Chapter Text
To say the last month at Miya Osamu’s humble onigiri empire had been catastrophic would’ve been an understatement. The Tokyo branch he’d opened six months ago had apparently decided to implode, like the shop had been hoarding disasters just to release them all at once in a carefully curated hell package.
First, the heating broke. Customers ate in their coats while the staff shuffled around like extras in a survival show. Then a pipe burst, flooding the kitchen and briefly turning the place into an onsen nobody had asked for. The stove gave out next, dying in solidarity with the pipe. As a final flourish, one of his suppliers declared bankruptcy. And because the universe likes a bad joke, it wasn’t rice, or seaweed, or anything easy to replace—it was the organic chicken supplier. The one Osamu bragged about to customers. The “moral choice” chicken. Gone.
And that was just tip of the iceberg.
Two staff called in sick on top of it, so Osamu spent the last four weeks doing everything himself: prepping, cooking, serving, cleaning, closing. Rinse, repeat. Between shifts he scraped together five hours. Just enough for a shower, something pretending to be a meal, and sleep that mostly consisted of planning tomorrow’s grocery run in his dreams. Truly the glamorous life of an entrepreneur.
If he had his way, his first free evening in a month would’ve been spent sprawled on his couch, drowning in takeout containers, and wallowing in the exquisite self-pity that comes from knowing he’d chosen this life. He could’ve stayed on the court, maybe even played pro like his brother. But no…he’d chosen rice balls. Rice balls and suffering.
Instead, he was trudging through Shibuya toward a karaoke bar.
The reason for that: Akaashi Keiji.
Akaashi was the one bright spot in Osamu’s otherwise bleak schedule. Just seeing him—whether at Onigiri Miya ordering his usual or sitting quietly at gatherings like this—was enough to trick Osamu into thinking maybe the grind was worth it. And thanks to Bokuto, Osamu had been “invited.” Not that Bokuto ever actually invited him. Bokuto invited Atsumu. Osamu came stapled to that invite, like a buy-one-get-one-free twin deal.
He wasn’t complaining. Not when it meant seeing Akaashi. Every encounter with him was a small win. Osamu spent those encounters usually lurking in corners, drink in hand, pretending to blend into the wallpaper while cataloguing every detail about Akaashi like a researcher preparing a dissertation: The Many Expressions of Akaashi Keiji, Volume Two.
Atsumu, in his usual supportive way, had called it stalking. “Obsessive,” with a theatrical eye-roll. But Osamu saw it as… prep work. Research, so to speak. The kind of homework that would eventually let him get the courage to ask Akaashi out and present himself as flawless boyfriend material. That was the plan. Two years in, progress: zero. His friends pitied him.
Osamu? Perfectly content pining. Perfectly content being delusional. Perfectly content, period.
Still, tonight had a special lure. At the twins’ birthday months ago, Bokuto had dropped a piece of intel so valuable Osamu could’ve framed it: Normal-Akaashi versus Drunk-Akaashi. Apparently they were… different creatures.
Osamu, walking encyclopedia of all things Akaashi, had stored this tidbit immediately. And now he was on his way to witness the fabled Drunk-Akaashi in the wild.
He pulled out his phone and checked the map. He was here. Across the street, glowing in neon like a beacon of poor decisions, was the bar. He was twenty minutes late. Everyone else was probably already inside.
Osamu exhaled, shoved the phone back in his pocket, and crossed the street—equal parts exhausted, resigned, and, though he’d never admit it, excited.
He pushed open the heavy glass door and was immediately hit by the unmistakable cocktail that only a Shibuya karaoke bar could offer: neon lights bouncing off sticky floors, the stale tang of beer fighting with chemical air freshener, and someone belting out an idol hit so off-key it should’ve been classified as a crime.
The girl at the front desk gave him a smile that said she’d already heard the group in room 305 and pitied anyone heading their way. Osamu didn’t need directions… the soundproofing was a lie. Bokuto’s laugh carried down the hall like a foghorn.
The hallway itself was a fever dream of bad decisions: patterned carpet so loud it felt like a personal attack, dim lighting that made every suspicious stain look like a crime scene, and doors leaking fragments of noise ranging from tragic ballads to catastrophic rap attempts. Osamu passed one room where someone was shrieking their way through a love song. He quickened his pace.
At the glowing 305, he paused. Bokuto’s voice cracked so hard it rattled through the door, followed by the kind of applause that suggested either charity or mass hysteria. Osamu exhaled, braced himself, and slid the door open.
Chaos.
Bokuto was on stage, gripping the mic like it owed him money, hollering out lyrics at a pitch not found in nature. Atsumu, naturally, was egging him on, pounding the table, shouting encouragement like Bokuto was headlining a stadium. Hinata was bouncing so hard the booth shook.
Sakusa sat angled away from everything, body tilted like he was trying to create a ten-inch buffer between himself and the universe. He hadn’t touched his drink. His expression said everything in this room is contaminated, and I want to go home.
Kuroo lounged like he owned the place, one arm sprawled over the booth, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Kenma was slouched beside him, phone in hand, eyes flicking up only occasionally—just enough to confirm he’d catalogued every misstep. Yaku was clapping off-beat with full libero commitment. Yamamoto looked one verse away from ripping his shirt off and declaring karaoke as blood sport. Nobuyuki and Onaga had the aura of the designated adults, nursing their drinks like it might shield them from the noise.
And then there was Akaashi.
Osamu saw him immediately. Of course he did…like his brain had a built-in homing device. Akaashi sat beside Washio, posture perfect, expression politely neutral, water glass precisely half full. The chaos didn’t touch him; he looked composed, unbothered, the calm eye of the storm.
Eleven days. Not that Osamu was counting, because that would be tragic. But, well. He was counting. Eleven days since Akaashi had last walked into his shop, apologizing for being busy while ordering his usual with that quiet, careful voice. Eleven days of Osamu pretending not to notice the absence, and now… there he was. Real. Breathing. Hair curling slightly at the ends from humidity. Blue eyes glinting under neon light.
