Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Late Summer (August, 2022)  

“They talk about you,” Oikawa says, one of the days, curled up into a ball on the sofa as he types fervently onto his computer. “I’d tell Kuroo but... I know you’ve been trying your best to keep it as down low as you possibly can. So I’ll let it slide and spare you his nagging.”

“Who’s they.”

“The other cafe workers. They think you’re hot. The girls, in particular.”

When Bokuto does not reply, Oikawa sings, “well, too bad for them, I guess, because the beefy, smokin’ hawt Konoha Akinori is completely enamoured by his oh so gorgeous neighbour, Aka— Ow!”

Bokuto snatches back the pillow he threw. “Do you have any idea how stupid you sound?”

“You’re red, Kou-chan. Its adorable.”

*

A frustrated, incorrigible groan escapes his lips. Brew a shot of espresso, and then steam the milk to 160 degrees. It shouldn’t be as difficult as Bokuto makes it out to be, but for him, it is. He stares numbly at the pathetic cup of coffee in his hand. Oh, he forgot to hold the steam wand just below the surface. No wonder there isn’t any foam. Hand to his head, he lets out a melodramatic sigh.

“You’re getting there,” Daichi says encouragingly as he walks past holding used plates. Bokuto gives him a half-hearted grunt in response. Despite his frustration, he’s grateful that Daichi’s allowed him to hone his coffee-making skills even though he has made the countless mistakes in between. The manager turns off the tap after cleaning the utensils, giving him a way too obvious side-eye. Bokuto stares back, brows raised in curiosity. 

“Sooo...Konoha, are you single?” Daichi asks, somewhat sheepishly, before realising how it must’ve sounded and shakes his hands furiously. “Its not me who wants to know! Its just that Naoka-san from the morning shift saw you come in before and was wondering...”

Great. Well, at least Oikawa gave him the heads-up. Still, it feels kind of embarrassing. Bokuto laughs, a bit louder than he’d like it to be. “Uh, yeah but... I’m into someone already!”

Daichi’s eyes widen, and there is an unfamiliar glint that wasn’t there before, and Bokuto thinks, oh no. “Wow, Konoha. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to be so up front about it. So how’s it going with that person?”

“Not exactly the best situation.” Wait. Wait wait wait. What in the world is he doing? He shouldn’t be confiding in his boss. He shouldn’t be confiding in anyone at all. But Daichi’s gives off that odd familiarity that’s assuring and trustworthy, and he seems like a such good shoulder to lean on...

Bokuto bites on the bait. He adds, “Its just that life can be a real bitch.”

“Indeed,” Daichi chuckles, and just when Bokuto’s beginning to feel relieved thinking they’ve dropped the subject, the manager says suggestively, “is it anyone I know?”

Damn it. Bokuto isn’t a bad liar, given that his whole job involves masking on different personas, but somehow, he can’t hold in the stutter in his indignant “No!”

Daichi laughs, not unkindly, leaning against the counter. The cafe is unusually empty even though they are closing in an hour. Bokuto knows this because he can hear the soft lilt of the background piano music. And he doesn’t hear it very often. “Let me take a wild guess. Shimizu, is it? I saw you staring at her the last time she left.”

Bokuto has to think fast, he’s well aware, but his lack of response in the first second is quickly noticed by Daichi. A string of colourful swear words make rounds in Bokuto’s head. “Not her, huh.” Daichi ponders aloud, tapping a finger distractedly to his temple, before his mouth parts into a small ‘o’ and Bokuto thinks fuck.

“That guy! The onigiri guy!”

Its horrifying coming out of someone’s mouth. Someone who isn’t part of the heist plans. No, scratch that, nobody should be knowing about this at all. Not Kuroo, not even Oikawa and especially not someone like Daichi. And just when today happens to be the worst possible day for Bokuto to wear his heart on his sleeve, Daichi lets out a slow ‘ahh’ with his grin when Bokuto’s face instantly reddens like an awkward shy teenager.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he pleads.

“I won’t! Who do you take me for?” Daichi assures him. “How do you guys know each other?”

All Bokuto wants to do is crawl into a hole and hibernate for the rest of eternity, but he settles for crouching down in his flustered embarrassment. “We’re neighbours.”

“Neighbours, huh...” Daichi replies suggestively, before chortling heartily. “Alright, alright, Konoha! I won’t pry anymore.”

The manager turns around, drying the cutlery and plates, humming along to the piano. Bokuto yanks open the cupboard to restock the coffee beans, hoping that somehow the space would swallow him whole. But it doesn’t, and he settles for squeezing his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down before he gives in to the urge of smashing his head in with one of those porcelain plates.

“Oh, hey Shimizu!”

Bokuto freezes instantly, hands still wrung around his jawline. He should probably stand up, but for some stupid reason about his face being red beyond belief and the possibility of Akaashi being on the opposite side of the counter keeps him crouched over, pretending like he’s busying himself with the bags of coffee beans. He’s pretty sure no one in front of the counter is able to notice him through this angle.

If only Kuroo can see me now, he thinks wryly. Hiding from the target? He’d kick me to next week.

“An Americano, please.” He hears the gentle tone of Shimizu’s voice. Bokuto waits, apprehensive, but no order for an omeboshi onigiri comes through.

“Coming right up!” Daichi replies, going behind the coffee machine. “Working here today?”

“Yes. Just checking up on how things are progressing. We managed to transfer a few pieces without causing too much trouble.”

Daichi is about to reply, when the sound of a phone ringing interrupts their small talk. Bokuto, who has managed to fit the whole upper half of his body into the cupboard — as if he’s trying to reach for something deep inside — hears Shimizu go “please excuse me”. The clean click of her heels grows louder to the edge of the counter; the side further away from Daichi and closer to him.

“Hello? Yes, this is Shimizu Kiyoko...Yes sir, things are going as planned. I am about to check on the exhibition soon...”

Bokuto cranes his neck, all the while stuffing coffee beans into the storage bags. She talks in a hushed voice, almost like she is sharing something confidential. Or perhaps, Bokuto realises, that is exactly what is going on. Instinctively, he inches closer, knees still on the ground, awaiting her next words. She doesn’t seem to notice him.

“...Yes, I— No sir, he hasn’t finished the portrait yet...Yes, he is aware of the time constraints, sir, he apologises for being behind schedule...”

Bokuto frowns. Sounds like one hell of a boss. But he gets it; Kuroo’s clients can get impatient when they don’t meet the designated deadline, even more so when they fail the job entirely.

“...I will urge him to finish it as soon as possible,” Shimizu promises the person on the other end of the line. “But you know how much of a perfectionist Five can be.”

The name almost makes Bokuto drop a cup of coffee beans all over the tiled floor. He pauses, hands suspended in motion, mouth slightly apart in shock. Although she is so soft that no one can possibly hear her unless they were within the vicinity Bokuto is in, he’s pretty sure he heard what he heard. Bokuto blinks rapidly, swallowing a lump in his throat, replaying her voice in his head again to make sure he got it correct.

She said Five. She’s Five’s manager.

In the entirety of him processing what just happened, she had already hung up and collected her coffee from Daichi. Bokuto scurries to pour the full cup of beans into the bag, waiting a few seconds before standing up. He just barely catches her disappearing around the corner into the entrance of museum, his mind still reeling from the sudden influx of critical information.

“Too bad onigiri guy wasn’t here today huh, Konoha?” Daichi teases.

“Yeah, uh, Daichi,” Bokuto starts distractedly, pushing his frantic feelings down beneath the surface. “I’m going to the restroom.”

“You okay there? Does your stomach ache?”

“I’m fine, really. Just gotta take a piss.” Bokuto says weakly, untying his apron.

The corridor to the restroom nearest to the cafe has a fire exit staircase. Glancing around to make sure no one can see him, he enters the stairway and leans against the corner of a wall which is coated in dust. Suppressing a sneeze, he taps on the bluetooth earpiece snugly hidden in his ear; the device that Oikawa warned him not to use unless it is an emergency.

“Are you dying?” Comes Oikawa’s dry greeting. Bokuto ignores him.

“Oikawa. Put Kageyama on the line too. Now.”

From the urgent tone in his voice, Oikawa seems to understand the gravity of the situation, and there is a short beep before Kageyama’s voice crackles into the call.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Follow Shimizu-san. You both saw what she looks like from the security footage Oikawa recorded, right? She just entered the museum. Find her, Oikawa.”

“Already on it. What’s all this about, Kou-chan?”

“She’s Five’s manager. She’s on the way to check out his exhibition now.”

There is a weighted pause. “Oh... wow. Can’t say I saw that coming.”

“Talk about hitting the jackpot,” Kageyama mutters.

“Got her; she’s walking your way, Tobio-chan. Passing by the Aida Makoto exhibition now.”

“Going there— I see her. Update you guys tomorrow. I have overnight shift today.”

The line promptly cuts off, and Bokuto breathes out a sigh of relief. He slumps against the wall after that whole period of tensing up, and lets a small smile grow on his lips. Pulling out his lighter and a cigarette stick, he bends down to sit on the first flight of steps in front of a skyline line view. A smoky puff. A triumphant feeling from a small victory. Finally, finally, they are getting somewhere.

*

Kageyama is the last to arrive. He comes in quietly when its Atsumu’s turn to play ‘Two Truths and One Lie’. Bokuto can’t decide between ‘I have a twin brother and he owns an onigiri shop’ or ‘I wake up because my feet smell’ as his final answer. Atsumu was highly insulted, for whatever reason Bokuto will never get to know, because the sight of Kageyama promptly stops their game.

Kageyama huffs in relief when he sinks into one of those plush cotton chairs. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Give us the bad one first! No, wait, the good one.” Bokuto replies excitedly.

Oikawa snorts. “The bad one first.”

“Does it even matter?” Atsumu drawls, a brow raised.

“The bad one first, then,” Kageyama sighs, pursing his lips. “I followed Shimizu-san and found out where Five’s exhibition is. Its in a locked room that can only be accessed by a key.”

Oikawa exclaims loudly, dragging out an ‘oh’. “No wonder I couldn’t find it. There isn’t a security camera in that room.”

“And the good news?”

“There are barely any guards around there. Even when I was on overnight duty. They must really trust the lock to that door.”

“What bad news?” Oikawa chirps, his tone light. “Locks, you say? That isn’t new to us.”

Bokuto chortles. “Remember when we had to break into that one paranoid collector’s house? Man…What a night.”

“So that’s it? So this job’s gonna be easy?” Atsumu says with a wide grin.

“No,” Kageyama insists indignantly, “because, its probably a pick-resistant lock like that time. It looks like a pretty old door too; like maybe it was previously an archives room or something, but we all know that old locks can be the hardest to get through.”

He glances wearily at Bokuto, who returns it with a clueless smile. They don’t want to admit it, but Bokuto is the only one who has a knack for picking locks; in the rare instances where they actually had to. Because whatever Kageyama’s worried about, he probably has the right to be. At most, they dealt with electronic security measures — something which was more of Oikawa’s expertise. They had only realised Bokuto’s odd talent when Kuroo had given them a job for a painting in a collector’s house near the countryside of Italy. They managed to escape with the painting thanks to Bokuto using a stray hairpin he had found on the floor. For a paranoid collector, if he had known the story, it would’ve been pure humiliation.

“Means you’re probably useless for this,” Atsumu teases Oikawa, who shoots back an irked glare.

“Maybe so,” he replies curtly, “but Tobio-chan should have a solution, yes? You’re a genius after all.” It does not sound like a compliment in the slightest, but Kageyama ignores the obvious jab, humming in question.

“Well, a lock-resistant lock just means that there’s extra set of tumblers. There won’t be much security, so there should be some time for Bokuto-san to figure things out,” Kageyama looks up firmly, with a small, encouraging smile. “I mean, we’ve dealt with much worse.”

Bokuto grins cheekily. “Guess I gotta do all the work this time, huh, Oikawa?”

“Not quite,” Kageyama interjects. “Oikawa-san still has to help us determine the timeframe where there aren’t any guards nearby.”

Oikawa groans loudly, letting out a whine. “You’re telling me I have to stay up to record the security activity? Boo!”

“Just the days Kageyama’s not on nightshift, right? We need to record their activity for at least a week or so.”

“No,” Kageyama shakes his head. “Let’s monitor them until the day itself. We won’t know if there will be sudden changes.” At that, Oikawa groans even louder.

“Oh, don’t piss yourself. I can help.”

And Oikawa beams, launching forward to give Atsumu a hug, to which the latter accepts begrudgingly. “You’re a real peach, Tsum-Tsum!”

*

Normally, when the days get closer to the heist, they somehow seem to drag on even longer. It isn’t any different now, although time only seems to pick up her pace whenever Bokuto gets the chance to see Akaashi.

He’s been counting down to when he can finally tell Akaashi his feelings without restraint. His exhaustion melts away with just words of a conversation. When the number of late-night meetings increase and he’s at the cafe almost every other day, the only thing Bokuto can find peace in are those small passing moments of luck where he finds Akaashi already waiting for him on his balcony. He unconsciously gravitates to him, leaning on the border of the space between them, wanting to be impatient. But now isn’t the time for that, and so Bokuto settles for less.

“I used to play volleyball once,” he tells Akaashi. It isn’t a lie, more of a strange, happy coincidence that the real Konoha Akinori enjoys reading those particular sport magazines.

“It must’ve been fun.” Akaashi replies, wearing a small knowing smile.

Bokuto smiles back. “It was.”

“But you stopped?”

“Mhm.” It is like a distant dream, almost. Like it never happened at all. He enjoyed it for sure; one could even call it a passion. Why did you stop, then? is Akaashi’s real question, and so Bokuto adds, “my coach told me I was good enough to take it further than high school. But my parents passed right after I graduated and money became an issue. Road accident.”

From his periphery, Akaashi’s face falls. “I’m sorry.”

“Its fine. It was around ten years or so.” Time is a slow healer, but it still does its job. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though. Considering that he hasn’t talked about his parents for years now, he’s surprised that he hasn’t dissolved into a tearful mess yet. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s cried about them, really. It is a numb wound that refuses to heal, and if he exposes it even more, it might break his skin apart and bleed.   “Both my sisters have children, so depending on them was out of the question. That was when I got to know a friend. He really helped me to get on my feet.”

“Kuroo-san, is it? Or Ushijima-san…?”

Bokuto stops himself from letting out an unamused scoff. He supposes it shouldn’t hurt to just go along with it since he was to blame for blurting out names with no regard. “Kuroo. He’s my boss.” But he doesn’t mention about how they met in a back alley behind one of the most popular clubs in Tokyo while on a smoke break; when Kuroo had approached him, shit-faced, asking if he would like to quit his crappy bartender job to earn cold hard cash fast. He even gave Bokuto a deposit right there and then as a symbol of his legitimacy. Or so Bokuto, at that time, had hoped. It was hard to trust a drunk man who was vomiting into a drain at three in the morning. Still, with nothing much to lose, he dived in head-first.

(“Wait…who are you again?” Kuroo asked him incredulously, when Bokuto walked into one of the private rooms in the club the very next night. Washio was sitting next to him, and Bokuto can still remember the shock plastered on their features when he pulled out the thick wad of deposit money.

“You told me to meet you here,” Bokuto answered innocently. “You said you have a job for me.”

“Kuroo—!” Washio snarled, head whipping in Kuroo’s direction. “You’re just giving money out to random people now?! What’re you, a charity?”

Kuroo raised his hands defensively. “I don’t know this guy, man!”

“This is why Sakusa is threatening to join Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“Hey now, let’s be civil about this, yeah? Think about it like this, Washio. Ever since Omi-kun backed out from this job you need a new partner anyways.”

“Has the vodka gone to your head? Absolutely not.”

Bokuto stood there, hands behind his back, feeling overwhelmingly awkward by the second. “There’s still a couple of months left. He’s someone we can trust, I mean, he didn’t run off with my money,” Kuroo chortled, although Washio didn’t laugh along. But Kuroo remained unfazed, turning to Bokuto. “What’s your name?”

“Bokuto. Bokuto Koutarou.”

“Well, Bokuto,” Kuroo says, his smile glinting in the dark room. “You start today.”)

“He taught me everything I know about my job. And I devoted so much time to his company that I don’t really know anything else anymore.” He pauses, shaking his head ruefully. “Sometimes I wonder if it was a good idea to quit.”

“That’s not true.” Akaashi replies, without missing a beat. “You are obviously very talented in many things, Konoha-san.”

“Aw, shucks,” He laughs, though it is loud and empty. “You’re making me blush, Akaashi!”

Akaashi gives him a look; that same look when he knows Bokuto isn’t really being himself, but yet, he doesn’t pry. Gently, he replies, “I’m sure you would’ve been a star. In volleyball, I mean.”

“You think so?” Bokuto sighs wistfully, staring at the night sky above.

“I know so,” Akaashi says firmly, and then his expression softens. “But sometimes life doesn’t go in the ways we’d expect.”

*

On a Monday, they arrive at Bokuto’s house each on their own accord, with Kageyama rushing in first right after his afternoon shift at the museum and Oikawa strolling in last without a hint of remorse despite the glares from the rest.

Now, with an actual idea of where the exhibition is, it is time to go in full-swing. After avoiding it for days now, Bokuto gives in to admitting that he hasn’t been thinking much about the escape plan. And right on cue comes Atsumu’s snide remark, bringing them back to the Fukaku Shinobu Koi fiasco. Considering that Mori Museum is on the highest floor of Mori Tower, they can’t afford a slip up like that again, especially with the problem that presents itself in the form of the security’s tight schedule and the unlucky position of Five’s exhibition.

“This is annoying,” Bokuto whines, and no one disagrees. Their heads are cramped in front of Oikawa’s computer, while he glumly clicks on the security footage displaying different angles of the museum’s entrance. It buzzes off and on a couple of times, causing the latter’s cheek to twitch.

“Alright, the camera is dog shit,” Oikawa grumbles. “So even though only two guards pass by the room, we still have this problem here. Kou-chan already found out that they make their rounds every half an hour. And Tobio-chan noticed that they split up to circle the whole level. There is no way we can steal the painting and escape in time without being noticed.”

