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It’s five minutes past their stipulated three-pm meeting time when Yamaguchi slides into the seat opposite Kei. Kei frowns at him over his slice of strawberry shortcake, as Yamaguchi pulls in the ice-cold latte sitting in front of him and proceeds to take a long sip. Kei doesn’t appreciate tardiness. It's rude and it’s a waste of his time, and had it been anyone but Yamaguchi, Kei would’ve elected to be much more vocal about his displeasure. But as it stands, it is his best friend of over a decade that he is currently facing, thus Tsukishima opts to let this one slide.
Well, mostly.
“You’re late, Tadashi,” Kei says pointedly. Kei knows that Yamaguchi knows that Kei dislikes late coming. They’re in lower Manhattan; Yamaguchi’s one-bedroom apartment is literally fifteen minutes away. Kei doesn’t understand how Yamaguchi can be later than him, when Kei lives near Central Park.
Yamaguchi grins at him, unapologetic. “Sorry, Tsukki. I saw Kageyama and Hinata along the way and stopped for a bit to say hi.”
Kei, in the midst of sipping his coffee, pauses and raises an eyebrow. “They’re still here? I thought they had that plan of traveling around Africa or something. Didn’t Hinata say he wanted to see giraffes up close and personal?”
Yamaguchi shrugs. “Dunno. I didn’t ask them about it, though we’ll probably hear about their plans soon enough.” He squints. “Why giraffes specifically?”
Kei snorts. “Something about their height. We all know he never really got over not having a growth spurt during puberty. Last I heard, he was talking about wanting to genetically splice their genes together or whatever so he’d finally get to be as tall as other people.”
“I don’t think science can do that yet,” Yamaguchi says, amused.
“That hasn’t deterred him.” Kei shrugs. “Though for his sake I hope that it can soon; he’s going to need all the help he can get.” Kei smirks.
Yamaguchi frowns at him. “Tsukki.”
Kei waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway,” he says boredly, setting his coffee cup down on its saucer with a clink, “what did you want to meet me today for? Is it about that rumour you heard about?”
Kei couldn’t comprehend why Yamaguchi would mention something like this to him. He isn’t interested in rumours: never has been, never really would be. Maybe someone like Nishinoya would be interested in sitting down in a stupidly expensive café to gossip about people at three in the afternoon – just in want for something to do – but Kei isn’t. He isn’t interested in gossip. He, frankly speaking, has better things to do with his time, and if it wasn’t for his and Yamaguchi’s long-standing years of friendship Kei would’ve considered skipping out on this meeting entirely. But as it stands, there is a decade-long term of friendship standing between him and Yamaguchi, and thus Kei has elected to drag his ass out of his high-scale apartment at two-thirty pm this afternoon instead of staying in and, who knows, watching shows online or something. It’s a fucking Saturday. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants.
“Oh, right!” Yamaguchi’s eyes light up. He leans forward conspiratorially, pushing his latte out of the way, and in response Kei leans forward too. Not that anybody would really overhear their conversation in the café, anyway; over the din of clinking plates and whirring machines and several simultaneous conversations, Kei has to strain his ears to hear Yamaguchi, and he’s sitting not even a metre away from him.
“So, I was talking to this guy at the gala last week, you know the one that my dad made me go for to network for the business, and there I got to talking to this guy, the secretary of the French ambassador or something, and–”
“I don’t need to hear a play-by-play of your entire time at the gala, Tadashi,” Kei says, irritated. “I go to plenty of those myself already. I know how they work. Just get to the point.”
Kei leans back, picks up his fork, and spears a bite of his shortcake as he waits for Yamaguchi to speak. A stupidly expensive cake, for what it’s worth, but it tastes good, so Kei supposes it isn’t so bad.
“Basically,” Yamaguchi says, “there’s this rumour that Kuroo Tetsurou has a gigantic crush on you.”
Kei drops his fork.
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Tsukishima Kei is a lot of things. A fully functioning young adult, for one, at the age of twenty-six and what with him working as a curator for a large-scale museum located in the heart of the power city that is known as New York. On normal days, Kei takes this part of him for granted; he is only reminded of its existence, and how it is not an unconditional part of adulthood, when he is confronted with people like Hinata, who, last Kei heard, had been considering opening up a cupcake stand in the middle of Central Park. How Hinata comes up with these ideas is something that confounds Kei even till this day, and what boggles Kei’s mind even more is the fact that Kageyama even indulges Hinata on these unrealistic flights of fantasy. Truly, love is blind.
