Chapter Text
Waking up is a languid process full of kitten stretches and nestling back into the bedsheets, a rare but welcome easing into the day. Keiji licks his lips and yawns, only vaguely aware of his stale breath, and quickly falls back into half-dreams and naps that last well into the day. He doesn’t indulge in slow mornings, not normally, but Keiji feels he deserves this one.
Eventually, he’s roused by his phone buzzing against the floor where he left it to charge the night prior. Without looking, he reaches out and tugs it to him, pulling it under the duvet to avoid any more morning light. He peeks an eye open, as if allowing himself to see anymore than a sliver of vision would be enough to permanently wake him.
There’s a text from Osamu. Keiji exhales slowly through his nose; it’s time for him to stop dreaming, after all.
meant to say i got home last night but this thing was waiting for me and i forgot reads Osamu’s text. Attached is a photo of his brother haphazardly laid out on his stomach across what must be Osamu’s bed. Atsumu is clearly dead asleep with his chin hooked over the edge of the mattress, and he looks like he had a rough night of his own, if the way his bomber jacket is still caught on one arm is any indication.
Keiji grins instinctively. He starts typing out a joke at the expense of his least favorite Miya, but instead of sending it, Keiji finds himself just staring at the message. They never really talk about Atsumu. He hasn’t told Osamu that he considers his twin brother to be his nemesis, but Osamu must know Keiji doesn’t like him. Other than that first morning, Keiji’s never mentioned or asked after him at all, despite it being clear Osamu holds a fondness for him, even if it is at times a begrudging one.
Is it rude of Keiji to never bring him up? Or is it entirely more telling that Osamu himself rarely does, when Atsumu is so integral to his life?
Suddenly the hours of sleep feel irrelevant as Keiji is plagued with a full-bodied fatigue. It has been so easy for Keiji to let himself get lost in the euphoria of liking Osamu that he’s gone so far as to pretend he actually knows the man, too. Evidently Keiji’s only capable of being sensible when he takes a step back.
So he does: he deletes what he had written and sends back Glad you made it safely.
The next time Keiji sees his crush, he will shut it down. The paper will be finished, they’ll be even, and Keiji can block Osamu without remorse or any slight to his reputation.
It is better this way, Keiji tells himself. Better than Osamu realizing Keiji’s feelings and holding them over his head. Much better than Osamu realizing Keiji’s using him for his own guilt and his selfish crush and hating Keiji for it.
It’s just better.
For Osamu.
At the center of the philosophy department is a spacious, regal looking study room with shelves and shelves of books and journal collections. It’s dreary, stuffy, smells of mildew, and is an entirely appropriate location for Keiji to break his own heart.
He’s so glad Osamu asked to meet there for a final editing session. Overjoyed, even. He’s really looking forward to it.
Which is why he is only just now starting the walk over, two minutes before the time he’s meant to arrive, and is moving with the urgency of a man with cement bricks tied to his ankles. Were Keiji swimming, he would drown, though he doesn’t feel too far from that on land as it is.
Keiji slows to a stop, letting the cross walk timer that he definitely could have made instead count down to zero, and sighs absentmindedly. That’s all he’s been able to do this entire morning: sigh, loiter, and ruminate. It’s a little pathetic when he thinks about it.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Miya Osamu, with his radar for Keiji’s moments of weakness, messages him asking if they can move the tutoring to his apartment. the lunch i’m making is taking longer than i thought, he explains.
It would be poetic if it ended where it started, Keiji thinks bitterly. Poetry was never exactly a favorite of his. He doesn’t feel inclined to start liking it more now.
Resigning himself to a feeling of torture, Keiji turns in the direction of Osamu’s apartment and responds: That’s fine. It would be an incredible shame to lose a Miya meal.
see if i share any with you now
Keiji switches his phone off until he arrives.
An Osamu shaped whirlwind greets him before Keiji can even finish removing his shoes: “I’m just finishin’ up the last parts— here, lemme take that— get comfortable, the essay’s already out if you wanna look at it, and water’s already heating if you’d like tea. Would you?”
Osamu peels Keiji’s bag off of him and guides him into his apartment without pausing for a breath. Keiji stands by the table, dumbfounded, and watches Osamu set aside his things before diving back into the kitchen. Whatever he is making smells absolutely divine; Keiji was teasing, but perhaps it would have been a shame to abandon the meal after all.
Abandon any of this, a traitorous part of him thinks. Keiji clears his throat and sits down, carefully folding his legs underneath himself. Osamu’s essay is set out on the table, and with any luck, Keiji can finish this and bury himself under layers and layers of blankets back in his room within an hour.
“Akaashi-kun?”