Osamu’s chest did a small, traitorous lurch. He schooled his face into deadpan calm. Internally, it was chaos.
He scanned the room like a hawk. Stage left had a clear sightline to Akaashi, but Bokuto was already perched there, and Bokuto radiated too much secondhand embarrassment energy to risk sitting near. The far booth in the corner—good angle, nice shadow—meant he could sip a beer, nod occasionally, and spend the night quietly cataloguing the curve of Akaashi’s smile without anyone noticing. Classic field study technique for his ongoing thesis How to Love Someone Without Ever Saying a Word.
It wasn’t weird. It was research. Akaashi was, after all, the love of his life—though Osamu would never, under any circumstances, use that phrasing out loud. Out loud, it was “a crush.” In his head, it was “reason for waking up every morning with purpose.”
The trick was to never get caught staring. Which was why the corner seat was perfect. He’d sit there, neutral expression firmly in place, observing from a safe distance. Far better than being dragged into the main booth where Akaashi sat right now, looking entirely too composed and devastatingly handsome under cheap neon lights.
Osamu had almost made it to the corner when the trap snapped shut.
“Oi Samu! Where ya goin’?” Atsumu’s voice cut through the noise like a knife.
“Back there.” Osamu gestured vaguely at the shadowy booth. “Less crowded. Better line of sight to the exits.”
“Line of sight,” Atsumu repeated, already sliding out of his seat, grin widening. “Yer not scoping out the exits, Samu. Yer scoping out him.” He jerked his chin toward Akaashi.
Osamu’s expression didn’t flicker. “That’s paranoia talk.”
“Paranoia’s when ya think somethin’ ain’t true.” Atsumu started circling, cutting him off from the corner like a wolf herding livestock. “This here’s called accuracy.”
Osamu moved anyway, steady pace, no panic. “Nah. Just tired. Easier back there.”
“Then ya can rest right here,” Atsumu said cheerfully, hand clamping onto his arm like a vise.
“I ain’t singin’,” Osamu shot back.
“Didn’t ask ya to. Yet.” Atsumu winked.
And then Bokuto, human foghorn, spotted them. “MIYAA-SAM!!” he roared into the mic, voice cracking like glass. “YOU CAME!”
Half the room turned to cheer. Yamamoto banged his glass on the table. Hinata pumped his fists. Kuroo smirked like he’d just won a bet with himself. Any chance of Osamu slipping quietly into the shadows was officially dead.
“Fine,” Osamu muttered. “But I’m choosin’ the seat.”
“Sure ya are,” Atsumu said, all smug innocence.
Which was exactly how Osamu ended up shoved—not into the corner booth with its perfect “Akaashi-watching angle”—but directly into the seat beside Akaashi Keiji.
The worst possible angle. The too-close, pulse-wrecking, dignity-destroying angle.
Osamu lowered himself into the booth. He adjusted his shoulders, set his hands flat on the table, and tried to project the air of someone who wasn’t about to collapse under the weight of sitting exactly three inches from Akaashi Keiji.
Cool. Collected. Indifferent. That was the brief.
Unfortunately, his body hadn’t gotten the memo. His knees felt stiff, his jaw was locked, and his pulse had taken off like a startled rabbit. If Akaashi so much as breathed in his direction, Osamu was fairly certain his soul would leave his body and exit through the ceiling.
“Good evening, Miya-san,” Akaashi said politely, voice calm and even, like this was nothing. Just two acquaintances sitting side by side at a karaoke bar, surrounded by chaos, no reason for Osamu to short-circuit at all.
“Evenin’,” Osamu replied. Flat. Simple. Safe. He even managed to keep his eyes on the table instead of Akaashi’s face, which in his mind deserved some sort of medal.
Don’t stare. Don’t think about how his hair curls a little at the ends. Don’t notice the way the neon light catches in his eyes. Don’t—
Osamu glanced sideways. Just once. A millisecond. Definitely not staring.
It was a mistake.
Akaashi was even more unfair up close: sharp cheekbones, soft mouth, perfect posture that somehow didn’t look forced. He lifted his glass of water with long, elegant fingers, sipped neatly, and set it back down with surgical precision. It was an entirely ordinary action, the kind of thing every human did hundreds of times a day. And yet Osamu’s chest tightened like he’d just witnessed the climax of a romance film.
Get it together, he told himself. It’s just water. People drink water.
To cover his lapse, he leaned back against the booth, slouched a little, tried to look like a man who hadn’t just overanalyzed a sip of water. The move might’ve worked if the booth cushion hadn’t swallowed him awkwardly, making him slide half an inch closer to Akaashi.
Perfect. Brilliant. Truly seamless.
He cleared his throat. “Crowded tonight,” he said, as if small talk could hide the fact that he was actively combusting.
“Yes,” Akaashi replied simply. Calm, collected, utterly oblivious to the internal disaster happening two and a half inches to his left.
The silence stretched, thick and awkward, broken only by Bokuto’s screeching on stage and Atsumu’s hyena laugh from across the room.
Osamu folded his arms. Nodded like he had just said something profound. Inside, he was melting into a puddle of useless, heart-eyed mush.
So much for cool.
The silence between them thickened. Not a comfortable, companionable silence. No… this was the kind that pressed on Osamu’s ribs, made the air feel warmer, and highlighted every single second he spent very much not saying anything to the man beside him.
Osamu pretended to focus on the condensation running down his glass. Akaashi seemed entirely unbothered, posture impeccable, expression calm, eyes fixed somewhere toward the stage. It was infuriating. How could one person radiate that much serenity while Osamu’s insides were staging a five-alarm fire drill?
And then Washio, sainted Washio, leaned ever so slightly forward from Akaashi’s other side. His gaze flicked between the two of them—once, twice—and then he cleared his throat.
“So,” Washio said, voice as dry as the Sahara. “The drinks here are… fine.”
Osamu blinked. Akaashi turned his head politely, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation starter and not the weakest attempt at defusing a bomb since history began.