And that is another thing that Tsukishima Kei is: he is reasonable. Kei doesn’t think about things like opening up a cupcake stand in the middle of Central Park, just because he feels like doing so (quote-unquote Hinata), because he is reasonable. Kei is, above all else, a rational person. He is logical. He weighs most, if not all things, with a cost-benefit analysis that makes people comment he really should have gone into economics instead, rather than doing things like museum curating, because clearly his mind is suited to the vocation. Because if there’s one thing that Tsukishima Kei is, it is rational. He is rational.
He’s also really fucking rich. The fact that Tsukishima Kei could probably afford to open up a cupcake stand in the middle of Central Park if he wanted to, despite the clear financial disadvantages to that plan, is really beside the point.
Another thing about Tsukishima Kei is that he is, undeniably, the son of his own father. That is, he is undoubtedly the son of the man who owns chains of finance companies across the globe, whose multi-million dollar business could probably keep Kei in (luxurious) comfort for the rest of his life, even if Kei is to live to a hundred and do absolutely nothing for the rest of his days. As a person, as the son of his father, Kei is probably worth millions. He has millions. That's why he owns a flat in lower Manhattan that has a view of the fucking city skyline, for fuck’s sake.
“I don’t actually see what’s the problem here,” Bokuto says, interrupting Kei’s thought process from where he has taken up residence at the long end of Kei’s couch, legs flung up on the suede seat and head – with that ridiculous hair – propped up against several muted green cushions, cushions that Bokuto had apparently gathered from the couch when Kei hadn’t been looking. There goes Kei’s arrangement of his living room. Kei himself is seated at his kitchen island some distance away, where he had originally been attempting to work through some forms for the better part of an hour before Bokuto had decided to spontaneously burst his way through Kei’s front door, and make himself home on Kei’s own fucking couch. There is a bowl of chips balanced on Bokuto’s legs. Kei is pretty sure that both the bowl and the chips are his.
“That’s because you don’t actually think about things before flinging yourself into them,” Kei replies sourly. And it’s true: Bokuto’s uncanny ability to thoughtlessly toss himself headlong into a situation is astounding at best and utterly catastrophic at worst, and yet Kei has seen Bokuto enter suicide missions and come out alive with a smile on his face. Sometimes Kei wonders if he and Hinata know each other. Most of the time he thinks he’s better off not knowing.
Bokuto bristles a little. “Not true! I think about things!”
“Rarely. Even then, I hardly think debating between whether to have hot dog or a taco for lunch qualifies as real thinking.”
Bokuto levels a glower in Kei’s direction. “You’re a prickly little brat, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“A pricklier brat than usual,” Bokuto continues, doing that thing of his where he utterly ignores Kei’s opinions or anything Kei has to contribute to their conversations, “so clearly something about this situation is bothering you in a way you’re not telling me.”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
“Why do you lie to me, when you know that it never works?”
“It worked when I told you that the Ritz-Carlton was giving out free all-you-can-eat ice cream in their front lobby last week.”
Bokuto flaps his hands. “That was then and this is now!”
“I doubt a week could result in any drastic character development on your part.”
“Anyway,” Bokuto interrupts, loudly, “If you want my opinion–”
“I usually don’t–”
“I think you’re just overthinking and being fucking stupid again. So this Kuroo guy likes you, big fucking deal. You’re not, like, obligated to respond to him or anything.”
“You’re not seeing the long-term consequences of this,” Kei says, irritably. “It’s gossip. People talk.”
Even more so when the people in question are bored rich people with nothing better to do.
“So let them talk,” Bokuto says lazily, shoving more chips into his mouth.
Kei levels a withering glare in Bokuto’s direction. “It’s not as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Kei finally snaps, “it’s Kuroo Tetsurou.”
“Ah,” Bokuto grins. Kei pauses at the sound of Bokuto’s voice to look up from his logistics form, already inwardly cursing himself for his slip in emotions, “so here we reach the heart of the problem. What’s wrong with Kuroo Tetsurou?”
Nothing, Kei wants to say, there’s nothing wrong with Kuroo Tetsurou himself. But if there’s one thing Kei knows, it’s that people gossip, and people talk, and even though Bokuto is the kind of friend who would never intentionally choose to let slip one of Kei’s secrets, Kei knows that Bokuto is the type who might inadvertently blurt it out, accidentally, at a party he would be at if he’s had too many glasses of alcohol, or if he got swept up into the conversation, or if he got too excited in general. Bokuto is, by all accounts, a loyal and good friend – it’s why Kei puts up with him barging into his apartment like a heathen even when it does nothing but inconvenience Kei, but there are some thing Kei won’t talk about. So Kei chooses to keep his mouth shut, and gazes at Bokuto with what he hopes is a boredly impassive expression, instead.
