered all over his face. Like he is bowing just for you; like he was playing just for you.
You stand there until the cast disappears backstage and so you too, leave the hall. The crowd in the lobby thins out until it's mostly family and friends waiting for the artists to reappear.
Finally, Atsumu comes bounding into the lobby, his eyes shining with ecstasy, the aura of an actor on his peak. He throws his arms around you and holds you tight for a few seconds, you can even feel his heart pounding in his chest.
"My adoring fan!" he says, in a thespian's ringing alto. You snort, and almost sneeze from the glitter that descends from his hair into your nose.
"You were great!" You chime, and it is true. Atsumu is great - he's always been great. Stuck between your teeth for these last months, you never felt more alive. The trifecta of dance, music, theatre, drama and nights out has drawn you together.
You run a hand through his hair, beaming at the glitter that rains onto the ground. Like a shower of blessings and good luck. Dry, his hair has the colour of the moon, a shade somewhere between daffodils and snowdrops. Atsumu leans into the touch, resting the weight of his head into your hand. When you pat his arm, he straightens as if revived, renewed. He smiles widely and says, "How about we spend the rest of the night together? I'm in the mood for an adventure."
"Well don't go opening pandora's box." The boy with the dark curls notes passively as he passes by. Sightly relieved that the crowd is now gone. Atsumus face drops as if someone has slapped the back of his head. "You're just jealous omi-omi." He snarls as he regains his posture.
"We would never do something like that." you intervene, "we only go as far as blowing things up with homemade dynamite."
"A couple of rebel top gun pilots with nowhere to belong," Atsumus states as you point up at two helicopters that circle over the city. You don't know each other super well, but you get the feeling he might be the same as you: normally abnormal. "Well you seem creative today, how about I take you to the wonderland?" there's a challenging gleam in your eyes, one that Atsumu first noticed about you. He loves a good competition, lives it with passion. "Yeah, I'd like that."
And so you walk through the streets, laughter echoing from the house facades, fingers loosely intervened. You spin around street signs and dance, even without any trace of music.
There are only your shared rules, your dreams. And you're blind, getting inspired by the thrill of it.
You lead him down the street and around the corner to a nondescript steel door plastered with old posters. A man stands next to it, chainsmoking and scrolling through his phone.
"Phoebus," you say, unprompted, the man straightens and pushes open the door, exposing a narrow platform, and a set of stairs that lead out of sight.
"Welcome to the Fourth Rail."
Atsumus eyes brighten, no chance of fear in them as he takes your hand and pulls you through. You twist as the heavy door swings shut. "I have no idea where this is leading, but I know for a fact that there is no fourth rail," he says, without slowing his steps.
"Exactly."
This is what he loves about a city like Tokyo. It is so full of hidden stairs, infinite doors leading to infinite rooms, and if you have the time, you can find many of them.
One stairwell leads to another, the second wider, made of stone. The ceiling arches overhead, plaster giving away to rock, and then tile. Passive musters can be seen through the electric lanterns that enlighten the tunnel, but they are placed far enough apart that they do little to break the dark. A breadcrumb trail, only enough to see by, which is why you have the pleasure of seeing Atsumus face as he realises where you are. The Tokyo subway has nearly five hundred active stations, Shibuya being the most famous, but the number of abandoned tunnels remain a matter of contention. And many of them are secrets.
Atsumu murmurs your name, but you only hold a finger to your lips. Listening.
The music starts as an echo, a distant thrum, as much a feeling as a sound. It rises with every downward step, seems to fill the air around you, first a hum, then a pulse, and then, at last, a beat.
Ahead the tunnel is bricked up, marked only by a white slash of an arrow to the left. Around the corner, the music grows. One more dead end. One more turn and-
Sound crashes over you.
The whole tunnel vibrates with the force of the bass, the reverb of stone against the curb. Spotlights pulse, blue-white, a strobe reducing the hidden club to still frames; a writhing crowd, bodies bouncing to the beat; a pair of musicians wielding matching electric guitars on a concrete stage; a row of bartenders caught mid-pour.
The tunnel walls are tiled black and white, wide bands that wrap in arches overhead, bend down again like ribs, as if you are in the belly of some great, forgotten beast, the rhythm pulsing through its heart.
The fourth rail is primal, heady. The kind of place he loves.
You pull Atsumu towards the makeshift bar. The options are Shochu, Vodka or tequila, and a bartender stands waiting. You order two vodkas. There isn't much talk to do, not over the deafening music. A couple of fingers held up, a thousand yen laid on the bar.
You raise your drinks, and your mouths move together (you think he is saying cheers while you answer salut), but the sounds are swallowed up, the clink of the glasses nothing but a small vibration through your fingertips.