Washio gestured vaguely at his own half-finished highball. “Bit sweet. But fine.”
Akaashi nodded once. “I see.”
Silence. Again.
Washio’s eyes darted between them a second time, his expression straining somewhere between long-suffering and deeply regretful. “They’ve got snacks too,” he added, like he’d just remembered a useful fact. “Fries. Edamame. You can order by the plate.”
Another nod from Akaashi. Polite. Measured. Deathly calm.
Osamu, meanwhile, fought the urge to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it was tragic. Washio’s valiant attempt at social CPR had only made the silence louder, heavier, more painfully obvious.
“Sounds… useful,” Osamu deadpanned, his voice flat enough to rival the tabletop.
Washio exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking, clearly resigning himself to the fact that he had failed. He reached for his drink again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I tried.”
And just like that, the silence reclaimed its throne.
Just as the silence threatened to calcify into a permanent state of existence, the door slid open. In swept Konoha, balancing a tray like some kind of smirking savior, the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke still clinging to him.
“Look alive, gentlemen,” he announced, setting the tray down with theatrical precision. “The drinks have arrived.”
The tray was loaded: a few beers, a couple of cocktails, one soda, and—because the gods clearly had a sense of humor—a monstrosity of a drink placed directly in front of Akaashi. It was tall, frosted, and unapologetically absurd: layered yellow and red like a tropical sunrise, topped with fruit skewers and a straw that looked like it belonged at a children’s fair.
Akaashi blinked at it, expression neutral. Then, to Osamu’s eternal horror and delight, he accepted it without hesitation. “Thank you,” he said simply, lifting it with both hands like a perfectly normal person who had just been handed a perfectly normal drink.
Konoha grinned, satisfied. “Knew you’d like it.”
Osamu’s internal monologue was less calm. Since when does Akaashi drink cocktails that look like vacation brochures? Since when does he drink cocktails at all? He’d assumed Akaashi was a water-and-maybe-one-beer type, not someone who would serenely sip something that looked like it had been designed to match a flamingo pool float.
Akaashi took a small, unbothered sip, set it down neatly, and dabbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Completely at ease. Meanwhile, Osamu’s heart rate had gone critical.
Konoha, ever the menace, slid a frosty beer in front of Osamu with a look that was far too knowing. “For you, Miya.”
“Appreciate it,” Osamu said flatly, picking it up more to occupy his hands than out of any real thirst. He didn’t miss the way Konoha lingered just long enough to clock the distance—or lack thereof—between him and Akaashi before melting back into the chaos of the room.
Washio raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the scene. Osamu pretended not to notice. He took a slow sip of his beer, on the outside calm as ever, while his brain screamed, Akaashi is drinking a candy-colored cocktail like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I think I might actually be in love with him twice over.
The silence didn’t feel quite as suffocating anymore. But that might’ve just been the alcohol.
Akaashi reached for the cocktail again, calm as you please, straw angled just so. He sipped once, then seemed to notice the fruit garnish: chunks of pineapple, orange slices, a cherry wobbling precariously on a skewer.
For a moment, he studied it like he was deciding whether to edit or delete. Then, without ceremony, he leaned in and plucked a piece of pineapple off the skewer with his mouth.
It should’ve been innocent. Ordinary. Just fruit. But no… Akaashi chewed slowly, thoughtfully, lips parting in a way that sent Osamu’s brain into a full system crash. And when Akaashi drew the fruit back, tongue flicking briefly to catch the juice at the corner of his mouth, Osamu felt every coherent thought abandon ship.
He tightened his grip on his beer. Too tight. His palm slipped slightly on the condensation.
Then Akaashi, apparently unaware of the homicide he was committing, plucked the cherry free. He popped it between his lips, teeth catching the stem, and for a split second—just a split second—he tugged it out again like he was trying to solve the world’s most complicated puzzle.
Osamu made a noise. It wasn’t dignified. It was somewhere between a cough and a strangled choke.
“I—uh—I’ll be right back,” he said, too fast, already shoving himself away from the booth. His beer wobbled dangerously as he set it down.
He didn’t look at Akaashi. Couldn’t. Not with that cherry still in play.
The hallway outside was mercifully dim and cool, the muffled chaos of karaoke fading to a dull roar. Osamu pressed his back to the wall, dragged in a breath, and tried very, very hard not to imagine things he absolutely should not be imagining about cherries, fruit skewers, or Akaashi Keiji’s mouth.
Chapter Text
Osamu pushed further down the hall, past the sticky carpet and faint echo of someone massacring another love ballad, until he found the emergency exit. The red letters glowed like salvation. He shoved the bar and stepped out into the alley behind the building.
Cool night air hit him in the face. The alley was lit by a single buzzing neon sign overhead, its flicker giving the brick walls a tired, twitching heartbeat. Trash bins lined one side, and somewhere deeper down the alley a cat yowled like it had lost a bet.
And of course, because the universe had a sense of humor, he wasn’t alone.
Konoha was already there, leaning casual against the wall, cigarette glowing faint orange between his fingers. Smoke curled upward into the night like he’d been waiting for Osamu specifically. A few feet away, Sakusa stood in his usual perfect geometry: arms crossed, expression flat, not touching anything, as though the mere existence of an alley offended him. Kenma was parked on an overturned crate, phone in hand, screen glow painting his face pale, thumbs moving with lazy precision.
Three silent witnesses.
Osamu exhaled, slow and steady, leaning against the opposite wall. “Figures,” he said dryly. “All the quiet ones gather out here. Like a club.”
No one laughed. Which only made it funnier.
Sakusa tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to look surgical. “Tough night?”
There it was. Simple. Neutral. Not even a question, really. More like an X-ray.
Osamu flicked his gaze at him, then away. “Somethin’ like that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, posture deliberately loose. Inside, his chest still felt like it was staging a coup.
Konoha took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out in a slow, deliberate stream. “You picked a bad time to get some air,” he said, tone far too amused. “Show’s just warming up.”