Keiji startles and pulls the essay close to his chest. “Yes?”
Osamu pokes his head out from the kitchen and grins at him. “Would'ya like tea?”
He taps his fingers against the paper in his hands as he thinks, then quietly says: “No, thank you.”
With a shrug, Osamu disappears once more. Keiji carefully presses the essay back out on the table, smoothing out the creases he’s just made, and begins.
The silence of the apartment is occasionally filled with clinking dishes and cabinets shutting. Osamu hums quietly, fragments of a song Keiji can’t quite recognize. Keiji flips a page and the paper crinkles softly.
The essay is very well written, and Keiji didn’t know Osamu hums when he cooks. Keiji knows very, very little, but in their time together, Osamu’s writing has improved tenfold, and at least he’ll have that to keep; a little assurance that Keiji brought something worthwhile to Osamu as thanks for all of his thoughtful and occasionally frustrating kindnesses. Keiji gave back what he took, and took no more, no matter how much he wishes he did otherwise.
It’s perhaps bittersweet, or at least as much as reading any introductory philosophy term paper could be. Truly, when did Keiji become such a sap?
Osamu brings an impressive spread of plates: a bowl of vibrant takuan, a tidy row of still steaming onigiri, glazed salmon that Keiji is certain will melt in his mouth, and more. Keiji starts to speak with the intention to share his gratitude, or compliment how excellent the meal looks, or praise Osamu’s improved essay.
“I’m going to miss tutoring you,” Keiji says instead.
That is— that is true, technically, but far too revealing for Keiji to believe he actually said it. He stares at the bowl of rice Osamu’s still holding, now suspended above the table as Osamu is probably trying to figure out what on earth Keiji said, too.
“I just mean that your writing has come very far,” Keiji stutters. "And it has been rewarding to act as your tutor and help you discover your voice and your thesis. So I will… reflect fondly that I was able to do so."
There is a high chance Keiji is making no sense, judging by Osamu's complete lack of reaction. Cautiously, Keiji adds, "Since now this is over."
Slowly, Osamu sits, letting the bowl gently clatter down. He doesn't look at Keiji, but he has the same expression he wore when they first met: unamused, unaffected, unreachable. With a start, Keiji realizes he hasn't seen this look since their very first interactions; even when Osamu's face was resting, there was still an openness Keiji had taken for granted. Now there's a jarring distance. Keiji has done something terribly wrong.
He wants to ask what it was he's done, but now that he's made a fool of himself, the words refuse to come. He fiddles with the corner of the essay instead.
Eventually, Osamu chuckles under his breath, the sound harsh and unamused. A frown stretches across his face as he says, "Ya could've waited 'til after we ate to break up with me."
"... What?"
"I made a lot of food. It's weird now," Osamu mutters petulantly. He pokes at the food with his chopsticks like he isn't concerned at all about saying the most outrageous and confusing thing Keiji has ever heard.
Keiji's brain goes through several power cycles before he is able to string together the words to say: "We aren't dating."
Osamu exhales sharply, almost another mirthless laugh. "Yeah, I get it."
"No— we have never dated," Keiji insists. He needs Osamu to understand, and more importantly, to explain , but he must be failing at both because Osamu whips on Keiji with a face so bitter Keiji's stomach lurches.
"I'm not puttin' up a fight. Ya don't need to be such a dick," Osamu snaps.
"I'm not," Keiji sputters indignantly.
Osamu twists back to face the table and pushes his food away from himself. Then, quieter, he says: "Just go."
Keiji sits in stunned silence. What is he— does he mean— is he being dumped? Is he doing the dumping?
What?
"I'm serious," he tries again. "I wasn't aware we were… dating. When—" Keiji clears his throat— "did that happen?"
After a moment of glaring at Keiji like he was the world's most annoying puzzle, Osamu does the most bewildering thing yet.
He blushes.
"You're serious," Osamu slowly repeats. Keiji nods and ignores both the way his face heats to match Osamu's and how his incredibly adorable flush is now reaching his shirt collar. (Not the time, Keiji.)
Cursing under his breath, Osamu rubs at his eyes with one hand and covers his mouth with the other. His voice is muffled when he says, "I thought you askin' to tutor me was your way of askin' me out, and you were just being all weird about it 'cause you're weird."
"Oh." Keiji's crush thinks he's weird enough to ask him out via an 8-10 paged final assignment. Phenomenal.
"No, I just… felt really awful," Keiji finishes awkwardly.
Osamu buries further into his hands. "Great. Can you just leave and never mention this again? Actually, on your way out, just take something heavy and put me out of my misery.”
