Chapter Text
The day Kei makes the most life-altering decision in his life—though at the time he doesn’t know it yet, not until years later—, it’s devastatingly normal, as though the calm before the storm. Class is tedious as usual, but that’s a given when you already know the material and only attend for the sake of attendance. His classmates’ rowdiness and buffoonery don’t bother him all that much. The mini album his favourite artist just released earlier this week absolutely slaps and he’s been putting the entire thing on replay. It’s sunny and warm outside even, as if the world is telling him he can have an easy, happy life with all the cards dealt to him or he can be a cynic, annoyed and bitter all the time while everybody out there is enjoying the particularly nice weather before the cold, dreary winter ultimately takes over.
Not everything is awful, he supposes. Or at least it doesn’t have to be. Dad used to say it’s the sour attitude that chases away all the good things, however the old man was, in his humble opinion, overly optimistic anyway, believing the universe will indulge your wishes so long as you wish for it hard enough, a rather odd trait for supposedly a man of reason.
Then again, Dad was quite the oddball.
Whatever.
No use dwelling on a dead man’s words.
The day is not over yet, in any case. Far from it.
For one, he still has volleyball practise after school.
.
.
.
When Kei was eight years old, he had first-hand experience of the consequences of not mincing his words, in the form of a fist straight to the gut.
For the record, Kei is no easy prey to the bullies—he’s always been taller than his peers, his large frame invokes enough of an intimidation effect for others to keep away from him, if not for the sharp eyes and sharp tongue.
—On second thought: it is precisely the sharp eyes and sharp tongue that bring him more harm than good. Akiteru calls it an innate talent, that Kei seems to know exactly what to say to get under people’s skin in the worst way possible, whether it is derision or brutal honesty, sometimes both. It’ll get you in trouble someday, says his brother more often than not, to which he only scoffs. Between the Tsukishima siblings, naturally people will prefer warm and charming Akiteru to staid and broody Kei, he gets it, he’s moved on from it.
The aforementioned incident was merely the first of many, it’s another thing he’s learnt to live with. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t regret stepping in, running his mouth and taking that punch. For one, the little bastards didn’t get away scot-free, because Kei wasn’t someone who went into a fight unprepared; and it also earned him the bestest best friend one can ever ask for.
Although, every once in a while, Yamaguchi Tadashi does make him question that certain life choice.
Kei can’t help but sigh at the sight of his best friend, veritably head over heels, already directing his undivided attention at their blonde manager, a light flush to his cheeks and a nervous quirk to his mouth. Kei has listened to Tadashi gushing about his crushes often enough, from Misaki Tomoyo, the school idol, to Ono Himawari, their class representative back in third year of junior high, to discern his type: petite, soft and sweet, bright as a button, resembling a sun or a star—which Yachi fits to a tee. She’s talking about the environment design of some graphic adventure game he’s playing through to boot, which is just after Tadashi’s own heart, so the way he’s transfixed at her is even more awestruck than usual.
Pathetic.
Kei is about to move on and let them have their moment when Hinata opts to insert himself just about literally between them out of sheer genial avidity with a ‘what’s two-point perspective?’ He can see Tadashi deflate slightly, equally disheartened by the tactless intrusion and enraptured by what he gleans as the perfervid gleam in Yachi’s eyes as she waxes lyrical about her passion to anyone who wishes to learn. They’re all too well aware that the ginger doesn’t mean anything ill, per se, it’s just that his blissful ignorance and spirited conviviality aren’t the best combination on many occasions. Tadashi catches his gaze briefly in a flash of despair, before returning to Yachi and nodding along keenly with Hinata.
God knows why Tadashi still turns to him, still thinks of him as his best mate after all this time while he positively can do much, much better. It’s not as though Kei is particularly nice to him—hell, he’s barely a decent human being at best. He can’t recall any instance he actively helped Tadashi out, at least not apropos to matter of the heart, he is, in Tadashi’s words, too self-obsessed and emotionally distant to care about anyone else anyways, and he’s not going to start now.
At any rate, even if he doesn’t do anything, somebody else will.
“Hinata-dumbass!”
They turn to the holler.
“Stop dawdling and c’mere!” Their resident genius setter and the other half of the freak duo demands, rotating his left wrist as his face itself is twisted into the trademark scowl.
The pipsqueak groans, loud and long-suffering, “Okay, okay,” but just as quickly he bounces on his toes and chirps, “Talk to you guys later!” to Tadashi and Yachi before skipping away. Tadashi looks from Hinata’s back, then shifts to Kageyama, who appears impervious to all the enquiring stares he’s getting as he and Hinata start their warm-up routine and make every single exercise into another stupid competition while they’re at it.
(Kageyama is winning—not that Kei keeps track of the tally, those two do and dutifully announce it every bloody time.)
With the situation now resolved and left with nothing further to contribute, Kei spares one last glance over his shoulder to Tadashi, who’s already back to devoting his full attention to his subject of infatuation as their discourse can go on unhampered by a third party, and heaves out a sigh, long and hard, before making his way across the gym, Tadashi’s and Yachi’s enthusiastic chatter gradually fading into the cacophony around him, going through the motions of getting ready for volleyball practise.
Something at the very centre of his stomach turns increasingly painful the more loops of sports tape he encircles his fingers with.
He does what he always does: tying it up neatly so it won’t ever unravel and inconvenience him. He’d like to believe he’s a rational person, or at least he strives to be, so why he’s still keeping at such a fruitless endeavour eludes him, nevertheless as long as he’s still going at it, this is for his own good, to protect himself from further injury.
It’s irritating, in any case. Kei is right-handed like the rest of the ninety-nine percent of the world population, the awkwardness remains even with practise as he slips a fingernail under the tape’s end and pulls it up, pinching it as he circles the length up his digits.
“I can always help you with that, you know.”
There’s a lingering, rubbery smell when he lifts his left hand up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose when Tadashi crouches down and dominates his field of vision. Kei looks at his face, at his emerald eyes and the stardust speckled across his nose. He remembers lying on the grass in Tadashi’s backyard, stretching their hands up to trace constellations in the sky, you’re such a nerd, Tadashi huffed, good-natured and fond, when Kei reeled off about Greek tragedies, his eyes and his smile making the brightest stars seem dull in comparison.
He shrugs the memory off. “I can do it by myself.” He rolls his eyes at Tadashi’s plaintive Tsukkiiii. Regardless of how much he appreciates his best friend, his affable nature and his soothing presence and his unwavering loyalty, there are things he prefers keeping to himself.
(Actually, it’s exactly because he appreciates Tadashi so much that he’d better keep those things to himself.)
Kei holds up his freshly taped hands for one final inspection. Between the cracks of his fingers, he catches Yachi and Kageyama, the taller hunched over to see what the small blonde is showing him on her phone better.