There is a dull silence for a few moments, before Atsumu says, “I have an unconventional idea.”

“Ooh! You have a plan, Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto grins, slinging his arms around him tightly.

“Ugh, stop giving me all these unwanted hugs.” Atsumu grimaces. “But yes, while sleeping beauty here was getting his rest,” he says while giving Oikawa a pointed look, “I looked through the footage all night and noticed something.”

“Pray tell.”

“Lemme ask ya something first, Tooru-kun,” Atusmu says. “Are you able to activate the ceiling sprinklers?”

“Of course, who do you think you’re talking to?” Oikawa replies hotly.

“Even during the time where you have to look out for the guards and keep the alarm system disabled?” Atsumu raises his brow. “I’ve seen how you operate at the back of my van.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow. “Then you know that its impossible.”

“Yeah, what I thought.” Atsumu replies dismissively, and clicks onto the security display showing the centre of the floor where the bigger exhibitions merged. At that moment, coincidentally, a guard walks through the corridor. Bokuto instinctively holds his breath, even though he is in the safety of the apartment. But Kageyama has the same reaction, freezing in his seat. They don’t understand the woes of working onsite, the tired look Kageyama gives him seems to say. Bokuto nods back warily, heaving a sigh once the guard disappears from the frame. Atsumu points at the ceiling sprinkler right above the corridor.

“This will be our saving grace.”

“What are you talking about? You wanna activate the sprinklers for...?” Oikawa scoffs, raising a brow melodramatically. 

“Okay, wait, hear me out before you give me that look,” Atsumu breathes out a snort. Turning to Kageyama, he adds, “Since Bo-kun is the only one who can pick locks, you can be the one to activate them.”

Kageyama gives him a skeptical look. “Depends on your reason.”

“What we need is more time. And by turning the sprinklers on — particularly where the most important art pieces are — the guards will panic and this will mess up their route. The first thing they’d do is check the area where there is the supposed fire, and when they find out its a false alarm, they’d ring the office to disable it. Tooru-kun can then tamper with the security footage to confuse them further. That’s more than enough time for Bo-kun to grab the painting and escape down the elevator…Okay, okay, look at this,” he shows them a series of hallway displays. “We can time it when they split up to make their rounds. The alarm will make Guard A retreat from his route, leaving the area of the archive room empty for Bo-kun to run out. And you, Tobio-kun, can go through the other exit of the Shiota Chiharu Exhibition to escape them.”

“What, I don’t need to get to the elevator too?” Kageyama raises an eyebrow.

“There isn’t a need for you to,” Atsumu shrugs. “Because Bo-kun will be posing as another janitor, and someone has to get rid of the trolley he will leave behind at the entrance of the archives room. Anyways, it’d be suspicious if there aren’t any janitors left in the museum, would it?”

There is a pause, before Oikawa blurts out. “You’re crazy. You might actually be on to something, you bastard.”

“Who knew you’d be such a natural at this, Tsumu!” Bokuto exclaims, tightening his grip in his excitement, causing the latter to yelp in pain.

“This could work,” Kageyama nods, muttering in agreement. “But how do I activate them?”

Atsumu grabs Bokuto’s lighter under the coffee table, tossing it deftly into Kageyama’s hands. “Lighting this right under should do the trick. We’re lucky that ceiling’s low.”

“Escaping with the sprinklers and alarms ringing their ears off,” Oikawa says slowly, looking mildly impressed. “You’re absolutely mad.”

“Its definitely a distraction, alright.”

“Are we gonna tell Kuroo about this?”

Bokuto guffaws. “He’s going to think its a dumb plan.” He can already picture Kuroo’s snarky face.

“But that’s what he says for every plan,” Kageyama shrugs. “I say we go with Miya-san’s proposal. It isn’t like we have any other choice. If we don’t distract the guards well enough, Bokuto-san won’t be able to steal the painting in time.”

“I’d toast to that.”

Oikawa leans into Bokuto side, grinning. “You’re really gonna be leaving with a bang, huh?”

Bokuto lets out a hearty laugh. “Hope I don’t start missing it.”

*

Early Autumn (September, 2022)

“We shouldn’t be interacting with each other,” Kageyama mumbles. Bokuto grins, purposely bumping shoulders with him as they follow the small crowd of people making their way to Mori Tower. The latter frowns. Atsumu mentioned that they had the same shift today, and decided to drop them off at the same time, a couple of streets away from the Tower itself.

As they queue up behind salarymen and other museum staff to enter the building, Bokuto whispers, “relax, Kageyama! At least Oikawa isn’t here. Girls take pictures of him.”

“They do?” He replies dryly, grimacing. “Its a wonder you guys haven’t gotten caught yet.” Bokuto stifles a snicker, his fingers fidgeting around the edges of his cap. It makes his head itch.

As they finally get through the revolving entrance door, the crowd quickly disperses in the wide lobby. Even though he was joking before, Bokuto too decides that it might be for the best if he keeps his distance from Kageyama. He wordlessly slows his pace, and Kageyama notices, quickening his footsteps. He ensures that he’s at least two people behind the latter as they make their way to the elevators.

And that is when he sees Akaashi in Mori Tower for the second time. Unconsciously, his feet stop moving and he stands still, frozen in surprise. He has his glasses on again, waiting for the elevators up to the museum with Shimizu Kiyoko. There is a sharp pang in Bokuto’s chest when he watches Akaashi give her one of those rare smiles; one that he had always assumed were reserved for him, offering to carry the duffle bag that Shimizu has slung around her shoulder. Shimizu shakes her head insistently.

His eyes dart to Kageyama, who does not seem to notice them, or perhaps, he doesn’t even know who Akaashi is at all. The latter continues to make his way unsuspiciously just to stop right behind them, looking around idly. They exchange a brief glance, and confusion flashes across his face for a brief second as to why Bokuto is just standing in the middle of the lobby while people flitter past him. Bokuto snaps out of his trance, embarrassed, and starts to make hesitant steps forward.

Just as he does so, the elevator doors open, and he watches them shuffle in from afar. He gets to the front of the elevator when the doors are already closing and people are squeezed inside without room to breathe. For a moment, just before the doors shut entirely, he catches Akaashi’s gaze, a second away from recognition and surprise.

He has to catch the next elevator now, but while he waits, Bokuto tries to calm his wildly beating heart, wondering if he should ask Kageyama to keep an eye on the both of them. No. He scolds himself. That isn’t right. Kageyama doesn’t look like he knows who Akaashi is either, and Bokuto wants to keep it that way; the less people who are aware of his situation, the better. Not to mention, he has a nasty gut feeling that Kageyama won’t be too pleased with him if he knows that Bokuto is quitting the business just for a person. His reaction towards Oikawa’s France situation is enough to guess. Kageyama isn’t the type to stick his nose into other people’s business; see Exhibit A: wasn’t even the slightest bit curious when Bokuto had confessed to Kenma that he was quitting due to ‘more important things’. And that is why Bokuto doesn’t want him to find out. He doesn’t want to be placed on the same pedestal as Oikawa in his eyes. There was just something unnerving about that outcome.

Does Akaashi even know who Shimizu really is? That she is Five’s manager? Maybe that’s how she gets all the exhibition passes for him, Bokuto thinks glumly. A manager for a distinguished artist. For he is nothing but a thief and a part-timer at a small cafe. He can’t give Akaashi gifts like that. This sucks. Big time.

Bokuto is in a sour mood by the time the next elevator comes, and the horde of people packed inside isn’t helping at all. Maybe Oikawa had seen what just happened through the cameras. He winces inwardly, dreading the teasing that will come as soon as he gets home. People filter out slowly floor by floor, until it reaches the top and the elevators open with a ding, and Bokuto’s heart almost stops entirely again when he sees Akaashi lingering at the counter of the cafe, talking amiably to Daichi.

“Hey, Akaashi!” He exclaims, wearing his apron. He ignores the smug look that Daichi has on his face as the latter purposely moves away from the both of them to take out the dishes. “Here to see the exhibitions again?” He turns around, and his eyes widen in perpetual shock. “Hey, hey! Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”

Akaashi smiles tiredly. “Hello, Konoha-san. Yes, I’m fine. Daichi-san asked me the same thing. I’ve just been a little overworked lately.”

Bokuto’s heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him; pale and darkened under-eyes. It is clear that he’s dying for sleep. “Why don’t you go home and rest?”

Akaashi waves a hand. “This is a stress reliever for me, really. I didn’t know you take morning shifts, Konoha-san.”

“Once in a while,” Bokuto answers cautiously, pretending like he isn’t scanning their surroundings for Shimizu. She isn’t here. Maybe she already went in. Then he grins, pointing a thumb to his chest. “Daichi is always asking me to cover for the others. But I think he just likes my company a little too much.”

“You said it, Konoha!” Daichi yells from the other end of the counter with a crescent-eyed grin.

“Its great to see that you are on friendly terms with your colleagues.”

“Ho ho, more than friendly, alright,” Daichi pips up, looking almost mischievous. “They’ve been hounding me to set ‘em up with Konoha since day one.”

Bokuto reddens. “Daichi!”

“I...didn’t know that you’re so popular, Konoha-san.”

“Its a joke!” He replies hastily, turning back from glaring at Daichi to giving Akaashi an earnest look.

“Oh, okay. Uh, anyways,” Akaashi shifts, albeit awkwardly. “I really need to go soon so—“

“Two Americanos and one omebushi onigiri, right?” Bokuto finishes for him, beaming. Akaashi lets out a short laugh as he looks up, giving him a flushed smile. Wow. The voice in Bokuto’s head mumbles dreamily. He can feel Daichi staring at them like a hawk, so he keys in the order in a flustered rush. His eyes travel towards the camera high on the wall at the entrance of the cafe, and it definitely hasn’t been so focused on him before. So Oikawa’s watching us as well, he thinks wryly.

“Konoha-san,” Akaashi takes the drinks that Bokuto hands him. “When does your shift end?”

“Huh?” Bokuto replies distractedly, before adding, “Er, around three, I think?”

“Perfect,” Akaashi smiles. “I’m leaving at three too. Let’s go back together.”

“O-Okay,” Bokuto answers, unable to stop a huge grin from widening. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Akaashi replies, his mouth curving upwards slightly. “I’ll see you then.”

And after he has left and Daichi is done congratulating him with hard slaps to the back, Bokuto flees to the storage room and taps on his earpiece hurriedly.

“Oikawa—“

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell Tsum-Tsum not to pick you up today, you lovesick dummy.” Oikawa’s voice comes in crackling.

*

Flash forward to the end of his shift, which he definitely hasn’t been anticipating the whole time at all, Bokuto scrubs the last plate clean just as Daichi pops his head in, loudly whispering “he’s here!”

They take the train back. Akaashi remarks how tiring it must be for Bokuto to travel so far just for his job, and the latter laughs nervously in response, saying how he enjoys the long cabin rides with the pretty scenery, and he’s lucky that he isn’t wrong.

“What about you, then?” He asks. “How were the exhibitions today? Do you feel better?” 

“I do. In fact, there was a new one. A surrealism collection of two travelers caught in a post-apocalyptic romance,” Akaashi nods. “By a local painter. It is a story beautifully captured in ten pieces.”

“Ooh. What’s it called?”

“A Forever Journey. The tragedy of a love doomed before it even starts.”

“Surely that doesn’t make sense, does it?” Bokuto raises his brow quizzically. “How can they know for sure that it wouldn’t work?”

Akaashi smiles faintly. “They don’t. That’s the worst part.”

After the train, they take a bus from the city and into streets of quiet Kawagoe-shi. The bus stop sits right at the end of Shingashi River. The leaves of the trees lining at sides of the canal have long dyed themselves gold and brown, and those that have fallen crunch deliciously under their evened footsteps. Bokuto only has a pullover on, which is just enough for him, whereas Akaashi has his hands tucked deeply in the pockets of his coat, the tip of his nose already pinched pink from the cold. His skin pearly white, huffing puffs of air which fog up the air in front of them. And only because Bokuto pays attention, he can see Akaashi shivering under his thick outerwear, eyes glazing forward into nothingness.

Bokuto shifts closer shyly, rubbing his nape. “Do you wanna hold my hand?” Akaashi looks up at him, unblinking, mouth parted slightly. Bokuto flushes. “‘Cause you look really cold! So— I was just thinking…”

He trails off as Akaashi wordlessly takes his hand, fingertips ice cold to Bokuto’s warmer touch. His heart quickens at the shorter man’s compliancy, not expecting this at all. Usually, when he says something a little too close for comfort, Akaashi would brush it off with a wry smile. This time, he lets Bokuto guide their enclosed hands into the pocket of his pullover, the small space a warmness that only they know.

They walk in a fractured second of silence, before Bokuto blurts out. “You must be freezing. Your hands are like ice.”

“I don’t do well with the later seasons,” Akaashi breathes out. He stumbles over an uneven step, almost tripping over himself, but thankfully, Bokuto is there to break his fall.

“Woah there, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto says with a nervous laugh. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi replies, his voice wavering into a whisper. His eyelids flutter, threatening to close as he winces. “Thank you, Konoha-san.”

“Don’t you worry about it.” Bokuto insists, gently moving closer to him until their shoulders touch. “Here, you can lean on me if you aren’t feeling well.”

“… I apologise… for this.”

“You helped me before. Its my turn now, alright?”

“I wanted to walk with you by the Shingashi River…through all the seasons,” Akaashi mumbles, his face and lips ghastly pale. “It feels like our time together always slips by…too fast…” he shakes his head with a silent groan. “Sorry. I’m not making any sense.”

Bokuto swallows, surprised at Akaashi’s words. He wants to say something, anything, but the latter has his head heavy on his shoulder and looking worse for wear. So he decides to leave it aside first, ignoring the giddy high that those words had injected into him. They reach their apartments with Akaashi harbouring laboured breaths and getting back up after leaning into the crook of Bokuto’s neck. Bokuto watches him with quiet concern as he keys in the password to his front door, because he was insistent of walking up the stairs himself.

“I… can take care of myself, Konoha-san,” Akaashi says as he opens his door. He turns back, giving a small reassuring smile to the look on Bokuto’s face. “I’ll be fine. Just a little dizzy. Thank you very much for your help.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I can—“

“No,” Akaashi replies firmly. “I’d hate to trouble you even further.” The colour has returned to his face slightly, and he definitely looks better than before out in the autumn wind, but Bokuto can’t help but worry.

He knows, however, that there is no winning in this. “You didn’t trouble me at all. Take care of yourself.”

Bokuto watches the door shut in front of him before going back to his own apartment, missing the feel of Akaashi’s slender fingers wrapped over his like the cold embrace of the moon.

*

He expects today to be somewhat more relaxed than his usual days, because its his day off and he can spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around while watching reruns of Bleach on the television. He had just gotten comfy on the sofa; a bag of chips in hand, when Oikawa bursts into the apartment screaming.

“We’re fucked!” He screeches, seething, while Atsumu walks in next, protecting a disgruntled Kageyama hiding behind him. “We’re absolutely screwed, Kou-chan, and guess who’s fault it is?!”

Bokuto sighs. “Maybe let’s get Kageyama to explain himself first—“

“Yeah! Yeah, tell him, Tobio!” Oikawa scorns loudly. “Tell him how you crushed all the earpieces and now we don’t have any form of communication for the job.”

“I didn’t crush them myself, Oikawa-san. The both of us did. It was an accident.”

“If anything, its my fault,” Atsumu says, arms folded together. “I stopped the van suddenly because of an old lady crossing the road, and the earpieces were in a bag between them; that’s why it got squashed.”

Oikawa scoffs. “I was sitting perfectly still, thank you very much.”

“Well, do you have time to make some more?” Bokuto says as Atsumu hands him to bag. He empties the contents, revealing the crushed earpieces. Yikes. Oikawa had made them from scratch to avoid any paper trails, and from the looks of it, these earpieces are beyond saving. He has every right to be angry really, but just not at Kageyama alone.

“Are you crazy? The heist is in three days, Kou-chan.” Oikawa groans, hands on his face.

“I mean… we could always go back to the usual…”

“The usual?”

“He means walkie-talkies,” Kageyama tells Atsumu. “We used them before Oikawa-san figured out how to make the earpieces.”

Oikawa crouches down, shrinking into himself. “It isn’t that bad of an idea,” he mutters into his arm sulkily. “Its just a lot riskier. I have a few spares I kept back home.”

“Then that’s that. No need to panic. We’ve done it with the walkie-talkies before; we can do it again.” Bokuto laughs, trying to dissipate the tense atmosphere. “Seriously, Oikawa. You’ve gotta stop picking on Kageyama. I’ve never seen you this agitated in years.”

Oikawa shoots him a stink eye, before a worrying expression crosses his features. “I’m not picking on him. Everything’s gotta be perfect, okay? I can’t seem to shake off this nasty feeling about this job.”

“You some psychic now?”

“Ha ha, shut up Tsum-Tsum,” Oikawa replies dryly. He pauses, chewing on his lower lip absentmindedly, before adding wryly. “I…I just feel like something might go terribly wrong.”

There is a stuttering pause; a silence bordering between awkwardness and discomfort. Atsumu breaks it by saying, “way to jinx the job before it even starts, idiot.”

Oikawa scowls, annoyed that no one is taking him seriously. Then again, Oikawa’s rambles before the job starts are usually right on the nose, which is why Bokuto had felt a sense of uneasiness at his words. But he pushes it down, deciding that now wasn’t the time to bring that up, drowning out the feeling with guffaws of laughter at Atsumu’s constant teasing jabs.

*

Tomorrow night. It starts tomorrow night. And it all ends tomorrow night. Wednesday finds Bokuto having the jitters that he usually gets right before a heist. Even though he has been doing this for a couple of years, it still makes him nervous. Everything is set and ready; they have the entire data of the security schedule, and the blueprints of the emergency fire system. After he bids a weary goodbye to Atsumu — who drops him off from his shift at the cafe — Bokuto trudges up the stairs to his apartment, only to be welcomed by an unexpected guest.

