Maboiisuga

FIC ART NEEDED

Hey guys....it's me again lol

So if I'm going to be back full-time, I need to update and revamp my masterlist. This also means the fic art that I have previously used. Specifically with Unsaid Vow and Quarter Quell. The fic art for those was good but they had my old username so I can't use it anymore.

So right now I just need something new for Quarter Quell and Unsaid Vow. (open to These things take time, Pen Pal and Paparazzi too although they aren't priority) If any of you would like to submit cover art for it please do so! The only thing I ask is;

Fic name is visible and in a classic font (I detest the fake cursive btw)

Somewhere below title is "Written by laughing with god"

The image you use of the member matches the fic description (ex; Unsaid Vow Jungkook has short black hair, so a pic of him with red hair as the cover won't work)

I prefer darker colors, and simple photos of the members!! No bright neons or anything pls, it's all yandere content!!

As a thank you, if I choose your art I will obviously tag you in all the chapters and the new master list as the creator of the fic art. ALSO as an incentive, I will give you a personal gift :) I will give you the first 5ik of either Unsaid Vow or QQ5 (I'll let you decide). Just a one-time favor though, as I do have patrons who pay to beta read and will be the first to get the full chapters once they are completed.

Please just message me any of your submissions, I will respond if I want to use yours.

Your life is about to blossom. Believe that.

storge, i.

. . . an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, base on similarity.

MINORS DNI.

—This series will have nsfw themes + scenes.

wc: 1.6k | hanamaki takihiro, matsukawa issei, camgirl!reader.

— fluff, angst, suggestive ; established relationship, slowburn, mentions of sugar mommy/sugar baby relationship, usage of ‘slut’+ so unlike oikawa’s series, this second four-parter is going to be heavily suggestive and will have nsfw scenes. only +18 kids are allowed in this one, i’m sorry. but the next one after this is more light and humorous and will have context on what happened here!

masterlist. ; tip jar ! ; next: storge ii.

It doesn’t surprise you when the iced tea splashes down thickly and cold down Matsukawa Issei’s head and neck. You saw it coming as soon as Makki elbowed you, looked up, and saw the darkened aura of her expression and the vice-grip she had on the glass.

“I hope you live a miserable life, Matsukawa,” she forced through gritted teeth and glittering eyes. She didn’t spare either you or Makki a glance as she walked out to her awaiting friends, giving out their own curses with their eyes as they took her in their arms and out of the mess hall.

Keep reading

raven unit II (m)

Jeon Jungkook x Reader

‒ raven unit. (m) chapter two: red hawk. ✎  [11k words]

genre: political!Au, taskforce!Au, warcrime!Au

warnings: smut, angst, gore, violence, drug mentions, alcohol mention, graphic description of violence, death, fingering, penetrative sex, dirty talk.  With your life at risk and several people around you dead, your loyal head of security makes sure your safety is taken care of when he’s out of the picture. Three ruthless, dangerous and deadly men take on the task to protect and hide you, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and the one in command, Jeon Jungkook. masterlist. chapter one.

Continuar lendo

Hi everyone....

To make a long story short, people are awful and I was robbed of $1,100. I'm not totally broke but I'm definitely seen better days.

And I am wondering, to help with this loss, if people would be interested if I did some commissions?

Like drabbles (900 words) for like $3. Longer ones (like 1k - 2k) for $6 and anything that's higher than 2k would be like $10.

If anyone is interested let me know so I can set something up. And even if all you can do is reblog this to let others know, that would be very much appreciated too.

Love you all 💛💛

You always make my week when u post!!!!

Aftershock

Kyoutani Kentarou x female reader

w.c 3.1k

tw: implied non-con, violence, unhealthy relationships, yandere themes

There’s an odd sort of calm you reach, half propped up in the hospital bed. 

Or maybe it’s not so much a calm as it is a numbness, because the overwhelming terror and panic have settled, and there’s an anger there, building slowly, simmering away beneath the surface – but you can’t touch it. Can’t feel it.

As though it’s separated by a thin pane of glass. Fragile, fractured, held back until that one tiny nudge shatters it entirely. 

The dam will break eventually, that’s an inevitability – but for now it holds. 

Barely. 

The officer who took your statement left ten minutes ago, the nurses ducking in and out of your room– well, bay really. Little more than cheap, plastic curtains pulled around the bed for the smallest semblance of privacy.

You’ve got nothing left to give, and the drugs they’ve loaded you up on take care of any pain.

So yeah, numb fits. 

When the doors to the ER ward are thrown open and a familiar, angry looking blond storms in, you can’t summon anything beyond a faint whisper of irritation, and even that fades before it can truly take hold of you.

Kyoutani ignores the nurse who approaches him, scanning the room until he spies you tucked away in your bed on the opposite side of the ward. 

The moment your eyes connect, he stiffens. It’s a rare thing to catch him so unguarded, but in the space of mere seconds, eyes wide and jaw lax, you physically see the barrage of emotions that slam into him, rippling across his features like shockwaves. Rage and fury and pain, guilt, relief, one after the other.

… And none of it reaches you. 

You wonder how it is you must look right now, bruised and battered, swallowed up under fluorescent lights, the harsh sterility of the hospital ward. 

Snapping himself out of it, you say nothing as he stalks towards you, yanking a chair from a nearby bay and dragging it to your bedside to sit, hunched over as close to the bed – to you – as he physically can. 

There’s no hiding the damage, so you don’t bother to try; fractured wrist, the swelling on your cheek from where you’d been slapped so hard your bones had sung with pain, the scrapes on your knees they’d plucked glass and gravel out of – bandaged now, not that it seems to make much of a difference. 

There’s a thin cut on your throat from where the knife had bit in, and you suppose you should be thankful that your clothes – torn and bloodied as they were – have been taken away, either to be disposed of or as evidence, you neither know nor have the capacity right now to care.

And with every second that stretches in uncomfortable silence, with every mark, every bruise, all the blood they hadn’t cleaned off and the hollow, haunted look in your eyes – seething, murderous rage blisters and burns beneath his skin, seeping out of every pore in his body until the air’s thick enough to choke you with it. 

He takes your face in rough, calloused hands – gentle, he always tries to be gentle – nostrils flaring, jaw tight. Yet he seems to be at war with himself, lips parting only to struggle to find words that won’t scare you – words that won’t shatter you right now.

But Kyoutani’s never been good with words at the best of times.

You reach up, hand enclosing around his wrist, prying it away from your face. His features soften then, a hint of real worry bleeding through the rage.

He lets you tug his hand away. 

“They said,” you voice is hoarse. Stiff, almost robotic. “I was… I was a message.”

The muscle in Kyoutani’s jaw twitches, the hand you’d pulled away tightening into a white knuckled fist. Normally, you’d try to calm that building rage, soften his harsh edges and coax him back to you. 

Somehow, somewhere along the way, that had become your sole responsibility, to act as the buffer between Kyoutani and everyone else. A temper to those baser, violent impulses. 

Why? Why was it your responsibility to tame him, when you hadn’t asked for any of this. One of his friends – though friend was probably too strong a word – laughed the first time he’d seen it in action, your hand on Kyoutani’s arm, the other cupping his jaw, begging him to calm down.

‘And here I thought our Kyoken was the one holding your leash. How interesting.’

His eyes had gleamed when he said it. 

It was like everyone else had just decided they preferred it that way; you made Kyoutani more palatable, and that made everything else easier, so why should it matter whether you wanted the job or not?

And what good did it ever do? At best, you’d stop him from launching himself across the bar at some guy who spent a second too long staring at your tits, at worst–

“Did you bring the clothes like they asked?”

Shoulders hunch, his gaze darting guiltily away for the briefest of moments, “… No.”

Of course not. Because the moment the nursing staff told him that you were here, that you were hurt, everything else would’ve been white noise. 

You breathe in. Out. Smooth down the starched, scratchy sheets. “I can’t leave without clothes, Kentarou.”

“I know that!” he snaps, only for his cheeks to darken with a blush. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll– here, take this.”

He’s shrugging out of his leather jacket, pushing it into your lap and you feel that niggling irritation bite at you once more. There’s a voice in the back of your head that tells you that he’s stressed and upset, that he’s trying.

You don’t care. 

The beeping of machines around you, a steady thrum of noise – nurses and doctors darting around, patients coughing, a baby wailing for its mother. Every sound grating on your already frayed nerves, and Kyoutani’s still trying to push his jacket on you – like you can just walk out of here wearing that and nothing else, like that’s supposed to fix any of this, and in an instant that fragile little bubble you’ve wrapped yourself in, tamping down the hysteria bubbling away underneath, splinters.

“I don’t need your stupid jacket, I need my fucking clothes!”

Kyoutani jerks a little, wide eyed. The people closest – patients and their visitors in the nearby beds, the doctor who treated you when you arrived and the nurses hovering around the admin station turn to stare, the sharpness of your voice rising above the routine clamour of the busy ER.

Most glance away quickly, but it makes no difference. 

Your own cheeks burn in embarrassment, a thick lump settling in your throat as hot tears well and glisten unshed. You blink them back viciously, fighting to keep from letting those cracks shatter you entirely – again – right here in front of everybody, in front of him.

You won’t be some spectacle for them all to see. 

“Please, I need my clothes so we can go. I just want to go home, okay?” you say, the words little more than a choked whisper. If anything, that only serves to heighten the panicked look in his eyes. 

He nods, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Yeah. Yeah that’s– I won’t– ‘m not leaving you, but– I’ll get ‘em.”

In the end, he calls one of his friends to do the job, a tall, dark haired man you vaguely recognise. He passes Kyoutani a duffle bag full of what you can only assume is an assortment of your own clothes, eyebrows knitting together in a distinct frown as he takes in your condition. Whatever thoughts he has, he keeps them to himself, and you find yourself grateful for that small mercy. 

When he turns back to Kyoutani, though, something heavy – significant – passes wordlessly between them.

Kyoutani, talkative as ever, thanks him with a nod, “I owe you one.”

Iwaizumi – it is Iwaizumi, right? – simply nods in return. His eyes flicker back to you, another assessing once over, “Look after her, yeah? We’ll talk later.”

And then he’s gone too. 

They let you go and get dressed. Kyoutani’s seen you naked more times than you care to count. Sick as a dog, drooling in your sleep and drunk before, and yet there’s something distinctly humiliating about having to rely on him to dress yourself because your legs are still too shaky to stand properly and trying to pull on the jeans Iwa brought you – much less button them – with a broken wrist is nearly impossible. 

And even if it weren’t, you doubt he’d be willing to let you out of his sight right now. 

It’s the quiet that fills the space between you, the way he goes about helping you – glancing up to check each time he touches you. Hesitant, because there’s no hiding how you flinch every time he moves too quickly, how quick you are to have his hands off you. 

Kyoutani’s a lot of things; aggressive, hot tempered, volatile, stubborn. Quick to lash out and violent when he does so. He’s not stupid, though. 

The Doctor speaks to you again before you leave, passes you packets of painkillers with instructions to take two every six hours and tells you to come back in six to seven weeks time to assess removing your cast. 

He also hands you a card with the name and phone number of a psychologist neatly printed in black lettering. “She specialises in cases like yours. It might… help.”

No, Kyoutani isn’t stupid. 

He says little on the drive back to your apartment, a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. 

Or at least, you’d thought he was driving you back to your apartment. Ten minutes in, and you realise the route he’s taking doesn’t lead home, but to his place. Home, you’d said. You wanted to go home.

Kyoutani’s apartment, for all the time you spend there, has never been home. 

It’s not worth the effort of arguing with him right now, so you bite your tongue. With an arm anchored around your waist, pointedly ignoring your attempts to push him away and do it yourself, he guides you inside. 

Locks the door behind him, setting you gently onto the couch. 

A beat of silence passes. 

Kyoutani hoarsely clears his throat, rounding on you. “Tell me what happened,” he demands. “Everything.”

Tell him so he can go and find every last one of them that dared lay a finger on you. Tell him so he knows exactly how long he should drag it out for. An eye for an eye, right?