Osamu frowned. “Show?”
“The Keiji Show,” Konoha said, smirking now, eyes glinting in the half-light. “Act One: polite and sober. Act Two…” He let the words hang, unfinished, like smoke that refused to dissipate.
Kenma finally looked up from his phone. Just a glance. Steady, assessing, then back down again. But the silence after spoke louder than anything: he knew.
They all knew.
Osamu shifted, jaw tight, refusing to give them more. “Don’t reckon I signed up for tickets,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the neon sign overhead.
“Too late,” Konoha said, flicking ash to the ground. “You’re front row.”
Sakusa didn’t add anything, but the faint tilt of his head made it clear enough: he agreed. Kenma didn’t even look up again, but his silence was a verdict all its own.
Osamu let the quiet stretch, the distant thrum of karaoke bleeding faintly through the back door. He pressed the back of his head to the brick wall and thought: I should’ve stayed home with my rice balls.
The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and bad decisions as Osamu and the others pushed the door to room 305 open again. The noise hit like a physical blow: Bokuto’s voice bouncing off the walls, Atsumu’s laugh slicing through the chaos, Yamamoto pounding his fists on the table as though volume alone could make up for lack of rhythm.
But Osamu’s eyes went straight to the stage.
There was Akaashi.
A second drink in his hand. This one was a violent clash of blue and orange, like someone had liquefied a tropical bird. He was leaning toward Bokuto, head tilted, actually gesturing with his free hand as they conferred over the karaoke machine like generals plotting a war. Osamu couldn’t hear a word, but he didn’t need to; the easy smile tugging at Akaashi’s mouth was proof enough that Bokuto was winning by sheer volume.
Then, with all the calm gravity of a man passing down an heirloom, Akaashi set his drink on the nearest table and turned toward Washio. He removed his glasses with deliberate care, folded them neatly, and handed them over. Washio accepted them like a priest receiving an offering, expression flat but heavy with meaning. The kind of “here we go again” weight that said he’d been through this before.
Konoha, sliding back into the booth ahead of Osamu, muttered under his breath. “Act Two. Showtime.” The faint curl at the corner of his mouth wasn’t quite a smile—it was too knowing for that.
And then it happened.
Akaashi hooked his fingers into the hem of his dark sweatshirt. He tugged it up and over his head in one smooth, unhurried motion. The shirt underneath—a simple white one, snug enough to catch the light when it stretched—rode up just slightly with the movement. Not much, just a teasing glimpse of lean muscle and pale skin before the fabric fell back into place.
It was nothing. Innocent. A man removing a layer in a hot karaoke room.
But Osamu’s knees almost buckled anyway. He caught the edge of the booth with his hand, pulse doing its best impression of a drum solo. For half a second he was convinced he’d trip over his own feet before he even made it to the seat.
Atsumu saw it. Of course he did. His grin went feral.
“Easy there, Samu,” he drawled, voice cutting sharp through the music. “Ya plannin’ on crashin’ into the table or just the floor?”
Osamu shot him a look flat enough to iron laundry. “Very funny, Tsumu. Ah’m just… takin’ the scenic route.”
Inside, though, he was screaming. Because there was Akaashi on stage: fitted white shirt snug across his shoulders, hair slightly mussed from pulling the sweater over his head, eyes bright even under the neon wash. Bokuto was bouncing beside him like an overexcited puppy, but it didn’t matter. The room, the noise, the whole chaotic mess; they all blurred into background.
Osamu took his seat finally, back stiff, hands folded too neatly in his lap, trying desperately to look like a man in control. But his gaze never left the stage.
Akaashi had shed the sweater. And with it, the version of himself Osamu thought he knew.
And if Konoha’s ominous little comment was anything to go by, Osamu had just stepped into dangerous territory.
The machine onstage hummed, a drumbeat trickling through the speakers, and the screen lit up with the first scrolling lines of lyrics. Bokuto, already vibrating with anticipation, jabbed at the monitor. But all of that went unnoticed the second Akaashi stepped fully into the glow of the neon lights.
He lifted the microphone with both hands like it wasn’t cheap plastic but something heavier… something ceremonial. And then he sang.
It wasn’t fair.
His voice didn’t just carry—it owned the room. Smooth, rich, perfectly balanced, sliding over every note with the kind of effortlessness that made professional singers seem like they were trying too hard. It wasn’t just singing; it was command. The quiet, reserved editor Osamu knew—the one who nodded politely, measured his words, and drank water like a monk—was gone.
On stage stood someone else entirely.
Akaashi moved with the rhythm, not exaggerated like Bokuto’s wild thrashing, but measured, deliberate, magnetic. A hand sliding through his hair, a tilt of his head with the beat, a step forward that pulled every eye in the room toward him without force. His shirt clung in all the right ways, sleeves tugged at his shoulders when he stretched, the fabric riding up slightly each time he leaned into the microphone.
It was obscene, how good he was.
The room reacted instantly. Yamamoto whooped loud enough to rattle the tableware. Yaku banged the side of his glass against the table like an old tavern patron demanding another round. Hinata screamed in the background like he was witnessing a miracle. Even Kenma glanced up from his phone. Kenma. The guy who ignored everything except pixels on a screen. His eyes flicked to the stage, lingered, and then, impossibly, stayed there.
Osamu couldn’t look away. He didn’t even try. He sat there, hands clamped too tightly around his beer, every muscle locked, while his brain repeated on loop: You were not built to survive this.
Akaashi hit the chorus and let loose. His voice soared, perfectly steady, threading through the cheap karaoke speakers like they were built for him alone. His eyes half-lidded as he leaned into the line, his free hand tugging the hem of his shirt absently as if it were a rehearsal tic. The sight made Osamu’s throat go dry.
And Bokuto, bless him, wasn’t competing—he was hyping. He leaned into the mic at just the right moments, shouted ad-libs, jumped up and down like a manic backup dancer. For once, the chaos made sense, perfectly timed to Akaashi’s control.