The vodka hits your stomach, and heat blooms under your ribcage. After you put your glasses down on the counter Atsumu grabs your hand, pulling you towards the mass of crashing bodies by the stage. Atsumu has always been in the middle of it all, always the centre of attention.
And he looks like he wants to say something but the music is too loud and the vodka is smoothing the edges of his thoughts, so he just keeps silent. Lives the dream as you mould into the crowd.
Up above it may be early spring but down here it is late summer, heated and heavy. The music is liquid and the air is thick as syrup. You're folding around each other and dancing until the music runs through your bodies, eyes holding a conversation of love, longing and adventure; words your mouth wouldn't dare to say. And so you stay, with the time bending around you, every clock from Tokyo to Rome stops ticking.
Atsumu, with his head tipped back, blonde strands of hair glued to his neck and sweat sliding down his cheeks like tears. And for a moment, he looks impossibly unbearably blissful.
And he looks at you and smiles, and you feel like this is all too good to be true, but at this moment, you're simply glad he's there.
You dance until your limbs ache.
Until sweat paints your skin, and the air becomes too thick to breathe. Until there's a lull in the beat and another silent conversation shared like a spark. Until he draws you out of the crowd, back to the bar and the tunnel, out the way you've come. The music fades with every step you take. Up the narrow stairs, your ears buzz with the white noise left in its wake.
Until you jump out into the fresh march night, filling your lungs with air.
And the first clear sound you hear is his laughter.
Atsumu turns toward you, eyes bright, cheeks flushes, intoxicated in a way that has less to do with the shots than with the power of the fourth rail.
He is still laughing as the storm starts.
A rumble of thunder and seconds later, the rain comes pouring down, soaking through your clothes in seconds, leaving you wet and pure. They say the rain washes everything away, but never could it break the magic of this moment.
You gasp at the sudden crash of cold.
You are ten feet away from the nearest shelter, but neither of you runs to take cover. Instead, you smile up at the rain, opening your arms to welcome the phenomenon, let the water kiss your skin.
Atsumu looks at you, and you look back, and then he spreads his arms too, welcoming the storm, his chest heaving. Water clings to his black lashes, running down his cheeks, and rinsing the club from his clothes. He has never in his life felt like this: young
euphoric
alive
You pull him towards you, relishing in the hold of his body, warmth against the cold. You run your hands through his hair, and for the very first time, it stays back, exposing the sharp lines of his face, the hungry hollows of his jaw, his eyes a brighter, golden shade of brown than you have ever seen them yet.
He breathes your name, and the sound sends sparks across your skin, and when he kisses you, he tastes like salt and summer. But it feels too much like a punctuation mark, and you aren't ready for the night to end, so you kiss him back, deeper, turn the period into a question, into an answer.
And so you run, not for a shelter, but for the train.
my friend started watching haikyuu and they’re sending me shit and it’s all coming back to me again miya atsumu how could i ever forget everything i’d let u do to me
Light shuffles in, cascading over the hill and dancing over his lips. He looks up, and so do you, and for a moment, only a moment, he looks overwhelmingly unbearably lost.
"I already miss the stars," he says
"So do I," you say, and his gaze drops back to you, and he smiles.
"Who are you?"
Saturday, April 24, 23:03
Hashida can account for almost every second of his life, but that night, with you, the moments seem to bleed together. Time slides by as you bounce from bar to bar, happy hour giving away to dinner and then to late-night drinks, and every time you hit the point where the evening splits, and one road leads their separate ways and the other carries on ahead, you choose the second road.
You stay together, each waiting for the other to say "It's getting late," or "I should be going," or "See you around," There is an unspoken pact, an unwillingness to sever whatever this is, for you've met only in the evening. But the time you have spent together feels like eternity shared between two young souls.
He studies you, squinting at you as if you're a painting, not a person; something to be admired. Eyes wandering over the spots on your cheek where apollo kissed your skin. You stare at him as if he's a ghost. A miracle.
Strangers under the spell of love. Excitement and adrenaline rush through your bodies as you walk down the street with your fingers entwined.
No destination.
Until the moon gives away to the sun, and the concrete is left far behind.
The main problem I find in the current schooling system is that it’s not mistake friendly in any way. This issue is also closely tied with grades, standardized tests, and the competitive environment in general.
Like, I’m told that “failures are good!” “failures help you grow!” but how can we afford to fail when in reality, a single failure can ruin our future? This is very relevant in extremely academically competitive countries where, for example, a B can ruin our chances.
How can you say that “failures are good” but punish students for it? How can we risk to fail when everything is on the line?