You’d made your mind up hours ago, when you were shakily recounting your attack to the police officer who found you. Or maybe it was before that, even – lying half naked, shivering and bloody and sobbing amidst the filth of that alleyway, every tiny movement bringing a fresh wave of pain.

Maybe you’d made your mind up months ago, you were just too much of a coward to do anything about it. 

You breathe in. Breathe out. 

“I’m done, Kentarou.” Lifting your chin, you meet those burning, honey darkened eyes. “We’re done. I won’t do this anymore, I– I can’t.”

His silence is thunderous. You force yourself to keep going.

“Tonight… shouldn’t’ve happened. You– you’re not good for me, but I thought–” a harsh, slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up, surprising both of you. It sounds more like a sob. “I thought that if I left you’d get angry and you’d– you’d hurt me, kill me, even, but I’m gonna end up dead either way, right? It’s a lose lose situation.”

Kyoutani takes a step towards you then, and you flinch back into the couch, shaking your head. “No, no! Don’t, I just– I want to go home, Kyoutani. I wanna go home!”

You’re hyperventilating now, and this time he doesn’t stop in his pursuit to reach you. “You are home,” he mutters. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He pulls you onto his lap, half cradling you while you shudder, sobbing into his shoulder. 

He’ll only ever hear what he wants to.

“You’re safe here, I’ll fix it, okay?”

Fix it, as though beating the men who attacked you to a violent, bloody death will somehow magically make things right between you.

And you can picture it clear as day; he’ll hold you til the tears subside, til exhaustion and grief wear you down and you don’t fight it when he carries you into the bedroom. He’d want to stay, to keep watch after coming so close to losing you entirely, but his anger, as always, would win out.

He’d wait until you were fast asleep, dead to the world, before locking you up like a princess in a tower to go and chase down those who’d hurt you. You wouldn’t tell him the details, not the names you’d overheard or the descriptions of your assailants. It wouldn’t matter. Either he knew exactly who’d done it and why, or he’d take that jagged, snarling rage of his and lash out at anyone he’d ever pissed off just in case they’d be stupid enough to try coming after the one thing – one person – Kyoutani Kentarou gave a fuck about.

Tomorrow you’d wake, and maybe with a clearer head you’d try to bring this up again. Or maybe you’d just go; call your sister or one of your friends the first opportunity you get – you haven’t spoken to any of them in months, would any of them actually pick up? – to come and take you away, someplace safe. You could change the locks on your place in the short term, look for a better apartment somewhere on the other side of the city, maybe.

Maybe.

The smell of cigarettes clings to him, the leather of his jacket, the same one he’d tried to push onto you back at the hospital, his aftershave, woodsy and spiced. Once, those familiar scents might have been a comfort to you. Now, they’re as suffocating as the rest of him.

The Mad Dog’s whore, they’d called you, spitting it at you while they kicked and kicked and kicked. 

“It’s your fault.”

The words come quietly, barely more than a whisper, yet they ring through his apartment like the tolling of a bell. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

With your face buried in his chest, you can’t see his expression change but oh, you feel the way his body tenses like a live wire. The rabid snarl he physically has to bite down on lest it rip through the room and expose him for the animal he is. 

And there’s an unspoken warning in the way his grip tightens, unintentionally crushing you against him. He’s hurting you, your fractured wrist and bruised ribs crying out as Kyoutani fights to keep that hair trigger temper of his in check. 

Yet the words wouldn’t sting if they weren’t true, and in that moment, you know you’ve struck your mark. It’s almost worth it, a bittersweet, biting victory amidst overwhelming defeat. And drunk on that vindictiveness, too far gone to back out now and desperate to inflict a fraction of the pain you’re feeling back onto him, you double down and twist the knife.

“You might as well have been the one holding me down, ‘Tarou. You did this to me, and I’ll never stop hating you for it.”

He does snarl then, ripping himself away from you like your very touch burns. His face is alight, fury radiating off of him, teeth bared, eyes near feral. This is the Mad Dog everyone else sees, the monster – rabid and dangerous – that he tries and fails to hide beneath clumsy tenderness and affection.  

Physically shaking with fury, hands flexing in and out of fists, he stares you down, each breath leaving him in heaving, ragged pants. Kyoutani towers over you, broad and muscular, savage and utterly enraged.

And in the thick, palpable tension, in the seconds that stretch and warp, passing like molasses from one moment to the next, you wonder if he’s going to take a swing at you. Wrap his hands around your delicate throat and throttle you. Kill you, even. He certainly looks angry enough. 

Instead, after what feels like an eternity, Kyoutani snorts like a bull, turning on his feet and storming out without another word, slamming the door shut with enough force that the whole apartment shakes and rattles.

You don’t move for a long time after that.

At first, you tell yourself that you’re waiting to see if he comes back. Kyoutani’s always been rash and hot headed, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d left in the heat of an argument only to return a short while later with flowers and some grunted out, pained sounding apology. 

And then… well, you don’t quite know after that. 

Sunlight begins to creep through the window, and you curl up on the couch. The painkillers they gave you still have a few good hours left in them, but your whole body feels weirdly heavy. Exhausted. After your vicious little outburst, you’ve run completely out of steam. 

There’s nothing left for you to give. 

The tears come again, silent and pained, streaming down your cheeks. Your whole heart aches.

You think you’re grieving; for what happened to you tonight, for the awful, inescapable mess that you’ve tangled yourself up in. 

And you could go now, leave this apartment – and Kyoutani – behind. Maybe you’d make it. Maybe your sister would come. Maybe his friends are downstairs waiting in case you try anything. Or someone less friendly with a score to settle.

Maybe it wouldn’t even matter, because Kyoutani would rather set the world on fire and watch it burn than let you go, whether you leave this apartment or not. 

Minutes tick by – or is it hours? – and eventually your breathing evens out and sleep comes and takes you.

You stir not to the sound of the door opening, but the scent of something sharp and coppery, of cigarettes and leather, and warm, familiar aftershave. Strong arms lift you up. 

Kyoutani says nothing as he carries you to his bed, sets you down gently and crawls in to take the space behind you, shifting the blankets up so they cover you both. His lips press against your hair, a heavy arm sliding over your middle, pulling you snug against him.

“‘m sorry,” he mumbles gruffly, and you wonder what it is he thinks he’s apologising for.

Heavy eyelids fall shut.

You don’t fight sleep when it beckons once more.

LITTLE DARK AGE

haitani ran x fem!reader x haitani rindou

summary: eight years later, you finally return to tokyo and find yourself caught in the middle of a violent gang war between the two most ruthless criminal organizations of tokyo’s underworld, forced to choose between blood and love.

genre: bonten timeskip, angst, forbidden romance, childhood friends -> strangers -> lovers, 18+ MDNI

warnings: fem!reader, gang violence, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, explicit smut, polyamory, profanity, MCD, unedited, MTBA

taglist form is on masterlist!

previous chapter -> masterlist -> next chapter

CHAPTER Ⅱ. HOUSE OF MEMORIES

Keep reading

Dog with No Teeth // Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Like deer meat picked off by carrion birds, you are plucked up during a scavenging raid by tactical-clad men all in black. There is no possibility of returning to your old life. You’re forced to assimilate, to conform to the remaining dredges of society. With that comes a choice: select someone to marry or the government will do it for you. You make the rash choice, selecting the skull-faced stranger that snatched you in the first place.

Overall Warnings: Post-Apocalyptic AU, dubcon, forced marriage, forced proximity, eventual lovers, breeding, pregnancy, canon-typical violence

Chapters: Ongoing

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty

** indicates a Community Label

ao3 // main masterlist

࣪ ⊹ 𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 — tsukishima kei.

⁰¹ — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈 : the best part of me…

part i summary : your winter trip was supposed to bring you a sense of relaxation and relief after the long fall semester. however, there's a bit of trepidation about seeing your long-time crush, daichi, for the first time after he introduced his new girlfriend. yet, you quickly find yourself wrapped in a much more complicated tryst than you had anticipated.

contains : fem reader (she / her pronouns), slight angst, mentions of unrequited feelings (reader → daichi), college au, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, tension (romantic and unamed sexual), eventual smut (none in this part, mdni), mentions of anxiety, fake dating, misunderstandings, reader is shorter than tsukishima, teasing, pining tsukishima

a/n : this fic is definitely my baby and I hope you all enjoy it! i plan on having two parts, but it may turn into three if I cannot fit the smut in with the plot for next chapter! also, I pictured the until dawn lodge as the cabin in this fic, but I tried to make it as vague as possible for you all to imagine <3 reblogs / tags / comments are loved and appreciated! thank you so much to sweet risu for helping me whenever I got confused <3

word count : 14.6k

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There are many instances in life–different paths to take, different decisions to make–in which you do not come to understand their meaning until after they have passed. 

Looking back, you suppose this was the start of one of those instances. 

The sting of the cold is alleviated soon after you push open the large glass doors of the metropolitan museum–though the coolness of the door’s metal handle lingers on your skin. You can still feel the grooves pressed against your palm even as you walk through the main entrance, and you mindlessly run your thumb over the small indents to soothe them away. 

It’s strange–the echoing of your footsteps, the blatant sound of your footfalls; they bounce off the walls, ringing slightly in your ears as you make your way past the exhibits. With the evening sun dwindling behind you–the day’s last rays beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the front door–the shadows of the museum’s exhibits stretch across the hard, grey floor. Seeing a place usually teeming with gleeful families and exuberant, easily-excitable children devoid of people is almost eerie, but you find comfort in the vivid emptiness. 

The lights are dimmed as you traverse down the main hallway, and the excitement at what’s to come continues to swell inside your chest. You swiftly take a right until you spot the second door–somewhat propped open, allowing any outside viewers a peek inside the office. 

“Hey stranger,” you make your presence known, though the likelihood of surprising Tsukishima is slim to none. 

Leaning against the wooden doorframe, you cross your arms, waiting for your best friend to turn around and greet you with his usual charm of sarcasm and teasing. 

Tsukishima leans over his desk, shoving a book and miscellaneous supplies into his brown shoulder bag. The jacket he’d sported this morning–the same one he’d worn a week ago, before he spilled a splotch of coffee on the grey tweed–is already shrugged over his shoulders. It’s long, reaching down his back, framing his tall form in a way that compliments him. 

Not that you’d ever tell him that. 

“Sorry–we’re actually closed,” Tsuskishima is smug, throwing a lopsided smirk over his shoulder. His glasses fall down the bridge of his nose at the action, and he casually pushes them back into place with his pointer finger. “Didn’t you see the sign?

His attempts at teasing are lost on you; you scoff, rolling your eyes in such a manner that only comes from being friends with the tall man since your adolescent years. “There was no sign, actually,” you chide, hugging your arms to yourself. The cool chill is back–something that is not uncommon in such a large museum. Without the numerous people milling about, families having taken off an afternoon to explore and coo over the exhibits, the warmth that comes with so many bodies in a building is absent. 

Tsukishima furrows his brows as he finishes gathering his belongings. Turning to face you briefly, he grabs the gloves that hang on a small hook by the door, tugging the leather over his knuckles, pulling down until they cover his wrists. “Well, the sign is metaphorical; you can easily check our hours online. Besides–does anyone actually use ‘open’ and ‘closed’ signs anymore?” 

You shrug, lips downturned into a thoughtful look. You humor Tsukishima–your specialty. “I dunno. Small businesses, maybe. The restaurant down the street from Suga’s uses one,” you point out. 

Knowing his routine, you quickly snatch his thermos from his desk–the one he religiously uses for coffee and nothing else–and offer it to him with a supercilious grin. 

Tsukishima glares at you, though it holds no bite, before gratefully grasping the mug's handle. With a slight frown–a pout, by any other means–he opens the lid, taking a peek inside. He swirls the cup, and immediately, a woeful look crosses his features–empty. 

You hypothesize that the probable lack of coffee that usually lingers in the metal thermos will lead to a more easily irritable Tsukishima, and brace yourself accordingly.