Osamu thought dimly that this wasn’t karaoke. This was theft. This was Akaashi walking into a dingy Shibuya bar and stealing everyone’s composure wholesale.
“Holy hell,” Atsumu muttered beside him, eyes glued to the stage. His grin spread slow and dangerous. “Look at ‘im go.”
Osamu didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack. He knew if he opened his mouth, something undignified would come out. Like a groan, or worse, a confession.
Akaashi spun lightly with the bridge, sweat just beginning to sheen at his temple. His voice dropped lower, smoother, threading over the room like velvet. And then he glanced toward the crowd, eyes scanning, pausing—just briefly—over Osamu.
It was only a second. Probably meaningless. But it might as well have been a spotlight.
Osamu’s pulse jumped, heat pooling low in his chest. He shoved his beer to his lips, hiding behind the rim, but it did nothing to cover the fact that he was unraveling, one note at a time.
Konoha, lounging back with arms crossed, caught his eye as if to say: Told you so.
The song built to its final chorus. Akaashi leaned into it, voice cutting clean through the chaos, the crowd chanting, clapping, even Atsumu drumming his hands on the table like some fevered fan. When the last note hit—clear, powerful, perfect—the room exploded into cheers. Bokuto threw his arms up, crowing victory.
And Akaashi? He just smiled. Relaxed. Almost sheepish, but not enough to ruin the effect. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then reached calmly for his drink like he hadn’t just dismantled the entire room’s collective dignity.
Osamu sat there, absolutely destroyed.
If this was “Act Two,” he thought grimly, he wasn’t sure he’d survive Act Three.
The moment Akaashi stepped down from the stage, the room shifted. Not just louder… different. People leaned toward him like plants to sunlight, the entire atmosphere bending around his orbit.
He still had that absurd cocktail in one hand, the blue-and-orange liquid sloshing as he made his way through the crowded booth. Someone shouted his name—Yamamoto, probably—and Akaashi laughed, genuine and unrestrained, bumping shoulders with him as though they’d known each other forever. He clinked glasses with Yaku and Kom, grinning at some loud joke they his way. Kenma even got a tap on the shoulder and a crooked smile that looked unfairly intimate for someone who didn’t smile at anyone.
And Osamu sat frozen, watching it all unfold like a man on the edge of a cliff with no rope.
Because this wasn’t the polite, careful Akaashi he’d memorized like scripture. This was something else. Easy, touchy, carefree. The kind of version that laughed too hard, leaned too close, let his hand linger on people’s arms when he spoke. The kind of version that had been filed away in Osamu’s head as rumor: Drunk Akaashi.
The version currently making his knees go weak.
Then Akaashi turned, weaving back toward the booth. Osamu didn’t even have time to brace himself before Akaashi flopped down right beside him. No careful distance, no polite gap. Just one smooth, careless motion that landed his shoulder against Osamu’s.
The impact jolted through him. Osamu’s beer nearly tipped over.
“Sorry,” Akaashi said, chuckling, voice low and warm. “Didn’t mean to tackle you. Blame the floor. It’s… uneven.”
Osamu blinked at him, mask just barely holding. “Yeah. Floor’s real vicious tonight.”
Akaashi laughed again, leaning back in the booth with the kind of relaxation Osamu had only ever dreamed about. He lifted his drink, took another sip, then ran a hand through his hair, tugging the strands back in a gesture so casual it might as well have been lethal.
The shirt stretched, riding just slightly as he moved, exposing the faint line of skin again. His arm stretched out across the back of the booth, close enough that Osamu could feel the warmth radiating against his neck.
Osamu’s internal monologue was a screaming void. Outwardly, he took a calm sip of his beer and stared at the stage like the world’s most uninterested man.
It was, in fact, the opposite. Every move, every laugh, every tilt of Akaashi’s head was filed into the growing, chaotic thesis in Osamu’s brain: Reasons Why I’m Screwed.
Akaashi shifted slightly, their shoulders brushing again, and Osamu fought every instinct to flinch.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” Akaashi said suddenly, turning his head just enough that Osamu caught the sharp focus in his eyes. His tone wasn’t accusatory; more curious, edged with warmth.
Osamu blinked, mouth dry. “Ah’m savin’ mah voice. Someone’s gotta balance out Bokuto.”
That earned him a laugh, quick and genuine. Akaashi leaned forward a little, elbow braced on the table, hand loose around his glass. “Fair. Though I think you’d do better than half the people here.”
Osamu’s pulse stuttered. Was that a compliment? Or just casual bar talk? Hard to tell… his brain wasn’t in a state to process nuance. “That’s a low bar,” he muttered, deadpan, trying to hide the way his chest was tightening.
Akaashi chuckled again, soft but lingering, and then—because apparently the universe had a personal vendetta—he stretched. Arms over his head, back arching just slightly, shirt riding up enough to flash more pale skin at the waistband of his jeans. When he settled back down, his arm draped along the booth again.
Every instinct in Osamu screamed at him to move. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, eyes locked on his beer like it held the secrets of survival.
Akaashi tilted his head toward him, expression open, almost playful. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Osamu said, voice a touch too sharp. Then, after a beat: “Bit warm in here.”
Akaashi hummed, amused, sipping from his cocktail again. When he set it down, his fingers drummed lightly on the table, careless, rhythmic. He leaned just close enough that Osamu caught the faint scent of sugar and citrus clinging to him, bright and sharp against the haze of beer and smoke.
Osamu’s inner monologue was reduced to static. Outwardly, he was the picture of restraint.
It was the closest thing he’d had to heaven and hell at the same time.
And as if fate wasn’t cruel enough, inevitably, Atsumu arrived. Sliding into the booth on Osamu’s other side, grinning like a shark that had just smelled blood.
“Well, well,” Atsumu drawled, draping an arm over the backrest. “Ain’t this cozy.”
Osamu didn’t even look at him. “Tsumu, don’t.”
“Oh, ah will,” Atsumu said, grin widening.