Kageyama says something in comment. Kei is too far away to hear or to read lips, but whatever it is, it makes Yachi giggle, her shoulders shaking. For all her skittishness around too tall, too loud boys, she seems to be the most comfortable with Kageyama, which, taking his far from amicable demeanour into consideration, is quite the paradox. Then again, they’re in the same homeroom, it’s no surprise that they’re rather familiar with one another, Kageyama being the one who closed the deal of getting her to join their club to boot.
Beside him, Tadashi heaves himself up, bent at the waist, fingers reaching for the tip of his toes.
“C’mon,” he nudges at Kei, muted and strained, a shrub wilting under the torrid summer heat and yet one cannot water it for any moisture will evaporate instead of being absorbed into the soil and roots. “We should warm up already.”
Kei only nods and without another word gets up.
Blue eyes drift over.
Kei has noticed Kageyama watching before—watching him as part of the opposing blockers when he sets for his spikers during three-on-threes; watching him as one of the attackers, same and different sides of the court alike. Watching him as he tapes his fingers, Kei supposes that it’s hypocritical of him to poke fun at Kageyama’s religious manicure ritual to improve his setting while he spends as much time and effort to take care of his hands.
Pot, kettle indeed.
It’s ironic, now that he’s the one caught staring.
As usual, Kei curls his lip into a mocking grin.
As usual, Kageyama’s brows furrow and he turns away, back to Yachi, as he should be when engaged in a conversation with someone.
.
,
.
Kageyama catches Kei’s sleeves when practise ends and he’s one foot outside the gym, just enough to keep him from leaving. Tadashi is swinging by Shimada’s, which conveniently coincides with the way to the station, so he’s escorting Yachi there as well.
So much for bros before hoes.
As a further note, something tells Kei Kageyama has been waiting for this window of opportunity.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” the setter grumbles. Kageyama’s face isn’t quite pinched, nonetheless the hand that isn’t gripping on his shirt is clenched by the boy’s side.
But then, the setter is always too intense for no reason.
For all Kei’s trepidation, practise has been peaceful today—well, save for the time where Hinata received another ball with his face again. Kei was on Kageyama’s team for the three-on-three and there had not been a single complaint about him not jumping high enough, if he had done something wrong then the setter would have spoken about it already, he’s never moderated his criticism for the sake of decorum and courtesy before.
—Come to think of it, the bastard hasn’t for a while now.
On top of that, Kei is the last person Kageyama would seek out if he could help it.
Body subconsciously turning sideways into a half-slouch, Kei stares down, “What do you want?”
Contrary to his expectation, Kageyama loosens his grip. If Kei wanted to, he could turn on his heels and go on his way.
He does want to.
He doesn’t, though. He waits, watches as Kageyama furrows his brows yet again before exhaling deeply, glancing around as he grits through his teeth, “Not here,” and pulls, just the lightest tug, a beckon for Kei to follow him rather than a command.
Kei stands his ground nonetheless, holding his palms up. “Whoa—how can I be sure you’re not leading me to some secluded place to murder me and hide the body?”
“I gain absolutely nothing from murdering you,” Kageyama counters, in a manner that one might think that he’s taking it seriously. Or maybe he actually does, Kei wouldn’t put it past the guy. All in all, despite his abysmal literature grade, for some reason he can come up with the most smart-ass comebacks to Kei’s gibes, accompanied by an infuriating poker face at that. “And if I wanted to, I’d ambush you when you’re alone, not reveal myself to you in broad daylight like this.”
“I thought you’re the one with 10/10 vision, but in case you’re blind, the sun’s set already.”
“Yes, which means it’s too late to give a fuck about semantics, so why don’t we stop wasting our time—”
The thing about having a reputation of not getting along, is that people around will take heed of the disturbance right away and respond to what they deem an emergency at once: Sugawara jogs over, flicking his attention back and forth between the two of them, an anxious crease between his brows. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s nothing,” replies Kei with a dismissive wave. “Just His Royal Highness bothering me again.”
“I just want to talk,” Kageyama groans, tone so drenched with exasperation it actually sounds tired—which is a bit alarming, if truth be told. This is the powerhouse all-rounder of a setter who survived five long-ass sets against Shiratorizawa and Ushijima Wakatoshi they’re talking about—that was the only time Kei ever witnessed Kageyama look or sound truly done in. Kageyama’s eyes flit over to meet his, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, “In private.”
Sometime in the future, Kei will look back to this moment again and again and think to himself, why the fuck did I do that, really. He and Kageyama aren’t friends—not that they each have a lot of friends, not that Kei intends to be Kageyama’s friend—or anyone, to be fair—and they owe one another nothing except for maybe trying to play nice, in the sense of basic social etiquette, two of the many kids in the same playground—in the sense of two apex hunters in a common territory that requires careful negotiations but can be shared, for the greater good.
At the end of the day, they are on the same side.
Perhaps that’s why he gives in, not without a resigned sigh, “Much obliged, Your Majesty.”
Sugawara gives them both a concerned one-over. Then he sighs and shakes his head, the epitome of a weary upperclassman with his wayward juniors. At the very least, if Kei went missing after this, there’d be someone who knows what to look for.
“Don’t fight, okay?” says Sugawara, somehow managing to be stern and soft at the same time—it’s basically the senior himself as a person, to be honest. “That goes for the both of you.”
Kei has to bite the inside of his cheeks to swallow back an offended scoff at the implication—he actually likes their vice-captain as a senior, and he knows better than getting on his bad side. And then there’s Kageyama, who’s definitely Sugawara’s favourite, rolling his eyes in the true fashion of the cheeky brat he is. “I’m not going to beat him up,” says the bastard who had snapped and gripped him by the collar when they first met, although it was admittedly Kei’s fault for poking the sleeping dragon in the first place.
All things considered, Kageyama didn’t hit him back then, and he doesn’t think they will ever resort to physical violence, no matter how much they detest and disdain one another.
On that note, Kei turns to the bane of his existence, holds out his arm and bows, “After you, my king.”
Kageyama doesn’t fly off the handle. Instead, he merely sends Kei a scornful snort that, for some ludicrous reason, reminds him so much of his own.
.
.
.
“Let’s make this quick,” Kei preempts as soon as they reach the back of the gym, far and obscured enough that there’s a modicum of privacy, perfect to Kageyama’s in private condition. “Unlike you, I’ve got to do my homework.” That’s a lie—he actually finished all his assignments ages ago, but it always serves as a good excuse to not see other people.
“So do I.”
“Oh really.”
A shrug. Kageyama stuffs his fists into his pockets and leans back against the wall. “I do try.”