“How do you even know that?” Tsukishima asks, astonishment evident in his tone. He doesn’t mask his surprise at the tiny bit of knowledge, though you do feel slighted by your best friend. 

“Are you really asking me that?” you retort, raising a brow in mock disbelief. Your tone is jokingly flat, as so to convey your feigned irritation. It’s notorious among your friend group that you hold an abundance of random, oftentimes useless, pieces of information. It’s a small thing, yes, but you blame it on your years of trivia night at the insistence of Yamaguchi–every Tuesday in the campus’s library and–if you’re lucky enough–you could even win a free parking voucher.

You’d won eight times throughout your tenured years at the university. 

“Okay, smartass.” With a huff, Tsukishima pulls the thick strap of the bag over his shoulder, motioning with one hand for you to relinquish your commandeering of the doorframe. Readily, you push off of it, moving to wait in the hallway as Tsukishima flicks off the light in his office with one hand, turning his back to you to close and lock the heavy door. 

“What–no ‘closed’ sign?” you bait him, though, with the lack of coffee in his cooled metal thermos, you take heed to continue with care and caution. 

“Careful there,” Tsukishima warns, ducking his head in to give you a scornful look. It has the opposite desired effect–you haven’t been intimidated by the tall man since you were years younger, and even then, it was always more of a kind of admiration. Instead, you merely grin. 

To be friends with Tsukishima Kei, you must have a certain amount of bite. 

“Alright, princess.” Your arms are still crossed, attempting to trap the body heat close to your chest. You’re becoming restless–more than ready to escape the large, echoing, empty museum, looking forward to the warmth his car will provide. “Let’s get you some coffee. Have to get you more amicable before we join the masses.”

“Princess?” he glares, adjusting his grip on the handle of his tumbler. You bite back the urge to laugh as Tsukishima seems to hold onto it like it's his lifeline–you don’t feel the need to risk your neck quite this early in the evening. 

“Well, yeah,” you reply thoughtfully. Your attention is temporarily stolen by a stray piece of thread hanging off the hem of your sweater sleeve, layered neatly underneath your coat; you pick at it, a pinch forming between your brows as the offending string snags. After losing interest in the string, you let it hang, instead deciding to eye the singular bag Tsukishima holds. “You’re taking forever to get all your stuff together–probably longer than I did. By the way, is that everything you’re bringing? You know we’re going to be gone for, like, two weeks.”

The winter trip is not uncommon; every year since your first in university, your group of friends have made an effort to get away after the fall semester had ended. This year, a large lodge cabin nestled in the mountains was calling your name, and you had only a few misgivings about attending this year. 

You did not know if you were quite ready to face him. 

“Hey–listen, you,” Tsukishima falls into step next to you, and his words are paired with wide eyes and a dismayed expression. “I’ve had it to about here today,” he raises his hand to mimic a high bar above his head, “and the last thing I need is your attitude.”

His words, while harsh, are offset by the warm, affectionate tone in his voice. He doesn’t mean the bruskness–and hardly ever does with you–and the familiar teasing banter that bounces effortlessly back and forth between you is gratifying. It has you grinning widely, knocking your shoulder against his body to pull a similar smile from him. 

“Right. Hence the…” you wave your hand around, gathering your thoughts,”...the bribery of more coffee.”

You trail off in a singsong, wiggling your eyebrows in what you hope is an obnoxiously humorous enticing manner. 

Tsukishima snorts, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. They never stay in place, and you make a brief note to remind the man to ask for more rounded temples the next time he finds himself needing a new pair of frames.

“Is that what that was? A bribery?” Tsukishima walks steadily beside you–just as he has for years, purposefully slowing his pace, shortening his strides in order to fall into step with you. The gesture, while likely unconscious after many years, is still appreciated. You doubt you would be able to keep up with him otherwise.

“Duh,” you simply state, framing your voice to emulate a sense of aloofness–as if the answer was obvious. “We have a long drive ahead of us–one that you’re soldiering, I hope you know–and I don’t feel like dealing with your grumpiness the whole way.”

“Really? My grumpiness? You’re one to talk,” Tsukishima easily bites back, tilting his head your way with a slight raise of his brow. “Also? I never agreed to drive. When did you come to that conclusion?”

You pretend as if you miss his question.

“Whatever. One of us will be grumpy by the time the drive is over,” you glance at Tsukishima with shock written across your features. “Also, you never answered my question.”

“And you never answered mine.”

Your glare is met with an annoyingly self-satisfied smirk; Tsukishima is smug, and his intonation only further has the frustration prickling at your chest. 

After a few seconds of silent stand-off, you finally break eye contact. “Please drive,” you mumble, tucking your chin a bit further under the thick scarf you wear. “I really don’t feel like it.” 

You’re grateful for the added warmth of your winter clothes as Tsukishima sweeps open the front doors of the museum. Immediately, the cold welcomes you, the brisk chill causing you to shiver slightly in your coat. The sounds of the city immediately greet your ears, and if you squint, you can almost see your and Tsukishima’s reflections on the blacked-out windows of the building on the opposite side of the busy street.

“Ah–there it is,” is Tsukishima’s cryptic response. 

He turns around to lock up the museum, pulling out an old key from the front pocket of his long coat. You remember the first time you’d seen it, one instance three weeks ago. Tsukishima had been tasked with closing and locking up, just as he is now, and you recall laughing at the sight of such an old-looking key for a new, modern museum. 

You pull your attention away from the tiny key as Tsukishima turns back to face you, tucking it safely away in the previous pocket. 

“What is where?” you ask, confusion lacing your words. Another cruel breeze brushes past you, and with your hands shoved in your front pockets, you curl your fingers towards your palms–aching to return warmth to the appendages. 

“Are you that determined to ignore it?” Tsukishima pauses as he begins walking down the sidewalk, making his way steadily to the car. He always parks at the sixth parking spot down from the front door–far enough away to allow museum patrons a spot, yet close enough to not warrant a long walk. You follow him quickly, itching to feel the warm blast of heat in his car. 

As you annoyingly tug at the handle of his car, you feel the twisting of unease settling at home in your chest. You hate the feeling–you had been attempting to ignore and push it aside as much as possible this past month. Yet, with a friend such as Tsukishima Kei, you find that hiding your emotions is more difficult than not.

“Ignore what?” is your poor response. You wince as the words leave your tongue, feeling heavy, stilted, and awkward even as they meet the cold air. Heavy, stilted, awkward, and undoubtedly not believable.

Tsukishima scowls over the hood of his car at your continued tugging and pulling on the handle. Finally unlocking it, the car makes a small beeping sound, and you let out a similar noise of relief when the handle gives, and you’re able to duck your head inside.

“You’re a bad liar,” your friend states, though not unkindly. 

He settles in the front seat, pushing his keys in the ignition and letting out a sigh of ease when the warm air from the heater immediately begins filling the small space. Sinking against the leather cushions, you refrain from taking off the scarf, still feeling the lingering chill that creeps through the thin pane of the window. 

Gathering a feigned smug composure, you smirk. “Only to you,” you tease, hoping that the fondness in your tone will distract Tsukishima from his original observation of your sour mood. 

But, your wishes are for naught; you've never been able to hide anything from the blonde, and as he carefully pulls out of the parking space–one hand on the steering wheel, one hand braced on the back of your headrest–he offers you a knowing glance.

Then, after a brief moment of silence, a sigh. It’s rough–as if Tsukishima is hesitant to bring up the thoughts so obviously plaguing his mind. “It’s about him, right?”

For a moment, you’re silent. Your stomach sinks at the reminder of him–at the reminder Daichi, of your feelings, of what never was. The chill outside is nothing when compared–a pit inside you widens as it gnaws on your gut, filling your lungs with thick ice at the unpleasant reminder of it all. You find yourself unable to focus on anything for a moment as your mind is filled with memories of him–friendly memories, yes, but the once rose-colored haze they were all colored in is now gone, along with the crush that you harbored on Daichi for years. The remainder of your unrequited feelings leaves a bitter taste on your tongue, one that you have yet to replace with something sweeter, and while you're confident any romantic feelings have gone, it is still challenging to move past.

“Yeah, it’s about him.” 

The car falls quiet, and you feel a sudden surge of gratefulness for the moment of silence Tsukishima grants you. 

The state of quiescence is not unwelcome, nor is it strained; Tsukishima lets the subject teeter off the edge–though you know to expect him to bring it up again soon–and the lapse in conversation allows you time to think. 

Daichi has been a friend for years; just as Tsukishima, just as Yamaguchi. Just as Kiyoko and Yachi and Hinata and a plethora of others. Unlike Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, and the rest of your friend group, your feelings for Daichi had always run a bit deeper. Perhaps it started when you were still in high school–bright-eyed, excited, and entirely head-over-heels for the captain of the volleyball team. Or, maybe it began when you entered college–on the night when Daichi, always acting as the sweet, dependent upperclassman, saw you studying in the library one evening and made an effort to join you until you'd finished.

While you do not know when your feelings began, you do remember when you discovered your feelings were entirely unrequited. It wasn’t until a few unfortunate weeks ago that a party Suga hosted resulted in your friend group being introduced to Daichi’s new girlfriend, Michimiya. 

A sweet, unassuming girl. She’s cute and acted especially shy that night. You recall how a permanent blush coated her cheeks, likely due to being under such adoring care from Daichi–an arm constantly slung over her shoulder. She had been kind to you, and it only made you feel worse when she offered you a friendly smile in greeting, accompanied by a genuine compliment of how much she adored your outfit.

You couldn’t bring yourself to dislike her. Despite the rolling of your stomach–a dark green monster perched on your shoulder–she was too sincere in her words and actions, caring and giving to a fault. By the end of the night, she had smoothly integrated into your group, and your throat felt as if it had a thick wad of cotton shoved deep inside. 

The crush started as it ended–abruptly, with little fanfare, and an exuberant amount of emotions you weren’t necessarily prepared for–or ready to face. 

You have not seen nor spoken to Daichi since that night, and you feel a strange sense of nervous suspense and trepidation at the prospect of seeing him in a short few hours. Likely, Michimiya would also be in attendance because who would go on a long post-college, trip without their new girlfriend?

You don’t know who you wish to avoid more. 

“What’s up?” Tsukishima breaks the comfortable silence. His fingers flick over the adjustments for the heater, raising it two degrees. Silently, you grin, and you know that Tsukishima picks up on your thankfulness simply by the almost indecipherable tilt of your head in his direction. You receive your own in turn: a small tug of his lips, a quirk of his mouth in a telling grin. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you tuck your hand between your thighs, crossing your legs in an effort to warm your fingers. You make your voice light–teasing and derisive. “Just doing my best to keep the impending dread at bay.”

His grin is immediately gone, twisting into a displeased expression. Then, a scowl. 

“Self-deprecating jokes don’t suit you.”

It’s a brutally honest statement, and while you’re used to hearing Tsukishima speak that way to others–his peers, other students, your rambunctious group of friends–it is rare he speaks that way to you. It has a strange feeling swirling in your chest, and all you can do is attempt to brush it off with another ill-timed joke. 

“Yeah, okay. Like you know what suits me.” To lighten his mood again, you make your tone pleasant–easy. A teasing manner to rope Tsukishima back into the playful give-and-take you so often take part in. 

However, his frown only deepens uncharacteristically, and he keeps his focus solely on the road, even while stopped at a bustling intersection. 

Tsukishima’s reaction is strange, and you decide to brush it off. 

You attribute it to the lack of coffee.

“Maybe I do,” he concedes, glancing in the rearview mirror before tapping his turn signal. As soon as the light turns green–the metal pole of the traffic light dancing precariously over the crosswalk as a gust of wind likely disrupts it–Tsukishima makes a left turn. 

You’re left in silence, mindlessly scratching over the material of your coat. Was Tsukishima implying that he knows what would suit you? Was he, therefore, insinuating that Daichi is not what would best suit you? It’s almost as if he had something else in mind–something troubling his mind? What exactly Tsukishima was referencing, you can’t fathom, yet his words bury themselves uncomfortably in your heart, and you feel an inexplicable urge to swiftly apologize for your likely crass words. 