Atsumu leaned back, stretching out like he owned the booth, grin sharp enough to draw blood. “Yer awfully stiff, Samu. What’s the matter? Cushions too soft for ya?”
Osamu didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn. “Enjoyin’ mah beer.”
“Enjoyin’ it real serious-like,” Atsumu shot back, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. “Like it’s a life-or-death kinda lager.”
Osamu lifted his glass, took a measured sip, and set it down again without blinking. “Maybe it is.”
That earned a laugh from Akaashi, low and unguarded. Osamu’s ears burned, but he kept his expression perfectly flat.
Atsumu’s grin widened. He’d scented weakness. “So serious,” he repeated, voice sing-song. “Even on yer night off. What was it… pipes bustin’, stove dyin’, chickens disappearin’? And now here ya are, sittin’ like a man at his own funeral.”
“Better than sittin’ like a clown,” Osamu responded, eyes still on his beer.
“Ouch.” Atsumu clutched his chest theatrically. “He’s got claws tonight.”
Akaashi chuckled again, tilting his head just slightly toward Osamu. “I didn’t realize you two were like this all the time.”
“Worse,” Atsumu said immediately, seizing the opening. He leaned forward, gaze flicking between the two of them, shark-smile in full force. “Ya shoulda seen him before ya got here…lurkin’ by the door, scannin’ the room like he’s on some kinda mission.”
Osamu finally turned, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t.”
“What?” Atsumu blinked innocently. “Ah’m just sayin’, Samu here’s been actin’ funny all night.” He shifted his attention fully to Akaashi now, lowering his voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. “Y’notice that?”
Akaashi tilted his head, thoughtful, eyes catching the neon glow. “Funny?”
“Yeah.” Atsumu leaned in closer, elbows braced on the table. “Real quiet. Real… twitchy.”
Osamu’s jaw worked, but he stayed silent, unwilling to feed the fire.
Akaashi’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as though he were considering the claim. Then he hummed, faint amusement curling at the edge of his mouth. “I suppose I have noticed.”
Osamu nearly choked on his own breath.
Atsumu sat back, satisfied. “See? Not just me. Even Keiji-kun’s clockin’ it.”
Osamu’s pulse hammered, his expression fixed in perfect deadpan. “Yer real funny, Tsumu.”
“Ah know,” Atsumu said, smug.
And just like that, Osamu realized he’d been boxed in; literally, between his brother and the love of his life, and figuratively, with no escape from the relentless pot-stirring about to unfold.
Akaashi’s eyes glinted faintly, a spark of amusement that Osamu wasn’t sure he’d ever seen turned in his direction before. “Funny,” he said smoothly, tilting his head toward Atsumu instead. “But if anyone here is twitchy, it might be you.”
Atsumu blinked, affronted. “Me?”
“You haven’t stopped bouncing since I sat down,” Akaashi said, voice calm, almost clinical. “I thought the booth might actually collapse under you.”
Washio snorted into his drink. Kenma didn’t look up from his phone, but his mouth tugged ever so slightly at the corner.
“Oi,” Atsumu sputtered, throwing his hands up. “That ain’t twitchin’, that’s energy.”
“Uncontained energy,” Akaashi corrected mildly, sipping his cocktail with infuriating grace. “Like a defective lightbulb.”
The table chuckled, low and restrained, and Osamu had to choke down his own laugh into the rim of his beer glass. Watching Atsumu deflate under Akaashi’s polite precision was the kind of gift he didn’t deserve.
Before Atsumu could launch his counterattack, the room’s volume spiked. Kuroo appeared at the edge of the booth with all the subtlety of a conquering warlord, a tray of shots balanced in his hands. “Alright, troops,” he announced, grin sharp enough to slice bread. “Hydration, Nekoma-style.”
The tray hit the table with a heavy clink, glasses rattling. Atsumu lit up immediately. “Now we’re talkin’!”
“No arguments,” Kuroo said, already sliding glasses toward everyone in reach. “Team bonding.”
Bokuto, still high from the stage, snagged two, and yelled something about “fuel for the next round.” Atsumu mirrored him instantly, already halfway through his first glass before anyone else had lifted theirs.
Kuroo leaned down, eyes glittering, and jabbed a finger at Atsumu. “Perfect. You’re up next.”
“Eh?” Atsumu looked up, glass still halfway to his mouth.
“Medley round,” Kuroo said cheerfully. “And I need a partner with… uncontained energy.” He glanced at Akaashi, mock-serious. “Your words, not mine.”
Akaashi inclined his head, expression perfectly neutral. “Accurate words.”
Atsumu sputtered again, but Bokuto was already dragging him up by the arm, shouting something about “the legendary twin pipes.” The booth shook under their combined enthusiasm as they made their way to the machine, and suddenly the corner was quieter.
Noticeably quieter.
Osamu became acutely aware of the empty space Atsumu left behind. Or rather, of the fact that there wasn’t much space left between himself and Akaashi at all.
Akaashi set his glass down, fingers tapping lightly against the table, his gaze flicking toward the stage where Atsumu and Bokuto were now arguing with the karaoke machine. Then he leaned ever so slightly toward Osamu, calm and composed, voice pitched low enough to feel deliberate.
“Your brother,” he said, eyes still on the stage, “is exhausting.”
Osamu’s throat worked. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
The faintest smile tugged at Akaashi’s mouth, subtle but sharp. “You hide it well.”
Osamu blinked, thrown. “Hide what?”
“That you think the same thing about him every day.”
It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t bold; but the way Akaashi said it, measured, almost playful, left Osamu’s pulse stumbling. For a moment he could only stare, his expression doing very little to disguise the sudden tightness in his chest.
And then the music roared back to life as Atsumu’s voice cracked gloriously over the first line of whatever medley Kuroo had forced on him, breaking the moment wide open.
Chapter Text
The noise in the room was swelling into something between a concert and a demolition site. Atsumu and Bokuto battling the karaoke machine with a band medley that involved more yelling than singing. The speakers groaned under the abuse, Hinata’s shrill encouragement cut across the chaos, and Komi was pounding the table like a hype man on caffeine.