The thing is, is that there isn’t a person in the upper social circles of New York – social circles that Kei, regrettably, is a part of – that hasn’t heard of Kuroo Tetsurou. Son of a big-shot defense lawyer famous throughout the States, his name had breezed along the tablecloths of the expensive dinners Kei had attended and found inane even as a child: Kuroo Tetsurou was a golden boy, the pride of his father, the sort a son other parents could only dream about – smart, shrewd, and willing to follow in his father’s footsteps. Mr. Kuroo had been all set to rear his son into a carbon copy of himself, a proverbial chip off the old block, aiming on releasing him into the world as another name-famous “Kuroo” defense lawyer in order to build up a family legacy. Kei didn’t doubt, and still doesn’t doubt now, that Kuroo Tetsurou is worth millions.
But the fact is, is that whilst Kuroo Tetsurou is undoubtedly the son of his own father, he isn’t necessarily his father’s son: his name is spoken in whispers now, during frivolous galas Kei is made to attend at his father’s coercion, hushed along the glittering lights of ballrooms as those voices talk about what Kuroo Tetsurou has been up to.
I heard that he’s somewhere in Las Vegas right now. Didn’t he give up being a lawyer? Rumour has it that he was caught in a strip club selling drugs. Oh, how terrible… what shame his father must feel– The rumours are ridiculous and empty and the most vapid things Kei has ever heard in his life, but if there is one thing Kei is, he is rational, and rationally Kei had reasoned a long time ago that it would be in his best interests to not associate his name with anything remotely scandalous in any way, and that resolution includes associating himself with anything to do with Kuroo Tetsurou. It’s safer. And frankly speaking, easier.
Except now there’s some stupid rumour going around that Kuroo Tetsurou has a fucking crush on him, of all people, and all of Kei’s resolutions and convictions have gotten tossed right out of the window.
Bokuto scrutinises Kei for another minute, before giving up and flopping back onto the cushions. “I know that look on your face.” Bokuto rolls his eyes, knocking his head back against the couch with a resigned look, “it’s the look that means you’re not gonna talk about this, no matter how much I bug you about it.” Bokuto reaches over to the couch’s side-table and grabs Kei’s television remote, switching the television onto some shitty sports channel. A volleyball match starts playing on the screen. Bokuto grabs another handful of chips. The conversation is over. “Just don’t be stupid, Tsukki.”
Tsukishima frowns at Bokuto. “I really don’t want to hear that from you, of all people.”
“Don’t you have work to get to in like half an hour or something?” Bokuto says, crunching away.
“Don’t you have your own home that you can go be disgusting in or something?” Kei counters, glancing at his clock ticking steadily on the wall. It’s true though; he does have work in thirty minutes. The natural history museum isn’t going to curate itself. The fact that Bokuto barges through his house often enough for him to know Kei’s schedule is disturbing. The fact that Kei allows this, even more so. It’ll take Kei twenty minutes at least to get to the museum, and Kei hates being late.
“Get out of my house by the time I get back,” Kei frowns at Bokuto as he picks up his messenger bag, and slings it across his shoulder. He glances briefly at the work forms on his table before gathering them up into their folder. He can take a look at them on the way. “And clean up after yourself. I don’t want to have to pick out chip crumbs from between the folds of the fucking couch.”
“Yeah, yeah, will do,” Bokuto says distractedly, waving a hand, his eyes fixed on the volleyball match on the TV. Kei knows that this means that, without a doubt, Bokuto will not clean up after himself when he finally leaves Kei’s house, and Kei will be stuck picking out chip crumbs from between the folds of the couch when he gets home. He sighs irritably, and steps out of his house.
At least this day can’t get any worse.
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Kei is wrong. This day could absolutely get worse.
He’s supposed to be at work, for fuck’s sake. He’s supposed to be doing his job: filling out forms, meeting with people, supervising projects – doing all the things he’s supposed to be doing right now in his working hours as a goddamn museum curator. He’s supposed to be working right now. Kei is twenty-six, and a fully functioning young adult, and Kei does not have the time to deal with this sort of nonsense.