“Of course,” Kei says airily. “You’ve got to pass your classes if you still want to play volleyball.”
That earns him a scorching glare. Kageyama takes a deep breath in, as if mentally prepping himself for whatever it is, before commencing, “I’ll keep it short and simple—”
“As you should, ‘cause anything greater than that is too much for a simpleton.”
“Can you just stop cutting me off?” Kageyama bristles, eyes slitted into a feline gaze that discloses his thinning patience. The setter seems to be a short fuse, irked at the slightest setbacks and slipups on the court, which had been the damning cause of his downfall back in junior high to begin with, so understandably Kei’s rather impressed that he’s persevered this long against his relentless ridicule. “Did your parents not teach you that it’s rude to talk over other people?”
Kei snickers, “Funny, how a brute like you of all people is lecturing me on what is polite and what isn’t.”
“Somebody’s gotta step up and put a spoiled young master like you in your place.”
Kei feels his hand twitch.
As much as Kageyama isn’t so fond of the nickname King, Kei doesn’t appreciate it one bit when people call him young master.
It’s not like he asked to be born into such a family.
Offence is the best defence, so Kei powers on, “And how, pray tell, are you going to do that, when you’re barely able to restrain yourself from sucker-punching me?”
“Perhaps a sucker-punch is precisely what you need,” Kageyama sneers to match him, toothy and disparaging. It may be a trick of the light, but his canines almost look sharp, cut-throat and bloodthirsty and vicious. Like he will bite Kei for real if he keeps up with the provocations. What kind of reaction he wants to get out of Kageyama when he taunts him, Kei isn’t even completely sure himself, however it’s a reaction at all events, so in a way he does achieve his objective. The sweet taste of satisfaction is short-lived, in any case, for Kageyama soon follows up, a swift turn of the tables, “And aren’t you the one who told me to make this quick? I can’t if you won’t even let me speak.”
Now that shuts him up.
In his entire life, there have been one and only one individual among his peers that had successfully struck him dumb. Partly due to the fact that Tadashi had never raised his voice at him before. Partly due to the ridiculousness of it all—Motivation? What more do you need other than pride?
Pride is something Kei has in spades, alright. It’s the reason why he keeps rejecting Tadashi’s and occasionally Yachi’s assistance with taping his fingers; it’s one of the reasons why he maintains his spot at the top student at school; it’s one of the reasons why he, despite everything, still jumps a little higher, still strains his fingers harder, still works his ass off to improve his midair-reading to figure out the optimal block for each and every incoming attack, for even if he tells everybody, himself included, that he doesn’t care about something, he can’t stand being mediocre at it; it’s one of the reasons why he doesn’t hold his tongue against his better judgement.
So, fine, Kageyama’s got a point there, about him always talking over others. And that’s not nice, Kei knows how much of an asshole he is, thank you very much.
Kei pinches the bridge of his nose and finds himself relenting, for once.
“OK, so what’s the deal?”
Kageyama blinks up at him. It’s petty even to Kei’s standard, but never has he ever relished his height than when the setter is around.
He’s also a bit competitive, so what, it comes with hubris.
At least he doesn’t parade it—not really. Kageyama and Hinata can keep their childish races to themselves.
“Tutor me,” Kageyama finally puts forth, keeping it short and simple and straight to the point as promised, tagging on, “Please,” after a beat.
Kei raises a brow.
No wonder the bastard hadn’t nit-picked him so much lately. He was lulling Kei into a sense of false peace.
This isn’t the first time Kageyama came to him with such a request. When midterms were approaching and Takeda-sensei warned them all, mainly the idiots, that should they not pass, they were not to be allowed to participate in the joint training camp. He got the setter bowing at him back then, bending at the waist at ninety degrees, nevertheless it wasn’t worth the fact that they made a bloody scene out of it in the middle of a crowded hallway, which mortified Kei to even acknowledge that he personally knows these two chaotic crackheads.
Despite their best efforts, Hinata still failed maths, and Kageyama literature.
Kei shudders at the memory.
“That sounds like a pain in the ass, especially with someone like you,” he drawls just to see Kageyama stiffen and scowl, before putting forward more seriously, “Why don’t you ask Yachi-san? You’re in the same homeroom.” How Kageyama managed to worm his way into college-prep class honestly confounds him to this very day, even more so when his athletic prospects are pretty much guaranteed and academics doesn’t seem to interest him anyways.
About the tutoring matter itself—well, Yachi wouldn’t say no, because unlike Kei, she’s kind and helpful.
Nah, scratch that—she’d be thrilled.
Kageyama makes a wry face, “She’s got enough on her plate with Hinata,” a rictus of frustration and unease that feels peculiarly off somehow, barbed wires strung into his every line. He shifts, flexing his legs after letting them stay in one place for a while, flexing his fingers as he takes them out of his pockets as well before jamming them back in again.
If anyone asks, Kei is only taking pity on him.
—Not without conditions, naturally. He doesn’t do charity.
“What would I possibly get out of it?”
The setter squints at him.
“You want to be better, right? Like Kuroo-san, maybe?”
Kei feels his shoulders drawn up. “What—”
Kageyama doesn’t let him take the out—he regrets not seeing the trap until already caught in it and floundering helplessly. “What’s holding you back is not your mind—well, not really—but your body. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and the height advantage to go with it, but you can’t use it as well as you want.”
Something inside Kei churns and clenches. “If you’re persuading me to help you, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
Unperturbed, the guy merely ploughs on—this must be a payback for the multiple interruptions earlier, “What I’m trying to say is, you can get better—you are better than you think you are. And I can help you with that.”
Kei bristles, “You really are overconfident in your abilities.”
In response, Kageyama just stares, deadpan, “I made Hinata, a shrimp with little to no foundation, into someone people know to keep an eye out for.”
Alright, that’s a solid argument.
Not to undermine the redhead’s innate athleticism, his springs are certainly impressive for someone with such short legs and good God his energy is insane, what the hell is his mum feeding him, however he doesn’t have the best aim, if not downright terrible, as his teammates are caught by his friendly fire time and time again, and there are at least four different tells in his attacks, thanks to all the excessive movements.
Well, not that Kei is efficient in his manoeuvres himself. And to make it worse, he does get tired easily.
He rationalises that he can teach himself all he needs to know about exercise and training—it’s not that hard in theory, and he’s been teaching himself all sorts of random subjects ever since he could read—but it’s just an idea, a plan in his head, nothing concrete, without enough push. And nothing raises his hackles faster than somebody hitting the nail on the head on what his issues are.
Kageyama slides his gaze away.
“Look, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he offers, his tone mild yet not unkind.
Yes, they don’t have to do this. Kei can turn around and leave. Kei can just not follow Kageyama out there in the first place. He can still walk away from this, it’s not too late. He can.