“Kuroo…”

The man is out on the balcony, smoking away a pack of Bokuto’s cigarettes as he drinks in the view. Luckily, it is still too early for Akaashi to be back from work, so the chances of Kuroo meeting him are very slim. Bokuto gingerly closes the front door and makes his way to him, sliding open the glass partition.

“Bo.” Kuroo says, not looking away from the setting sun that bleeds the sky into a gradient of orange and pink. “You’re back.”

“Hey…” Bokuto replies cautiously. As much as he is glad to see him, Kuroo isn’t someone who comes around often bearing good news. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I see my best friend before our last commission together?” Kuroo pouts with the cigarette stick in between his lips, his tone the usual sly and almost mocking.

Bokuto grins cheekily. “So I am your best friend.”

“Of course.” His voice mellows into something more sincere. “Have a smoke with me?”

He complies, accepting the stick that Kuroo offers him, leaning forward to light it. It instantly offers him relief. Kuroo is quiet for a few moments, and they watch the sun completely disappear under the muted night sky.

“Hey,” he starts, turning to Bokuto. “Let’s have a deal, shall we?”

“You better not be tricking me into doing another one of your jobs. I told you, this is the last one and that’s—“

“Calm down, Bo. Its not that. I just need a little courage, is all,” Kuroo smiles, a little rueful. “If this heist goes well, I’m going to tell Kenma how I feel.”

Bokuto lets out a melodramatic sigh. “I’m glad you came around. I’m doing this specifically for that, y’know? But are you sure he doesn’t know about it already?”

“Shut up. And no. He’s smart, but he’s also really, really dense. Its frustrating, almost.”

“Why not just tell him, then? Why base it on the success of this heist?”

“To be honest, I’m having conflicted feelings,” Kuroo taps his stick on the ashtray, leaning forward against the railing. He lets out a sigh. “I thought I was perfectly happy to just be as we are now. But there is always this small part of me that just wants more. And then I realise, I’m not happy at all. I’m just afraid of change.”

Ah. That hits a little too close to home. “So…you want something to push you to do it?” Bokuto presses his lips together.

Kuroo turns to him. “A cowardly move, I admit. But it does give me a reason to talk to him again.”

 “You better get ready your little confession, then, because this heist is as good as done with me around.”

Kuroo laughs, and Bokuto starts to feel a little nostalgic at the sound. A ‘thank you’ gets stuck in his throat, but he swallows it down. For all the times his boss has forced him to bend backwards to sneak into the most dangerous museums for his clients’ nearly impossible requests, he did give Bokuto a life when he was at rock bottom. Surely, a simple ‘thank you’ should be in order, but he’s certain that Kuroo knows already, because they were never one for expressing apologies and gratitude in words.

“Keep to the end of your bargain first, Bokuto. I’m expecting nothing less than a portrait from Five in one piece.”

Bokuto crosses his arms on the railing, muttering, “Isn’t that a given? You can really be an idiot, sometimes.”

“You can be just as bad as I am,” Kuroo scoffs. He gestures towards the stick in between Bokuto’s fingers. “You were addicted to the job, Bo. Maybe you still are, well, I don’t have a flippin’ clue.” He lets out a scornful chuckle. “You always acted like every heist was the last cig in the box. Now its like you can’t wait to leave. All for this...neighbour of yours.”

“What are you trying to say?” Bokuto’s eyes narrow. “That I’ll just come crawling back?”

Kuroo frowns. “No. I genuinely hope you do not, and I mean that in the nicest way possible.” He pauses, shooting Bokuto a weary look. “There’s just...something off about him, Bokuto. Like how there’s probably something off about you to him too.”

“What?” He snarls.

Kuroo replies patiently, “I’m just saying that—“

“If you’re afraid that this is going to be another Bella case, you can relax. I decided I’m not going to tell him about this at all.”

“That’s a double-edged sword you’re holding there, Bo.” Kuroo is apprehensive, tone tight and careful. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, alright?”

Bokuto swallows the lump in his throat, glancing at Kuroo’s way before placing the cigarette in between his lips. “Worrying about me? You’re awfully chummy today.”

“I’m being serious, Bokuto.”

“And I appreciate it.” He says, before adding softly. “But Akaashi...Akaashi’s a better person than all of us put together.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Kuroo grins as he blows out a puff of grey smoke, which earns a wistful smile back from Bokuto. “And what is with this depressing atmosphere? Go buy some beers, will ya? There’s none left in your fridge.”

Bokuto slides open the balcony door, replying airily, “I don’t have a choice, do I? You’re the boss.”

He leaves Kuroo in the apartment after slipping on a jacket, pocketing his hands as he walks out of the building complex. He knows that there’s a convenience store just down the street of the River that sells Kirin, the only brand Kuroo can stand to drink. The lamp posts that light his way flicker in a silent competition, struggling to stay afloat. Just as he enters the convenience store, Bokuto looks up numbly, only to stare back at a full moon in its pale glow. Kuroo didn’t let me finish my cigarette.

He buys two packs of beer after seeing the neon yellow promotion sticker, bracing himself for a gust of cold air again as he exits the store. With his cheeks pinched and lips dry, Bokuto quickens his pace to get back to the comfort of the apartment, slightly afraid that Akaashi would’ve arrived back from work and bump into Kuroo at the balcony. Bokuto walks down the pavement beside the River. The thought of it is already unnerving. They have no need to interact with each other; that would just spell more trouble for him.

Lucky for him though. Bokuto stops short when he spots a bespectacled man wrapped in a thick scarf, silently watching the quiet River waters sleep soundly under a withering cherry blossom tree, balding at its branches. He looks so distant, so detached from reality, that Bokuto is hesitant to approach him at first. He seems quietly worried about something, searching for his answer in the reflection on the water. Bokuto takes a couple of steps forward carefully, the beers clinking against his knee, and the sound jolts Akaashi out of his trance.

“Hey, you,” Bokuto says, a faint smile across his lips. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

Akaashi turns, and as he sees him, instantly relaxes. With fingers fidgeting with each other, peaking out from his long sleeves, his eyes trail to the plastic bag that Bokuto has slung around his wrist.

“Kirin,” he says. “I never expected you to be a Kirin person.”

“Oh yeah?” Bokuto grins, stepping over the wooden partition onto the grassy leverage where Akaashi stands. “And what’s a Kirin person supposed to be?”

Akaashi shrugs, burying the lower half of his face into his scarf. “Someone like me. Not someone like you.” He pauses, before adding, “That sounds silly, doesn’t it.”

“Not at all,” he lets out a hum. “You’re right. I like Sapporo a lot more.”

Akaashi glances at him, bewildered, before breaking into a small chuckle as he looks up towards the sky. “I’m just out for some fresh air. It calms my nerves.”

“Nervous? What for?”

“You’ll see,” Akaashi replies vaguely with a smile, and it gnaws at Bokuto’s curiosity, but he knows that Akaashi won’t budge no matter how persistent. He is silent for a few moments, and Bokuto can tell that he is hesitating; picking at the hem of his coat. Bokuto holds his gaze expectantly, hopeful.

“The sky is really pretty today, isn’t it? I think its a full moon.”

Bokuto laughs, his breath coming out in warm mists. “We haven’t seen those in a while, huh.”

“I got Saturn on a full moon,” Akaashi hums. “I don’t know why I remember such a small detail like that, but I guess its rather ironic. She died today.”

Saturn is one of Akaashi’s hanging creepers he keeps on the outline of his balcony door, amongst others like Jupiter and Neptune. Even though he does not show it, Bokuto knows that Akaashi is mourning for the death of his little plant. He cares for them deeply, and tends to them with extensive patience and gentleness. (“My other friends think I’m strange for talking to my plants,” Akaashi had told Bokuto once. “But some researchers found out that it helps them to grow.” Bokuto had thought that it was simply endearing of him.)

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

“Thank you,” Akaashi laughs softly, before glancing ruefully at a couple walking down the street below them. “I don’t know what I did wrong. She isn’t supposed to just wilt like that.”

Bokuto gazes at him firmly, and the younger man returns it in mild surprise at the seriousness flashing across his features. “You took the best care of Saturn. Don’t blame yourself.”

Akaashi does not answer him immediately, wistfully fixated on its ghostly gleam, almost like he is making a wish. Seconds hanging by a thread, weaved in moonlight and caramel leaves on the concrete pavement. A moment like this, just like an old feeling that rushes through Bokuto’s veins right before a volleyball touches the floor — the final moment before the walls crash in and time catches up from pausing in that fraction of a heartbeat.  “I have something to give you,” Akaashi finally says. “Will you meet me on Friday?”

The day of Five’s exhibition. Bokuto blinks, the sound of his heart echoing in his eardrums. But before he can stop himself, he asks, “what is it?”

“Something important.” Akaashi replies, averting to gaze to focus back on the River, the tips of his ears reddened from the cold’s merciless bite.

“You’re making me curious now, Akaashi,” Bokuto teases.

“Hey…Do you want it or not?”

“I’m joking! Of course I do!” He says before pressing his lips together nervously. “I have…something to tell you as well. Something important too.”

“Okay,” Akaashi says slowly, though hiding his peaking curiosity poorly. “So its a promise then. We meet here, on Friday night.”

“Its a promise.” Bokuto says resolutely. The expression Akaashi wears on his sleeve is difficult to decipher. Instead, it softens into a smile, and in it holds a familiar loneliness; a thousand words still yet to be said. Its cold, Bokuto wants to say. Hold my hand. Again. Again. Again. But he doesn’t. Because before he can bring up the offer, Akaashi slips his fingers fluidly in between his own, not returning his look of silent surprise.

Cold — is all Bokuto can think of. Akaashi’s hand is calloused and soft in different areas; a map of what he has touched and what he has not. Somehow, Bokuto can never get used to it; how the latter’s fingers are longer and slimmer, gently resting right below his knuckles. How they are always cold to the touch. Am I warm enough for you to forget the ice under your own fingertips? Or is it so unfamiliar that you will shun away? A question he asks in a tighter grasp, and an answer returned in the same way.

In the small town of Kawagoe-shi, they stand under a wilting cherry blossom tree. And above them, a single star shines brighter than any other, orbiting just a little closer to the world.

*

The plan is officially set into motion once Daichi leaves. It goes like this: as per normal, at 10:00pm, Bokuto closes up the cafe with the manager, and they take the elevator down Mori Tower together. The people that enter are scarce, give and take a few salarymen from the other floors. They’re halfway down when Bokuto pretends to rummage through his bag, groaning on cue just as Daichi asks him if there is anything wrong.

“I left my wallet in the cabinet under the counter,” Bokuto tells him mournfully.

Daichi laughs, completely oblivious. “Guess you have to take another round of the elevator.”

Bokuto fakes a grimace, hoping the manager buys into his story completely, which thankfully, seems to be the case. As they reach the ground floor and people pile out of the elevator, he says cheekily, “no need to wait for me, Sawamura-kun!”

“Who said I would?” Daichi rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really gotta make a run first. I’ll see you another time.”

Perfect. “Aww,” Bokuto pouts just as the elevator doors start to close. And then he laughs. “See ya later Daichi!”

“Bye, Konoha. Don’t get into too much trouble. See you next week.”

Just like that, he’s the only one left in the elevator. Bokuto glances wryly at the security camera at the corner of the ceiling, certain that Oikawa is looking through it. They aren’t able to communicate right away due to the absence of the earpieces, but its just a minor inconvenience for now. The doors open again with a quiet ding on the highest floor, and Bokuto slips past the ticket lobby. Everything seems to be going according to plan. The guards are closing up the exhibitions which leaves the entrance empty for Bokuto to enter undetected, with the help of Oikawa blocking out the camera views. He enters the hallway to the restroom nearest to the cafe, opening the door which had the bolded word ‘INVENTORY’. Closing it behind him, he is cramped wall to wall with stocks full of mops and other janitorial supplies. Bokuto rummages through the messy clutter, shoving his way past some storage boxes before he finds a dark blue haversack hidden just below; exactly where Kageyama is supposed to put it. In a swift motion, he opens it to find an extra set of the latter’s janitor uniform and a small walkie-talkie.

It switches on with a crackle. “Can you guys hear me?”

There is only silence, before Oikawa replies; voice static and buzzy. “Loud and clear, Kou-chan. I’ve been monitoring your movements through the cameras. There aren’t any security guards near you right now, so change quickly.”

Kageyama’s uniform is a little tight around Bokuto’s shoulders and torso, but he manages to squeeze into it anyway. He wears the cap that comes along with it and loops a face mask around his ears, making sure to hide the haversack behind the boxes once he’s done. Pulling out a janitor trolley along with him, he looks left and right before pushing it to the west wing of the museum. Around him, the loud sound of the ceiling lights shutting off bounces off the tall white walls. According to the blueprint that he had begrudgingly memorised, Bokuto makes a sharp turn into an exhibition of Japanese Architecture in order to avoid the guards, hoping that the squeaky trolley wheels will not give him away. The museum is now deadly quiet, and Bokuto hasn’t forgotten this unsettling feeling that prickles his skin every single time. At least he knows, that somewhere along this endless maze of hallways and art pieces, Kageyama is here with him, which makes it a little more bearable than the rest of the times he’s had to do this alone before. The starting process is always not very fun, but once he gets to the piece that he has to steal, the adrenaline rush he gets makes it all worth it.

The time now is 11:30pm. He’s a little early because he’s already in the Aida Makoto exhibition, which he’s only supposed to be at at 11:45pm. So he pulls out a mop from the trolley and begins to clean the floor to pass the time. He can’t proceed with the plan a little earlier or later, Kageyama had stressed, because he’d only run into a guard if so. They had a schedule to stick to. While moping, Bokuto glances at the camera just above Makoto’s piece of Electric Poles, Crows and Others, and its little red light blinks back knowingly. All he has to do now is to wait for Oikawa’s cue that it’s safe to proceed.

Electric Poles, Crows and Others is a six panel folding screen of acrylic on canvas, which reminds him of the view from his balcony when he first started living in Kawagoe-shi in winter. When on a rare day, it had snowed, albeit light and scarce. Snowflakes had coated his balcony railing white, and stuck onto the feathers of the crows nestling on the electric poles. The colour it had casted over the view painted the buildings grey and dull. But that was the day before the snow had abruptly stopped, and the sun hung itself brightly on the axis of a rich blue sky. The day a certain Akaashi Keiji dried his clothes on his balcony with bamboo poles and chided Bokuto for smoking and laughed more radiantly than the sun ever could. Like he made the world smile as he came along into Bokuto’s life. He doesn’t think he’d ever forget that smile.

In the darkness, his heart jumps as he hears the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway outside the exhibition. Sneaking a look, he sees a circle of light coming from a flashlight, and he quickly turns back to the trolley, looking down to mop the floor as calmly as he can. He’s sure that the security guard is passing by now, noticing his presence. But he is just a janitor now, with nothing to hide except for Kageyama’s name tag above his breast pocket.

Luckily, the footsteps do not stop. The guard does not suspect him in any way, and continues on his rounds. It is until Bokuto does not hear the sound anymore that Oikawa’s voice comes in through the walkie-talkie. “You’re safe, Kou-chan. You can start making your way to the archives room. I checked with Tobio-chan already. He’s nearing his position. Ready when you are.”

Thirty minutes. All he has is thirty minutes to pick the lock, cut the painting out, and get the hell out of there with Kageyama before Guard B passes by. Bokuto places the mop back onto the trolley, pushing it out of Makoto’s exhibition and out onto the hallway; to the opposite direction of where Guard A went. Walking through twists and turns of narrow corridors, he finally gets to the archives room. However, when he gets to it, he can see that the lights aren’t switched off through the gap between the door and the floor. He frowns.

“Kageyama…the lights are still on inside.”

“Its like that sometimes,” the younger man replies immediately through the walkie-talkie. “It isn’t unusual. Maybe they forget to off them because its so deep inside that they completely miss it. Anyways, I’m already at my position. If you manage to leave earlier just let me know so I can set off the fire alarm.”

“Guard B is still in the north wing,” Oikawa adds. “There aren’t any cameras in the archives room so you’re on your own, Kou-chan. I’ll keep a look out for you outside.”

“Got it. Let’s just hope I can pick this lock.” Bokuto takes out a small wrench, crouching to face the keyhole. He slots the wrench in, but is surprised when it enters so easily. Cautiously, he holds onto the door handle and when it opens softly with a click, he flinches, startled. “Its unlocked already…” Bokuto murmurs in shock, gingerly pushing the door open just an inch to peer inside. He can barely see anything, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone inside.

“What the fuck?” Oikawa’s hushed voice crackles with static. “It wasn’t locked? Or did I just see you pick that lock in five seconds?”

“It wasn’t locked. But the room’s empty, I think. I’m going in.”

“Wow. Talk about luck. But just to give you a time check: you have twenty minutes left.”

Bokuto enters, quietly shutting the door behind him, squinting from being in a lit room after wandering around in the dark. He looks around with parted lips, letting out a breath of awe. Despite him exploring so many museums, he has never come across an open storage gallery before, and this is exactly it. The still-life paintings that Kenma had shown them sat delicately in glass panels, framed ornately. Carefully, in slow steps, Bokuto drinks in the picturesque paintings of flower vases and fruits and an occasional scenery of the streets of Tokyo. Kenma really wasn’t kidding about Five. They are definitely skilled in what they do. The paintings seem to pull Bokuto into the eyes of this person; something that feels terribly nostalgic and reclusive and familiar. Five paints in soft, muted colours. They do not stand out, and yet they are so detailed that Bokuto can just stare at one of them for hours long. But now isn’t the time to be distracted. The painting that he is looking for — the main attraction of the exhibition it seems — must be at the end of the room. As he weaves his way through the tall glass walls, he realises that the room is deeper than he expected.

“Kou-chan, what’s going on right now? Have you found the painting?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, this is so typical of you. Don’t tell me you’ve been looking around at the other art pieces again.”