The sort of nonsense Kei is currently referring to is none other than Kuroo Tetsurou. More specifically, it is Kuroo Tetsurou being in the middle of his fucking workplace. Kei doesn’t know how or why or where Kuroo has gotten his workplace address from, and Kei, frankly speaking, isn’t interested in knowing. What he’s more interested in is getting Kuroo Tetsurou out of here.
Kuroo grins at him, like he’s known him for years. “Hey, Tsukki.”
Kei, despite it all, still attempts to retain his cool. “Good afternoon sir, I don’t believe I know you,” Kei says, smiling pleasantly despite the screaming he is doing inside his head, “so would you refrain from calling me so intimately, please? Is there anything I can help you with?”
Kuroo cocks his head, surprised. Then a knowing look crosses his face, and a smirk tugs at his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you know me – the rumours haven’t exactly been modest in what they choose to say about me.” He laughs, like he’s delighted at the prospect, and Kei dislikes him on principle.
“I don’t pay much attention to rumours,” Kei chooses to say, instead, turning around and walking briskly away from the roughly six-foot tall nuisance that is taking up space in the front lobby of the museum. “If you’re not here for anything, that would you kindly take your leave? I’m currently working, and I’m very busy.”
Kei is irritated to turn around and find out that Kuroo Tetsurou has decided to follow him, the click of Kei’s own shoes on the marble floor matched by Kuroo’s own unhurried footsteps. He’s wearing sneakers. What the fuck. Isn’t he nearly thirty. Who does that.
(Yes, Kei is aware he’s being petty. No, he does not care. Considering everything, he thinks he’s allowed this one little vindication.)
“How rude, Tsukki. What if I’m a visitor?” Kuroo’s grin is audible in the tone of his voice, delightedly smug as it is, and Kei reminds himself that it would be unprofessional to punch someone on the job. “Isn’t it your duty to show me around?”
“I’m the curator, not some fucking tour guide.” Kei snaps. “If you want a tour, please approach the receptionist–” which is literally only ten metres away from you, Kei thinks irritably, “–and request one. Have a nice day.”
“You’re cold,” Kuroo laughs low, right in Kei’s ear. It takes everything Kei has in himself not to flinch – when had he? Kuroo’s body emanates heat from where he stands directly behind Kei, his head tilted over Kei’s shoulder, as Kei stands stiff and frozen in the middle of the museum. Kei wants to tear himself away, but finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to move. “Is this how you treat all your one-night stands?”
Kei closes his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to remember, hadn’t wanted to believe it had actually happened, but the images rise unbidden in his mind, against Kei’s will – two weeks ago, in a club, where the strobe lights pulsed strong and unforgiving. The haze of smoke and alcohol in the air, Kei remembers the gleam of sharp-cut glass as he called for drink after drink – his memory getting foggier and foggier as the memory wore on. A face backlit and shadowed by the club lights, he stumbling out into cool night air, and then – an apartment, the click of a door, and what happens next is a blur of skin and heat and limbs and pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.
Kei had escaped the next day before the sun was barely up.
“I recommend that you not talk about that,” Kei says, finally, pulling away from Kuroo and turning around to face him. Kei smiles, but it is not a kind smile – it is sharp and vicious and meant to carve out a heart. Kei stares at Kuroo Tetsurou’s face, imagines it backlit by lights and overshadowed, and his stomach twists in recognition. “Leave me alone. Surely you didn’t come to find me expecting something? It was simply one night – there’s nothing more to us.”
Kuroo whistles. “You really are an asshole. The rumours about you are true.”
“You shouldn’t gossip.” Kei turns on his heel. “Now, show yourself out – I have work to do, and you are, quite frankly speaking, in my way.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sugar.”
“What?” Kei snaps, twisting his head around, “I don’t have time to waste on you, I’m supposed to be meeting with an exhibition designer soon – I have to show them around the museum–”
“I thought you said that those were done by tour guides in this place?” Kuroo interrupts.
Kei stops. A deep, horrible feeling sinks into his guts – no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly. Surely God – or whatever cosmic order is out there – wouldn’t arrange for such a terrible sequence of events. Surely life is not that unkind. No. Just no way.
But as Kei turns around, slowly, and sees Kuroo grinning at him victoriously, Kei is reminded of the cruelty of the universe.
“Nice to meet you, museum curator Tsukishima Kei.” Kuroo sticks out a hand. “I’m the exhibition designer you’ll be working with for the next few months, Kuroo Tetsurou. Mind showing me around?”
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