He should.
“How often?”
The setter startles.
“Hää?”
“The tutoring,” Kei clarifies after clearing his throat. “How often do you think you need it?”
Kageyama sounds exactly as he says, “I’m not sure.”
Kei rolls his eyes. “Didn’t think that far ahead, did you.”
“I didn’t expect you’d actually agree,” Kageyama defends, cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk. A crease forms between his brows. “I only need help with literature, really.”
“Just literature?”
“Yes, I’m not so stupid that I need help with everything.”
Kei clicks his tongue. They’re only at the negotiating portion of the arrangement and he’s so utterly dreading the whole thing already. It’s still not too late to back out, right? Right? “No wonder you’re failing at your own mother tongue—did I even say that you’re stupid?”
The setter opens his mouth, a smart comeback evidently already on the tip of his tongue, before he seems to think twice and opts to bite back whatever it is. Which is certainly offbeat, because, again, Kageyama isn’t one to hold back in anything at all. In the end, he merely lets out an indignant huff, before unfolding three of his fingers, one by one, starting from the thumb.
“Is Thursday after practise okay with you?”
Kei flips through the calendar in his head. He’s got an appointment on Wednesday and Mum promised to try and make it for dinner on Friday before they set out for Tokyo together the day after for his cousin’s nineteenth birthday. His study is currently filled with heaps of X-rays he’s managed to get his hands on, and he supposes he could use a distraction.
So, “Thursday’s fine.” Kageyama nods. “Well then. How often?”
“The training?” Kei shoots him a ‘what else?’ look and the setter repays right back with a stink eye of his own, then proposes, “Let’s just start with partnering up with me next practise.”
“And here I thought you’re gonna drag me out for a run at five every morning.”
That’s apparently the wrong thing to say to a nutcase who takes everything seriously, particularly so when it’s volleyball-related. “I do go running every morning,” Kageyama confirms, eyes crinkling with sadistic glee. “Along with strength and agility training. Think you can handle all that?”
Not going to lie, that sounds torturous for a total sloth. He can’t imagine getting up at the crack of dawn in motherfucking winter, every fucking day, let alone keeping up with whatever backbreaking regime Kageyama has in store for him.
“I make no promises,” Kei haggles.
Kageyama doesn’t give him an inch, much less a mile, “As long as you actually try.” Nonetheless, he isn’t frowning, there’s even a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, lopsided, not one of those contorted more-grimace-than-smile he forces out, not quite that smug smirk he assumes whenever things go his way but close enough. He extends a hand. “So, deal?”
Kei takes his time considering it. Whether it is a time bomb that will explode in his face or the Midas touch that will turn everything it comes into contact with into gold, he has no way of knowing. And he loathes it—the not knowing. It makes him feel lost, flat-footed, disturbingly so.
He supposes at this point it doesn’t matter anymore.
Now it is too late to back out, isn’t it. The game is already afoot.
Kei decides to say to hell with it and accepts the gambit.
(The refutation of any gambit begins with accepting it, so Grandmaster Robert Fischer had opined. The King’s Gambit is busted. It loses by force.)
“Deal.”
(Then again, nowadays the Fischer Defence is no longer considered a critical attempt to refute the King’s Gambit, and his dream of killing the most romantic opening in chess history remains unfinished.)
.
.
.
The next practise arrives too quickly to Kei’s liking, he’s not prepared at all, both mentally and physically.
Part of him genuinely deliberates on not going, feigning sick or having an urgent business to take care of or whatever, he can always make up an excuse on the spot, he’s skipped class tons of times before and so long as he keeps acing his tests and exams, nobody can really say anything about it. However, it would be the first time he misses volleyball practise—at least ever since he entered Karasuno anyways. He can imagine his teammates’ reaction already: the milder upperclassmen would be disappointed but understanding, because one’s life doesn’t revolve around volleyball and volleyball is certainly not his number one priority; whereas the fanatics would egg him on—Hinata specifically, being in the same year and playing in the same position and yet possessing skill sets so different from each other create this reasonable rivalry, and while Kei is nowhere as obsessed as the tangerine, he sure as hell doesn’t fancy the prospect of someone as shrimpy and clumsy as Hinata getting the better of him.
And there’s also Kageyama, dark eyes contemptuous.
“I’m not going to partner up with you today,” Kei tells Tadashi during his taping routine. His best friend lifts an eyebrow, simply curious, nonetheless Kei deliberately doesn’t look at him, suddenly having this irrational fear that he can read his mind through his eyes, and focuses on splinting his middle and ring finger together, once at the bottom, once at the top. “Kind of made a deal with Kageyama.”
At his pithy explanation, Tadashi merely lets out a thoughtful hum, looking over his shoulder. Following his line of sight, Kei finds the freak duo, without fail, together, both employing wild gesticulation to communicate. It’s probably one of those recurring arguments again, about how to approach and execute their quick. At least none of them lead to cold war anymore, though Kei can’t decide if he likes them when they don’t talk to one another or when they do, either scenario is headache-inducing in their own way.
Truth be told, Kei can’t really think of any instance where he and Tadashi fought so severely. They’ve got their disagreements, certainly, with their contradicting personalities and philosophies and all, but they are playful teasing for the most part, now that Tadashi has grown enough of a backbone to poke back at Kei and call him out on his bullshit when needed. For them, it’s just like that—a conciliatory comfort, like the way Tadashi tends to press his hands into his shoulders when they do partner stretch, which he’s perfectly contented with, he’s contented with having everything he can get, for at the end of the day, having something is better than having nothing at all.
He really is.
“Okay,” Tadashi eventually acquiesces, “I’ll pair up with Hinata instead, then.” When Kei snaps his head up to stare at him, he only smiles, a luxuriant viridescence, and Kei feels like he can’t breathe and has his lungs filled with fresh, oxygen-rich air at the same time. “Kageyama is undeniably the best player on our team. If you want to step up your game—which is about damn time, seriously—, of course you’d go to him,” Tadashi infers, and normally Kei would be so fucking proud of that line of deductive reasoning, and perhaps a bit vexed at himself for being read through so easily. “And I’m glad that you two are actually putting in the effort to get along.”
Kei swallows.
Denseness and kindness truly are the perfect ingredients for unintentional cruelty, and nothing, absolutely nothing hurts more than that.
He turns his attention back to his hand, bringing the length of the tape up at an angle over the front knuckle joint line of his index fingers.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he mutters just for the sake of it.
“Now, now, Tsukki,” Tadashi tuts. “Don’t go complaining about stuff that you’ve decided to do out of your own volition.”