Bokuto breathes out an amused chuckle, wanting to deny it, but a painting of an oriental tea set catches his eye. “Can’t help it. Five is amazing.”

“Damn it. Wish I was there. I’m such a fan of their stuff, y’know that? Think you can steal one for me?”

“Don’t think I have time for another one. They are all in glass panels. It’d take time to cut ‘em out,” Bokuto replies as he walks quietly and briskly. “I’m nearing the end of the room already. I think the painting’s gonna be here.”

Everything is going according to their plan. Its just standard procedure from here on out. Simple, really. But of course, nothing is really ever that simple. As Bokuto gets around the last glass panel, it only takes a second of disbelief before reality crashes down on him in cold sweat.

“No…”

He instantly freezes over, eyes widened and fingers trembling. His breath is knocked out of his lungs from a swift punch of shock, and he drops the walkie-talkie in his horrified bewilderment, the noise echoing softly around the room’s walls. This can’t be real. No. No. No no no no. The room starts to spin. His voice gets stuck painfully in his throat, and the blood rushes down from his head and fingers; his face blanching and his hair sticking to his cap. He stumbles backwards, trembling violently, a clasped hand over his mouth, unable to believe the sight before him.

Because hung on the centre of the largest wall in the room, Bokuto comes face to face with a portrait of himself.

On the canvas, he’s looking over his shoulder, with a smile so calm in alarming contrast to the shock puncturing through his heart. In the backdrop of Shingashi River, and the pink of cherry blossom trees at the edges of the canvas. Bright and luminescent. Beautiful and free. Bokuto lets out shaky whimper. There is only one person who has seen him in this way.

He never knew he could look this beautiful. Through the eyes of the painter. Through the eyes of Five. Through the eyes of…

Akaashi Keiji.

His stomach twists violently. This is too much to take in. He pulls down his mask, gasping for air, collapsing onto the ground with his back against a glass panel with buckled knees. Five is Akaashi. The words ache painfully in Bokuto’s head. Akaashi is Five. All this time, when he was supposed to be a humble editor with a hobby for museum hopping, he’d actually been coming here to set up his own exhibition.

Akaashi’s a famous painter. He gulps, almost biting his own tongue. And he painted a portrait of Bokuto.

“So?! Have you found it?” Oikawa says impatiently from the walkie-talkie on the floor by Bokuto’s shoe. “What’s it look like? Kou-chan? Hello?”

His voice is enough to snap Bokuto out of his panic a little, and he lets out a shaky breath. Grabbing the walkie-talkie shakily, he presses on the button. “Y-Yeah…I found it. Give me a while to cut it out.” His voice is strained and tight, but thankfully, Oikawa doesn’t seem to notice nor comment on it.

He does not cut it out. Instead, he gets up, and takes a slow step towards the painting; strangely the only one that isn’t kept in a glass panel. The feeling of dread gets stuck in his throat and he clenches his fists to stop them from shaking. Taking a closer look at the painting; which must only be a little smaller than his torso, Bokuto traces his finger across the air, following the delicate strokes of Five’s— no, Akaashi’s— paintbrush. But it still feels so surreal. This is how Akaashi had seen him; down to the crinkle near his eyelids and hair that bodies the movement of the wind. The smile on his face; without any teeth, but has all the happiness brimming in his eyes. How everything else was just dim in comparison.

There is a small rectangular plaque by the side of the painting on the wall. He reads it warily, his heart eating itself from the inside out with his conflicted feelings, trying not to spill the tears that threaten to fall under his eyelids.

It reads:

FIVE

Stargazing In Daylight, 2022

Acrylic on canvas

I captured this brief moment in my mind and replayed it countlessly in my memories. I cherished a smile that happened for less than a second and then never again but oh, how lovely it was. In the prettiest time of spring, I could not take my eyes off him: the strange phenomenon of stargazing in daylight.

“Is that what you thought of me…?” Bokuto whispers brokenly as he stares at the painting. Akaashi’s words come back to him, and suddenly, the revelation unravels before him. 

Nothing has caught my eye like the Wanderer has. But I think I’ve seen the complete opposite.

I tried looking for them during daytime…because it does get a little easier now.

Bokuto’s finger runs over the engraved words again and again, his mind a vortex of overwhelming emotions and painful, fragile memories.

I’m sure you would’ve been a star.

He has to cut it out. He has to cut it out now. But he can’t. Bokuto grits his teeth in frustration, not knowing what to do and unable to tell anyone. He knows that if he goes back empty-handed, his partners would do more than just murder him for risking their entire lives in vain. However, he can’t do this to Akaashi. He just can’t. Not when he painted a whole portrait of Bokuto and called him a star. The guilt claws him into her embrace, swallowing him whole. He glances at his watch. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and he has to make a decision, he can’t afford to waste any t—

“Konoha-san—?!”

Bokuto’s head turns sharply at the sound, his heart plummeting and cold fear instantly washing over him. No. No no no.

Not you. Anyone but you.

Akaashi stands in front of a door to what seems to be a storage room, just adjacent to the wall. His expression mirrors how Bokuto feels: a raw, blank state of shock. Eyes wide and feet paralysed to the ground. “K-Konoha-san. What are you doing here?”

Fuck.

“Akaashi,” he manages out, croaky and desperate. “I…I can explain.” His head scrambles for any explanation, but turns up with none.

“Explain?” Akaashi looks petrified, his face just as pale as Bokuto’s. “Why you are here after hours…dressed like that…in this exhibition…” His words come out in halting stutters. “No…No. This can’t be happening…”

“Akaashi, please, just don’t—“

“Don’t what?” Hurt flashes across his eyes. He’s horrified. “Are you...a thief?”

Bokuto falters visibly. “I…”

“T-This can’t be happening,” He manages out, voice tight, wringing his hands in his hair despairingly, before turning sharply. “Was the stolen painting at Okada Museum also because of you?”

The walkie-talkie in Bokuto’s hand crackles to life, tearing through the painful pause of silence in the room. “Bokuto-san? Are you there? I’m going to set off the sprinklers in one minute.”

Akaashi blinks, blanched; the colour draining from his face. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like I’m a stranger. “Bo…ku…to?”

Bokuto takes a step towards Akaashi in his desperation, palms up defensively. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Just let me explain—“

“Who is that?” Akaashi interjects, utterly confused, the look on his face when he stares back is like a painful needle piercing right through Bokuto’s chest. “Who are you?”

I don’t want you to say my name like this. Please. Not like this.

“My name is Bokuto Koutarou,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Not Konoha Akinori. That was just an alias that you conveniently gave me, and I went along with it. Because I didn’t want to stop knowing you.”

Akaashi’s mouth parts incredulously, making out an incorrigible sound, his fingernails digging into his skin painfully. “I can’t believe this…No…I always knew…” he mumbles, anguished. “I always knew you were too good to be true. I was so stupid.” He chuckles incredulously as he buries his face in his hands, and it is sad and empty. “Its like I don’t even know you at all.”

His chest squeezes suffocatingly at his words. Bokuto steps closer before he can stop himself, clasping Akaashi’s hands in his own. The latter does not pull away, but they lie limp in Bokuto’s touch. They are cold. “I love you. Please believe me. I love you, Akaashi.”

He looks stricken at his words, staring blankly at Bokuto, before whispering shakily, “I knew.”

“Everything with you was real. You have to believe me,” Bokuto begs, his voice tearing at the ends.

His words seem like knives against Akaashi’s skin; who recoils in wariness. “This has got to be some sick…cruel joke.”

“I was already going to quit. Please, you have to believe me. This was my last job.”

“Yeah, well, were you ever going to tell me?!” Akaashi asks, louder and wounded. “Or were you just going to live as Konoha Akinori in front of me forever?”

“I was going to tell you!” He pleads in this moment of desperation. “But I couldn’t. Not while I’m still tied to them—“

“Kou-chan? Are you even there? You’re scaring me.” Oikawa’s voice catches their attention. “You have ten seconds to get the hell out of there. You have to leave now.”

Akaashi stares at the walkie-talkie for a brief moment before removing his hands from Bokuto’s, walking over to the painting and unhanging it from the wall.

“What…are you doing?”

“Bokuto! I’m serious! Get the fuck out of there now!”

He places it onto Bokuto’s hands, despite the latter’s weak refusal. “Take it. I was going to give it to you, anyway.” Akaashi says, his lower lip trembling although he gives Bokuto a smile. “Happy birthday.”

And just like that; a crack in the mirror he’s staring into. Rippling across to the edges, branching out like a broken web. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. “I can’t…You can’t do this, Akaashi.” Tears are welling up in Bokuto’s eyes in fear. “I don’t deserve this at all. If you give it to me, they’re gonna make me sell it…”

“You have to escape now. Your friend said so.” Akaashi says instead, with a quiet urgency. He does not return Bokuto’s gaze, choosing to stare at the wall. “Go, Bokuto-san.”

“Get out! Now!” The walkie-talkie screams.

It physically hurts to hear his name from his lips. The painting is heavy, carrying what weighs down the core of his own body. “I love you.” Bokuto whispers.

“Go!”

Before Bokuto can say anything back, the fire alarm blares with a deafening ringing, and the sprinklers on abruptly with water droplets gushing out like rain. And so, after one last look at Akaashi, he runs. Hugging the frame close to his chest to avoid water getting to it, he bolts out of the archives room and out onto the hallway with adrenaline pumping in his ears. From the periphery of his eye, he sees Guard B rushing away to the sight of the sounded alarm, not noticing him at all. Atsumu’s plan had worked, leaving Bokuto free to run to the elevator. The water from the sprinklers runs down from his hair to his cheeks, and he ducks his head to cover the canvas. Through the hallways, through the Makoto exhibition, through the ticketing lobby, away from the archives room, away from the museum. Away from Akaashi. The elevator doors immediately shut behind him as soon as Bokuto jumps inside, and begins its plummet down the fifty-four floors.

He chokes out a sob, tears intermingling with sprinkler water, hugging the painting tightly as he crumbles into a corner of the elevator. The reverberation of the fire alarm starts to grow distant, although flashes of red still cut across the elevator glass in a jarring manner. Behind him — gradually, and then all at once — the night view of Tokyo’s skyline starts to weep as well.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way at all. Its cold. Everywhere is cold. Bokuto shivers, his eyes smarting and red, in between strangled gasps for air. His fingers grip the bronze frame of the painting. He can’t bear to look at it. The flooding of warped thoughts in his mind gets sucked out into a void and then floods back again; a vicious, tormenting cycle. What just happened? What do I do from here? I can’t give it to them. I can’t let them have it. I have to go back. I have to tell him I’m sorry—

The levels get closer to their descent. Ten. Nine. Eight. He has to start moving. He has to get up. He has to run again. Seven. Six. Five. Oikawa can see him. He must be wondering why Bokuto’s collapsed on the elevator floor. But the walkie-talkie stays silent. Four. Three. Two. He can’t stop now. Not now. Not when everything is depending on him. He has to get up. You have to get up!

One.

The roar of the pouring rain helps to soften the blow of his footsteps trampling on the pavement. The van is already waiting for him, and as soon as he gets nearer, Oikawa slides open the door with unprecedented force.

“What the hell were you doing in there?!” Oikawa shrieks as Bokuto shifts past him without even sparing a glance, face overcast. The van squeals into life when Atsumu jams his foot on the accelerator, and the motion causes the downcast Bokuto to knock against the side of the seat. The patter of rain against the van’s heavily tinted window pane is loud enough to drown out the rumble of the engine. Oikawa stares at him in bewilderment at his uncharacteristic lack of response, before he says, “let me see the painting, Kou-chan.”

“…No.”

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

“No.” Bokuto repeats curtly.

Oikawa frowns, brows furrowing, peering at the canvas that he clings on to for dear life. “You didn’t even cut it out. Are you out of your mind?”

“What’s going on?” Atsumu yells from the front, partially distracted from speeding down the relatively quiet street. “Bo-kun?!”

Bokuto looks up to glare at Oikawa, because screw him for being such an insensitive asshole, but the latter catches his eyes, and his importunate expression immediately dissolves into worry. “…Kou…You’re crying.”

He instantly ducks his face back down, but Oikawa had seen it all already. The man turns away, and shuffles nearer to the front of the van by grabbing the sides of the seats. “Tsum-Tsum, we’re changing plans,” he says, loud and urgent. “We’re going to my place.”

“What?! But then we will never get to Hokkaido on time! Kuroo said—“

“Leave Tetsu-chan to me,” Oikawa grunts. “We’re going to Meguro-ku. Now.”

Atsumu lets out an audible sigh, but turns the van around, making the wheels squeak with its drift. Oikawa gets back to Bokuto, and places his hands on the latter’s shoulders. “Kou-chan. I just need you to answer me this,” he says firmly, making Bokuto look up warily. “Did. Anyone. See you.”

A pause. And then a slow nod.

Oikawa breathes outwardly, pressing his lips together, before turning to the front of the van. “Tsum-Tsum. Its a code red. After you drop us off, get to the Chinese restaurant in Yokohama. Tell them you’re under Kuroo and that you need a favour. They’ll understand. The boss, Daishou-kun, is a good friend of his.”

“A code red? Someone saw him?!” Atsumu repeats frantically, his voice getting caught in his rising panic. “What favour?”

“They’ll help you to hide your van. Or at least, until the coast is clear…if it can ever be.”

“Okay, okay okay,” Atsumu mutters out, clearly on edge and trying to calm his nerves. 

“Take Kou-chan’s walkie-talkie. I’ll contact you for further instructions.”

“Yeah. Got it. Just leave it on your computer desk at the back of the van… Get ready. I’m reaching your apartment complex.”

The van halts to an abrupt stop. And Oikawa grabs Bokuto by the arms to push him out of the van without another word, leaving Atsumu to drive off in the mere split of a second. Bokuto follows his lead numbly, up the stairs of the complex and down the open hallway of doors, until they reach one at the left corner at the end. He’s soaked to the bone, the water in his shoes squelching with every step. Oikawa raises his hand to unlock the door, but then he pauses, mulling over something.

“The cops will probably be after us, so you’re going to stay here for the time being.”

Bokuto chooses to stare at the ground. “How is this better than meeting Kuroo and Kenma in Hokkaido?”

“The roads are literally the eyes of the police, dummy. Hiding under their noses is the best bet we have right now,” Oikawa replies with a sigh, rubbing his temple.

Bokuto does not grace him with a reply, which earns him a hard stare. 

“What’s wrong with you? You have to tell me what’s going on,” Oikawa scowls. But when Bokuto keeps silent, he — surprisingly — doesn’t prod any further. Turning back to unlock the door, he adds, “when we go in…I don’t want any questions.”

An odd request, but when Oikawa opens the door and walks in, with Bokuto trudging behind him, the latter suddenly understands why. His eyes widen, mouth parting in surprise.

“That’s—!”

“I said no questions,” he interjects crudely. Slipping off his shoes, he waves carelessly at the man lounging in the middle of the living room watching television. “I’m back, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi Hajime. Oikawa had mentioned him a couple of times; something about being childhood friends and a silly running joke about eloping with him one day. But Bokuto never knew that Oikawa had been keeping in touch with him this entire time, nor the more pressing matter that they are living together. Judging by his reaction towards Bokuto finding out about this, it doesn’t seem like the others are aware of this fact. Which begs the question: does Iwaizumi know about them?

The man waves back, his eyes not leaving the television; the only light emitting from the otherwise entirely dark apartment. He does not look the slightest bit fazed at Bokuto’s presence. Although, it is only when Bokuto follows Oikawa and shuffles past the sofa that Iwaizumi’s gaze flicks up to look at him.

“Hey. You must be Bokuto.”

“Y-Yeah. Nice to meet you,” he replies, on edge. Is it okay for him to be talking to this guy? But Oikawa ignores their conversation, going off into one of the rooms. He swallows a small lump in his throat, before adding, “I didn’t know Oikawa was living with someone.”

Iwaizumi breathes out an amused chuckle. “That asshole has been leeching off me ever since he got back to Japan. I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, by the way.”

“I…I know. Oikawa likes talking about you.”

“Ah. That’s annoying.” He drawls, though not really looking annoyed in the slightest. His eyes trail down to the canvas that Bokuto is still holding in his arms. “So I take it that the job went well?”

Bokuto freezes up. “How—“

“Kou-chan! Don’t you keep me waiting here!” Oikawa yells impatiently from the room. Bokuto clamps his mouth shut, averting his gaze away from Iwaizumi and walking into the room which Oikawa went into. There is a shirt and a pair of sweatpants strewn on the bed. “Here,” he says to Bokuto. “You’re shivering. Go take a shower and get some sleep. Iwa-chan’s clothes should fit you.”

“Oikawa. He knows about...the job.”

Oikawa huffs. “Yeah. Who do you think told him?”

Bokuto raises his eyebrows. “But…!”

“I already know what you’re trying to say, Kou-chan. And its hilarious that its coming from you…I thought you’ve already established that we’re both idiots who can’t keep our mouths shut.”

He looks down. “So you see him in that way.”

“Did I not make myself obvious enough?”

“I just thought…You had that thing with Bella and…”

Oikawa drags out his sigh, slumping on the bed like he dreads talking about this. He stares at the ceiling. “Do you really think its so easy to forget about someone?”

Bokuto flinches inwardly, sullenly looking down at the canvas. Smiling Bokuto returns his gaze, calm and happy. Wordlessly, he turns it over for Oikawa to see. It takes a second for the latter to register what the painting actually is and he sits up from shock.

“Oh…oh fuck.” He whispers aloud, staring back at Bokuto with a concerned expression. “Kou-chan…Five is…”

“Yeah. He was in the archives. I think he came from the storage room inside, which is why neither of us saw him. But he painted me, Oikawa. He… He…” Bokuto doesn’t finish his sentence. Or rather, he can’t. All he feels is numb. Oikawa doesn’t reply at first, mouth parted and completely still, reeling from his revelation.

“Shit, Kou. I’m…” Oikawa stutters, trying to find the words that seem to be stuck in his throat. “How could this even happen?”