Which meant, naturally, that normal conversation was impossible.
Akaashi leaned closer. Not casually, not coincidentally, but deliberately, as if the only way words could exist was if they occupied the exact space between his mouth and Osamu’s ear. The brush of his shoulder against Osamu’s arm was light, absent-minded, but enough to make Osamu’s spine go stiff.
“They’re going to break the microphone,” Akaashi said evenly, voice warm in the small bubble of space they shared.
Osamu stared at the stage, forcing his face into neutral lines. “If we’re lucky.”
The corner of Akaashi’s mouth twitched. Osamu caught it from the edge of his vision. A ghost of a smile, quickly tamed, as though Akaashi didn’t intend to let it run free. Then, another lean, closer this time, close enough for Osamu to smell the faint sugar of his drink on his breath.
“You don’t like singing, do you?”
Osamu’s hand tightened around his beer glass. “Ain’t my thing.”
“That explains the face you made when Bokuto called you up,” Akaashi murmured, tone so dry it almost blended with Osamu’s own.
Osamu risked a glance at him then. Big mistake. Akaashi’s hair was falling slightly into his eyes, his lashes catching the neon light, his expression perfectly mild except for the sharp, almost playful glint underneath. Osamu swallowed hard and turned back to his drink, as if beer foam could save him.
The stage noise climbed into a truly offensive key. Atsumu had apparently decided that falsetto was his birthright, and Bokuto was egging him on with his entire soul. Akaashi leaned in again, voice low enough that Osamu felt it more than heard it.
“You look like you’re suffering.”
“Observant,” Osamu deadpanned, though his voice came out lower than he intended.
Another flicker of a smile. This one lingered.
And then—salvation, or damnation, depending on perspective—Konoha materialized beside their booth with a flourish, tray balanced in one hand, a bright, fruit-laden cocktail in the other. “Delivery,” he announced, and set the glass directly in front of Akaashi.
Akaashi blinked once, calm as ever, before inclining his head. “Thank you.”
Konoha didn’t move right away. His gaze slid, instead, toward Osamu; sharp, knowing, just this side of smug. He set the empty tray against his hip, tapped the rim of the glass, and said, “Don’t waste it. Sakusa paid for that one.”
And just like that, he vanished back into the crowd, leaving nothing but the unbearable weight of implication.
Akaashi lifted the glass, studied the ridiculous garnish—two citrus wedges, a cherry, and something neon that probably wasn’t food—and then leaned back just far enough to sip it. His expression softened, just faintly, in genuine approval.
Osamu, meanwhile, held his beer like it was an anchor, staring down at the condensation as though he could disappear inside it. His ears burned, his chest tightened, but his face… his face stayed the same. Calm. Serious. Totally indifferent.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Because the truth was, Akaashi was leaning in closer with every sentence, every half-smile, every quiet observation—and Osamu was one careful nudge away from unraveling entirely.
He leaned in again, close enough now that Osamu could feel the faint warmth of his breath against his ear. “You really don’t like being noticed, do you?” Akaashi murmured, voice threaded with amusement.
Osamu’s jaw tightened. “Ain’t true.”
“Mm.” Akaashi’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, as if he’d just discovered something entertaining. He reached for his glass, but his elbow brushed Osamu’s arm on the way, lingering just a fraction too long. “Then why do you look like you’re about to bolt every time I look at you?”
Osamu’s grip on his beer faltered, the bottle clinking faintly against the table. He forced his expression flat, his tone drier than the ashtray Konoha had left outside. “Maybe I just don’t like bein’ stared at like some science experiment.”
Akaashi tilted his head, utterly unbothered. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Osamu felt them land like a strike to the ribs. For half a second, his brain short-circuited. Was that… teasing? Or worse—flirting? No. Couldn’t be. Akaashi didn’t flirt. Akaashi analyzed, organized, catalogued. But the look in his eyes, bright with mischief, was undeniable.
And then, to drive the nail in further, Akaashi reached up, ran his fingers casually through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. It was a simple motion, ordinary, but sitting this close it was enough to knock the air out of Osamu’s lungs. The curl of hair, the stretch of his arm—it was, in Osamu’s opinion, illegal behavior.
He swallowed hard and managed, “Yer real entertained by this, huh?”
“Very,” Akaashi said simply, setting his glass down with deliberate care. His knee brushed against Osamu’s under the table, whether by accident or not, and stayed there. “You’re easy to read when you’re pretending not to care.”
Osamu’s head snapped toward him, mask in place. “I don’t care.”
“Of course,” Akaashi said softly, and this time his smile was full, open, devastating. “That’s why your ears are red.”
Before Osamu could produce a retort—any retort—the stage noise collapsed into laughter, and a new voice cut through the haze.
“There you are, Akaashi.”
Kuroo appeared at the side of the booth, grin sharp as a knife, one hand resting on the back of the seat. He leaned in, eyes flicking from Osamu to Akaashi, clearly catching the charge in the air before choosing to ignore it in favor of mischief. “C’mon, partner. Time for our duet.”
Akaashi exhaled, calm as ever, but Osamu swore he saw the faintest trace of reluctance cross his face. Still, he set his glass aside and rose smoothly from the booth.
“Try not to look so relieved,” Akaashi murmured as he stepped past Osamu, low enough that only he could hear. Then he straightened, all composure again, and followed Kuroo toward the stage.
Osamu sat frozen, beer clutched tight, pulse hammering, very aware that his so-called poker face had just been shredded into confetti.
The mic squealed as Kuroo hauled Akaashi toward the stage, grin sharp enough to draw blood. He threw an arm wide.
“Welcome to year five of our sacred humiliation. Newbies—” his eyes slid over Atsumu, Hinata, Sakusa, and paused, unfairly, on Osamu “—try to keep up.”
Atsumu bristled. “Sacred what now?”
“Tradition,” Kuroo purred, already loving himself. “You weren’t invited soon enough to understand.”