“It’s a necessary evil,” Kei asserts. Ripping off the band and folding the excess over, he tosses the roll back in his bag, then holds out his hand for a final inspection. Through the crevices of his fingers, Kageyama is walking over, face inscrutable.
Tadashi pats Kei on the shoulder. “Try not to kill each other.” Kei bats his hand away and picks himself up. His best friend just simpers like a true gremlin and nods at Kageyama, who nods back as he passes by on his way over to his new practise partner.
Kei flexes his fingers and smooths over the loops, familiarising himself with the stiff pressure of tape around his joints. For a moment, they just watch one another, assessing. Kageyama doesn’t look any different from what Kei usually sees of him, although the weather has gotten cold enough that he’s switched out the loose T-shirt for a sweatshirt in the same realm of bagginess, the longer sleeves of which he’s rolling up to his elbows.
He motions to an unoccupied space in the gym that is large enough to accommodate two long-limbed boys sprawling all over in the gym, near Hinata and Tadashi, who are chatting while grabbing their ankle, pulling their foot upwards and trying to maintain balance. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Thus begins their first session together.
Despite his initial disinclination, it’s… surprisingly not bad. They just fall into the routine, muscle memory learnt by rote, quiet and clinical and fuss-free. But there are also a handful of warm-up exercises which require a partner to encourage a deeper stretch or secure their feet so they won’t inadvertently move. Kei has never been comfortable with people invading his personal space, not even Tadashi—especially Tadashi.
While partnering up with Kageyama rescues him from the plight of being in close—too close—proximity to Tadashi, it poses another challenge.
“Kageyama, let up,” Kei grinds out. When he’d typically stop, the hands on his shoulders only press harder, exerting more pressure until Kei can feel the twinge at his hamstrings turn a little too sharp. In this position he can’t even change the angle of his head from facing the ground, much less turning to glare at the bastard.
“You’re more flexible than you let on,” says Kageyama matter-of-factly, almost bored even. “Five more seconds.”
“It’s been five already.”
“Then ten.”
Kei takes a stuttering breath in. His tendons are starting to burn under prolonged strain and practise hasn’t even actually started, for fuck’s sake.
He hacks out, “Fuck you.”
Kageyama, the bastard, still doesn’t let up. He leans down, adding even more weight, nails digging into Kei’s ligament, and quite literally breathes down his neck, “Stop whining. What are you, five?”
“I’m older than you.”
Kageyama scoffs, “Yeah, by three months. That’s hardly a testament of maturity.” The hold on his shoulders eases, fucking finally, and Kei wastes no time at all to straighten up, feeling his joints and his muscles sigh in relief. “And we both know who’s the pettier one here.”
Oh, Kei is one petty motherfucker, alright. When his second cousin stomped into his room and messed with his dinosaur figurine collection without permission and subsequently broke the Coelophysis, Kei made it seem like the little shit tripped and broke his brand new PSP himself. When Akiteru ate the last slice of his birthday cake—it was a strawberry shortcake, his favourite, and the jerk he calls his older brother knew it was—, he added extra chilli powder to his lunch and put whipped cream into his socks—prank wars used to be a thing between them, back when they were still thick as thieves, talking strategies and passing the ball around in their backyard at night and curled up on the sofa watching V-League and the Olympics together. When Ushijima Wakatoshi smashed through their defence time and time again, even if lacking all in raw power, skills and experience, Kei swore to himself, that no matter what, he had to get just one block—just one, to prove to the world that while Ushijima is deemed national-level, not to say that he doesn’t deserve it, he is still a teenager, there will be someone among his peers who can thwart him. Kei is still working on it—he’s putting up with Kageyama now, isn’t he.
There is pleasure in getting under people’s skin, and also in getting even, probably much more so.
So when it’s Kageyama’s turn to stretch, Kei crouches slightly to add more weight, one leg lining up with his spine to press further, and keep pressing. Kageyama obligingly slides with him, arms reaching out—Kageyama is quite lanky himself, Kei only notices just now because he’s never been in contact this close with him and they tend to stay out of each other’s way, angular face, slender neck, bony wrists, bony ankles, bony shoulders underneath the soft cotton of his sweatshirt, the oversized shirts he favours turn out to serve a definitive purpose after all. When Kei eventually has to let up, Kageyama tilts his head back, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, see, it’s not that hard.
So when it’s time they are divided into teams for practise matches, Kei and Kageyama on different sides of the court this time around, the same line-up as their first ever showdown, Kei keeps a weather eye on him. The freak duo likes to get the game going with the minus-tempo quick, taking advantage as soon as possible and before their opponents can even realise what’s happening. It never gets less annoying even for Kei, who has to deal with it on a regular basis, it’s in fact just gotten worse, now that Kageyama relinquishes control to Hinata over midair battles. Or it looks like it. After all, he is a setter—he is the setter, the gamemaker, who is free to pick which hitter to send the ball to in their synchronised attack, who perfected a darn tricky toss just because one of his spikers wants to hit the ball with his eyes open.
About damn time. Hinata needs to see for himself that he’s not good as he thinks he is—so far, his setter has been serving him the ball on a silver platter, Kei makes a point to catch the redhead’s eyes as he bends and shoots from the knees, raising his arms to an imposing height. Hinata glances past him and he slams the ball, but it’s futile. Instead of blocking it and getting knocked back in recoil, he interferes with its course, tipping it over Hinata’s head, nice and easy, and obeying Earth’s gravity like every other object on the planet, the ball simply falls to the ground.
Hinata gapes at the ball rolling on the wooden floor for a little more before halting, and then to Kei with the same dumb open-mouthed staring.
“Don’t be so smug,” Hinata yaps, pointing a rapacious finger at him. “I’ll get you next time.”
Kei flaps a casual hand at him, already turning on his heels to head to the back of the blocking line. “Sure, keep saying that and it might come true someday.”
“I did get past you before,” Hinata contends. “More than once, mind you.”
This time, Kei looks at him dead in the eye and holds his gaze. As expected, the redhead shrinks back. “How many times have you actually succeeded when His Majesty—” he simply poses, gesturing in Kageyama’s general direction, who, once again, has decided to remain quiet throughout practise and by extent the whole ordeal—Kei would get back to him later, after he’s done with tearing the pipsqueak apart, “—wasn’t there to support you?”
Hinata, for once, is rendered speechless, and that’s all Kei needs to know that he’s pushed the right button.
“We’re working on it, okay?” he doggedly defends as soon as he regains his voice. The tangerine menace shouts and runs around and gets in people’s hair, however he isn’t capable of derision, his insults sound like coming from kindergarteners which are more hilarious than they are offensive, so Kei will give him a point here for a surprisingly decent comeback, “Never thought there’d be the day I’m gonna have to say this to you, but it takes time, Pettyshima.”
