Chapter Text
“Alright.” Keiji sets his hands delicately in his lap. “Tell me.”
“You really want to know everything?”
“I do.”
That night, on the same day Kenma called, Keiji sits Bokuto down. They sit across from each other over a low granite table in Bokuto’s apartment.
“Reintroduce yourself to me,” Keiji says. “Start from the beginning.”
“The beginning?”
“Your childhood. I want to know everything.”
Bokuto sits with his legs slightly spread and hands set honestly on his thighs. He regards Keiji with a mixed expression; not severe, not disheartened. It gives Keiji a slight shiver. Neither of them break their eye contact.
“Okay, Akaashi Keiji,” Bokuto says. The edge of his mouth cracks into a smile. “Bokuto Koutarou. Tokyo Metropolitan graduate. Founder and owner of five multi-million dollar restaurants in Japan. Boss of Fukuro-kai,” his eyes darken slightly. “Currently the largest yakuza syndicate in Tokyo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Keiji remains still, feigning neutrality to Bokuto’s arrogant self-introduction. Keiji swallows primly.
“Now you want to know about my childhood, huh?” Bokuto leans back in his chair. “I think my first memory is of my 6th birthday.”
Keiji listens intently to it all. Bokuto and his animated gestures, expressions, telling stories about his friends from high school and taking ‘tell me everything’ very seriously. Keiji can’t help a smile a few times, which Bokuto delights in.
Like a cracked, static screen, Keiji watches the Bokuto in front of him, and the Bokuto who tortured a man. Before, the two existing in one body would have seemed impossible to Keiji. His mind expands to account for this new reality, and, steadily, Keiji starts to understand this Bokuto.
It’s a complex, painful thing for Bokuto to talk about, Keiji notices; his mother’s affair, an older man in another syndicate, his sisters, their bodies, debt, and the first time Bokuto was given a gun.
He could’ve made other choices.
Keiji clenches his hands.
Would I have?
“I always wanted to be a chef when I was a kid, but it became pretty clear early on that I couldn’t. So that’s why I opened the Perch. It’s a good front for the money, and I get to do what I always wanted.”
Bokuto describes his climb up the hierarchy, omitting particularly gruesome scenes for Keiji’s sake, and the deaths of six men, the aftermath in which Bokuto absorbed a crumbling syndicate into himself. That was five years ago.
“When did you meet Kuroo-san?” Keiji asks.
“High school,” Bokuto replies, and he smiles fondly. “His situation is a lot different, though. More like a family business type of thing.”
Keiji doesn’t ask him to elaborate.
He pauses, and then starts to ask another question instead.
“How many people-”
Keiji eyes widen at himself and his mouth shuts guiltily.
Bokuto leans forward, leans towards Keiji. His expression is soft.
“You want to know how many people I’ve killed?”
Keiji reddens. “That- wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Ten.”
Keiji blinks.
“That’s…” low.
Bokuto’s lips curve briefly, but then his expression hardens.
“I know what you must think of me, and I don’t blame you. But I don’t take lives thoughtlessly, Akaashi. I remember their faces, and I looked at their eyes when they died.”
Keiji says nothing because there is no suitable response.
Bokuto exhales and shifts, trying to clear the dense, uncomfortable mood of the aftertaste of his words.
“Plus,” he says, “a person close to death is a lot more useful than a person who’s already dead.”
Keiji hears the humor in his voice and glares redly.
“Did I miss anything?” Bokuto wonders aloud. “I think I told you everything.”
Keiji nods. “Thank you,” he says gently.
“For what?”
“For telling me everything, including things that hurts you.”
There’s a beat, and Bokuto’s face settles with a smile. It always does.
“Of course, ‘Kaashi. You asked.”
Even though they fucked that morning, Keiji sleeps in his own bed. He thinks of Bokuto as a teenager, the grief he has balled tightly inside himself, and his own want to pull it out, unwrap it, and let Bokuto rest in his lap.
The following morning, Keiji is given back his wallet and keys, but to his dismay, his phone screen is shattered and it won’t turn on. Bokuto apologizes on Shirofuku’s behalf (“She said she wanted to be safe”) and promises to buy him a new one the next day.
Keiji doesn’t forgive him. Bokuto isn’t forgiven. All they can do is eat breakfast together and hold onto each other for dear life.
“‘Kaashi, you should go to school tomorrow,” Bokuto says as they eat.
Keiji’s chopsticks freeze in his bowl. Something jolts through him as he realizes that it’s Sunday morning. It’s been… It feels like months, but he’s only been in Bokuto’s apartment for ten days. How much class has he missed?
“I can?” He blurts, looking at Bokuto hopefully.
“Of course you can,” Bokuto tries to sound enthusiastic, but he…”You should.” He looks so heartbroken that Keiji almost feels guilty.
“Thank you,” Keiji says, but he only feels guiltier, the way Bokuto looks now.
Bokuto clears his throat and inhales shakily, but his exhale is strong.
“There shouldn’t be any issues, but if there are, let me know. I had Konoha contact your school and tell them you’re sick, staying with family.”
Keiji’s stomach twists a little, with every person who knew about him being in captivity. He nods.
“And my job?” he asks.
“Same thing.”
Excitement trembles cautiously in his chest and then spreads through his body.