It’s infrequent that the air between you and Tsukishima feels stilted and heavy; you can recount on one hand the number of serious fights you’ve been in–and, even less, the number of times you’ve felt awkward around him. The niggling at the back of your mind returns, and you bite back the urge to ask for clarification: what’s that supposed to mean? you want to ask, though, with the state of his mood, Tsukishima would be prone to take your words the wrong way. 

So, you let the moment taper out on its own. The drive continues languidly, and, with time, the air between you–as well as your fingers–no longer feels frozen. It’s not until three minutes later, according to the car’s lagging clock, that Tsukishima pipes up again, letting out a low sigh as you approach your apartment. 

You glance over at him in acknowledgment, knowing that words are unnecessary. 

“You can talk about it, if you want,” Tsukishima merely states. If you didn’t know him, hearing the care that bleeds through his words would be nearly impossible. “About him,” he clarifies.

Instantly, your heart lifts, and the strange pit in your stomach is relieved. Leaning your head back against the headrest, you keep your focus trained on your friend, not minding that he pointedly keeps his attention on the road, avoiding your soft gaze. 

“I know,” you say, no longer bothering to try masking the tarrying remnants of hurt.

It doesn’t feel like quite enough, but as your feelings currently stand–confused, with a mix of jittery anticipation and a lingering amount of heartache–it is all you can offer. 

Tsukishima parts his lips–as if a sentence is hanging off the tip of his tongue–before deciding against it. 

A spark of surprise comes to life inside you at his apparent hesitance. Tsukishima has never been one to hold his tongue. 

Interesting. 

Before you can speak on his odd behavior, he’s suddenly adjusting the gear shift, turning to face you with a look you can’t reasonably interpret. “We’ve arrived at your destination, Miss. Your total for this trip will be three-thousand three-hundred and sixteen yen. If you don’t mind, please don’t forget to leave a good review on the mobile app–”

Tsukishima is smirking, and you can only offer a huff of amused laughter in response as you sneer. Lightly, you punch his shoulder, noting how soft the fabric of his sweater feels under your fist. 

Before you can pull away–laughter still present in the air–Tsukishima captures your wrist, holding your hand in place. His fingers are long enough and palm large enough that he’s able to wrap the entirety of your wrist in his one hand; he’s warm, fingertips calloused as they grip onto you–tightly enough to make a point, yet loose enough that you could easily pull away if you wanted. 

Strangely, you find that you don’t.

“Ow.” Your friend is smirking; it’s a devilishly handsome look, you realize. Lips tugged up in a lopsided fashion, eyes glinting with a kind of mischievousness reserved only for you and Yamaguchi. He’s not actually hurt–a fact you’re both keenly aware of, as your tiny punch could hardly have bothered a fly–yet he’s still holding onto your wrist, and you suddenly cannot comprehend why your throat feels so dry. 

“You’re so full of it,” you attempt to tease, but your voice shakes a bit as the syllables get caught in your mouth. 

Tsukishima is simply looking at you with an unreadable expression; on the outside, he is teasing as usual. Thought, you know Tsukishima, and there’s a slight beat–barely half a second–when something else flashes across his features. In that second, his eyes narrow gently, his fingers moving to drag against your pulse point. Your breath catches in your chest at the sensation–the rough pad of his thumb barely brushes over the thin skin of your inner wrist, applying pressure to the sensitive area with no more than a blink.

The space feels hot–not suffocating, but overwhelming. It’s difficult to distinguish the abnormal barrage of emotions that suddenly crash in your stomach, pushing against your ribcage, and swelling in your heart before you can do anything to stop them. It’s humming, filling any possible crevice and corner of the car until it’s packed full–full of the anticipatory feeling, full of indiscernible emotion.

But, perhaps it’s not indiscernible. You think, if you focus hard enough, you might be able to determine what exactly it means.

The abrupt and unforeseen shift in energy throws you for a loop. You don’t know where to look, what to do, what to say. But you don’t have to make that decision; Tsukishima is holding your rapt attention, not saying anything, not doing anything, but staring at you with those inscrutable eyes. If you squint–you might be able to see what’s hidden there. 

The moment lasts only seconds–an inconsequential blip in time–yet it feels like it lasts for years.

Again, Tsukishima parts his lips–as if he wants to say something–before ultimately deciding against it.

The thick buzzing between you quickly dissipates when Tsukishima drops your wrist, looking down to pull his keys from the ignition. He clears his throat with a humorless chuckle as you come back to the moment, still wholly perplexed by what transpired mere seconds ago. 

The moment may have just ended, but with the tension hanging still thick in the air, it might as well have been a lifetime ago. 

“Want me to come inside? Help you grab your things?” he asks, running a few fingers through his hair. 

You miss how his hand shakes.

Taking another second to attempt to process what just occurred–shoving it to the back of your mind, determined not to focus too much on any underlying meaning–you let out a humorless laugh. 

What the fuck?

“Please, I’m offended,” you tell him, folding a hand over your heart. “You make it sound like I overpacked.”

Tsukishima doesn’t need to say anything. Just as with most in your friendship, he only has to shoot you a look–one of disbelief, as if to say really?

“Don’t you always?” Tsukishima pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

All you can do is scoff, opening your door in a swift movement before smoothly exiting the car. The coldness hits you, and even though you shouldn’t be, you’re shocked by the near-freezing draft that greets you. With a small, petulant glare, you press your lips together to fight off the shiver that instantly wracks through your body. 

“No coffee for you, then,” you say through gritted teeth, digging your fingers into your palms as you cross your arms over your chest. While your tone bled seriousness, you and Tsukishima know the threat is feigned–hidden behind a thinly-veiled laugh. But, after all his teasing, you think it’s the least Tsukishima deserves. “Besides, I have to overpack to compensate for your underpacking.”

You don’t have to turn around to know your friend heard you. You hear a disgruntled chuckle as if he calls out your bluff–knowing that you wouldn’t dare deprive him of coffee–but it is cursorily followed by a soft thud, then a tiny curse of ow. 

You grin, thoroughly pleased, and curiously ponder how many times Tsukishima has become overexcited and thus knocked his head against the roof of the car. Feeling a small spark of triumph alight in your chest, you allow the smugness to tug at your mouth in an undoubtedly obnoxious and self-satisfied grin. Leaning down, you press your hands to your knees until you’re peering at Tsukishima through the open door. He doesn’t bother softening his scowl at the sight of your arrogant smirk, tentatively rubbing a hand over the back of his head. 

“Forget the money,” Tsukishima glares, leaning over the middle console to meet your gaze. “I just want the coffee. I think that’s an appropriate payment for driving your ass the two-and-a-half hours.”

You gasp in faux surprise, comically clutching at your heart over your top. “My ass? Kei, you were the one demanding that I go? If I recall correctly–”

“You probably don’t.”

“Kei!” You scold him for interrupting you. 

“If I recall correctly–which I do, smart ass–you were the one pouting saying that you didn’t wanna go this year unless I came, too!” With a fond look, you think back to the evening in question, remembering how Tsukishima had lazily stretched across your couch, scowling incessantly until you’d agreed to request off work for the two weeks encompassing the vacation. 

Not even bothering to argue against your words, Tsukishima lolls his head to the side, thumping dramatically against the warm leather headrest. “Fuck you very much,” he grunts, twisting the knob of the heater up a few more degrees, making up for how the cold air filters in through your open door. 

The soothing blast of fresh hot air is almost enough to thaw your now-frozen fingers. In an effort to warm them, you bring your hands up to your mouth, cupping your palm atop your other and blowing a tepid breath onto your fingertips. 

It does little to hide the doting smile you sport. 

“C’mon, Tsukki,” you tease, reverting to the childhood nickname, aiming to get a bit more under his skin. “How’re you ever gonna get a girlfriend with that foul mouth? No wonder you’re still single.”

It’s unfortunate how your words appear to have the opposite intended effect. Tsukishima’s body relaxes in a cocky, arrogant way, eyes gleaming with playfulness in such a way that it has a hyper buzz prickling at your heart. 

“Girls tend to like my foul mouth, actually,” he taunts, and the arrogance seeps through his body, pouring into every word as he stares you down competitively. Tsukishima shifts, spreading his thighs, and you hate how your eyes flicker down to catch the slight movement. 

You hate how it makes you feel even more. 

However, before you can even respond–make an attempt to knock him down a peg–Tsukishima’s brows furrow, and he slumps in his seat once again. “And don’t call me that,” he grumbles, rolling his neck until you hear a small popping sound. 

You grin, and everything returns to normal. 

Without another word, you slam the door a tad harder than necessary, giggling a bit when you faintly hear Tsukishima protest from inside the car. 

You make your feet quick; with a bouncing step, you walk into the front doors of the apartment building, enjoying how the heat instantly warms you to your core. Despite the warmth, the cold from outside tends to linger in the doorframe, and after enough time of living inside the building, you know to hug your coat closer to ward off any further chill. 

The elevator ride to your floor seems to take forever; the excitement of joining the rest of your friends in the mountainside cabin–promptly rented for a week and a half–thrums through your veins. As you think more about it, mindlessly nodding your head along with the elevator's tinny sound as it passes the multiple floors, you can’t help how the anticipation mounts. It builds until you feel the urge to shake your hands free of the feeling, swelling incessantly with equal amounts of eagerness and nerves. The notion that, soon, you’ll be existing in the same vicinity as Daichi is almost nauseating, and you have to suck in a large breath to ease your frazzled nerves.

It hardly works. The thrumming continues. 

Three more breaths pass before the elevator door opens. You’re relieved at the excuse to move; you walk quickly, hastening into a subtle jog to help rid your body of the anxious energy that has taken up house there in the past minute or so. It helps, though barely, and by the time you reach your front door, you decide to push your worries to the side. This trip is as much for you as it is for everyone else. You refuse to let any negative emotions ruin what is supposed to be a fun getaway from the stressors of university and burgeoning adulthood. And, after the tiny chunk the luxurious rental cabin took from your modest checking account, you’re more determined to enjoy yourself. There was no way you could fathom staying at such a place on your own, yet, even after splitting the price evenly amongst your friend group, the cost for such an extended stay was enough to make you wince. 

After telling yourself that you deserve the well-needed break after such an arduous school semester, paired with Tsukishima’s convincing argument that there was no way he could go if you didn’t, you ultimately came to terms with the cons of the trip. 

After slotting and turning the key in your apartment’s door, you quickly gather your things. 

Two bags and a brewed, fresh thermos of coffee later–Tsukishima’s thermos, one of the two extras that he insists on keeping in your overflowing cabinets–you find yourself in the same position. Locking the door, you ruminate briefly on the time you’ll spend away from home, allowing an inkling of nostalgia to, inexplicably, settle in your heart for a beat too long. 

You don’t ponder too long on the feeling, similar to the nervousness you promptly decided to ignore. 

The elevator ride down always seems to go by much faster than it does going up. In seemingly no time at all, you’re lugging your things through the large front doors of the apartment building, offering a kind greeting and a wave to a familiar neighbor as you go. 

“What was that about overpacking?” Tsukishima is leaning against the side of the car as you meet him outside, suspciously eyeing the bags you hold. You huff irritably, gesturing to him the steaming coffee you have in one hand before shoving a bag into his awaiting arms. The short sound of dismay he lets out is not nearly enough for your liking, especially after seeing how his eyes lit up at the sight of more coffee, and you find yourself fighting the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him. 

“Asshole,” you pop the trunk–the familiarity of the gesture almost seeming like second nature. 

“Love you, too.” Tsukishima places your second bag by your other–next to his own. 

His hands twitch as he places them on top of the trunk, only moving to shut it after making sure your hands are out of the way. Again, his eyes fretfully dart to the thermos held between your palms, and all you can offer is a huff of laughter between cold puffs of air. 

“Come on–we’re already going to be late.”

“Yeah? And who’s fault would that be?” Tsukishima attempts to retort, not knowing that you have an answer already poised on your tongue. 