“I don’t know,” Bokuto whimpers, head in his hands. “I don’t know.” All of a sudden, a sickening thought comes to mind. He whips his head up. “Are you going to tell Kuroo?”

“I can’t even if I wanted to. I already sent out the code red warning. Tetsu-chan has already cleared out the Kawagoe-shi apartment…Don’t ask me how, I don’t have a flippin’ clue either…He’s also uncontactable right now,” Oikawa mumbles out, wincing like he has a terrible headache. “But he’s waiting for us to rendezvous in Hokkaido, Kou-chan. The client too. I only bought us enough time until tomorrow night.”

“You can’t tell him, please, you can’t—“

“Calm down. You’re not thinking straight right now. Take a shower first and get some rest. Then we’ll properly discuss on what to do, okay?” Oikawa’s voice is gentle yet cautious. But it is enough for Bokuto to falter, giving in.

“Don’t touch the painting,” he warns wearily, but his eyes narrow sharply. Oikawa raises his arms innocently in response.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Who’d want a painting of you?” He teases, obviously trying to lighten up the heavy atmosphere. It is, however, a poor joke made in light of their current circumstances, and does little to execute its intended purpose. But Bokuto appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

After a moment of heavy silence, Oikawa sighs before finally getting up, walking to the door to give Bokuto some privacy, only to stop as Bokuto adds. “I’m sorry. If I had known…If only I had known…I wouldn’t have talked to him in the first place.”

Oikawa stares, surprise over his features, before saying blankly, “come on now, Kou-chan. Lying just makes it worse.”

*

Do you really think its so easy to forget about someone?

Bokuto loses count of the minutes he’s spent standing under the shower head, the water jet hitting the back of his neck almost painfully. Oikawa’s words circle around in his head, and he is unable to let them go. The bathroom walls cave in. He crouches down, squeezing his eyes shut, only to see himself staring at a cracked mirror.

He wonders if it can be repaired. Or if it is already too late.

*

When Bokuto gets out of the shower, there are hushed mutters from the hallway outside. He leans against the wall of the room, realising that Oikawa is talking to Atsumu on the walkie-talkie while pacing back and forth.

“Daishou-kun was there? Good…good. See, I told you he’d help without asking anything. You did avoid the traffic cameras, right?” Oikawa whispers into the receiver. Atsumu’s voice is static and mostly incoherent to Bokuto’s ears.

“So going back to what we were talking about…you think we should take it to Tetsu-chan anyways huh…I’m not too sure about that. Kou-chan is being really protective over it…What? Yeah, they don’t know. Its gonna be one big shocker for sure. I’m — Ow!” Oikawa cries out as Bokuto rips the walkie-talkie from his hands with a furious scowl.

“You agreed that we were not going to tell Kuroo!” He snarls as Oikawa cradles his hand, looking shocked and slightly fearful of Bokuto’s sudden outburst. The walkie-talkie continues to sound as Atsumu calls out for Oikawa, confused at the lack of response. Bokuto switches it off, holding it behind his back.

“I never agreed to that, Kou-chan,” Oikawa retorts. “Its either we go to Tetsu-chan or he’s coming to us. And if its option number two, you’re going to get your ass kicked for hiding this from him. He’s never going to let you quit!”

“And you’re saying the other option is better?!”

“Well, yeah!” He answers loudly, frowning. “You can stay here while I deliver the painting until its safe for you to go wherever you want!”

“He knows where I want to go,” Bokuto hisses. “And I’m not letting them have the painting. He can come here and try for all he wants.”

“This is a job. You think Tetsu-chan would let you keep the painting just ‘cause of your silly feelings? Do you know the amount of work he made me do to compensate for Bella? Word spreads faster than wildfire in the underground scene and you know it. He can’t afford to fail a commission because of this.” Oikawa says brusquely, eyes narrowing.

“Akaashi gave it to me, Oikawa! Its the only thing I have left of him!”

“And the world is unfair! We can’t have everything we want. If you don’t let me deliver it to Hokkaido, you aren’t just wasting my efforts, but also Tsum-Tsum and Tobio-chan’s; which I have to remind you in case you forgot, is still over there in the museum covering for your shit.”

Bokuto takes a step nearer to him, glaring. “I’m. Not. Giving. It.”

“Oh fuck you, Bokuto.”

He sees red and then, he doesn’t know what happens in that split of a second. But now he has his fist raised, clenched knuckle-tight and almost meeting Oikawa’s jaw, stopped only by Iwaizumi’s firm grip. The shorter — albeit stronger — man had thankfully pulled Oikawa back just in time, not budging from Bokuto’s struggling to be released from his hold.

“You can argue,” he says calmly to the both of them, “but no physical fighting. And you, Oikawa. I know how crude you can get. Can’t say I blame the guy.”

Oikawa’s chest rises and falls from several deep breaths, stunned and wide-eyed, but composes himself a little just to say, “fuck you too, Hajime.”

Almost immediately, once he can see clearly again and realises what he had almost done, the pressing feeling of guilt fills Bokuto up again and he visibly deflates. Slackening his fist, he crumbles onto his knees, with Iwaizumi gently releasing his grip from his arm. The tears that have been welling up underneath his eyelids finally break the dam and overflow, running down his cheeks and stinging his eyes red. Loudly at first, screaming frustratedly into the hem of his shirt, before it dissolves into silent sobs.

It goes on like that for awhile. And then, there is a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Kou-chan…”

Bokuto ignores him.

“Look. Sorry if I said it like that but…It still has to go to Hokkaido.”

He shakes his head insistently. “You can’t…please…”

“There’s really no other way, Kou. You just have to let it go.”

“No...I can’t...”

“You know I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Then tell Kuroo. Tell him I want it back,” Bokuto chokes out. However, his breath hitches when he looks up desperately while clinging on to Oikawa’s sleeves.

Oikawa’s cheeks are also stained with tears, bottom lip trembling as the both of them look at each other. At that moment, his face contorts, and he quickly averts his gaze from Bokuto, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow. “Damn it…” he mutters out shakily. “Fucking damn it, Kou-chan…”

Iwaizumi pats his shoulder gently. “You’ve always been a big ol’ softie, huh, Shittykawa.”

“Oh, shut up. I just can’t stand seeing Kou-chan cry. Its annoying…”

Bokuto grabs Oikawa more firmly by the arms. “Bring me along to Hokkaido, then. I’ll talk to Kuroo.”

“No. Nuh uh, no can do,” he replies quickly with a shake of his head. “You’re staying here to avoid them.”

“Then help me to convince them. At least try,” Bokuto begs.

Oikawa stares at him, weary and skeptical. His eyes dart to Iwaizumi, silently asking for a solution to this dilemma. The latter shrugs, raising his brows, as if to say its a decision you have to make for yourself. He sighs, pressing both of his lips together and rubbing his temples agonisingly.

“Bring me the painting first,” he finally says.

And after Bokuto does so, he quietly cuts out the painting from its frame. He takes a good look at it, chewing on his bottom lip. “Is this along Shingashi River?!”

“...Yeah.”

“Its like a photograph!”

“Its entirely from his memory. You should’ve seen his other works.”

“Oh, I have. But this…this…wow.” Oikawa answers, incredulous. “It really looks exactly like you, Kou-chan.”

“It is me.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know what I meant.”

“Maybe…Do you think…Maybe Kenma-kun wouldn’t even want a painting of me. I mean, that’s just weird, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” Oikawa replies instantly, still transfixed on the canvas. “I’d keep it, Kou-chan. And that’s saying a lot.”

“You look good here, Bokuto,” Iwaizumi adds, nodding with a finger to his chin, as he stares at the painting as well.

“Smiling portraits are really rare,” Oikawa continues to gush. “But he captured it perfectly. And the colours…just...wow.”

Bokuto curses, crouching onto the ground once again. “I’m never gonna get it back.”

There is a heavy silence for a while, with only the sound of the television playing in the backdrop and the pouring rain outside, before Oikawa finally breaks it. “Look, I’ll try, okay? I’ll at least try, on your behalf.” He runs a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “But if Kuroo insists on continuing with the commission, I can’t help you anymore.”

Bokuto whips his head back up, the ends of his mouth lifting up in relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—“

“But I can’t promise anything, alright?” He mutters, frowning. “I hope you know you’re fighting a losing battle.”

“Still,” Bokuto replies sincerely. “Thanks, Oikawa.” The latter glances back at him, poorly masking his pity, but the tear stains on his cheek are still obvious.

“Whatever…Geez. This is annoying.” He sniffs as he rolls up the canvas, wordlessly stretching out his hand for the walkie-talkie, which Bokuto hands to him. “I’ll get Tsum-Tsum to borrow one of Daishou’s cars to get to Hokkaido now. Iwa-chan will take care of you until I get back. Don’t try anything funny, Kou-chan…Bokuto. I’m serious. Lay low. We still don’t know if the cops are after us.”

“I will. Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s impossible,” Oikawa says wryly, and as fond as Oikawa Tooru can possibly sound. But he shakes his head with a tired exhale, before adding, “get some sleep now. You must be exhausted. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“I’m not tired now, I swear.”

“Sleep.” Oikawa replies firmly. He turns to Iwaizumi. “Don’t let him leave the apartment.”

“Tell Tsum-Tsum not to drive too slowly,” Bokuto warns, only half joking.  

“Ha! He drives like he’s always holding in a shit. Just sit tight. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He watches as Oikawa packs the canvas into a small duffle bag, amongst other bare necessities. It feels strangely like he’s leaving behind the years that they’ve gone through together, all the good and the bad. A subtle farewell; knowing very well that this life of theirs has never had the promise of meeting again tomorrow.

“You’re a good friend, Oikawa.” he says suddenly. The latter doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“We aren’t friends, Kou-chan,” Oikawa replies airily instead, with the hint of a smile. “Just old partners in crime.”

*

In his dream, he runs.

Running to, or running away? The thin line between both blurs. He dreams of running to his mother; he has never dreamt of her ever. But her back continues to grow smaller and smaller, until it is nothing but a speck in the dark. No! He screams desperately. Come back! But eventually, he feels the fatigue getting to his legs, and he slows down, eventually stopping in the middle of nowhere.

Kneeling in exhaustion, Bokuto stays like that for awhile, trying to catch his breath, until a gentle hand holds his chin up.

“Why are you always running?” asks the Akaashi in his dream, cupping his cheek. Bokuto instantly leans into his touch, not wanting to ever look away from him for a single moment; afraid that he would just disappear.

“I don’t want to crack any more mirrors,” he whispers. “All I want is you.”

Akaashi pulls his hand back. It is stained with paint. “Then why are you running away from the world?”

“Because that’s all I know.”

“Is it really?”

Bokuto looks down. The worst thing about it is that it is the truth. He has always been running away, because when he finally gets the courage to run to something, it is always out of his reach.“Had we loved in another time…do you think things would’ve been different?”

“Of course,” Akaashi answers, gazing at him melancholically. “But sometimes, life doesn’t go in the ways we’d expect.”

Bokuto wakes up breathless, missing a warmth on the other side of the bed that was never there.

*

Oikawa is already long gone by the time Bokuto emerges from the bedroom as promised. He smells the warm feeling of breakfast.

Iwaizumi is in the kitchen, whistling along to the sizzling of eggs and bacon. “Morning, Bokuto,” he says without looking back. “You’re just in time.”

“You made this?” He asks curiously, in between a stretch and a yawn. “For me?”

“What can I say? I’m a good host.” Iwaizumi drawls good-naturedly. “Oikawa did mention to me that you liked bacon and eggs. But do you want anything else?”

Now in broad daylight, Bokuto takes a better look at the apartment. The sun’s rays stream in from Iwaizumi’s balcony, shedding a bright glow over the living room. On the coffee table, there is an almost empty coffee cup, with a couple of books on Human Physiology and Sports Science strewn messily beside it. The television is still on, with the drone of the morning news playing in the background. Bokuto holds his breath, waiting for an announcement about a stolen painting in Mori Museum. But there is none.

Bokuto drags out a hum. “…Got any onigiri?”

“Oh?” Iwaizumi’s brow raise slightly. He walks over to the refrigerator, opening it. “I think I have a few around here…Huh…Sorry dude, I only have the omeboshi flavour.”

“Nah, that’s perfect.”

They eat in silence, watching the television talk about the weather. There was a heavy storm overnight apparently, and some of the roads in Tokyo got flooded in the process. Thankfully, the weatherman says with monotonous optimism, today is nothing but sun. Bokuto’s eyes glue to the screen, unblinking as he chews on his last piece of bacon, still waiting for his face to pop up as a criminal on the run, or footage of Atsumu and Oikawa getting pulled over en route to Hokkaido. Still, nothing of the sort so far.

“Oikawa left around four hours ago,” Iwaizumi says, breaking the quiet of the apartment. “He should be coming back in four days, if we’re lucky.”

“If we’re lucky, this is…” Bokuto echoes, looking down at his plate. “You didn’t sleep?”

Iwaizumi looks up. “In case the cops came.”

He sits up straighter, holding his gaze. “Why would you help me just because of Oikawa?”

“Precisely because its Oikawa,” Iwaizumi replies simply. “He told me to take care of you.”

“I don’t get it. No one knew he was living with you. Or that he tells you about the jobs. He isn’t supposed to.”

“I’d imagine your boss would get really angry if he did find out,” Iwaizumi chuckles before sipping his coffee. “But Oikawa tells me everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. Ever since he first started working for this Kuroo guy. Ever since we were in our diapers.”

Bokuto picks on his fingernail, hesitant. “So…you even know about Bella?”

“Yup.”

“And…you’re okay with that?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t look bothered by the question, settling to rest his head on his hand. “I’m sure he didn’t tell you, but we got into a fight before he left for France. And when he told me about how he revealed the job to Bella, I was an asshole about it. I told him to screw off.”

“Was that the real reason why he was so heartbroken?”

“We weren’t even together, but he still said she was a rebound.” Iwaizumi sighs at the memory. “Its…complicated between us. He will always be an important person to me, though.”

Bokuto chews on the onigiri. “Even if he does all this…criminal stuff?”

“That was exactly what we argued about,” Iwaizumi laughs. “At the time when he first announced that he was hacking for someone affiliated to the yakuza, I was mortified. And terribly upset. I’m sure you know he’s really good with computers, so I thought that he was just wasting his talent…But…its something he loves to do. Something about the thrill of the heists, he mentioned before. He says you feel it too.”

“I did,” Bokuto replies glumly. “I’m not too sure about now.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t reply immediately, an unreadable expression on his face. “Is it because of what happened yesterday?”

“Is it really that obvious?” He says dryly, smiling.

“No, not at all,” Iwaizumi answers, grinning back, but his expression softens. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“You’ve shared so much with me about you and Oikawa. I guess its the least I could do.”

“Don’t think like that, Bokuto. Only if you’re comfortable.”

Bokuto lets out a sigh through his nose. “Its his exhibition today,” he mutters. “And he was supposed to showcase that portrait of me. But now he doesn’t have anything. And its all my fault.”

“Yesterday you mentioned that he gave it to you, though.”

“He did. He caught me in his exhibition room and later said it was supposed to be a gift for me anyways.”

Iwaizumi hums. He stares at the television, quietly mulling over Bokuto’s words, before he pulls out a cigarette box and slips out a stick. “Want one?” He says, offering it in the latter’s direction.

A sick feeling churns in Bokuto’s stomach, almost as if he gets physically ill at the sight. “No thanks.”

“Alright.” Iwaizumi shrugs, lighting one by himself and inhaling a puff. After a long drag, he says, out of the blue, “Shouldn’t it appear on the news by now? I remember the Okada job blowing up the very morning after.”

“Yes…I’ve been checking. Nothing yet.”

“Doesn’t that mean that Akaashi never reported the situation, then?”

Bokuto stares at him hard, with furrowed brows, the dawning realisation slowly coming to him. Iwaizumi adds, “he did give you the painting, didn’t he? And he let you escape. Don’t you think that means something more than words can say, Bokuto?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters in response. “I betrayed him. I don’t think I can ever face him again.”

“If he wants to turn you in he can do so easily. But he hasn’t. And something tells me that he won’t,” Iwaizumi says, tapping his cigarette into an ashtray. He gives Bokuto a pointed, yet gentle, look. “I would know.”

Bokuto’s gaze lingers on the smoke trailing upwards and out the balcony window, pressing his mouth in a tight line. “That’s all the more reason why I don’t deserve him,” he whispers.

“People are full of surprises,” Iwaizumi, smiling with the cigarette in between his lips. “You know you make him happy. And that, is all the more reason why he deserves you.”

*

That night, he lies on an unfamiliar bed thinking about their promise; wondering if Akaashi would still be waiting by the River, under that wilting cherry blossom tree.

*

Wide awake, he runs. A day later — after many hours of thinking about it — he selfishly runs.

I have to go, he said, when they emerged from their own bedrooms for breakfast. I have to go to him.

Iwaizumi waved a hand to give him the permission to; Oikawa’s instructions to stay in the apartment carelessly thrown away. Take my car, he replied as he threw him the keys. Its the only blue one in the carpark.

And without looking back, Bokuto runs. All his fear and anxiety of the outside dissolving gradually the more steps he takes; through the open hallway and down the stairs. He gets into Iwaizumi’s car clumsily, waking the engine up and holding himself back from speeding through the streets back to Kawagoe-shi. Unlucky for him, the early morning calls for heavy traffic with almost everyone in Tokyo trying to get to work.

“Shit,” Bokuto curses frustratedly, gripping onto the wheel until his nails drain white. “Shit, shit, shit!”

But with great difficult he forces himself to calm down and eventually gets to the Kawagoe-shi apartment complex, not even stopping by the lobby and running up to their floor. So far, no cops, no nothing. No lingering, suspicious eyes following his every move. Fleeting hope crosses Bokuto’s mind, only to grow stronger by the minute. Maybe, just maybe, Iwaizumi had been right, after all.

You know you make him happy.