Kei remembers, during the prefectural training camp that he was invited to but Hinata wasn’t and yet still decided that he could just show up either way—seriously, how he’d gotten away with it with only a slap on the wrist makes no fucking sense, and totally unfair, as if he’s some protagonist in some shounen manga and every character just enables every unreasonable thing he does in the name of levelling up—, the redhead was struck straight in the face by one of Ushijima’s monstrous serves. At first glance, it seemed like an unfortunate accident, balls careening off course and hitting things they aren’t supposed to hit happen all the time; nonetheless, it was blatant to Kei what he was attempting to accomplish, especially when he had been covertly keeping an eye on the guy to ensure he wouldn’t stir up any more trouble than he already had, especially when the ginger spent the rest of the day observing and taking in information from the court as a whole instead of operating with defiantly single-minded tunnel vision on spiking. Which is definitely something congratulatory.
Still and all:
“Just now,” Kei incites. “I jumped in time. You knew you couldn’t make it past me. And yet you still spiked.”
“Erm, guys?” Tanaka intervenes from behind Hinata, “There’s plenty of time for post-game analysis later, so why don’t we just—” either way it’s not enough to prevent Hinata from continuing the discussion.
“I was already on it,” the ginger squibbles, his frown deepening, hands hurling around helplessly. “What was I supposed to do, just give up right then and there?” And Hinata isn’t one to give up without a fight once he’s set upon something.
“You could switch up how you hit the ball instead of just blindly slamming it straight ahead,” Kei flatly lays out the alternative. “What’s the point of Kageyama changing his toss if you are just gonna spike like you always did—which, if I’m not wrong, was your proposal in the first place, which also had you guys not talking for a whole bloody month and made everybody on the team uncomfortable?”
Apparently, that’s the correct button to activate the bomb, because Hinata downright detonates on the spot, “You fucking asshole!” and lunges at Kei, who instinctively takes a step back and out of the way.
He doesn’t need to, however, for before Hinata can cross over the net to his side of the court, his teammate has already gotten a hold of him, as well as the other members are hurrying over just in case a fist fight actually breaks out.
“Let. Me. Go,” Hinata growls as he tries to wriggle out of the grasp, nevertheless he’s no match to his arrestor. The more he struggles, the harder Kageyama’s grip on his shoulders becomes.
“Cut it out.”
Daichi booms in his no-nonsense, iron-clad captain voice, a piston that pushes against and compresses the surrounding medium to give rise to a spherically expanding shock wave which cracks down on everyone and shuts them all up. For a moment that feels like an eternity, the unnatural silence in the gym is so thick and oppressive it’s actually hard to breathe, nobody dares to breathe too loud.
“Take five,” Daichi adjudges, his voice, while not loud, echoing across the gym. “You two,” he points to the guilty party, “Go out and cool your head. You’re on cleaning duty today also.”
“I can’t,” Kei objects. Everybody must be thinking that he’s out of his mind right now, being one of the culprits that frustrated their practise already; nonetheless, “I’ve got an important appointment after practise,” he calmly explains in the face of their already very much not happy captain, not without a proposition to make amends to follow up, “I can definitely make up for it next time, though.”
Daichi narrows his eyes at him. He resists the urge to squirm. The captain is also another team member he doesn’t want to cross if he can help it—which he’s failed spectacularly this time.
But then, if there’s anyone who knows better about his circumstances, can keep his lips sealed and be flexible where he sees fit, it’s Daichi—he’s a good leader, no doubt—, so he still concedes in the end, “Alright then.”
Kei releases the breath he wasn’t aware he’s been holding, feeling all too lethargic all of a sudden. The sports glasses feel a tad too tight with the migraine building up along the course of this stressful happenstance, so he takes it off momentarily to massage between his eyes.
“That came out of nowhere, Tsukki,” chides Tadashi softly as he comes over with a bottle of water.
Kei puts his spectacles back on and takes the proffer, screwing the cap open and gulping down a third of its content in one go. “It’s not like I wasn’t right.”
“You do have a point,” Tadashi assents, but not all the way, “You could’ve been nicer about it, though.”
Kei lets out a sardonic huff, “When have I ever?”
“Like when you turned down Kaneko-san on Monday,” Tadashi provides forthwith. Kei tsks at the reminder of another confession, which is one among many reasons why high school is such a chronic headache. “Well, you weren’t actually super nice about it, but still better than this.”
“Should I treat a girl like I do these brutes here, then?”
Tadashi huffs out an audible breath in exasperation, like he tends to do whenever he runs out of words to reason with Kei about his disastrous social conduct, which is pretty much all the time.
“I didn’t really expect you’d put your two cents in their business, that’s all,” he says, doing a rather poor job of appearing nonchalant. “You haven’t gotten yourself into crazy shit for quite a while.”
Kei chokes on an aborted laugh.
Oh, you’ve got no idea.
“My life is already maddening enough as it is,” Kei grouses, motioning around him. In his peripherals, he searches for Kageyama and Hinata. The redhead still looks pissed as he’s firing off, he’s vociferous as ever but Kei can’t hear him well from this distance, and he has his back to him. Kageyama is even more of an enigma, Kei can’t really construe anything, as he doesn’t say much—which isn’t out of the ordinary, he isn’t much of a talker—, mostly listening like a good friend, head slightly angled to the side, arms crossed, leaning against the wall behind him.
As if feeling his gaze on him, Kageyama looks up. Like many times before, the eye contact is fleeting, broken when Kei bares his teeth, only now that the intent is more than just juvenile mockery.
Their foiled quick—it wasn’t just Hinata's fault. For somebody who’s always so acutely aware of his surroundings like Kageyama, he most certainly had noticed that Kei would be able to catch up on it. And yet he still decided to carry out the set. Which is in truth the thing that bothers Kei the most about this entire predicament, because Kageyama wouldn’t go with a play that he knew would fall through.
Unless—
.
.
.
Practise resumes more smoothly—or, as smoothly as it can be after a near-scuffle. Still in a foul mood, Hinata fucks up quite a lot, which allows Kei and Tadashi to settle the score. Kei will take this win, he even indulges Sawamura and Tadashi when they hold up their hands for high-fives.
Practise ends with a surprise.
“Ah, we’ve got an intruder.”
With the absence of most of the more level-headed seniors, it’s up to Tanaka and Nishinoya to take matters into their own hands, not dawdling one bit to goad the so-called intruder. Yachi lets out a small squeak and grabs on Kageyama’s sleeves, half-hiding behind the setter, who looks oddly composed. Tadashi remains by Kei’s side, gawping at the unbidden visitor charily, who doesn’t appear fazed in the slightest at the hostile parade, self-evidently not one to shy away from confrontations, much less capitulate.