“Yours, actually,” you click your seatbelt into place, a content grin gracing your lips as you relax in the car. You kick your shoes off in an exaggerated gesture, pressing two fingers on the seat’s adjustable track to lean it back. “My class ended at two. You didn’t get to close the museum until four.”

Tsukishima scrunches his nose in distaste–whether at your words or you kicking off your shoes, you don’t know. “You’re full of spite today. Did you know that?” 

The gentle hum of the ignition is soothing, and the warmth fills the car again soon after. “Mm, it’s part of my charm,” you close your eyes and take a deep breath, happily folding your hands on your lap. “Oh, are we picking up Yamaguchi? He did know we would be late, right? Because of a certain someone,” you look pointedly at Tsukishima. 

The blonde lets out a humorless chuckle, clicking down on the turn signal as you set up the GPS. “Yamaguchi said that he would rather room with Noya and Tanaka’s hyperactive asses than ride with me. Something about my driving being crap. Plus, I still have to drop the key off at my boss’s place,” Tsukishima fingers the museum’s key between two fingers, wiggling it in front of your vision. 

After fiddling with the navigation system and entering the appropriate address, you sit back. The estimated time of arrival blinks back at you–a little over two hours and forty minutes.

“He’s got a point,” you muse, closing your eyes. “About your driving, I mean.”

You feel the soft pinch on your shoulder before you see it, whipping your head around to see Tsukishima grinning, proud. “If my driving is crap, what does that make yours?”

You click your tongue as you turn back around, facing the front. You hadn’t noticed it previously, but snow flurries settle on the windshield in a soft, white powder. You take a second before responding to admire the fresh snowfall, following the flakes’ tiny dances until they land on the windshield, destined to promptly melt if they do not get swiped away by the windshield wiper first.

“Always so mean to me,” you murmur, but your tone is lighthearted and gaze distracted. The longer you watch the snow fall–turning into a white blur as the speed limit increases–the adrenaline and excitement of the day seep from your body, replacing it with a potent kind of exhaustion. All too soon, your limbs feel heavy, and your eyelids begin to droop despite your meager effort to keep them open. 

You find that, in the still silence that follows, paired nicely with the comforting heat gathering in the car and the soft lull of the drive, you begin drifting off into a mindless, dreamless sleep.

You miss the last thing Tsukishima says before you slip off into unconsciousness. 

“You’re the worst driving partner ever.”

“You know, that doesn’t even make sense. We didn’t take turns driving, Kei.”

The look he shoots you is nothing short of hostile, yet it makes you laugh all the same. 

After a nearly three-hour drive–due to the weather and the side-trip of dropping off the museum’s key–you arrived at the cabin. At first glance, you think ‘cabin’ is too diminutive of a word; in its place is a large lodge, made up entirely of nice, dark wood and surrounded by hundred-year-old pine trees blanketed in soft snow. In the distance, the snowy peaks of mountains surround you, and you cannot help but stand in place, floored, for a few moments.

You stare in awe at the unmistakable extravagance of the place you’ll lay to rest for the coming days, one bag held slack in your hand as you take the time to appreciate the structure. There’s a large balcony that you admire for a few seconds, and you wonder how quickly you’d be able to explore it further. 

“You’ll catch flies if you keep that up.” Tsukishima stands next to you, his own bag and your second held tightly in his grip. 

Warmheartedly, you knock your shoulder against his, looking at him with a distinct unbridled excitement. “Not even your stinky attitude can bother me right now, Kei.”

Your words are true; while Kei cannot ruin the moment, the swirling, nearly all-consuming nervousness you feel most certainly can. You feel as if your insides are being eaten up, an uncomfortably warm fizzling sensation settling right at home in your gut, your chest. It’s all you can do to take a deep breath of winter air, exhaling the faint taste of pine, mint, and a trace of cinnamon.

“‘Stinky attitude’?” Tsukishima states, appalled.

You promptly ignore him. “I wonder if that was part of the downpayment,” you mutter humorlessly, curiously wondering how the owners managed to imbue a signature smell to the place. 

“What was that?” Tsukishima asks, leaving thin footprints in his wake as he turns to offer you a strange look. 

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh, heaving your bag over your shoulder to follow him. “Just living the dream.” You do not tell him how you feel agitated and almost sickeningly overwhelmed at the prospect of seeing Daichi–with a girlfriend–again; though, with the way Tsukishima looks back at you, his features softening almost unnoticeably, you don’t think you need to. 

Tsukishima slows, nearly stopping his pace altogether as he patiently waits for you to catch up. 

As you walk, there is a pleasant crunching sound–the fresh snow offering a soft give underfoot. The path from the car to the front porch is short, though, surrounded by nature and the gentle scents of wood and balsam, with the remainder of nerves unendingly tugging and pulling at your system, it feels much longer.

You let yourself savor it as if the walk lasted twenty minutes. 

The cold helps clear your mind and settle your concerns, and you wonder how much it would take to convince Tsukishima to join you on a walk later. 

You hadn’t even reached the front steps of the large wooden porch when a loud yell rings throughout the air, and a thrill of surprise rushes through you. The front door of the lodge is thrown open with haste, and only a familiar head of bright orange hair is able to quell the sudden bout of apprehension that had caused your heart to start pounding and your vision to become tunnel-like.

“Oof–hi there, Hinata,” you manage to get out. His arms hug you tight and warm, engulfing you in a soft embrace. Gradually, you relax, allowing your bag to drop onto the nicely lacquered porch wood as your fingers curl into the softness of his hoodie. You feel him grin, happy at being acknowledged and even happier to have his hyperactive embrace returned.  

“Yo!” Hinata exclaims when he pulls away, a perpetually exuberant grin tugging lopsidedly at his lips. “You guys took forever–though, you’re not the last ones to get here.”

Hinata’s words, while confusing, leave you reeling with more questions than answers. If you were not the last to arrive, who was trailing behind you? Was the object of your recent distress waiting beyond the front door, lounging on a loveseat with a girl you are not quite familiar with yet, beyond knowing she is too sweet to dislike? Or have they not yet arrived? 

Both options leave you feeling restless, and after managing to get out a pathetically halfhearted laugh, you cannot decide which one you would prefer. 

Hinata seemingly misses your uneasiness; he does not comment on it, and his long-winded greeting and explanation of how his drive up the mountain went are only interrupted by Kageyama and Yamaguchi joining you on the porch. The latter is dressed in only a thin cotton shirt, and you let out a slight sound of worry at the sight of his cheeks immediately pinkening upon walking into the cold. 

“Hey, everyone.” Tsukishima picks up your forgotten bag, and Yamaguchi is the next to pull you in for an easy hug. It is looser than Hinata’s, yet more comforting, and as you allow yourself to relax in his familiar embrace, you find that your mind is able to settle slightly. 

However, Yamaguchi soon shivers, and you think he may have only hugged you to receive a small bit of the remnants of warmth that linger on your coat. 

With a giggle at the knowledge, you pull back, noting with a fondness that the pink has quickly spread to his ears. 

“How was the drive?” Yamaguchi asks, shooting a pointed look in Tsukishima’s direction. The lighthearted banter between the two is something you’ve sorely missed, and you find yourself looking forward to seeing more of the friendly banter later. 

“Ha-ha. As if driving with these two was any better,” Tsukishima points to Hinata and a stoic Kageyama. 

Yamaguchi snickers, ducking his head as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hardly.”

“Hey!” Hinata pouts, enthusiastically bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet. Under him, little imprints of the soles of his shoes are left as a reminder in the snow. 

“Hey,” Kageyama simply states, ignoring the impending argument and holding open the door in a silent urging. 

You look at him gratefully. 

“Kageyama, ever the charmer,” you state with a teasing hum. Tsukishima elbows you gently, and, whipping your head around, you childishly snatch one of your bags from his arm. 

Kageyama’s face breaks out into a rare mischievous smirk. “Only for you,” he keeps the door open, holding his fist out to Tsukishima in a short, characteristic greeting.  

“Guys, it’s kinda cold out here…” Yamaguchi is wracked with another shiver, and you feel a pang of concern for the man.

“C’mon, everyone. Yamaguchi’s teeth are practically chattering,” you sympathize, ushering everyone inside with a slight wave of your hands. 

If you were impressed with the exterior of the lodge cabin, the interior is enough to take your breath away. It is filled with a comforting warmth despite the large, open-air layout, dark wooden beams decorating the tall ceiling with similar thick columns gracing the broad stairs. A prominent, rustic light fixture emanates a warm glow not dissimilar to that of the brick fireplace radiating a kind of dry heat; even from the front door, you can feel the homey fire warming your fingertips, spreading throughout your chest in a thick, syrupy heat that causes your cheeks and nose to prickle as the last bits of cold leave your body. 

You take a step down to enter the main living space, eyes wide and mouth parted as you take in the grand magnificence of the place. The furniture compliments the natural charm of the cabin–understated yet unimaginably comfortable-looking, with nude colors and differing shades of tans, reds, and browns. One glance at the two plush blankets and numerous large pillows decorating the L-shaped couch, and you feel the urge to collapse onto it. The leather would feel heavenly under your fingertips, soft with a certain give to it the harder you pressed onto the cushion. 

“There you guys are!” Another excited voice. 

Having been entirely distracted by your surroundings–home, for all intents and purposes, for the coming days–you hardly noticed the familiar faces emerging from inside the rental. 

“Kiyoko!” Similar to earlier, you promptly drop your bag, rushing forward to pull your friend in for a tight embrace. 

“You guys sure did take a while,” a thrilled voice from next to you perks up–Yachi. Stretching out your right arm, you open the embrace, and the girl joins the hug, wrapping her small arms around you and Kiyoko to rock you both back and forth. 

“Sorry, bad traffic,” Tsukishima deadpans, and before you know it, the bag by your feet is quietly plucked up and placed by the foot of the stairs. 

You feel more than hear Yachi let out a huff of laughter, and the three of you only pull away to properly welcome each other. “Traffic?” she asks, not entirely believing him. You feel a huff of pride fill you; you taught her well.  

“Hello to you too, Tsukishima,” Kiyoko greets, her arms still thrown over your and Yachi’s necks. The joy of seeing each other again is palpable–it grows as you leave your arms interlocked around each other, refusing to let go and only tightening comfortably with each passing interaction. 

“She never greets me like that,” Tsukishima elbows Yamaguchi, taking on a teasing look as he blatantly points to you. 

In response, you merely roll your eyes, too preoccupied with catching up with your two friends after not having seen them lately. Due to the time commitment of final exams and the last stretch of the school year, you’ve hardly been able to meet up with your old roommates as much as you’d like, and the feeling nags at you. 

As you roll your eyes at Tsukishima, you miss the knowing look shared between Kiyoko and Yachi from behind your shoulder. 

After the excitement of finally reuniting dissipates some, your previous worries are brought abc to the forefront of your mind. “So, who’s all here?” You broach the topic of your concerns timidly, sparing a glance around the room to try and deduce the current occupants residing here. At first look, there is nothing terribly discerning, minus a coat–likely Yamaguchi’s, based on the size and color–draped across the back of the couch. The rest of the room is sparse of personal belongings, only holding the furniture that came with the place.

“So far, it’s just us,” Kiyoko waves around the room–Hinata, Yamaguchi, Kageyama, Yachi, herself, you, and Tsukishima–“everyone else isn’t here yet.”

“Namely Nishinoya, Tanaka, Daichi, and Michimiya–his girlfriend,” Hinata clarifies, though the added bit about Michimiya being Daichi’s girlfriend was unnecessary: by now, you all know who she is. 

Your body sags with relief; it is a minute action–one that is only caught by Tsukishima, his eyes having flitted to you as soon as Hinata began speaking. 

Not that you noticed, of course.

“Oh, and Suga and Asahi are upstairs. I think they were playing a game or something to decide who got the bigger bed,” Yamaguchi shrugs, though, by the way his shoulders shake slightly, there must have been something amusing regarding the two boys ‘game’. 