Bokuto is panting by the time he’s standing outside Akaashi’s door, trying to catch his breath. His heart is beating wildly beneath his ribcage, and not just from the adrenaline from running up whole flights of stairs. Swallowing down his fear and the uncontainable excitement to see Akaashi again, Bokuto knocks on the door. It opens after a few moments. Bokuto perks up, opening his mouth instantly with a heartfelt apology already on his tongue, but falters in panic when he sees who’s at the entrance.

It isn’t Akaashi. Instead, an exhausted-looking man with heavy eye bags and shoulder length black hair stands by the door, and returns his look with an innocent confusion. “Yes? May I help you?” He says to the tensed up Bokuto.

“Er, uh,” he stammers in garbled sentences, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. This is the right apartment. He’s sure of it. His own apartment is right next door; supposedly already emptied out by Kuroo during the code red situation. But its definitely the wrong person. “Ah— Akaashi…?”

“Oh! Akaashi!” The man looks a little more relieved at what seems to be a familiar name to him. “Akaashi’s renting out this place to me. I just moved in yesterday as you can see…from the boxes behind me,” he laughs a little awkwardly. “Are you his friend?”

Am I too late? I’m too late. He’s left. He’s left me and he’s never coming back. “Uh…yeah. I just came back from a vacation and wanted to visit him,” Bokuto replies, trying not to let the panic slip into his voice. He peers into the apartment behind the man. Akaashi’s precious plants are still inside, exactly where he remembers them. “Jupiter and Neptune are still here,” he blurts out.

“Oh— you mean his plants? Yeah, he told me to take care of them for him,” the man gestures towards them, visibly relaxing due to the fact that Bokuto seems like a genuine friend of Akaashi’s. “Hey, I’m Tenma.”

“I’m, er, Bokuto,” he answers, giving a short polite nod. “Do you know where Akaashi went?”

Tenma scratches his head. “Look, this was kind of a really rushed thing. He suddenly called me and said he’s gotta leave indefinitely. Asked me if I would like to live here since I’m working on a manga and needed a place desperately. Kawagoe-shi’s really peaceful, y’know?”

Bokuto’s eyes widen. “You…You’re a mangaka?”

“Yup! Akaashi used to be my editor for a while.” Tenma raises his eyebrows. “He never told you?”

“Not really…”

“Figures. He can be like that,” Tenma says with a toothy grin. “Reserved guy, am I right? Did’ja know he never told me what he has been doing after he quit editing?! And now we don’t even know where he went off to!”

“I don’t have a clue either,” Bokuto chuckles flatly, although Tenma doesn’t notice at all. “If you ever get to Akaashi then, would you tell him I’d like to talk?”

*

Iwaizumi stands by the entrance of Bokuto’s bedroom. “Hey,” he says. “You have to at least eat something.”

“What’s the point,” he mumbles into his pillow. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Oh, c’mon Bokuto. You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” he snaps back sourly. “He completely disappeared without leaving anything. Its almost like he doesn’t want to be found.”

“You can’t blame him for that,” Iwaizumi answers back patiently, pausing before he lets out a silent sigh. “Although, I do owe you an apology.”

“Nah. It ain’t your fault.”

“Then eat something, will you? Oikawa won’t shut up if you don’t.”

The simple threat is still enough for Bokuto to drag himself out of the bed and drink the bowl of miso soup that is on the table. Its warmness fills his stomach, but there still lingers a hollow pit that digs itself deeper and deeper under his skin, dissipating whatever temporary comfort Iwaizumi’s food brings him. The latter watches him quietly, sitting beside him on the sofa, as the patter of midnight rain gently hits the windowpane behind them.

“I still stand by what I said,” Iwaizumi says once he’s finished with the soup. “People are full of surprises. He hid his identity from you too.”

He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at the empty bowl. He doesn’t know what to say, or what to do.

“Nobody just leaves like that if they wanted to stay,” he finally mutters.

“You gotta have a little more faith in him.” There is a strike of lightning, followed by a thunder rumbling in agreement. “Because despite what the situation seems like now, he’s still protecting you through it all, Bokuto.”

*

A day goes by with no news. And then three. Then, four. During this time, while Iwaizumi goes to work as an athlete trainer, Bokuto busies himself by using his computer to check for Five’s social media and any sliver of information about the exhibition. His heart sinks when he finds out that Five’s account has mysteriously vanished without warning. After scrolling on the web for awhile, he finds a discussion thread amongst some of Five’s more devoted fans, voicing their confusion and irritation over the sudden disappearance and lack of anything related to the secret exhibition.

No one has anything about the Mori exhibition? Bokuto silently reads what one of them had written out.

Huhhh? Was that a real thing?

Pretty sure it is. I mean Mori Museum didn’t say anything about it but the rumours are probably true.

Maybe Five cancelled it. They’re known for being a perfectionist, I’ve heard. Maybe their new portrait wasn’t up to their standards.

But don’t you guys think its strange that Five deactivated their social media account and now we can’t find anything about them online anymore?

Haha, its almost like they got tired of this anonymous persona and can’t keep up with hiding a secret.

Oikawa still isn’t back yet. Slowly, the days crawl to the number six and he still hasn’t come home. Too impatient to wait but not able to contact him about the outcome of the painting in any way, Bokuto decides to go back to work at the museum’s cafe after initially writing to Daichi that he’d be on an emergency indefinite leave. Its the only way he has a chance at catching Kageyama and finding out if he knew anything about it as well.

The museum seems…usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything is functioning well despite the disaster that they had concocted up almost a week ago. But Bokuto doesn’t have to worry about not being filled in with the details, because Daichi does that for him.

(The latter was ecstatic to have him back, cheerily mentioning how he’s just ten stickers away from being employee of the month. Horribly ironic, considering the detriment he had brought upon the museum itself. He had also, in his funny little way of twisting his words nonchalantly, convinced Daichi that he has now taken on his mother’s surname — Bokuto — due to family issues, and changed his name from Akinori to Koutarou under her request. Daichi, who had assumed Bokuto’s family situation was very dire because of the sudden name change, did not pry any further. And conveniently, that worked out perfectly for Bokuto.)

“They wrote it off as a false alarm due to the faulty wiring system!” The cafe manager nods. “The security footage was also defected in the process, which was just really unlucky. But at least they were able to shut down the sprinklers in time before any of the paintings got seriously damaged.”

“That’s great!” Bokuto grins widely, although the back of his mind itches to know about who he really only cared about. “So…Shimizu-san’s client had an exhibition too, right? Was it okay, then?”

Daichi’s eyebrows raise at the question, eyes widening with interest as he leans closer to Bokuto. “She said that her client cancelled it on the day itself! She seemed really stressed out that time when she came to buy coffee. Like she needed to vent. It was really unlike her.”

“Oh, no…did she say why?”

“No,” Daichi shakes his head. “Shimizu didn’t reveal that much. But she did mention that her higher-ups are furious with him. She’s concerned about his wellbeing, I think. He’s really going through something.”

“That’s terrible,” Bokuto blurts out, the familiar fangs of guilt clawing at him again as he looks visibly upset.

“It sure is, Kono— I mean, Bokuto,” Daichi flusters, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m still not used to the name change.”

“Its okay,” he replies. “Neither am I.”

*

While Iwaizumi forces him to finish every morsel of his meals and encourages him not to give up on Oikawa coming home with the painting, Bokuto starts to drive up to Kawagoe-shi after his shifts just to check his letterbox. He doesn’t know why he’s hoping for much; maybe a letter from Akaashi, assuring him that he’s alright, telling him that he wants to see him. That he misses him. It is too much to hope for, Bokuto knows, but still, he braves through the hour ride every day.

He starts to find solace in Iwaizumi’s company; the man proving to be an unlikely friend. He lets Bokuto join him in his small home gym, and they both enjoy corny action movies (like the Godzilla franchise; Iwaizumi has the whole collection). Although Bokuto has been coming home late due to his trips to Kawagoe-shi, Iwaizumi still waits for him to eat dinner together. And today’s Curry Rice Tuesday, which Bokuto is looking forward to very much. He’s lingering around the entrance of the cafe, watching people leave the museum while Daichi closes up behind him, when he spots a familiar face sporting a cap and a janitor uniform.

Bokuto’s legs immediately move by themselves, and he dashes towards the man. His heavy footsteps give him away and Kageyama looks at his direction, startled out of his skin.

“Kageyama!” Bokuto exclaims, the relief on his face obvious on his smile. Kageyama glares at him, pinching his side.

“Shh!” he hisses.

“Ow! I’m sorry! I’m just so glad. You have no idea how hard I’ve been searching for you,” he rambles.

Kageyama’s eyes dart around cautiously, before pulling Bokuto to the side of a wall. “Why are you still working here? Have you gone mad?! Kuroo-san sent out that code red warning to everyone!”

“Its fine, really!” Bokuto insists earnestly. “Everyone thinks that it was a problem with the wiring system.”

“Then why was there a code red? It scared the shit outta me! You have to tell me what’s going on, Bokuto-san,” Kageyama demands, brows furrowing. “And I thought the client had to be at Hokkaido for some business of his. Why aren’t you with them?!”

Bokuto fidgets. “Um…You see…”

After hesitating for a brief moment, he tells Kageyama bits and pieces about what had happened over the course of these few months. How Akaashi was his neighbour, how Bokuto just couldn’t stay away, and with it spelling out a recipe for disaster which now is their reality. By the end of it, Kageyama’s jaw has gone slack, eyes wide in disbelief.

“So where is that guy now?” He manages out, still looking incredulous.

“I…I don’t know. He disappeared.”

“That might be for the best. Who knows what Kuroo might do to him.”

“Right…” Bokuto drags out, slowly realising that it must’ve been what Oikawa was concerned about as well.

“Damn it, Bokuto-san,” he groans out in a fierce whisper. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

“But he hasn’t said anything to the cops…and he cancelled the exhibition so no one else knows about the painting.”

Kageyama still looks skeptical. “Still, you have to admit that this is incredibly risky. And stupid! Plus, now you’re living with Iwaizumi-san too?” He sighs wearily. “Its like Oikawa-san never learns.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t like Bella. And neither is Akaashi,” Bokuto prickles, suddenly feeling the urge to defend them at his words. He wasn’t particularly concerned by Kageyama’s explosive temperament before, but now that when its directed at him, puts it in a whole new light.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue in distaste. “I can at least vouch for Iwaizumi-san. But I can’t say the same for someone I’ve never met before, Bokuto-san.”

“Then you’ll have to take my word for it.” Bokuto replies, tone sharpening. Kageyama’s eyes narrow at his silent warning, but he gives in nonetheless. He lets out a heavy sigh.

“I mean, there’s nothing we can do now anyways. What’s done is done.” He decides to say. “We can only hope that the commission can go through. I’m heading back to Italy to start a new operation with Tsukishima and Sakusa. One of the clients there wants us to try for the Gallerie dell’Accademia again.”

“Oh. That fast?”

“What can I say? Kuroo-san has a booming business.”

“Huh.” It feels strange to not have a schedule ahead of him; a plane ticket sending him far away from home, to a city full of people he’s never met and streets he can never get used to. Or to have Kuroo calling him on his burner phone, gushing impulsively about the next painting he has his eyes set on. “So…this is where I’ll say see you next time?”

“Will we?” Kageyama replies with a wry smile. “You’ve quit, haven’t you? I doubt there’d be a next time.”

Faltering at his words, Bokuto rubs the back of his head, laughing dryly. “I guess!” It seems like all he’s doing is bidding goodbyes lately. And he isn’t particularly fond of it. “I’m sorry I spoke to you like that. I’m just a little on edge. Everything doesn’t feel real lately.”

Kageyama shrugs. “Its fine. It was an odd job. Kuroo doesn’t usually accept local requests. Fitting that it had an…odd ending.” He averts his gaze with am embarrassed frown. “ But…I hope that whatever happens works out for you.”

“Kageyama-kun…!” Bokuto cries, moved at the younger man’s uncharacteristic words, leaping in to give him a big bear hug. The latter makes a strangled sound, immediately turning beet red, stuttering for him to release him from his grip.

And eventually when Bokuto does so, he says “thanks for doing this with us, though. It was really nice working with you again, Kageyama.”

“Me too, Bokuto-san.” Kageyama dusts his shoulder, clearing his throat awkwardly as he tries his best to compose himself. And then he grins. “Come visit me in Italy if you can. Catch one of the museum tours. Who knows? Maybe you’ll bump into us.”

*

Mid Autumn (October, 2022)

When Bokuto opens his letterbox this time, expecting nothing as usual, he notices a small slip of paper.

It is rough around the edges, like it had been torn out of a notepad, and slotted snugly between the new issue of Volleyball Monthly and a ramen restaurant advertisement. Could it be? Bokuto can only be too hopeful. He pulls it out, hand trembling with anticipation.

Two words. Just two words. But they are more than enough.

THE PAINTING

Bokuto can’t lie and say that he isn’t disappointed. He already has an obvious guess as to who the owner of this vague note is, but a response from someone is still something. Even if the person isn’t the one he wants to see the most. Despite this, his footsteps quicken, making haste up the stairs and to his apartment, clumsily keying in the password, bursting through the front door.

However, apart from him and his tired bated breaths, the apartment is quiet. Bokuto looks around, confused. It looks exactly like it was before he first lived here, almost as if Kuroo had made sure that Bokuto hadn’t existed in this space before. What is missing, though, are the paintings that he must’ve removed during the code red announcement from Oikawa. It feels somewhat eerie; looking at the entirely normal apartment. He is about to make his way down the corridor and into the bedroom when the soft thuds of footsteps causes him to freeze onto the ground.

Emerging from there is Kuroo, with disheveled hair and a cigarette between his lips. His clothes hang loosely from the hook of his shoulders and hips. He doesn’t look surprised to see Bokuto standing in the middle of the living room, simply leaning against a wall to lazily return his wide-eyed look of shock.

“I knew you’d come running right up.”

“Kuroo…!” Bokuto stammers loudly with his chest still heaving from his run up the stairs, stunned at the latter’s presence even though he had known the note was from him anyway. “You’re back.”

“Yeah. Arrived in the morning. I was so exhausted that I took a nap till now. So you’re right on time.”

“How did you…How did you know I would check the letterbox?”

“Come on, Bo. We’ve known each other for what? Almost ten years now? I know you like the back of my hand.” He laughs dryly. “Or at least…I would’ve liked to think so.”

Bokuto looks down. He doesn’t really know what to say. “I’m…sorry.”

“Are you, really? I trusted you. I trusted that you wouldn’t do anything stupid while you were still working for me. I thought seeing the consequences of Oikawa’s mistake was enough for you to not repeat it.” Kuroo shoots him a wounded stare. “What were you thinking?”

That awful look. That same awful look like he’s just a stranger. Like they’re all looking into that wretched cracked mirror of his and only seeing the gaps. The worst part is that Kuroo doesn’t even seem angry. He’s betrayed. Just like the expression on Akaashi’s face when he found Bokuto in the archives room, hurt welling up from the bottom of his eyelids. The look that keeps Bokuto up at night and makes him want to regurgitate at the smell of a cigarette. He swallows visibly.

But what did I do that was so wrong?

“I knew that you liked him, Bokuto. But you went so far to make him start falling for you?”

“I didn’t know he felt that way too,” he mutters.

“Fuck, Bo. He painted you a portrait and you didn’t know?”

Bokuto wrings his hands. “Then tell me what I was supposed to do?!”

“Look. You already know the answer to that. But even if you had the opportunity to rewind time you’d do it again and again. I’m not going to say I told you so, but I fucking told you so.”

“You think I knew he was Five, Kuroo? I was as shocked as any of you. Or even more.”

“Of course not,” Kuroo’s eyes narrow. “But this isn’t about that. This is about you thinking that the strings attached to the time you’ve spent with him won’t snap sooner or later. Even if he wasn’t Five, Bokuto. It always ends like that.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe Akaashi would’ve been okay with me being thief if I had told him.”

“Don’t be an idiot. And what if he isn’t?”

“He will be,” Bokuto answers, softer this time, the memory of Akaashi smiling in front of a setting sun replaying in his head. “He hasn’t reported us to anyone.”

“Yes, but there’s always that what if, right?” Kuroo stresses, a defeated expression over his features. He slumps onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. “We aren’t good people, Bokuto. And I’m not about taking that big of a risk again.”

Bokuto looks away, the stench of the cigarette almost unbearable. An uncomfortable silence envelops the room, which is unusual for the both of them. As he fidgets with the hem of his shirt, Bokuto realises that this might be the first time he’s ever properly had an argument with Kuroo. They never really disagreed on anything, as Kuroo almost always took Bokuto’s side. And maybe Bokuto had always felt like he owed something to Kuroo for helping him to get back on his feet, despite its questionable methods.

“Oikawa wouldn’t shut up about letting you keep the painting,” Kuroo breaks the silence, though he doesn’t look at Bokuto in the eyes. “I was secretly impressed; I don’t know how you managed to get him to fight for anyone other than himself. He kept begging Kenma to cancel the commission. It was terribly unprofessional.”

“The…The commission went through?” Bokuto’s voice cracks.

Kuroo shoots him an unreadable expression, though Bokuto knows that he is trying to mask his pity. “Well, what did you expect? Its like a contract, Bo. I can’t just break it. And Kenma insisted on buying it too. You know how much he wanted Five’s portrait…even if it is one of you, it still is…an excellent piece.”

Don’t cry. You can’t cry in front of him. “I can’t say I didn’t expect this outcome,” he answers shakily, staring at the floor. “It was just the only thing I could’ve had left of him.” A birthday gift. No one has given me that since my parents passed away.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto.”

Ah, well, apologies. What can apologies do at this point. I can say a million of them to Akaashi and it still can’t fix what I had already done. “I guess I should get going. Gotta thank Oikawa for at least trying.”

“Oikawa didn’t come back,” Kuroo says, which makes Bokuto turn in surprise. “He’s on his way to Italy to cover for Sakusa.”

“Huh? Why?”

He runs his fingers through his messy hair, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s nursing a bad headache. “That brat has been giving me problems too. He keeps threatening to join Ushijima again.”