In fact, in the face of it all, Oikawa Tooru, dressed in his slightly unkempt uniform and his windswept hair and his typical pompous air, stands tall and proud, a relaxed confidence in his carriage—no, not confidence, upon closer inspection. From the folds in his sleeves, the purplish blemishes under his eyes that Kei feels all too well and the tiredness that lurks in his hazel orbs which his glasses do little to conceal, such dissonances impair his usual suave flair, which one could always write off as lassitude after a long school day.
Still and all, the Grand King manages to maintain a solid, commanding presence.
“Tryna spy on us or something, pretty boy?” Tanaka eggs on.
Nishinoya, his most ardent accomplice, clambers onto him to attain the height advantage he lacks to cast Oikawa a hard-boiled, “Are you looking for a fight? Hah?”
“I’d rather not waste my precious time snarling at barking dogs,” Oikawa imperiously fends off the provocations. He flips his hair, the gesture almost farcical if not for the indolent uplift of his chin and the leaden revolution he makes towards the King, “I’m not here to pick a nonsensical fight. I need to talk to my cute kouhai about something important.”
The menace only balloons, “What do you want from him?!?”
“I was expecting him, actually,” Kageyama bursts their bubble with a well-aimed, decisive lance, posturing himself close to the space between the seniors and utilising his superior height over Tanaka and Nishinoya as a barrier, raising his arms, palms up, as he sends Oikawa a cryptic side-eye. “I asked him for setting tips.”
“HAH?” Their seniors bellow.
“I thought you hated him?” Tanaka prods.
“And I thought you said he never agreed to teach you anything?” Nishinoya adds more fuel to the flames.
Kageyama shrugs off both their upperclassmen’s allegations and Oikawa’s commentative affronted stare scorching his skull. “He’s still a senpai—well, former.” His eyes glint strangely—when you’re alone and meet the complete blueness of a hitodama, you would naturally think of it as the sorrow of a rainy night. “And he’s mellowed with age, I suppose.”
Oikawa only sneers in response.
Not giving anyone else a chance to poke around further, Kageyama is already veering away with his unlikely companion, “We should go. It’s running late,” paying no heed to Tanaka’s and Nishinoya’s bamboozled hollers.
“Really.” Tanaka eventually gives up on the losing battle with a huff. Their fledgling setter will surely face an interrogation first thing tomorrow.
“What’s going on?” Yachi mutters, brown gaze clouded with apprehensive mistrust as it’s glued to the remnants of the retreating duo’s silhouettes until they’re completely homogenised within the dusk demesnes of descending eventide.
Kei simply gives out an insouciant shrug and moves on.
He has his own business to attend to.
The air is damp when he inhales. He just hopes that it doesn’t rain until after he arrives home afterwards.
.
.
.
There’s a convenience store near the headquarters of Tohoku Regional Police Bureau. Kei buys an energy drink and a large pack of cigarettes. Skulking into the alleyway right next to it, Kei opens the pack, takes out one and pinches it between his lips. He slides the box back into his pocket, switches it for the lighter, mouth pursed to steer the end of the cigarette over the flame, and relishes his first drag of the day, a little stale amidst the smell of hard earth and pending rain. The nicotine rush is deliriously soothing, in any case.
He’s almost finished when the person he’s been waiting for finally makes his appearance. The towering height—albeit still significantly shorter than Kei, who surpassed him when he was fifteen, the man about as tall as Kageyama, he thinks—and the signature trench coat—it’s the beige one today—are a pretty hard-to-miss combination.
“Smoking’s a bad habit,” rebukes the newcomer with a reproachful frown like a good servant of the law he is—or any rational, responsible adult, for that matter.
“You smoke, too,” Kei returns. Although, one could very well shift the blame to his mother. According to Uncle Hitoshi, Mum did quit when she was pregnant with Akiteru. And then he caught her with a glowing stick and a smoky blanket falling over her shoulders at the porch the night after Dad’s burial. Seven years later, he nicked one from Mum. The first drag was the worst, he coughed his lungs out and his throat burnt. With time, the burn becomes sweet, satisfying—addicting.
In defence, he doesn’t smoke that often.
“Do as I say,” the constable gripes, miming bringing a stick to his lips for a hypothetical drag, “Not as I do.”
Being the contumacious brat he is, Kei stares right back as he sucks the last dregs from his cigarette before putting it out under his trainer, taking in the crumpled clothes, the greasy hair and the gaunt face. “You look like shit.”
It’s not the first time Kei has seen the man in such a dishevelled state, nonetheless it’s no less disconcerting for it takes quite a lot to wear him down. Whatever little empathy-meets-concern left in him spurs him to fish the pack from his pocket and proffer it to the man, who, at his point-blank and less than elegant remark, sets loose a caw so loud it must almost scare the crows on the parapet encircling the flat roof of the convenience store, “Brilliant observation, young master,” but helps himself with a cigarette nonetheless.
Popping open his can of energy drink, Kei prompts, “When was the last time you came home?” as the man holds up a hand over the lighter to shield the fire from the wind billowing through the alleyway.
The man puffs out a long stream of smoke, “Did Daichi put you up with this or are you just being your normal nosy self?”
Kei answers that rhetorical question with one of his own, “Don’t you think it’s quite a red flag that you see me more often than your own children, Sawamura-keibu?”
“I do think of you as one of mine,” Sawamura Masayoshi croons with a crescent smile—Daichi has that kind of smile on as well when he confronts such smarmy characters like Oikawa or Kuroo, whenever he’s annoyed but still tries to remain diplomatic; they look exactly the same it weirds him out a little, now that he knows both father and son on a personal level. It’s something Kei’s heard from the detective time and time again, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s a joke or he truly does mean it. For what it’s worth, Kei has known him just as long as he had known his own father, perhaps longer. And Kei also knows that he does care, to a certain extent. “For the record, I did come to your final game.” At Kei’s owlish blinking, the detective’s gaze softens, somewhat proud in an almost fatherly manner—well, he is the father of three boys and two girls, at all events. “You all did great.”
Kei scoffs—mostly at himself. “Please. I sprained my fingers and yet was only able to block one.”
Sawamura takes another drag. “Their ace’s like what, double your size?” To say “double” is a bit of a stretch, nonetheless while they’re about the same height, Ushijima is certainly much bulkier than him, a beanpole. “And I heard he’s in the U19 team as well.”
“He is.”
“And you guys managed to win against somebody like that.”
“It was a team effort.”
“Commendable effort nonetheless.”
Kei does a double-take.
During the ascent as the new champion of the prefecture, he’s heard it, many times over, that the first-year freak duo, namely Kageyama and Hinata, is practically the pair of wings that propels “The Flightless Crows” to where they are now, and he reckons that assessment has its credits. What bewilders him is, however, that more than once, there would be a player on the opposing team facing up to him, calling him a monster, a demon of a blocker, and the like.