If a student is given 2 options for a project where one is a basic, less fun, but easy and the other is more exciting, fulfilling, but difficult, you bet they will choose the first one. Because even if it’s boring, and less fun, nothing out of their passion or interest, they will choose it because it provides a good security of grades. Easier to get a good grade on. While the other option is more fun, but risky. A bigger chance to get a lower grade, and we can’t risk that.
If this is happening EVERYWHERE, can you imagine how much chances the students are missing out on? But really, who are we to blame?
The overall focus on grades are kind of terrible. I’m not saying that we should remove them completely, but it’s better we should, you know, in a way, “isolate” them. In my class, our grades are announced publicly and the teacher’s reason for that is to “motivate” us but in my perspective, it does makes me feel so much more pressured.
If grades don’t exist, or maybe if we get automatic As for the whole year, what would you do? If we drift the focus from grades and more to learning, it would feel so, so much better. I know many people might say students will be lazy and slack off more, and yes, I can’t deny that, but that’s where the teachers and the overall environment come in. If we push our students to have the right mindset, that learning is prioritized, to co-operate with others, to be a critical thinker- that won’t be a problem.
Now, the thing is, only little students care about learning anymore. Most just want good grades and get a good job, and yes, I am one of them. This is why you see a familiar argument: “why do I have to study (insert biology statement) here if I want to become an artist?” “why do I have to learn about geometry when I want to become a journalist one day?” It’s like as if we’re limiting all these subjects into “Jobs” and careers. And guess what? I don’t blame them.
We are pushed to think that these subjects are for our future, that even if they are useless, we practice discipline, obedience, and work ethic. That’s right too, but what about the other side? the learning side? The main side?
Even if they are “useless”, what’s the harm of learning things? Oh right, grades. We get back to the start again. Grades pretty much measure anything, and most of our academic decisions are based on them. Because we’re limiting these subjects to simply just grades, we don’t actually get to enjoy the beauty of it.
I agree, how are we expected to appreciate the beauty of a school subject when our schedule is jam-packed with daily tests, exams, homework, and the pressure of grades? How are we expected to enjoy the beauty of it when it’s just listening to a teacher, homework, homework, project, test, homework again, last test, and we just move on? just like that? Not to mention to stressing of grades and other classes too, oh boy.
Now let’s just imagine how many brilliant artists, writers, mathematicians, scientists, researchers, musicians we lost just because the narrow-minded system. A lot, I know. It all comes back to grades.
Judging from personal experience (being my perfectionist self), grades make me feel everything is a competition. I see my friends to be more of competitors I have to defeat, that I must not allow to have a higher grade, than as, well, human beings that support me. It’s quite harmful. It pushes me into this, I don’t know- horrible gifted kid burnout. I think that everything is a competition, when in fact, I know for sure learning isn’t. Everyone learns in their own pace.
But as you can see, the curriculum doesn’t allow us to do that. And now everything’s kind of a mess.
Yeah, I’m not saying SCHOOL IS USELESS! HORRIBLE! SATAN’S CREATION! It’s extremely flawed. In a perspective of a student, in needs to undergo lots of changes, but I think it will do it. Slowly, but surely. A single student, a single teacher, a single adult won’t be able to change this whole system at once. I just hope in the future, the education system will begin to improve. That’s it for today, peace out
RIGHT SO THAT WAS A LOT??? I GOT CARRIED TOO MUCH, GOOD NIGHT
Light shuffles in, cascading over the hill and dancing over his lips. He looks up, and so do you, and for a moment, only a moment, he looks overwhelmingly unbearably lost.
"I already miss the stars," he says
"So do I," you say, and his gaze drops back to you, and he smiles.
"Who are you?"
Saturday, April 24, 23:03
Hashida can account for almost every second of his life, but that night, with you, the moments seem to bleed together. Time slides by as you bounce from bar to bar, happy hour giving away to dinner and then to late-night drinks, and every time you hit the point where the evening splits, and one road leads their separate ways and the other carries on ahead, you choose the second road.
You stay together, each waiting for the other to say "It's getting late," or "I should be going," or "See you around," There is an unspoken pact, an unwillingness to sever whatever this is, for you've met only in the evening. But the time you have spent together feels like eternity shared between two young souls.
He studies you, squinting at you as if you're a painting, not a person; something to be admired. Eyes wandering over the spots on your cheek where apollo kissed your skin. You stare at him as if he's a ghost. A miracle.
Strangers under the spell of love. Excitement and adrenaline rush through your bodies as you walk down the street with your fingers entwined.
No destination.
Until the moon gives away to the sun, and the concrete is left far behind.
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