“But he’s been doing that even before I joined. It won’t be a big deal.”

“Can’t be too sure about those things. He says he’s actually serious this time,” Kuroo replies wryly, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, the apartment’s yours now. I’ll put it under your real name and everything, and I’ve already transferred the money. Enjoy the free life, Bo.”

“Wait—” Bokuto interjects loudly before the latter can walk past him and out the door. “I don’t want the apartment.” He hesitates, tone wavering. “Akaashi…He… He isn’t staying here anymore.”

A brow rises. “Hah? Where is he, then?”

“I don’t…I don’t know,” Bokuto trails off, averting his gaze. “He hasn’t contacted me at all.”

“What? Why not?” Kuroo frowns.

“I wish I knew.” He sighs, chewing the bottom of his lip. “I know I deserve this...but it hurts way more than it should.”

“Shit, Bo.” Kuroo presses his lips together, concern flickering across his features as he taps his cigarette. He is silent for a while. Perhaps, he doesn’t know what to say. Or rather, he doesn’t know how to. 

“Then…what are you going to do?”

The question makes Bokuto’s head spin. Truth is, he isn’t too sure. He has nothing left her for him, and starts to miss for a new home. But where will he go, if every place reminds him of a part he has been trying desperately to shed away? “Germany,” he blurts out, his own answer confusing him as well. But still, he repeats himself, more firmly this time. “I think I want to go to Germany.”

*

When he gets back to Iwaizumi’s apartment, he has to force his heavy feet up the stairs. The moon is already hiding herself behind the ghost of clouds, and crickets chirp a lonely song into the quiet of midnight. However, as he gets closer to end of the staircase, he hears the faint sounds of bickering coming from the direction of the apartment. Rushing around the corner of the corridor, he catches Iwaizumi in front of his door, arguing with a tall, lanky man holding a wide cardboard box. The expression on the younger man’s face is evident that he’s terrified of Iwaizumi, although he still seems to retort something back insistently.

“No! I’m telling you, I’ve got the right place! I’m sure of it!” He flusters clumsily, hugging the box close to his chest, despite shrinking visibly at Iwaizumi’s deathly glare. “Bokuto Koutarou is living here, isn’t h—“

“That’s me. What’s going on?” Bokuto interjects, walking briskly towards them. The man’s eyes light up. Instantly, Iwaizumi stands between them protectively.

“Careful,” Iwaizumi whispers fiercely. “He might be with the cops.” The man flinches back, wearily glancing at Iwaizumi’s glaring face. Bokuto takes a second to have a proper look at him. At most, he seems harmless, and hardly suspicious. He’s had a few experiences; a few risky slips from the police when they were a little careless. But a couple of encounters is enough for him to at least distinguish between an undercover cop waiting for them to screw up and someone who isn’t.

“I can hear you!” The man exclaims. “And I already told you that I am not! Kenma-san sent me!”

“Kenma?” Bokuto’s brows raise. Iwaizumi shoots him a confused look. “Did you say that Kenma sent you?”

“Yes,” The man groans, nodding. “I’m Lev! I work for Kenma-san! He told me to deliver this to you. He says its yours.”

Bokuto takes a good look at the box. It is thin and rectangular, almost like it could be…

“Is that…?” He starts, but Lev promptly interrupts him.

“Not another word,” he hisses, practically shoving the box onto Bokuto’s hands. “No talking about it outside! Those were Kenma-san’s orders.”

With his heart thumping wildly in his chest, Bokuto can only manage out a grateful “okay”. Lev gives him a short nod in return, and leaves as quickly as he had appeared. Once his lanky figure disappears around the corner, Bokuto rushes into the apartment, opening the box by tearing at the sides. He’s so excited that his vision blurs momentarily, all the blood rushing to his head.

“Hey, hey hey hey,” Iwaizumi says cautiously as he closes the door behind him. “What’s all this about? Who’s Kenma?”

“The client who commissioned the portrait,” Bokuto replies quickly, the tape sticking onto the tips of his fingers. “I think…I think…It could be…”

As he gets to lift the cover and reveal the box’s contents, he can barely stop the corners of his mouth from lifting upwards.

“Its the painting?” Iwaizumi notes, his voice full of curiosity. “He gave it back to you?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto breathes out, staring at the portrait who smiles back at him. “I can’t believe it. Kuroo just told me earlier today that Kenma had insisted on buying it.”

The painting. Akaashi’s painting. Of him. Bokuto rolls it up carefully, hugging it close to himself. Tears of relief threaten to spill, but he swallows them back down. What he had worked so hard to get is right here, in his arms. The careful strokes of Akaashi’s paintbrush and his memory of Bokuto; delicately and intricately replicated onto the canvas. As he gets a closer look at it, he notices how bright the gold is in his painted eyes.

Why would Kenma be so willing to give it to him? To even take the risk of transferring such a priceless painting?  Maybe… Bokuto’s fingers ghost over the canvas. Not all of us in this shitty business are bad people, Kuroo.

“Bokuto, there’s a note here.” Iwaizumi says behind him. Bokuto turns, noticing that he’s holding a note up from the inside of the box. “I think it might be from the Kenma guy.”

He takes it, eyes trailing over Kenma’s neat handwriting, which reads:

To BOKUTO KOUTAROU

Forgive me for borrowing what was yours. Despite your friend’s best efforts to retract the commission, I could not let Kuroo’s reputation go down the drain because of a failed job — not after all that he has done for me.

I hope you won’t lose this again. It is rare to find something worth fighting for.

All the best,

KODZUKEN

*

The embers of the small bonfire that they made fizzle out and die as soon as they touch the ground. Bokuto watches the flames eat away at the corner of Kenma’s note, until it disappears entirely, while the rest of the cardboard box continues to burn and burn.

“Are you sure your neighbours won’t complain?”

“As long as we aren’t making noise,” Iwaizumi shrugs, warming his hands near the burning bin. “Anyways, I don’t think the smoke can travel into the apartments from here.”

Bokuto doesn’t reply for awhile, eyes smarting from the heat. “Thank you for everything, Iwa-kun.” He finally says quietly, bottom lip trembling slightly. He doesn’t know why he’s so emotional about Oikawa’s boyfriend, out of all people. “But I think I gotta go back to living in Kawagoe-shi. Kuroo’s back and I don’t want him to find out about you.”

“I understand.” Iwaizumi gives him an encouraging, toothy grin, patting him on the back. “Hey, you were a great roommate. Now that you’ve quit working for him, we can always hang out whenever you want to.”

Bokuto pauses, breathing out a sigh. “I don’t think I can, Iwa-kun.”

He raises an eyebrow, bemused by those words. Bokuto stares at the fire, unblinking. “I’m leaving for Germany.”

“Oh.” Iwaizumi looks surprised. “You aren’t quitting?”

“I am. Well, of course I am. I’ve decided that long ago,” Bokuto lets out an empty laugh, lifting his head up to a starless sea of clouds. “I don’t think I can do another heist ever again. Something like how I can’t pick up another stick without feeling nauseous. Maybe its from the shock or something — I don’t know. But Germany’s the only place where I’ve only been to once. I quite liked it there.”

“…You’re not going to continue looking for him?”

“I don’t know.” Bokuto replies, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. What if we aren’t even looking up at the same sky right now?”

*

He was right to go back to Kawagoe-shi. Kuroo is already in the apartment, watching some loud reality show on the television. He doesn’t even turn his head when Bokuto walks in through the front door. Gingerly, Bokuto slips his shoes off and goes to the sink to take a glass of water, hoping that the latter won’t notice the lethargy in his footsteps because he did not sleep a wink.

“Where did you go? You didn’t come back last night.”

“Oh, you know, drinking and stuff.”

“Damn. He’s really getting to you, huh,” Kuroo arches an eyebrow. When Bokuto doesn’t reply, he sighs. “You’ve got your real passport, right, Bo?”

“Its in the bedroom cabinet.”

“Okay, good. Because you’re leaving next week.” Kuroo holds his hand up, an airplane ticket in between his fingers. “I’ve made all the arrangements and contacted your cafe manager that you’re quitting…” His eyes trail to the rolled up canvas in Bokuto’s hand. “What is that?” He says sharply.

“The painting. Kenma had it delivered to me,” Bokuto answers, a little triumphantly. “He’s an angel, Kuroo. I can see why you like him.”

“Oh, shut up you dick. You didn’t steal it from him, did you?”

Bokuto scoffs. “How could I?”

“Are you bringing that with you to Germany?”

“Where else?”

“Because it matters, Bo,” Kuroo stresses. “I gotta tell Inuoka or he’s going to scream when he sees it through the bag scanner.”

“Okay, fine. What else do you want me to say? Yes, I’m bringing it with me.”

Kuroo keeps quiet, boring holes into the canvas. Bokuto clicks his tongue impatiently, not waiting for an answer, and heads off to the bedroom to pack his things. While he is pulling out his luggage, already half-filled with a messy pile of clothes and toiletries, Kuroo says quietly, “Kenma really gave it back to you?”

“He got this guy called Lev to deliver it to me.”

Unexpectedly, Kuroo laughs, falling backwards on the sofa with his arms spread out. Letting out a noise of amusement, he exclaims, “that’s Kenma, alright!” And then his tone changes into something more somber, more gentle. It makes Bokuto pause from stuffing more clothes into the luggage. “Always doing the right thing, even if he wouldn’t admit it…I always thought I was doing the right thing too. But looking at your face now, Bo, I’m not too sure what’s right or wrong anymore.”

Bokuto shifts uncomfortably. He knows that this is Kuroo’s silent way of apologising, and he isn’t used to the latter doing any of the sort at all. “Nah. You were just doing what you always did. I was just…unlucky.”

“Hah…We both are. So that means our deal is off, then?”

“You haven’t told him?”

“I couldn’t even if I tried. Oikawa stuck to him like glue.”

“Maybe its best that you didn’t. As the man himself said after Bella dumped him: love doesn’t end well for people like us.”

Kuroo keeps silent. “I know I kind of said something along those lines as well,” he finally replies. “But aren’t we just running away from something we don’t want to confront? Like how you’re running off to Germany. I mean, do you really have to?”

“I don’t see why I can’t.” Bokuto murmurs. They exchange a glance, the apartment entirely quiet except for the crickets chirping outside.

“By the way,” Kuroo says after downing his coffee. “I got you a job there. You’re welcome.”

“I want to say thank you, but the tone in your voice is really putting me off. Spill.”

Kuroo smirks at him, before exclaiming, “its in the Hamburg Kunsthalle! Surprise!” He waves his jazz hands obnoxiously in front of Bokuto’s mortified face.

“You…” Bokuto stammers, blanched. “You—!”

“Thank me later. Ain’t I a peach?”

“I’m gonna murder you,” he replies hotly, eyes wide. “There is no way I am going back to an art museum I’ve stolen from, you mad man.”

“Oh, but you are, because the manager there, Kita-san, thinks very highly of Kambe-san, a wealthy entrepreneur who has reached the peak of success from a humble background as a rice farmer. Kita-san really likes rice for some reason, you see, and of course Kambe-san did a little research because Kambe-san really wants to impress Kita-san for future connections and it turns out that Kambe-san is indeed very smart and very wise because now he has found a job for his poor little friend Bokuto—“

“Kuroo!” Bokuto exclaims, wincing. “I get it. Thanks for the offer, but are you crazy?”

“Nope. Kambe-san told Kita-san that Bokuto is a little bit of an idiot, but he always tries his best! Kita-san says that is a very noble trait.”

“I can literally find a job where I’m not on both the wanted list and the blacklist.”

Kuroo scoffs. “You can’t speak a lick of German and you know it. The job’s just right for you because Kita’s looking for the new tour guide who can speak Japanese and English. Aren’t you practically made for this?”

Bokuto sighs, sitting down to properly deal with the absurdity which is Kuroo’s common sense. “Yes— I mean…! No!” He glances up, and his look of distaste is matched with one of triumphant pride. “Don’t you feel at least a little guilt when you talk to this Kita guy?”

“Oh, please. This is literally our livelihood. So what, you quit and now you think you’re better than all of us?”

He knows Kuroo is joking, but it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Bokuto keeps silent, before muttering.  “You’re right. Ever since the first day we met, you’ve dragged me into this shit hole and I became as shitty as you. And even then, I have never really agreed with the way you do things sometimes, but…thanks. Y’know…for offering me a job at the club then. I owe a lot to you.”

“Gross. What’s up with you today,” Kuroo murmurs, but the embarrassed tinge on his cheeks denies him. “First you won’t even have a smoke with me anymore and now you’re thanking me? What’s next, I’m gonna find out that you’re actually good at cooking?”

He snorts. “Piss off.”

Kuroo laughs, but it quickly dies down. “You literally burnt down a kitchen in that very expensive apartment years ago. It even had that suuuper priceless painting…er…what was it—?”

“The Les Femmes D’Alger?”

“Yes! That’s the one!” Kuroo clicks his fingers. “You made me rush from that important meeting with the oyabun. I was horrified. Never in my life did I want to die so badly.”

“That old guy has a foot in the grave already,” Bokuto lets out a sharp bark of laughter, before perking up abruptly. “Oh! Or that time I had to hide in a garbage bin with Boating at Night in Brière?”

“And you had me travel across the city just to pick you up, you bastard.” Kuroo adds wryly, though the corners of his lips lift up slightly.

“Aww, you were really sweet for that, Tetsu-chan!” Bokuto bats his eyelashes, mimicking Oikawa’s nickname for the latter. “But let’s not forget when you almost spilt coffee on the Three Studies of Lucian Freud. Hmm? Who was there to snatch it off the table so quickly?”

Kuroo lets out a dramatic sigh. “Damn it, don’t remind me of that. One of the most expensive commissions ever. I almost had a heart attack, I swear.”

They stare at each other for a second, before dissolving into peals of ugly laughter. It goes on for awhile; just when they are about to stop, one shared glance sets them off again. “The three of us really did have some good moments, didn’t we?” Kuroo gasps, breathless by the end of it.

“We did,” Bokuto agrees, nodding as he wipes a stray tear away from his eye. “And the arguments. Oh, that was hilarious. You sided me on everything. Oikawa would always throw a huge tantrum.”

“Even when you were wrong! But man, he was such a good sport about it. He knows he deserves it, that brat. Keeps screwin’ up the washing machines for no damn reason,” Kuroo adds, chuckling before he props his head on his hand.

Their laughter gradually dies down again into silence, and when Bokuto finally looks at him again, he thinks that he must be imagining the sadness so apparent in the latter’s eyes. “You do know that once you go to Germany, I’m going to have to cut off all contact with you?”

He smiles, although he bites the inside of his cheek as if it would dissipate the tightening in his chest. He knew that it was coming anyway, but the lingering feeling of leaving all that he has ever known is a tough pill to swallow. “Just doing what you have to do, yeah?”

Kuroo returns his smile, although it too, threatens to waver. “Just doing the right thing.”

*

Early Winter (December, 2022)

Bokuto decides to take the job in the end. It became somewhat of a final order from Kuroo, who has always tried to play his feelings low but Bokuto knows that he stresses over everything and everyone with the contentment of being in control, or at least, pretending like he still is in control of Bokuto’s life. A bitter wind’s kiss greets him as he steps out onto the unfamiliar streets of Germany, with just a couple of clothes, an old toothbrush, and Akaashi’s painting of him stashed in a suitcase with way too many ‘fragile’ labels.

He assumed that by leaving Japan behind he could dissipate the melancholy that has been hovering over like a heavy cloud. Still, it lingers, following him from the airport and through the long bus ride, all the way to the cheap rental that he found while surfing endlessly on the web. Kuroo had pleaded with him to take one of his apartments, but Bokuto did not want to rely too much on the past that he was trying to forget. Enough was enough, although…this current job is going to remind him of it in its every waking moment. Bokuto lets out a dry sigh. He can hardly wait.

Alster Lake has frozen over, and a fog has weaved itself in and out of the trees and along the colour of the sky. People have gathered on the ice with their skates on, hobbling and gliding in the midst of laughter and chatter. Puffs of cold breath blow out of Bokuto’s lips, and he digs his hands deeper into his pockets as he quickens his pace. When he gets to the museum, he has to repeat himself three times in English before the receptionist at the counter calls for Kita.

“I’m Bokuto. Er, Bokuto Koutarou. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, Kambe-san has told me lots about you,” Kita replies in Japanese, and Bokuto instantly feels the relief of meeting another Japanese-speaker. Bokuto expects him to mention anything further about the matter, but the man doesn’t. Its faint, but he picks up the familiar Kansai accent from Kita’s voice, and resists the urge to chuckle when a certain blonde man with a foxy tongue comes to mind.

As their footsteps tap quietly in the relativeness of the crowd, Bokuto hopes that only he is feeling the awkwardness of being in a museum that he has set foot in during their after-hours. Although it was a few years ago, Bokuto still vaguely recalls the turns and corners of the floor, silently recalling the names of the paintings that they walk past. But it seems that the museum has remembered it as well; with more security cameras than he could’ve previously counted and the increase of guards visible enough to be noted of. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Kambe-san also mentioned that you have an extensive knowledge of art? More specifically, paintings?”

“I know a few,” Bokuto replies humbly. It takes him a second to realise that they have entered the room where he had stolen Nana. Of course, the empty space that once housed her is replaced by smaller paintings, and beside them — still ever the same and catching his attention straight away — is the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. He instantly feels a sharp pang in his chest, and its mellows into a dull throb. It takes him back to a home of plants and warm food and everything else in between.

“Its a beautiful painting,” Kita says beside him, and Bokuto blinks out of his trance, realising that he had stopped in his tracks in front of it.

“Yes.”

“Its the highlight our museum, so to speak,” Kita adds with a hint of a smile. “Visitors have travelled all the way here just to see it. They often say that his triumphant stance makes them feel like they can achieve anything.”

“…Huh,” Bokuto wonders quietly.

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know. He always seemed pretty sad to me.”