It finally occurs to Keiji's barely-there cognitive functions and jumping rope heart that Miya Osamu thought Keiji was asking him out with the charm of a socially anxious pre-teen and said yes anyway. Miya Osamu has been dating him for nearly a month and Keiji somehow broke up with him before reading his own goddamn memo. Miya Osamu wants to date him and Keiji is now overcome with a frantic need to rewind time back to before Keiji idiotically made him think that want wasn't desperately reciprocated.
"Well, on second thought, me not knowing we were dating doesn't have to mean we weren't," Keiji blurts.
Unsurprisingly, Osamu just stares at him, entirely lost. Keiji swallows the lump of nerves in his throat. Just say it. Just— tell him.
Keiji feels something in him click into place, like releasing the tension in a muscle he didn't know he had.
You're allowed to want this.
Carefully, so carefully, Keiji says, "If the next time I tutor you, I was also in on the secret that it's actually a date, that would make me really happy."
Osamu shakes his head— not in denial, Keiji thinks (and hopes), but closer to utter exasperation. "You really are so weird," he mutters.
Keiji can feel his heart in his throat. "Is that a no?"
"Is that a no," Osamu repeats slowly. He folds his arms across the table and leans forward, pressing into Keiji's space, and his stare stays locked on Keiji the entire time. The corners of his eyes bunch up, catching the light in a way that Keiji can only describe as addicting.
"You're the one studying literature, Akaashi-kun," Osamu taunts with a grin that's suddenly nothing but affectionate. "I sit through you rippin' apart my writing as our first date and still ask you to do it again."
Osamu shifts around the edge of the table, knocking their knees together.
"I bring you to meet my friends, and walk you back late at night."
They are as close as they were that night, and Osamu's face is just as overwhelming as Keiji remembers it.
"And now, I make you this whole meal…" Osamu trails off, and Keiji watches his eyes slide down to Keiji’s mouth. "Use your context clues."
Keiji realizes what it was that Osamu always seemed to be looking for when he stared— it was just him. Just Keiji. How exhilarating it is to be found.
"Let me know if you think I've got it," Keiji whispers just before pressing their lips together. Osamu places his hand on the back of Keiji's neck and pulls him in, pressing into the kiss without hesitation. A small, overwhelmed noise escapes the back of Keiji's throat, and he feels Osamu hum appreciatively more than he can hear it. Keiji wraps his arms around Osamu's broad shoulders and gets even closer still, every inch where they touch thrumming finally, finally, finally.
Kissing Osamu: this is the best use of time Keiji has ever found.
Regrettably, Osamu draws back and presses their foreheads together, rather than kiss Keiji until he forgets how to breathe. At least Osamu is blushing bright red and breathing just as heavily as he is. Without thinking, Keiji cups Osamu's jaw in his hand, and Osamu leans into it. He gives Keiji a blinding smile, and with it, cements himself in Keiji's heart.
"You've got it," Osamu promises.
Much later, after they've eaten and Keiji refuses on principle to compliment Osamu's cooking at risk of further inflating his ego, Keiji's despised enemy gallavants through Osamu's front door. He sees Keiji and Osamu cuddled together, Osamu's essay resting on their lap, and freezes so abruptly his gym bag slides off his shoulder.
"You!" Miya Atsumu exclaims.
Keiji huffs and leans further into Osamu’s side. Osamu, to his credit, happily lets him. "Yes?" Keiji prompts, raising an eyebrow.
Atsumu gestures between them, alternating between affronted stares (at Keiji) and looks of complete betrayal (at his twin brother).
"You're the guy 'Samu's dating?"
Instead of responding right away, Keiji deliberately takes Osamu's hand in his— a miraculous thing he can just do whenever he likes now, because he is the guy Osamu is dating, and has been for weeks.
"I am," Keiji says, looking at Osamu. He squeezes his hand when Osamu's expression melts into a dopey smile; the rush of it doesn’t seem to be wearing off for either of them. Keiji grins back before turning to Atsumu. "Now that you're here, I've been meaning to tell you: you're an absolute asshole."
Osamu erupts into laughter. Atsumu finds it considerably less funny.
"If he has any sense, my brother'll leave ya by the end of the month," Atsumu grumbles.
"Don't be jealous," Osamu jeers. His brother pulls a face like Osamu has suggested something terrible and obscene then sulks off into Osamu's kitchen.
With a chuckle, Osamu says in Keiji's ear, "He's definitely jealous." He presses his face into Keiji's hair and kisses his temple, exaggerated and sweet. Keiji's heart swells with affection, just as it has every time prior.
To think— Keiji never would have known him were it not for his brother. Truly, how horrible Atsumu is, and how lucky Keiji is for that.