As your group of friends continues talking–catching up, laughing, and simply relaxing in each other’s company–you cannot determine whether the feeling that fills your chest is relief or disappointment. Did you feel eased at the notion that you don’t have to face Daichi just yet? Or are you disheartened at the knowledge that he is not yet here? 

While you are confident that you no longer have any remaining romantic feelings for the man, heartbreak is a strange thing that often lingers, and you can’t deny that some morsels of pain still remain even after your feelings have gone. It is as if an echo of something hollow pangs through your heart, leaving you with hands that feel empty and a shallow feeling causing a hole in your stomach. 

“D’you need help bringing your things upstairs?” You are pulled from your thoughts by Tsukishima, who has once again sidled himself against your side. It is not uncommon to find him lingering next to you when surrounded by your mutual friends, with Yamaguchi often next to him. 

“Mhm, yeah. If you don’t mind,” your previous thoughts have made you surprisingly docile and a bit vulnerable. You lean further against Tsukishima’s side, intrinsically seeking his familiar and comforting presence. 

Seemingly taking notice of your abrupt change in mood, Tsukishima nudges his head to the side, silently motioning for you to begin making your way up the stairs. 

“Oh, your guys’ rooms are on the second floor, near the corner with the big window. God, I’m still so jealous of you,” Yamaguchi says, motioning with his hands how to reach your bedrooms. 

In response, Tsukishima only smirks, telling him, “It’s not our fault you got the shortest stick. We all did the same thing.”

The grin on Tsukishima’s face only widens, and you are briefly grateful that, a few weeks prior, you managed to pull the longest stick out of the cup–therefore allotting you one of the three single, private rooms in the cabin. The second had gone to Tanaka, who had triumphantly rubbed it in Nishinoya’s face, with the third being drawn by Tsukishima. 

“Don’t think too much about it,” you comfort Yamaguchi, moving to rub a hand against his shoulder. In response, the man offers you a sheepish smile, nodding along with your words. 

Then, with a conspiratorial grin, you continue, “Besides, you know how Tsukki snores. You should feel lucky that you don’t have the room right next to his,” you leaned forward as you spoke–as if indulging Yamaguchi in a deep secret to which no one else had been privy. 

He lets out a breathless chuckle, more a huff of air than anything else, as he nods his head in a bashful kind of agreement. 

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna take the bigger room,” Tsukishima taunts, already poised and waiting at the foot of the stairs. Your eyes flicker down to your bags–still held in his hands. 

“Please, I’ll let you have that,” you snort, a decidedly unattractive sound, before joining him. “You need it with all that extra…” you trail off, peering up at Tsukishima and vaguely motioning to the air above your head, “…height.”

Quickly picking up on your insinuation, Yamaguchi promptly joins in on the teasing with a grin. “Hey, Tsukki?” he calls from where he’s plopped himself on the couch, legs stretched out, and arms resting behind his head. You hear the mischievousness dancing in his voice and can barely hide the giggle behind your hand before Tsukishima’s icy glare is aimed at you. 

“Don’t start, you two,” Tsukishima sighs, already exasperated, but the ball is already rolling.

“Yeah, I was actually wondering how’s the weather up there?” you finish for Yamaguchi, hurriedly quickening your pace so as to escape from the majority of Tsukishima’s wrath. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

You’re left with a light feeling in your chest from the interaction, and you don’t bother waiting for the taller man. Having grabbed your bags from his hands, you make your way down the wide hallway; it follows the same open-air feel as adopted downstairs, leaving the hallway as more of a balcony, of sorts. You can lean over the side of the wooden railing, knee slotting between the similar pieces of wood that hold the railing up, and clearly see almost the entirety of the downstairs level.

You smile–it’s nice, and you can still feel the heat from the fireplace from where you’re standing. 

Tsukishima is long gone–you think you heard him shut the door to the room on the right, closest to the window residing at the end of the hall. You take the fleeting moment of silence gratefully; as much as you adore your friends, the likelihood of privacy is essentially doused down the drain the moment you’re all together. 

You’ll take any moment of alone time gratefully–and with a grain of salt. 

After admiring the view from the second floor, you push off the railing. A painful pop in your elbow has you wincing, and you extend it a few times before picking up your bags again. 

Your room is simple, understated, with a decent-sized bed in the middle, centered evenly against the wall opposite the door. A large window is perched above it, and your eyes go wide in excitement.

Little frost lines creep up the panes, surrounding the soft flakes of snow like intricate lattices. To your right is a dresser and mirror, and a plush chair sits in the corner, a thick blanket fashionably draped over the armrest. 

You think simplicity fits the place nicely–the framework of the house, paired with the natural beauty of the mountain, is already breathtaking. Elegant furniture and grand pieces of luxury are not necessary when faced with everything the cabin already offers. 

You can’t seem to stop the soft sigh that falls past your lips as you set your things down on the dresser. That feeling is still nagging at you, tugging and pulling at your heart until a crease forms between your brows. It diminishes the room's warmth, and in a semi-successful effort to distract yourself from the unwelcome feeling, you begin unpacking, carefully tucking neatly folded clothes into the dresser’s drawers, hanging the few pieces that need the special treatment in the closet. 

A knock on your door is the only thing that knocks you out of your peaceful state, and you startle only briefly before welcoming the visitors in.

“Hey,” Kiyoko rubs her hands together, folded neatly in front of her chest. 

You grin as a familiar head of blonde hair peeks from behind her–Yachi. 

“Hey, guys. I’ve missed you,” you greet them, rubbing your hands on your pants. Seeing two of your closest friends after having not for so long is therapeutic. 

For two years, in the middle of your time at university, the three of you had shared an apartment, and you hold the memories fondly, tucked away softly in your heart to reminisce on occasionally. But now, Kiyoko and some of the older members in your friend group–such as Tsukishima, Tanaka, Daichi, and Sugawara–have graduated. 

Sometimes, you find yourself sucked into an innate sense of sentimentality–you miss those days, of how simple and easy everything appeared to be. Of course, they were not, but looking back on the fun times with your friends, you don’t remember the complicated things. You only remember the good. 

Immediately, Yachi folds, darting out from behind Kiyoko and engulfing you in one of her long, signature hugs. You drop the shirt you were refolding–it doesn’t matter if it retains a few wrinkles, anyways–and return her embrace, feeling a bubbly feeling fill your heart as she begins rocking you back and forth. 

“We missed you more!” Yachi declares, still refusing to let you go. 

Not that you would let her, anyways. 

Kiyoko lets out a fond giggle from the doorframe, still lingering on the precipice. Eyes widening, you wave her over, and Yachi hurriedly begins ushering for her to do the same. Making space, you resume the group hug, sighing happily as Yachi continues laughing with glee. 

However, like all moments, it must eventually end. A sound from the hallway disrupts you–someone clearing their throat, though you are instantly able to recognize the voice: Kei.

“Can’t you see we’re having a moment?” you gently chide, though your words are paired with an unmistakably kind smile. 

Yachi’s lips purse into a bit of a pout, clearly upset over having ‘girl time’ ruined–a term she eloquently coined during your first semester in university. But, at his presence, the two girls allow you to disentangle from the friendly embrace, occupying themselves as they sit on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tsukishima scratches the back of his neck, shifting almost hesitantly in the door before imperceptibly pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I just, ah, wanted to tell you guys that everyone else just got here. We’re all downstairs–if you wanna join.”

Ah. You understand his previous hesitance. 

“By everyone else, you mean…?” you attempt to pull more information out of him, though the sudden rapid pounding of your heart hints that you already know to whom he’s referring. 

“Tanaka, Noya, Michimiya, and Daichi.”

You’d braced yourself for the punch in the gut you were sure his words would bring. Your fingers find the stray thread hanging on the sleeve of your sweater again, twisting it repetitively until little red lines are imprinted onto your skin. 

“Okay, yeah. We’ll be down there soon?” you pose it as a question, looking back at the two girls now perched on the side of your bed for confirmation. 

“Yep! Definitely not now, though. Get lost, Tsukki!” Yachi animatedly points out of your room, kicking her feet back and forth as she comically shoos Tsukishima away. 

With hands held in mock surrender, Tsukishima nods in agreement, though not before letting his lingering gaze settle on you. 

“Hey, come here,” he all but demands, but his voice is soft, and he is already walking towards you. Before you can protest, he holds your wrist, stretching it out towards him, and all your worries about Daichi are gone. It’s all you can do to watch, confusion etched on your features, inscribed on your pathetically rapid-beating heart, as he twists the cuff of your sweater, deft fingers pinching at the hanging thread to remove it.

“There,” is all he states, fixing your sleeve before letting your arm gently fall to your side. You hardly have enough time to say anything before he’s fixing you with an unrecognizable look, and then he’s pulling out of the small bubble to wave ‘bye’ to Yachi and Kiyoko. 

You’re still for a second after he’s left, still reeling with what had transpired. You can’t place the strange, tense feeling burrowing in your chest–you only know it is not the same kind of nervousness you feel at seeing Daichi again.    

As if sensing your thoughts, you hear Kiyoko–or maybe Yachi–stirring behind you. Snapping yourself out of it, you turn on your heel, gracing them with a wide, hardly believable smile. 

“Speaking of…” Kiyoko begins, shoving her hands underneath her thighs. Ever cautious and cognizant of others’ feelings, Kiyoko approaches the topic tepidly, clearly skirting around the thing at the forefront of your mind. 

You let out a defeated sigh, no longer bothering to keep up the poor appearance of normalcy. Yachi tilts her head to the side, concern clearly written across her face. “How’s the Daichi front?” she asks, and while it is not with the same amount of worry Kiyoko held, Yachi’s words are still imbued with a friendly care you have come to associate her with. 

Looking at them–waiting expectantly, but still ensuring to be careful of your feelings, wanting to understand how you’re doing–is enough to have you letting out a humorless laugh. “You guys know me too well,” you decide on, pressing your hands into the back pocket of your jeans. 

You join them on the bed, and they quickly shift to make room for you in the middle. You allow them to coddle you–wrapping their arms around you, wide eyes full of understanding as they listen to you talk. You tell them how, at first, it was rough; how the feelings ate away at you, and how you’re still not sure how you’ll feel seeing him again. 

They listen, offering small interjections where needed, a comforting hand held on either side of your back as you ramble. 

You don’t stop talking until the nagging feeling is replaced by relief–the sort of relief that only comes from telling someone something that has been bothering you for a while. It feels as if a weight is lifted from your chest by the time you finish, and you don’t resist the deep breath trapped in your throat; it seems like, along with it, the superficial hurt dissipates, and only the deeper feelings remain. 

You don’t think you’re ready to face the deeper feelings yet. 

“Feel better?” Kiyoko asks after you’ve finished, dipping forward to look at you. You’re leaning forward, hands pressed to the edge of the bed for something tangible to grip on. 

“Yeah, surprisingly,” you state, and you’re relieved to hear that even your voice sounds lighter. They nod, understanding with few words–you’re not surprised that talking to them is what helped; you’re more so surprised that speaking of something that profoundly bothered you helped you feel that much better–better than you’d anticipated. 

“Good!” Yachi chimes in, and you grin at the similar relief that is present in her tone. 

“Yeah. Kei tried getting me to talk about it more with him, but it’s just not the same as talking you guys, you know? Anyways, I felt kinda bad about it all.”

“Ah–” Kiyoko hums pensively, pressing a finger to her chin as if in thought, “–the other elephant in the room.”

It takes you a moment to piece together what she’s referring to. Different ideas run through your head, and you sift through them abruptly until you’re confident you’ve combed through even the cobwebs of your mind. 

Looking to Yachi, you shake your head. “Okay, I’m…clearly lost.”

A scheming giggle falls past her lips when she nudges you, knocking you gently into Kiyoko, who nudges you in a similar manner. 

“Tsukki!” is Yachi’s exuberant, overexcited response. She looks at you as she wiggles her brows–as if she expects you to clearly understand whatever hidden meaning is lingering under the surface. 

Looking back and forth between the two slowly, you make it evident that you believe they have possibly gone mad. “What about him?” you ask, giving in after they offer no hints as to their meaning. 