*

Late Winter (February, 2023)

It has been two months, he’s struggling to cope, but the busy schedule of trying to keep up in an unfamiliar place has done a good job in its intention: distraction. Kita is a force to be reckoned with; a key piece of information that Kuroo seemed to have conveniently left out. He has a routine which he strictly follows down to each word, and expects Bokuto to do the same.

“You’re wrong again, Bokuto,” Kita says, in a monotonous voice after watching Bokuto finish up one of the tours about paintings of the 19th Century, which makes Bokuto feel uncomfortably sheepish. “You’ve got to stop getting lost at your own trail. It starts from the Classicism to the Symbolism Room, not from the Naturalism one.”

Personally, Bokuto doesn’t see the need to follow the list so strictly, and he has a bad memory with things he doesn’t really care about, but since its Kita, he tries to make the effort. Occasionally, he’d ask if ‘Kambe-san’ has contacted him, but Kita shakes his head, saying that Kambe-san had mentioned that it’d be unlikely he’d visit Germany again. It isn’t that surprising to Bokuto, of course, who knows that Kuroo’s clients have recently peaked their interest in Asian culture ever since they stole Fukaku Shinobu Koi, but every once in a while, his curiosity about how they are doing gets the better of him.

And most often of all, he thinks of messy raven hair and deep forest eyes, especially when he has to go off extensively about the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog to groups of people who gape at the very painting itself. He had expected Kita to say something as well about going on the tangent from the intended script for the painting, but the latter lets him be just for this one thing. Bokuto had brought this up cheekily one day during closing time to a part-timer, Aran, that he had managed to break through Kita’s tough walls.

“You wanna know why, Bokuto?” Aran laughs. “Your eyes practically twinkle when you talk about it. Not even Kita has the heart to tell you to stop.”

Perhaps that was the turning point for the shaky front that he had placed in front of himself. Or perhaps it was the deep of the winter that made him feel lonelier than he ever was. Bokuto finds himself visiting a pub while braving the harsh, prickly cold, with not much thought placed into his decision nor the want to ponder on the consequences of doing so. He’s just there to get a drink.

The nights alone hit particularly hard, making him search for his own distractions. Trying to melt his exhaustion away with a couple of beers, Bokuto involuntarily drowns out the noise of ambience while sitting sullenly in a corner. Intoxicated, he chuckles at the thought of Kuroo and Oikawa scoffing at him right now —- usually, he’s the life of the party. That’s right. Bokuto stares at his half-empty drink, feeling nothing but miserable hatred for himself. What have I turned into?

“Hey,” a voice suddenly purrs beside him. He turns slowly, a little sloppily, brows furrowing at whoever had decided to interrupt his little pity party. Arching her perfectly curved eyebrow, she gives a confident smile. Dark hair, green eyes, and long slender fing… Bokuto looks away, his cheeks hot from both the crowd and the alcohol. “You aren’t from around here, are you? You by yourself?”

“Sorry…I’m not very good in German,” he replies in English. Her eyes light up nonetheless.

“That’s okay. I can speak English too,” she says, taking the seat next to him. Bokuto feels her leg pressing against his. “Where are you from, then?”

“…Japan.”

“Cool. Never been there,” she waves her hand to the bartender; some sort of silent signal for another drink. She must be a regular. Turning her attention back to him, she wears yet another one of her grins. “Mind telling me how its like there?”

Two hours and a whole lot of drinks later, Bokuto has her pressed against a wall in an unfamiliar apartment, hands unbuttoning and lips sharing drunk kisses between bated breaths. His mind is spinning, moving faster than he can think, and all of a sudden, he’s pushed onto an unfamiliar bed with this unfamiliar woman on top of him. This is it. She kisses down his neck. A smile in golden hour, tousled black hair resting beautifully above a pale nape. This is what I want. Bokuto closes his eyes, feeling her hands trail across his chest. Delicate fingers tending to a plant flashes across his mind. A warm cloud of breath under the shadow of a cherry blossom tree. This is what I am looking for—

“—Akaashi…” he sighs out. And immediately, his eyes shoot wide open from shock, his heart plummeting as he sobers up almost instantly. She pauses as well, and their eyes meet for a brief second before he looks away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice almost breaking. “I can’t do this.”

“I kinda figured,” she replies, though not unkindly. He gets up, and they sit side by side by the edge of the bed. Bokuto wants nothing more than to crawl up into a hole and die. “I guess its my fault for trying to hit on a sulking guy in the pub.” She chuckles good-naturedly, absolving the awkward atmosphere. “You’re really hot, though.”

“Um…thanks. Sorry.”

“Nah. Don’t apologise,” she shakes her head. “This Akaashi person your ex or something?”

“No.” Bokuto averts his eyes from the smoke of the cigarette that she lights. “Just someone I was interested in.”

She purses her lips. “Sounds like you still are.”

*

Early Spring (March, 2023)

Hay fever hits terribly hard for Bokuto this season, who stays huddled in bed sneezing away, only getting up to take more tissue and cups of hot water. He’s a little disappointed as the museum is holding an event about Arts and Languages, which he was supposed to participate in. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway; it has probably ended by now, and Bokuto has missed his chance of showing off his broken German to everyone. Blearily, he scrolls through his phone to find another drama to watch when the doorbell rings.

Opening the door with heavy footsteps, he swears he sees a flash of distaste across Kita’s features at his appearance. Bokuto doesn’t blame him; his nose feels raw and he only has a singlet on. The latter holds up a plastic bag. “I heard you have allergies,” he says, his Kansai accent thicker compared to when he’s at work, now that he’s speaking more informally. “This is for you.”

Bokuto opens the bag to find packets of antihistamines and peppermint teabags. Before he can say thanks, Kita remarks, “you look horrible. Make sure you eat properly and sleep.”

“You’re the best, Kita-san,” Bokuto chirps albeit nasally, sniffing. “Do you want to come in for a while?”

Kita looks at him, seemingly considering his offer, before letting out a huff. “Why not?”

“‘Scuse the mess,” Bokuto says as they walk in. “I haven’t had the strength to clean up. Do you want a drink?”

“A cup of coffee, please. But don’t stress yourself.”

When Bokuto returns to the living room with the cup of coffee that he had brewed himself (he had purchased a machine just to practice his skills), Kita is nowhere to be seen. He must be in my room, Bokuto hums silently to himself as he goes over. “Kita-san—“ He calls, stopping when he sees the man staring at his portrait propped carefully by his bedside. Shit. He blinks, stunned. I forgot to keep that before he came in.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Kita says politely to the Bokuto at the entrance of the room. “Did you paint this yourself?”

“O-Of course not,” Bokuto immediately stammers, reddening. “I— er… Someone painted that…for me.”

“Oh.” Kita says, squatting down to take a better look at the portrait. Bokuto grows increasingly awkward, swallowing the heavy feeling down his throat, but it is too late to tell Kita to stop looking. “Its a beautiful piece. Your friend is extremely talented.” He adds in quiet awe. “Do they paint for a living?”

Damn Kita and his spot-on intuition. Bokuto’s eyes shift away. “I’m not so sure anymore. He…no, we haven’t been keeping in touch.”

He can feel his boss burning holes through his body, and Bokuto tenses up instinctively. Kita tends to do that when he’s analysing a situation, and Bokuto is starting to think that Kita may know him more than he does himself. “He must be a good friend, then,” he simply says, dusting his knees as he stands up, “for him to paint this for you. And for you to treasure it.”

“I—“ Bokuto starts, but a loud sneeze erupts from his mouth. Kita lets out a small huff of fond exasperation.

“Get some sleep, Bokuto. See you back at the museum.”

“B-But your coffee…?!”

*

Mid Spring (April, 2023)

Bokuto starts to see Kita’s reasoning of liking routines. It definitely is a stark contrast from his explosive impulsiveness, but he finds a small comfort in knowing what to expect every day. He goes for a jog around the complex while it is still dark, showering and arriving at the bus stop just as the sun rises. There, people pool into the bus like cold soup. But just as the weather warms, Bokuto gets off at his stop right outside Alster Lake and takes the path through the park. The trees that line up on each side of the path had once bared their naked branches in winter, and are now blooming in their fullness.

Bokuto’s eyes widen, mouth apart ever so slightly at the sight. So, they are cherry blossom trees.

Is it April already?

With his heart thudding a little louder, he reaches Hamburg Kunsthalle thirty minutes before opening hours. Aran is there too, just as he always has been, parking his bicycle and waving three times when he sees Bokuto. Cheerfully chattering as they check in, Bokuto puts on a lanyard bearing his name and reads through the schedule for today. Fridays usually consist of the 19th Century tours; they are the most popular after all.

Standing up with a stretch, Bokuto lets out a sound. “I can’t wait for lunch already!”

Aran glances over at him sympathetically. “Why don’t you ask Kita to lower your load? I don’t know how you go through the longest tour back to back.”

“Its fun,” Bokuto grins, as if its obvious. “There isn’t any other reason.”

As the doors of the museum open and tourists stream in, Bokuto officially starts his day. The first group allocated to him comprises of Japanese families and couples who listen attentively as he walks them through the exhibitions in each room. Each tour is promptly half an hour, give or take, with a ten minute break in between. The second group isn’t as gracious, and Bokuto has to juggle between talking over a bunch of rowdy kids and remembering the format of the guide template that Kita forced him to learn. By lunch, he gulps down a whole bottle of water, letting out a sigh of relief as he watches the remaining of the tourists scatter around the exhibitions.

He’s supposed to meet Aran for lunch in the break room. Bokuto takes a slow stroll out of the Symbolism exhibition to the Romanticism exhibition, and in this little routine of his includes popping a piece of candy in his mouth that he had snuck in his pocket before the tour had started. He chews on it, humming to the tune of the detergent advertisement that always plays on the television.

And so, he continues his routine. In this little routine of his, he’s supposed to walk past the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog in two short steps. He’s also supposed to ignore Akaashi’s face that immediately clouds his thoughts. Bokuto’s vision gravitates to a single point, the candy’s sweetness turning bland on his tastebuds. He’s supposed to be out of the exhibition room by now.

But how can he; when his feet are frozen stiff to the ground, staring at the very side profile of a face he is desperately trying to forget?

Blood pounds heavily in Bokuto’s ears, and everyone and everything else dims in comparison. He doesn’t even dare to blink, afraid that this might really be one of those dreams. The ones that have Akaashi in them and when he opens his eyes, Akaashi has disappeared from his reach.

But then, he blinks.

And Akaashi is still standing before him, gazing at the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, the expression on his face wistful and rue. All of Bokuto’s nerves are screaming electric, his mouth drying up, the stars morphing into raining meteorites, and everything that he had tried to forget rushes into his head at once. Akaashi doesn’t notice him, not yet, until his trance is broken and somehow, his head turns to Bokuto’s direction. Those green eyes finally, finally on him. With a glimmer of recognition and an expression that he himself can’t really place into words. It makes him want to cry. The sound of the crowd drowns out deafeningly in the face of Bokuto’s loud heartbeat. He wonders how far a stretch he can go by calling this a mere coincidence. But the feeling in his heart bursts forward, unable to be contained; faintly familiar and painfully paradoxical.

Akaashi looks exactly like how he was before— unchanging since the previous spring — lonely and beautiful, jaded and far away. Bokuto still wonders if this is a dream. And if it is, what a cruel dream indeed. He struggles to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s struggling to even comprehend this, and all of a sudden, a wave of anxiety crashes down on him. Will you run away from me again? He thinks fearfully, wanting nothing more than to run to Akaashi’s side, to hold him in his arms and never let go. Not again. Never again. But if I do, will you push me away?

However, it isn’t him who speaks first. Instead, a word cracks this little routine of his — the only fragile thing that had been holding him together — and breaks it into a million little pieces. Tears threaten to spill over his eyelids, fingers quivering as he forces himself to hold back.

“Bokuto-san.”

Just like that, there is nothing else left for Bokuto to think about. Footsteps bouncing off the walls, he rushes over to the wide-eyed Akaashi, almost tripping as he does, the desperation and relief shaking his whole body.

Akaashi makes a small noise of flustered shock as his arms envelop him tightly, as Bokuto chokes out his name again and again into the crook of his neck. He can feel Akaashi’s heartbeat slowly increasing, until it finally calms down and Akaashi’s hands are gingerly wrapped around his back as well. Cold, is what Bokuto thinks of the fingers resting along his spine, but the rest of him is warm.

*

“Are you sure this is okay?” Akaashi asks, as he looks upwards to the shade of a cherry blossom tree.

“My friend owes me to cover one tour, its fine,” Bokuto replies, unable to stray his gaze from the man that he had been searching for. At first, all of his burning questions get stuck in his throat, and all that he can blurt out is, “what’re you doing here?”

“To see the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,” Akaashi says, turning to him with a faint smile. “It truly is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto lets out a light awkward chuckle. “I get to see it all the time at work.” A silence comes after, and Bokuto frantically searches for something else to say, but he gets stopped short by Akaashi’s unwavering gaze.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” he says, his calm demeanour cracking a little, emotion gleaming over his eyes. Bokuto’s chest throbs achingly at the sight, surprised by Akaashi’s bluntness. “What are you doing here?"

“I…” Bokuto rambles, his head spinning. “I was looking for you too, Akaashi. But you…you disappeared first, and I had to go into hiding but you didn’t report me and I really wanted to see you so I still went over to your apartment, but there was this guy called Tenma and he said you moved out and so I got really really sad and decided to come here and escape...“

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi smiles gently, a little fondly. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“Neither have you,” he says, replying back with equal affection. Akaashi’s eyebrows raise slightly, averting his gaze with pink-tinged ears.

“It feels odd to call you Bokuto instead of Konoha,” he pauses, before letting out a short chuckle. “But I have to admit...it does suit you a lot more.”

“Thanks...” Bokuto smiles, a little shy and crooked. “That is my name, after all.” To which he earns a genuine laugh this time. His heart immediately swells at the sound.

“I have to apologise, for what I said that day,” Akaashi says softly, fingers intertwining with each other, after a short silence. “I was shocked, yes, but I felt more betrayed than anything else.” He holds Bokuto’s gaze. “I kept thinking that you should’ve told me, that you didn’t trust me. I let those emotions get the best of me. I told Tenma-san that he could crash at my place for awhile, and I went back to my grandmother’s house to get away from it all. ”

Bokuto looks down. “I know I should’ve told you, I’m sor—“

“No,” Akaashi says firmly. “I didn’t see it from your point of view then. And no matter how wrong or right stealing art might be, you aren’t at fault here, Bokuto-san. I am.”

As they quietly watch two swans glide across the glittering waters of Alster Lake, he adds, “I think that what I am trying to say is; I’ve kept my identity as Five a secret from you too. You didn’t hesitate to tell me your name when I could’ve so easily given you up to the police. So who am I to talk about trust?” He lets out a distracted laugh, looking a little embarrassed. “When I came back to Tokyo, and Tenma told me that someone called Kambe-san left a note saying you were where the Wanderer is, I packed my bags as fast as I could.”

Bokuto’s head whips around in shock, before bursting into laughter. “He’s Kuroo!”

“Your boss?”

“My best friend,” Bokuto says after a second of thought. Someone who’s helped me until the very end.

Akaashi smiles knowingly, and Bokuto continues, “He did a good job at twisting the truth of stealing art. Or maybe, he never really twisted it at all. I don’t really get it myself, but he always said that we’re just taking back what’s already been stolen before.”

“He has a way with words,” Akaashi replies wryly. “But I’m glad that its you who stole my painting, Bokuto-san. Even though you didn’t intend to, or if you had to sell it in the end.”

Bokuto reddens at his words, rubbing the back of his neck before quietly murmuring, “I got it back. Its in my home right now.”

“It should. It will always belong to you.”

The wind rushes through the branches and sweeps the sakura flowers off their budding feet, making them dance towards the ground in a mesmerising spiral. They allow a moment of quiet when a group of cyclists passes, and watch the swans nestle on a patch of pearly grass nearby. Bokuto’s heart beats loudly against his ribcage, almost afraid that Akaashi might hear it. “In my dreams,” he says, gazing at the water, light bouncing of it like diamonds. “I kept running away from you, but at the same time, running to the Akaashi whom I could only see from afar. You always had your back turned towards me; always looking into the distance and not directly at me, like the Wanderer who is never satisfied. But now…” He looks to his side, and Akaashi is already holding his gaze, hanging onto his every word. “You’ve finally turned around.”

“I found what I’ve been searching for. And its been right in front of me the whole time,” Akaashi replies, with a hint of a smile. As children chatter and yell from the meadow and the clouds create a kaleidoscope of shadows from the sun’s rays, he adds a little coyly, “neighbour and cafe part-timer Konoha Akinori has introduced himself to me before, but I don’t think I know you.”

Bokuto gives a boyish look of amusement. “Nice to meet you, stranger, I’m Bokuto Koutarou. I work as a tour guide at the Hamburg Kunsthalle.”

“Nice to meet you, Bokuto Koutarou. I’m Akaashi Keiji,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he steps closer to Bokuto. “I’m a painter, and you kinda look like the portrait I last painted.”

At that, Bokuto laughs, leaning down as his hands hold Akaashi’s face gently, before kissing him without a second thought. He feels Akaashi’s breath hitch in surprise, a split second before pulling him closer. Bokuto kisses him deeper, gentle yet almost desperate, trying to recover a dream once lost. Their own little world behind the shadows of the leaves, closing the gap that he had always resented, clinging on to the meaning of life itself. And just as they break apart, he whispers, “strangers don’t usually do this, do they.”

“Not usually, I don’t think,” Akaashi replies, humouring him with a chuckle. Bokuto brushes a flower off his curls, the sound like music, overwhelmed with the high of happiness. You are more beautiful than spring.

“Say my name again,” he tells Akaashi. And Akaashi does; on his lips, after breathless kisses and crescent smiles. Again and again, to make up for time that had slipped past their fingers. The season begins anew, as they do, leaving behind a cold winter. And as Bokuto pulls back to cup his face, he sees a reflection of himself in Akaashi’s eyes.

They are alive with stars.