Blockers with overwhelming power and height are everywhere, Kuroo had told him during one of their late practises back in summer camp. You’re smart, exceptionally so, and that’s what makes you scary.
For somebody who thrives on others’ misery, there is no better compliment. Even if it’s still a bit peculiar to him to hear such comments when it comes to his athletic instead of intellectual prowess, even more so when it comes from someone who has been constantly nagging him about health and physical strength improvement.
And there’s also that, being hailed the MVP of the match that secured their place in Nationals, despite only succeeding in only one clean block and having gotten subbed out in the middle of the game, when things weren’t looking too well for them, due to a dislocated finger at that. And there’s also that, Ushijima eying him in caution the moment he returned to the court. And there’s also that, Kageyama’s avouchment of his potential, you are better than you think you are.
“I suppose,” he simply offers with a shrug, before bringing the can to his mouth for a sip to wash away the flush of embarrassment threatening to flood his face. While he doesn’t necessarily do the things he does for recognition, he does take pride in it, and that’s not just his ego, it’s simply in human nature.
They stay silent for a while, as Sawamura savours his stress relief along with a rare break amidst the shitstorm he’s in, and the main reason why they are here in the first place.
“They’re reopening the case,” the detective finally begins to unwind upon his last pull from the cigarette. The smoke he exhales is instantaneously whipped away by another harsh gust of wind, and Kei instinctively shrinks into himself, shivering—gosh he hates winter, the weather forecast says it’s going to be a long one and this is only the start.
Kei sniffs and rubs his frostbitten nose. “Every plaintiff’s attorney is going to be lining up to sue on behalf of Takahashi Enji’s family.”
“If it turned out that he was innocent all along, that is,” the man annotates, the slight wryness in his tone is still just about friendly, but the message is clear: Let me do my job.
Kei can’t help arching a brow. “You seem pretty confident that you got the right guy back then.” It’s not like Kei doesn’t trust him, quite the contrary actually—Sawamura Masayoshi is above average in intelligence, and for a policeman, he’d say top-tier, this certain man wasn’t the youngest detective in the entire region in three decades for nothing.
Then again, a law enforcement agent wouldn’t meet up with a teenage boy regularly for nothing either—although, if you take that kid’s connection, it makes sense, this is in every way, shape and form a mutually beneficial relationship.
For this case in particular, while the killer didn’t leave a suitable DNA sample, he did sign his work: the bite mark, timeless expression of the frustration of impotence. Problem is, there’s no law enforcement agency that keeps dental records—they are medical records, it would be illegal.
And that’s where he comes into the picture.
Admittedly, it wasn’t so much fun going through twenty-five thousand transparent overlays. And he owes Rei a limited edition Hatsune Miku figure.
Kei reaches into his bag for the folder.
Sawamura eyes it warily. “Got a hit?”
“Not just a hit—seven.”
“Seven?!?”
“I’ve been looking at dentures.”
“Are you going into dentistry?”
To be fair, Kei does plan on going to medical school—mostly to spite his grandfather who has been alluding that he’d like him to be the heir ever since he was old enough to comprehend what it means—, but it’s still pretty far ahead into the future, he still has plenty of time to decide which specialty he wants to pursue. For now he just rolls his eyes and simply carries on with his elucidation, “Takahashi was in Kitashiro from ‘01 to ‘04. That’s one year before the first murder. I reached out to the prison dentist. The person in charge back then used Takahashi’s teeth to make a new set of dentures.” Sawamura nods in understanding, and Kei takes it as the signal for him to continue, slicing the numbers more in their favour, “Imai’s dead, Akamine has an alibi as you’re already aware and Tokiwa’s been locked up the whole time. The remaining four settled near the city after their release.” Kei wraps up his presentation by making a show of handing the documents over. “You’re welcome, detective.”
“Alright, smartass. No one likes a brat,” Sawamura clips out tersely like a verbal cuff around his ears as he snags away the proffer.
Kei tries not to grin and blinks at the man innocently. “You said I’ve got a good reason for my attitude.”
Of course, it doesn’t work on the man who had witnessed first-hand what he was capable of pulling at the tender age of eleven. “Don’t let it go over your head,” the detective chastises, but his amused smirk lurks just under the surface all the same. “Even good excuses wear thin.”
Kei allows himself a smile at least. “You’re just saying that.”
“Don’t test me,” Sawamura warns.
“You test me all the time—this one is no exception,” Kei points out, not that he’s really complaining. The reason why this arrangement came to be in the first place is that for both of them, as a rule, respect, like trust, has to be earned; and he supposes they both have earned enough by now.
On top of that, it’s good to have somebody keep him on his toes. Makes life less boring.
“I’ll let you know if you pass this one or not,” assures Sawamura as he puts the case file into his leather briefcase, then goes on to fix his scarf and pull at the sleeves of his coat to take a gander at the watch. “Well, I suppose you’ve got a long day already. You’re free to go now.”
Kei huffs, the breath he exhales momentarily clouding his vision, as he straightens the straps of his backpack, “Not even a ‘bye’ or ‘goodnight’?”
“Bye. Goodnight,” Sawamura deadpans, tucking the case under his arm. “Try not to get in trouble on the way home.”
“It’s not like I actively look for trouble,” Kei defends, more than just a little offended. “They just come at me.”
Sawamura snorts. “Yeah, tell that to Nakano Yasushi—”
“Who led us straight to the Fujibayashi family.”
“—and Wakui Sakura—”
“Granted, she was abused, but she did kill her father.”
“—and Hashizume Jirou—”
“It was stupid of him, thinking that Grandpa would comply to his demands just because he got me. And I believe I’m worth more than just a billion.”
“Well, I’d sell you for a billion—could use the extra money, get my wife and kids something nice,” Sawamura jabs back without mercy. The majority of Kei’s family are rather uptight and austere, he’s got to cultivate his own brand of dark humour from somewhere.
“Or you could just spend an evening with them for once,” Kei throws back like one of those jump serves he’s seen time and time again and secretly always wanted to do.
“I don’t need a kid who’s my son age telling me how to raise my kids,” Sawamura bristles, “I was planning to, for that matter.” The man is already walking away, nonetheless he lifts one of his long-fingered hands and waves.
Kei waves back, “G’night, detective,” before turning away and getting on his way as well, feeling oddly much colder, even when he pulls the hood of his long coat up as soon as it begins to drizzle and jams his hands into his pocket, looking like a literal human burrito. For someone who tends to run cold, winter always sucks, although he ought to get used to the cold by now, since it’s always been winter here anyways.