“Well, something, clearly,” Kiyoko gently pushes for more, and your lips quirk at the unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome, sight of devilishness tugging at her mouth. 

“Yeah, he’s a pain in my ass. Possibly my soulmate, and still perpetually insufferable–in case you were wondering,” you grin widely as you refer to Tsukishima, allowing the sarcasm to seep between your words. 

Before they can respond–you see the excitement build in their eyes, practically becoming palpable as they simultaneously begin tugging at your shirt–a loud, all-consuming voice from downstairs is booming up the stairs. 

“Yo! Anybody home?” Tanaka hollers, and you can hear the loud smack even from your spot in your room. 

“Don’t you two have any manners?” comes another familiar voice–Sugawara.

Leaning into Kiyoko and Yachi, you all get up in a fit of giggles, looking forward to the red welt that would likely be proudly standing on the back of Tanaka’s head. The previous topic of conversation is briskly forgotten, left on the now-creased blanket decorating your bed. 

The sudden burst of noise and activity is strange in comparison to the innate quiet that loiters upstairs. Still, you bask in the familiar, comforting chaos that often accompanies your old high school friends. The nervousness that had previously reared its ugly head, making your palms sweat and your heart pound in jittery beats, has thankfully diminished after speaking to your friends, and you find that the notion of seeing Daichi for the first time in weeks does not cause the same jolt of stress that it used to. 

Their words remain as a comforting blanket as you meet them. Your greetings are brief–a small wave, followed by an acquainted side hug and few words. You turn to offer Michimiya a similar welcome and are shocked when the bright, previously shy girl from the beginning of the month hugs you with enthusiasm. 

“Oh wow,” you laugh shakily before kindly returning her embrace, “it’s a day for hugs, apparently.”

“Sorry,” Michimiya is sheepish, a blush dusting her cheeks. “I’ve just been really excited to be here and see you all again.” 

You wave your hand placatingly, already grinning as you see Nishinoya, Suga, and Asahi waving you over in your peripheral vision. “Don’t worry about it–it was a joke,” you explain, hoping to ease her worries. 

Tsukishima promptly sidles next to you, throwing a long arm over your shoulder. You glare and shove lightly at him, but ultimately end up grinning as you settle against him. 

“Yeah, don’t mind her,” he states, and you sense the inklings of a teasing joke hidden under his words. “She has a penchant for not being funny.”

You readily wriggle out from under his arm, not bothering to soften your glare. “Oh, he makes jokes. Cute,” you lean up to ruffle his hair–messing up the previously neat look he was going for. 

Just as earlier, Tsukishima manages to grasp your wrist before you can do any real damage, though, triumphantly, you note how he grumbles and goes to fix his crooked glasses. 

While you’re distracted, Michimiya watches on with a fond look, covering a shy laugh behind her hand as she makes a few connections in her head.

“There you are!” Sugawara cries behind you, and before you know it, his arms make their way around your waist in a tight embrace. 

“Hey, Suga,” you laugh, patting his hand in a friendly, affectionate gesture before he releases you. You turn to face him. “How was the drive?”

The loudness of the room makes it difficult to hear, even more so when Suga moves to collapse onto the couch in an exhausted heap. “Oh, you know,” he lolls his head to the side, grinning in that same charismatic manner that had a slew of girls crushing on him in college, “long. How was yours?”

“She was knocked out most of the drive, don’t ask her,” Tsukishima butts in–a habit he seems to excel in, especially regarding you. “The drive was fine, though. More snow than I expected.”

“You know,” you point between you and Suga, feigning a look of annoyance that has the older man snickering, “this was a conversation between Suga and me? And I don’t recall inviting you into it?”

Your argument only causes Tsukishima to chuckle blithely, purposefully knocking into your shoulder as he moves to sit next to Suga. “Nah, you love me. Actually, you don’t know what you’d do without me.” He’s teasing again, stretching his legs out and reaching his arms above his head. 

You notice how his shirt rides up ever so slightly, exposing a bit of skin and a faint adonis belt.

Heat prickles at your cheeks, filling and swelling until the strange urge to swallow thickly builds in your throat. It’s the same feeling you felt in the car, and you still have yet to place it. 

Turning your gaze away, you pretend not to notice. 

“Whatever. Even if you’re right–” you point, raising a brow as if you’re about to regale Suga and Tsukishima with a heartstopping tale, “–we all know it’s me you can’t live without.”

“In your dreams,” Tsukishima sneers, sinking back against the couch and pulling a large blanket over his lap. 

All the while, Sugawara simply looks on, his gaze flitting back and forth between you both with gleaming interest at every passing interaction. 

“Hey, what’s the situation with food?” Nishinoya bounds into the room, a baseball hat mussing down his spikey hair. He sees you and waves, the characteristic bright grin taking over his features. “Hey Tsukki, hey everyone!”

Another chorus of disjointed ‘hey’s’ follows suit, and you’re all launched into figuring out dinner. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Hinata’s eyes crinkle at the edges, spelling nothing but trouble. Side-eyeing Tsukishma, you see a similar look of caution cross his face: better move out of the way and prepare for the crossfire. “We gotta scavenge our own food. You know–being in the woods and all.”

“Hinata, you’re not as clever as you’d like to think,” Tsukishima chuckles, rubbing at his nose. Yamaguchi joins in on the banter, and the room becomes loud once again with the raucous clamor of numerous voices, all attempting to speak over one another. 

“We actually took care of the food for a few days,” Asahi speaks up, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. A blush paints his cheeks when Tanaka and Nishinoya immediately bombard him, showering him with praise and hanging off of him, words of thanks spilling from their mouths. 

“There was a store a ways back. We managed to get a bit, but someone will have to make another trip down in a few days,” Sugawara adds, not bothering to get up from the couch as he knows Tanaka and Nishinoya are well preoccupied with Asahi. 

“Thanks, man,” Daichi claps Suga on the back, and while you’d gotten used to his and Michimiya’s quiet presence in the room, his sudden appearance so close to you has left you feeling disjointed. 

“Well, that’s enough of that,” you proclaim quietly, and Sugawara is the only one to acknowledge your words–with a kind smile and a nod. Returning the look, you smoothly make your way through the room, avoiding the others as best you can in search of the kitchen. While everyone else is distracted by catching up, you think it must be as good a time as any to try and start on a late dinner.

You’d underestimated the size of the cabin. You realize this as you walk, stepping down a small staircase–consisting of a modest five steps–to enter a large second sitting room adjacent to the living room. It has a large piano settled off to the side, and you briefly wonder if any of your friends would be able to play it. 

Trailing your hand against a wooden column bracing the small staircase, you take a moment to appreciate the space and the brief quiet, though, with the open living space, you can still hear the chatter of your friends a few steps up. It’s comforting, wrapping you in the warm embrace of friendship and familiarity–something genuine that only comes from years of knowing someone. 

There’s hardly any dust, and during your short journey in search of the kitchen, you come to the conclusion that the owners must have someone come and clean often. 

It only takes you a bit longer to find the kitchen. Like the rest of the home, it is surrounded by dark wood, complemented by a floor only a shade lighter, beams decorating the ceiling, and columns bracing the doorway. It’s large and beautiful, boasting appliances that you could only dream of cooking with at home. 

Glancing over to the counter, you spy bags of groceries–likely put there by Asahi and Suga, and you make haste to search through them, putting the groceries away in cabinets and the refrigerator as needed. 

“Oh–hey there.”

You make sure not to freeze, though you noticeably tense, and it feels as if your heart freezes in your chest. 

Biting back a wince at your obvious reaction, you take a calming breath, closing your eyes to steady yourself for a beat. While you were prepared to see Daichi again–along with his new girlfriend–you were decidedly not ready to be alone with him in any sort of capacity. You had steeled your nerves earlier, pushing down and relieving any lingering worries that came with seeing him again, but this is not what you had in mind; you did not imagine that you would be alone with him, or that you would subsequently have to deal with the emotions that came along with it. This feeling is not welcome, yet it makes itself at home in your heart.

Not wanting to appear strange, you plaster a grin on your face before setting down the bag of white rice, turning around to face the man of the hour. 

“Daichi,” you simply greet, internally hoping that your voice takes on some semblance of normalcy.  

He merely hums in acknowledgment, clapping his hands together in such a ‘Daichi’ way that, if this had occurred a few months prior, you would have made fun of him. “What’ve we got in here? Anything look good so far?”

His words should not catch you by surprise, yet you find yourself frozen for a few seconds, anyways. With your hands braced on the kitchen counter, you falter, words becoming lost on you as the time drags on. 

“Ah, well–” you take the excuse to turn around, fishing through more grocery bags. “I haven’t looked that hard yet, but I’m sure I can find something.”

“Yeah, you were always good at that,” his voice is so fundamentally friendly that it hurts. The hollow pang returns with full force, battering shallowly against your heart, bringing with it useless questions of 'what if?’ 

When you don’t respond, Daichi’s voice takes on an air of concern–a sound you’ve, frankly, gotten sick of hearing lately. “Hey–you okay? You were pretty deep in thought when I came in here.”

An unamused laugh falls from your mouth, though Daichi is none the wiser to pick up on it. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you turn to face him, a wry grin tugging at your lips, “just wondering if these beams and columns are actually here for foundational support.”

Your words earn you a chuckle. It is a deep, warm sound, and you try not to notice how his eyes crinkle at the edges. 

Another hollow pang. 

“Yeah, I doubt it.” His hands reach across the counter, attempting to aid you in putting away the groceries. 

It’s all too much, too fast. Quickly, you pull away, and when Daichi offers you another look of concern, you simply wave him off. “I’m fine–just a bit warm. I’ll see you later?”

You don’t wait for his response. 

Winding your way through the lodge, you attempt to remember how to get to the third floor’s balcony you spied while driving up. Through the snow and trees, it looked like a wonderful place to escape, and your feet seem to take you up there instinctively. 

Your friends don’t hardly notice you as you make your way up the stairs–other than waving and asking if you found anything suitable for dinner. You say something quickly to placate them before continuing, passing by the open door of your room in your efforts to find the balcony. Your thoughts are swirling almost as frantically as the snow outside, and no matter what you do, your heart refuses to slow down. 

When you reach the balcony, you are not disappointed. 

The white snow coats everything in an almost sparkling, shining blanket. If snow was not inherently freezing, you would be half tempted to lie down in the soft tufts that pile in the corners of the balcony–shoveled neatly in the corners by the railing–convinced that it would be warm. 

The instance with Daichi has left you feeling stilted; thrown off course, you do not know how to react. After speaking with Tsukishima briefly, and then later with Yachi and Kiyoko, you'd felt an intimation of relief. You wonder how fickle that relief must have been to have been shattered by a mere interaction–a brief moment alone, a few words exchanged. 

It causes a surge of embarrassment to flush through your system and, soon after, the stinging beginnings of tears. 

Your eyes burn as they pool on your lower lashes, collecting in thick drops but still refusing to fall. A swell of indignation fills your chest at your tears’ refusal to slip–it’s as if even they do not know how to react, a mirror of your own hurricane of emotions. 

With an angry sound–something akin to a broken, half-hidden sob–you wipe at your eyes. You’re incensed by your tears, filled with ire and frustration at the confusion regarding your own feelings. You’d thought that, after some time away from Daichi, after speaking with your friends, you’d finally be able to sort through and organize your whirlwind of emotions. 

Because time heals all wounds, right?

“It’s kinda cold out here, you know. Like, literally below freezing. Your snot might freeze to your face.”

Only one person can speak so bluntly, full of unbidden crass, yet still cause you to let out a pathetic snort of laughter. 

“Kei,” you acknowledge him simply, the remainder of your tears clotting in your voice.

He joins you by the railing, arms folded to relax against the wood. He leans his tall body over the balcony’s fence, and the slight flare of panic that rushes through you is quickly snuffed out when he speaks.

“Nice view, huh?” 