“Good.” Keiji says with small smile. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Need me to help with anything?” Bokuto asks.
Keiji shakes his head.
Bokuto exhales again.
“Akaashi.”
“Yes?”
“Kenma told you that he would help you get out of this, if you wanted.”
Keiji hadn’t noticed the seriousness growing over Bokuto’s expression, until now.
“He did.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I’m fine.”
“Why?”
“I am,” Keiji states. He doesn’t understand the subtle pushback Bokuto is giving him all of a sudden.
Bokuto regards him, his eyebrows drawing a bit as he mulls something over, Keiji can tell.
“‘Kaashi, there’s another reason why I kept you here.” He finally says.
“What is it?”
“You can understand why a man in my position would have enemies.”
Keiji’s mind blanks, then stutters, and realization crashes upon his body in a cold wave.
“I let my guard down with you, when it should’ve been higher to begin with,” Bokuto admits. “Kuroo always had someone nearby you and Kenma’s place, so I thought that would suffice. And it has, somewhat, since nothing has happened, but I need to be more careful now.”
Someone nearby? Keiji processes, green eyes unblinking.
“So, what you’re saying is…”
“You know now. You know everything, which makes you valuable, and being valuable makes you a target.” Bokuto’s voice is critical but soft. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“I see.”
“So, assuming you go back to the apartment, before you go back, I’m going to have your rooms checked and cleared. The lock should be changed frequently, too, and I’ll have someone on every floor, every hour of the day. That’s including-”
“Then I’ll stay here.”
Bokuto freezes, his eyebrows raised.
“That would be safest, right?” Keiji asks.
He doesn’t waver, and he waits for Bokuto’s answer patiently.
Bokuto leans back, concerned again. He searches for something, maybe in Keiji’s body or steeled expression. When he can’t find it and curiosity overwhelms, he replies, “Yes.”
Keiji nods.
“But it’s not necessary, unless you want it, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto goes on.
“If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have it said it.”
Bokuto considers this, and must accept it because he leans forward and rests his arms on the table.
“All of this is just a precaution.” He says. “Akaashi. You will not be laid a finger on.”
Bokuto’s voice plunges. Keiji stills, afraid to breathe in. He reads blood between the lines.
Keiji spends the rest of the day readying himself for school, aided by Kenma who packed a bag of his things and sent them along with Konoha. His mind churns through, simmers with, prods at the information he now has; a mess of methamphetamine and potential threats, all trying to coexist with the last poetry essay he submitted and his usual pre-class coffee order.
How he’s supposed to sit in class tomorrow as if everything is normal… He doesn’t know yet, but he was able to keep his sanity these almost two weeks and end up stronger for it. He looks over his notes, from before all this. At his handwriting.
It’s a brisk, cloudless-yet-grey February morning, as Keiji steps out on the curb near his school. He gives a small bow of his head to Konoha who had driven him.
He’s dressed simply in jeans and a brown sweater, a bit of blush on his nose, and water he brushed through his dark curls. His nails are clean and filed, and there are no visible wounds on him anywhere. He applies lip balm before making his way towards the building.
No one can tell.
“Akaashi-san?”
Keiji turns around, panicked, but then immensely relieved.
“Miya-san.”
“Hey, where were you?”
Osamu adjusts his bag higher on his shoulders, smiling under a black baseball cap. He pulls it off, combing a quick hand through his dark hair as he catches up with Keiji. He has a coffee in one hand.
Keiji smiles. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”
“I tried texting you but the messages stopped delivering,” Osamu says. “Something happen?”
“My phone broke. I’m getting a new one tomorrow,” Keiji says easily. “And then I got pretty sick, which is why I missed class. It was a hard week.” He rehearsed this.
“Flu?”
“Probably.”
“Damn, I’m sorry.”
They fall into pace together walking to class.
“Are you feeling better at least?”
“Yes,” Keiji replies. “Did I miss much?”
“Not really. We just read some Masaoka.”
Keiji nods.
“I can help you catch up if you want.” Osamu offers.
“I would appreciate that. Thank you.” Keiji smiles again.
Reaching the classroom, they take their seats at the front of the hall, falling into the motions of taking out pens and books. Keiji leans down to pull an eraser out of his bag, when Osamu turns at the wrong moment and accidentally bumps Keiji’s head.
“My bad, sorry.”
It was a light touch, barely anything.
“You okay?”
A ringing pierces Keiji’s ears, as he tries desperately to blink the black haze and stars out of his vision. His head burns where he tripped and fell at the Perch. It’s the only injury he still has.
But it only lasts a second or two, and Keiji pulls himself up, pulls himself together, rubbing the tender spot.
“I’m alright, no worries.”
Osamu’s eyes linger on Keiji throughout class. He only takes a few notes, mostly watching Keiji’s movements.
“Wanna walk home together?” Osamu asks afterward.
Keiji slips his things into his bag quickly, remembering Konoha and not wanting to make him wait. He shakes his head politely as he pushes his chair in. “Actually, I’m getting an Uber.”
“Oh, okay.” Osamu seems unbothered. He finishes gathering his things, and the two of them walk towards the building’s main doors. “See you this week?”
“Of course.”
Konoha is waiting a few hundred yards down the street. Keiji waves goodbye to Osamu, who watches him until he disappears from view in the backseat. He’s still standing on the street when Keiji looks back.