Before Atsumu could respond, the karaoke screen bloomed with the opening bars of a drama theme everyone knew by muscle memory. Tragic lovers, scenic rainfall, the whole nation weeping into convenience-store puddings five years ago.
Akaashi was not merely waiting in the he background during Kuroo’s speech. He was setting the stage. He pulled a single chair forward, checked the mic height, angled the chair a few degrees, then sat—long lines, clean posture, one knee slightly forward, hand relaxed on the chair back. It was… extremely normal. Which, in Osamu’s nervous system, translated to catastrophic. The man could make “sitting” feel like contraband.
Konoha—who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere—leaned past Osamu, voice low. “Chair’s new.”
Of course it was.
“Rules!” Yaku barked, already standing on the middle of the room like a foreman. “Right side drinks when Akaashi smirks! Left side drinks when Kuroo laughs!”
Washio moved with the resignation of a man who had witnessed this ritual too often, setting down ranks of shot glasses with military precision. He added a spare row for collateral damage. Sensible.
The music swelled.
Akaashi began. Voice smooth and steady, the perfect lead. No theatrics, just control. The room stilled.
Then Kuroo entered on the woman’s part and detonated whatever dignity was left. He sighed, he wriggled, he clutched at invisible pearls, vibrato wobbling like a bridge in a typhoon. He circled the chair and draped himself against it in operatic despair.
Hinata clapped a hand over his mouth, already crying with laughter. Sakusa went very still, the subtle stillness of a man deciding which surface in the room was least contaminated by this spectacle. Atsumu stared, mouth open. Osamu held his beer like a flotation device.
Kuroo ramped up the melodrama, kneeling at Akaashi’s knee, warbling vows to the ceiling. For a heartbeat, Akaashi’s mouth twitched.
“DRINK—RIGHT SIDE!” Yaku roared.
Half the room groaned and reached for glass one. Osamu tipped his back; clean burn, zero mercy. Hinata wheezed and slammed his shot down, eyes shining.
Akaashi recovered instantly, voice sliding back into the melody like nothing had happened. Kuroo, emboldened, threw an arm across the back of the chair and fluttered his lashes so hard it generated wind. He fell into a swoon against Akaashi’s shoulder and cracked himself up mid-sob.
“DRINK—LEFT SIDE!”
Kuroo’s half howled and knocked theirs back. Washio refilled without changing expression.
The verse turned into a battlefield. Every time Kuroo hammed it up—wailing, writhing, clutching at Akaashi’s sleeve—the left side drank. Every time a laugh crept out of Akaashi—just a breath, just a break in the line—the right side slammed another. Osamu, who was on the right, developed a grim, professional rhythm: lift, swallow, breathe, repeat. He kept his face flat. Internally, he drafted a will.
Mid-song, Kuroo sank to one knee, took Akaashi’s hand with scandalous delicacy, and gazed up like a saint receiving absolution. Akaashi looked down, utterly composed. Then—because life is cruelty seasoned with citrus—he turned Kuroo’s hand and pressed a calm kiss to the back of it.
The room detonated.
Kuroo lost composure so violently he had to turn away from the mic, laughing helplessly. Left side went down in flames—shots up, shots gone.
Akaashi’s mouth curved; small, fatal. A laugh slipped out, warm and low.
“RIGHT SIDE!” Yaku bellowed.
Osamu swallowed his next penalty and stared like he’d just watched a miracle performed on a 2000¥ karaoke system. Beside him, Hinata slapped the table and yelled, “He kissed his hand! He kissed his hand! Is that allowed?!”
Konoha, already lining up fresh ammo in front of them, didn’t look away from the stage. “New,” he confirmed, far too satisfied.
Back on the chair, Akaashi leaned into the bridge—voice softer, darker—while Kuroo circled, one hand to his chest, the other outstretched in grand, doomed appeal. They were both laughing now, trying not to; the room matched them shot for shot like trained seals. Bokuto stood on the bench and conducted the audience with a pair of skewers. Atsumu muttered, “This is illegal,” and took another drink anyway. Sakusa stared straight ahead, as though if he didn’t move, none of this would adhere to him on a molecular level.
Final chorus. Kuroo, high on his own chaos, collapsed dramatically across Akaashi’s lap. Akaashi broke… head tipping back, laugh clean and bright through the cheap speakers.
“RIGHT SIDE!”
Osamu took the hit like a soldier. His throat burned. His brain floated. Across the room, Kuroo wheezed through his last line, then started laughing again.
“LEFT SIDE!”
The song hit its last, triumphant chord. Akaashi stood, one palm steady on Kuroo’s shoulder, and bowed—composed again, except for the flush at his throat and the light in his eyes. Kuroo popped up, took an exaggerated curtain call, and blew a kiss to the “cheap seats.”
Applause detonated. Bokuto yelled, “LEGENDS!” Komi pounded the table like a judge sentencing everyone to another round. Washio, already refilling, set a fresh shot in front of Osamu with the same care you’d place flowers on a grave.
Atsumu turned slowly to Osamu, dazed. “What did we just—?”
“Culture,” Kuroo said, leaning over the booth to steal one of Washio’s refills, hair wrecked, grin feral. He flicked a glance at Atsumu’s untouched shot. “You keep fallin’ behind like that, Miya, we’re gonna issue remedial lessons.”
Atsumu bristled. “Remedial—?!”
Osamu didn’t rise to it. He couldn’t. He was watching Akaashi step off the stage, taking his glasses back from Washio with neat, unhurried fingers; retrieving his neon cocktail; pausing to thank someone with a small, devastating smile. The chair still sat center stage like a crime scene outline, and Osamu’s entire nervous system had filed it under evidence.
Konoha leaned in, voice low enough for only their corner. “Act Two ends there.” He tapped the line of shots. “Act Three’s when he starts making the rounds.”
Osamu kept his face as flat as a cutting board. “Great,” he said, steady as he could manage. “Can’t wait.”
Inside, he corrected himself: he could, in fact, not survive that.