He didn’t have to ask the question; the view leaves you awestruck. In the distance, you can spot the snowy mountain peaks surrounding you, even through the tall pine and balsam trees that wrap around the lodge cabin. Though snow rests gently on the swinging leaves and bristles of pine, dusting white across brown pinecones, you can still see bits of green peeking out, the smell of mint and pine and cinnamon lingering in the cold air.

A puff of cool, misty air leaves your mouth as you exhale. “You think?” you chuckle humorlessly, catching Tsukishima’s frustration. 

A desperate look flashes in his eyes as he turns to you, his expression turning only slightly pleading. “Please–talk to me. I don’t know how to help you if you don’t let me.” 

His sincerity catches you off guard. Of course, you are no stranger to Tsukishima Kei’s kindness; it always manifests in small, incremental actions: waiting for you by his car, refusing to enter until after you have, slowing his pace to allow you to catch up–never willing to leave you behind.

Fixing the sleeve of your sweater when a stray thread is hanging off. Insisting that you speak to him when you really need it. 

Being able to always tell when you do.

But, similar to the awkwardness you recall feeling during the drive, it is rare that his sincerity becomes so plainly obvious. 

When it does, you know you have been remiss in keeping your closest friend in the loop. 

Guilt joins with the barrage of emotions already pounding in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, tucking your hands underneath the sleeves of your sweater. You feel almost timid at expressing your feelings to Tsukishima in a way that you were not with Yachi and Kiyoko, and you cannot discern why. 

He waits patiently, still leaning against the railing.

“It’s just…” you search for the right words but quickly give up: there are no concrete, simple words to possibly describe what you’re feeling, “…hard.”

A beat of silence passes as you allow Tsukishima to understand your meaning, for Tsukishima to offer you the quiet you need. The air stills, and with a short sigh, your friend relaxes. 

“Come here,” he simply states, not bothering to explain himself. You feel an innate sense of déjà vu as he turns to you, but unlike earlier, he tucks you into his arms. 

Tsukishima is warm–having a tendency to run hot–and you gratefully sink into the familiar, calming embrace. However, it is different from the rest of your friends’ hugs; perhaps it is different in the way you can feel how his heart beats against your body, how you’re distinctly aware of his fingers lingering on the small of your back–acutely in tune to where his body ends, and yours begins. 

“It’s okay, you know,” he begins cryptically. Sensing this, he continues, “to be confused, I mean. And to be upset. No one ever said that this was going to be easy.”

Your hands tighten into a fist against his back, smoothing over any wrinkles that are there before likely forming more. You ache to feel the familiarity of his touch closer. “I know, but I still hoped it would be.”

You feel him grin by your ear, and it manifests into a short huff of a chuckle. “I know. But you knew it was going to be hard–seeing him.”

For the millionth time that day, there is something about Tsukishima that you cannot interpret. This time, it is in his words, in his tone. By the way his voice seems to linger on the word 'him,’ the intonation deepening into a sound you do not often hear from Tsukishima, you know he means something that he does not say.

Strangely, your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, and you curiously wonder if Tsukishima can feel it the way you feel his. His arms around you–while stained with years of familiarity–feel implicitly different, tightening slightly with an enduring touch that has you itching for something more. 

The strange, complex emotions well in your throat, stopping up the words that remain halted on your tongue. Pulling away slightly, you look up, peering at him with wide eyes, hoping a bit of comic relief will ease the blatant tension surrounding you. 

“Kei, be honest,” you begin, curling your hands into the fabric of his coat. 

“When have I ever lied to you,” he points out, and it is not a question. His eyes dart and flit all over your face, yet, before you can pinpoint what he is looking at, he has already moved on to a different feature. 

Tsukishima’s words, imbued with honesty and a hint of teasing, cause a grin to break across your face. Playfully, you swat at his chest, and he joins you with laughter of his own, still holding you in the hug. 

“Is there really snot on my face?” you finally finish, already feeling infinitely better than before he’d joined you. 

At that, he snorts, throwing his head back as he rolls his eyes. “Duh. Like, all over,” Tsukishima states, flicking your head in an affectionate gesture. 

“Ow,” you glare, bringing a hand up to rub at the tingling sensation on your forehead. 

The look that crosses his face is kind–filled with a sort of fondness you are used to, but also hiding something you are not. 

The comedic moment ends, and something else replaces it.

Once again, you are filled with that similar tension as earlier today, when he’d held your wrist in his hand–when he’d pulled the string from your sweater. Tsukishima’s small traces have lingered long after his touch has gone–you swear you can still feel them even now, remaining as imprints on your skin. Your skin remembers his touch, and, unlike usual, you wish you had more of it. 

The sudden frazzled rapping of your heart in your chest leaves you faltering; you can’t find the words yet–they’re still stuck in your throat, but for a different reason than before. The air feels charged, thrumming as if there is a current buzzing around you, filling and stretching until you feel similarly stretched thin, consumed by everything Kei. 

Frankly, you’re confused, and the unreadable expression on his face only further pushes that confusion. 

“Kei?” you prompt, hands still clutching at his back. 

Your eyes flit down to where he bites his lip–a teasing, yet slightly pained, look present in his gaze. A brief feeling of conflict fills you at the sight, and, just like all the other emotions thickening in your chest, you cannot discern what it means. 

“I, uh…” he starts off, voice tapering off. You can see him searching for the words, digging into his mind, and tasting the form of many different phrases on his tongue. 

It takes him a moment. Tsukishima internally battles with himself, tossing and turning whatever is troubling him, churning it around in his head until he’s appropriately nurtured the thought. 

Just as he goes to open his mouth, his grip on your body loosening minutely before his fingers tighten again around your waist, a loud crash interrupts you. 

Startled, you fall away from Tsukishima’s touch, darting your gaze to the balcony’s doors to spy a boggled, surprised Nishinoya and Tanaka. The duo has their mouths hanging open–uncharacteristically quiet in such a way that has concern bubbling in your throat–but then the moment passes, and a look of triumphant understanding crosses their faces. 

“I fucking knew it!”

“God, you two really left us all on edge!” 

Their excitement is palpable, and it would be contagious if you weren’t so confused. Looking between the duo with furrowed brows, you hold your arms out–as if waiting for someone to fill you in on whatever joke you’re clearly not part of. 

“What?” you ask, looking between the two. They merely grin conspiratorially, knowingly, and it has a sense of foreboding blaring red in your mind. “What are you two on about?”

Looking to Tsukishima, you notice how a flare of panic comes to life in his eyes, raising his hands in an effort to settle the two hyperactive, scheming men. “Hey, guys–”

“We fucking knew you two were together!”

“How long have you been dating! Geez, you could’ve let us in on it a while ago!”

Dating.

Together.

The words blur together in your mind, and it takes you a second to piece together the overwhelming connotation. It’s a strange puzzle–one you had never bothered to piece together. The edges are blurred–the idea of you and Tsukishima dating had only ever crossed your mind a few times: when you first became friends and any subsequent instance in which someone had mistaken you as such. The thought was something you merely brushed off, correcting people from time-to-time, until the accusations eventually stopped. 

After forming your crush on Daichi, you’d never given it much extra thought. But apparently, you were in the minority, because everyone else had. 

“Can you two please calm down–” 

“Calm down? After this bombshell? Get a grip!” Tanaka begins to scramble, running out from the doorframe and likely back to the remainder of your friends. A feeling of nausea fills you as he leaves your sight, and it’s something you can’t fight down.

“Hey! Wait up!” Nishinoya laughs, chasing after his best friend with equally frantic movements. 

You startle, protests rising and getting caught in your throat as they run off. Down the hall, you hear Nishinoya shout, “Suga! You owe me four thousand yen!” 

“Guys, stop!”

They don’t listen to Tsukishima.

There is a hustle and bustle from downstairs that you can hear even from the balcony, and with a shared, nervous look with Tsukishima, you race inside, leaning over the hallway’s railing to catch the tail end of Tanaka and Nishinoya’s explanation. 

That you and Tsukishima are dating. That your friends had been right. 

With wide eyes, you slowly, cautiously look at Tsukishima. He meets your gaze with similar shock, trepidation clear in his gaze, eyes wide as he takes in the shouts and hollers of your friends downstairs. 

Shit. 

There are many different instances in life–with different paths to take, each leading to different outcomes. 

With your friends whooping and exclaiming things like, “I freaking knew it!” and “They really were pretty obvious about it,” paired with the wide-eyed look Tsukishima shoots you, you do not yet know where this path will take you. 

husband material

a/n: I make no apologies, I made fun of Gojo a lot but I can't help making fun of the characters I kin ok...as you can tell I am unwell and clearly in love with one Nanami Kento. Please enjoy this purely self indulgent one shot that is just me ranting about how Nanami is the perfect man. n e ways- cw: some language and it eludes to sexual content, so you know the drill

"If you had to choose any sorcerer, who would it be?"

"Any sorcerer to what?"

"Like to date. If you had to choose," Gojo was leaning over the couch in the Jujutsu High lounge, wearing a smirk like he was confident in what your answer would be, "who would it be? And why is it me?"

You let out a laugh that's more mocking than genuine. "It would definitely not be you."

Gojo's jaw drops, like he can't believe it. For a very long time he's quiet - very unlike him - in utter disbelief. It had been a joke, but he was your best friend. If not him, then who? He needs to know.

Again, he asks. "So...who then?"

"Easy. Nanami."

"Nanami?!"

"Nanami."

"Why?"

"You're telling me you wouldn't date Nanami if given the opportunity?" You put your cellphone, giving up on the game you were playing seeing as Gojo was not going to let this go.

"That's not what I said." Gojo plops himself down at the opposite end of the couch, looking eager and ready for any new gossip he could wring out of you. "But I can't date myself, so therefore I would pick the next best option."

"He's definitely the best option."

"Respectfully disagree."

"That's fine." You shoot back. "Everyone is entitled to their wrong opinions. Especially you."

Gojo is once again silent. Until. "I hate you."

You can't help the chuckle that escapes.

"Why?!"

"Why what?"

"Don't be coy. Why Nanami?"

"I'm sorry," you give him a genuinely confused expression, "have you met the man? He's incredibly good looking, financially stable-"

"I'm also those things."

"Emotionally competent enough to hold a relationship for longer than three weeks-"

"That's...yeah ok, that's-"

"Is the type of man who gets along with both of your parents, so much so that they ask you every week when you're on the phone with them why the two of you aren't married or at the very least engaged yet-"

"This is getting very oddly specific."

"Radiates an aura that subtly screams 'I have a huge dick but I don't brag about it'"

"Clearly you've thought a lot about this."

"Somehow explains things without mansplaining them to you. Like if you were to ask him to explain how the stock market worked he would sit you down and make economics sound like the sexiest thing in the world while still remaining respectful."

"That's not fair. You know I'm bad at economics."

"I'm serious. He's like a total catch. Husband material. Dating isn't enough. If you date that man, it's endgame. He's already picked out the perfect ring and planned the entire honeymoon."

"Perfect is a strong word. Some would say it's too subjective even."

"He's the type of man to slow dance with you at 3 am in the kitchen of your upper class suburban home that he probably paid for in cash, while your two kids sleep soundly in their little bedrooms upstairs all tuckered out from your weekly family outing."

"Again. Very oddly specific."

"Face it, Gojo. Some men are just walking green flags." You stand and pat him on the shoulder, comforting him as he pouts. Clearly this wasn't the conversation he was hoping for. "But I have to get to my next class before my students get started without me, or Maki might accidentally give another kid a concussion. And I don't feel like explaining that to Yaga again."

Gojo waited until you were out of the room to huff in exasperation. "Psh. I'm a green flag."

"Yeah, if you're colorblind."

The sudden voice on the couch at the back of the room makes Gojo startle and jump in his seat.

Nanami lays just out of direct line of sight from the couch Gojo is sitting in, the one you were previously lounging on as well - so much so that Gojo has to lean over to see him lift the small folded towel from over his eyes.

This only sours Gojo's mood even more. "Well, I bet you're just so impressed with yourself right now."

Nanami lets the towel fall back over his eyes. "Don't feel bad Gojo," he can't contain his smirk, "not all of us can be husband material."