Chapter Text
W I N T E R
He twirled the ball in his hands, the diagonal pattern distracting him from the nerves he felt building up. Anxiety was something he grew familiar with, but of course, he wouldn’t say it was too extreme. A little bit of tension never hurt anyone; it was a way he pushed himself when he saw there was no one to do it for him.
A puff of hair blew out through his lips, and his dark eyes looked between his lashes to the net that hung from nearly one side of the gym to the other. He took a final breath before tossing it up with one hand, and ran forward, swinging both arms back before feeling the initial sting of the ball slamming against his palm. Within two seconds, a loud smacking noise echoed through the empty room, followed by repetitive ones before it slowed to a roll.
A hint of a frown fell upon his face, eyes darting at the empty water bottle on the other side of the court. Where the ball had landed was a good foot away from his target. He sighed again, and glanced up at the clock on one of the walls. Deciding he’d been practicing long enough, he made no rush in picking the volleyball back up and dusting off whatever pieces of dust and dirt were on it.
When he left his apartment, he had been met with goosebumps along his arms and legs, but figured the rush of blood throughout his body would numb out the frostbite by time he was done practicing. Although the cold wasn’t completely gone, it didn’t actually make him feel the nipping of the air along his skin.
He started jogging the rest of the way back once he reached about halfway, the shivering creeping up on him. He passed the small park down the street of his house and gave a small wave to someone he recognized from one of his classes. He noticed the emptiness of it, and the darkness behind the windows.
The floorboards seemed to get even colder this winter.
It was just him in the apartment, and he grew accustomed with the buzzing silence and the only other presences being outside his boundaries. He took his tennis shoes off in disgust at the door, noticing the thin layer of mud and grass and dew from running through the park. It was just past noon.
After taking a shower and making a cup of coffee, which he ended up drinking in one sitting, he took a seat onto the couch, his eyebrows locked into the usual shape of discomfort despite there being nothing to cause it. He had left the lights off, there was no reason to keep them on anyways. There was still a faint light coming in from outside, but even that was filtered by the clouds. On days like these, which was most, he never knew what to do. He played volleyball, he studied.
He glanced at the clock above the television, although having just checked it a few minutes ago. His eyes drifted to the ceiling above him, and he figured the reason he was so tired was because he woke up early despite not getting much sleep. His schedule was completely off, and it made him feel as though he was nocturnal.
November 30th
There was a sinking feeling in his chest when the ringtone he’d grown to memorize rang through his dreams before he was able to differentiate it as reality. He huffed, and his eyes barely opened enough to shut the thing off. He counted the seconds in his head, only allowing himself to lie down for another minute before swinging his legs over the side of his bed to ensure he wouldn’t try to fall back again.
As he leaned back, his hips meeting the cold stone of the counter, his eyes glanced at a photo on his fridge of himself and his parents. There were only traces of smiles on any of their faces.
His father wasn’t too big of a role in his life. He wasn’t a man of many words, and although he showed more care and consideration than his mother, he wasn’t around often enough for him to notice.
His mother was a very precise woman, and had an eye on anything being out of order if she knew it would lead to something bigger, which, in her eyes, applied to almost everything. She wasn’t cold, she wasn’t uncaring. She loved him, but he knew better than to fool himself when he says she’ll someday learn to show it.
She was nurturing, like a mother should be, and gave him what he needed. Materialistic things or support at school, but it was always spoke in a tone he recognized from phone calls she would often make when he was little. He felt as though she treated him like an employer rather than a son, sitting him down and talking to him formally instead of opening his bedroom door without knocking.
He couldn’t blame her for her ways, though. His grandmother was a ruthless woman, unlike her, and you could feel a chill from a mile away. He was lucky to say his mother was vastly different from her own, but if there was one thing she inherited, it was distance.
As he pushed himself off the counter, his socks creating a slight slip to his step, he considered skipping the day. Although it wasn’t snowing, it was cold enough to, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand without a feeling of discomfort. He wasn’t one to skip, but he knew for a fact that there was nothing he couldn’t miss going on in his classes; he had checked the schedule last night.
His eyes grazed across a distorted reflection of himself on steel appliances in the kitchen, and decided to just go since he wouldn’t be able to shut his eyes again until he was fully exhausted. He was out of the house in the next forty minutes, and began the short, comfortable walk to his university.
He went through the day in a mood that was comparable to a phone’s powersaving mode, or a dimmed light. His attention was barely hanging on as he passed through the day. He was a good student without a doubt, but nothing the teachers said in class would be different from the paragraphs in textbooks. Everything about his habits seemed to be switched, with what times in the day should he be awake, and what times of the day he should and shouldn’t be studying.
As mentioned before, he didn’t lead a particularly busy life. In the eyes of the eventful, it seemed relaxing, but all it did to him was null the value of anything that was actually considered relaxing.
He ran his thumb across his wrist, frowning at the small, purple mark that bled into his otherwise paler skin. He was walking home, and noticed the pain as he brushed that spot against his thigh. It was a deep violet color, and he ravished in seeing it.
He applied pressure to the bruise, slightly wincing but continued to press it so often anyways. He wondered if they were fascinated by hues of violet painted across their skin like his own, even if they did hurt a bit. He wondered if they went through a phase like himself, where he would only own things of the color purple just to be surrounded by anything that wasn’t black, white, or grey.
A soulmate was a role that was as apparent as any sort of job or label in society. Certain people were ecstatic and completely taken by the idea of their soul paralleling another’s perfectly. They were dreamers, and were set on believing their soulmates were their true loves.
An old friend explained to him a few years ago, however, that although souls could be chained together, or could live in utopic peace, it didn’t necessarily mean the feeling was romantic. Although some people found the loves of their lives in their soulmates, they were first considered a best friend than a partner.
His mother and father were soulmates. They were married for fifteen years, before deciding that even though they were, indeed, connected mind and soul, they weren’t connected at the heart. So he wasn’t as excited as finding his own as many other people were. Most people’s parents were soulmates, and those were the ones that were the believers about finding their one true love. The ones who didn’t knew the actually meaning, the root of what soulmates actually were - best friends.
There were more and more ways of finding a soulmate being discovered. Some people had a clear path, with a watch inked into their wrist of a timer that counted down to the moment of when they would meet. Although there was nothing more straight forward, he’d imagine the waiting could be frustrating. He’s heard that certain events or things you did could trigger the timer to rewind or fast forward.
Another one he knew about was one the friend he mentioned before had. Marks on a body would appear on the soulmate’s as well. It was easy for his friend to find his; after nineteen years he finally realized if he were to write on his arm he would be able to carry a conversation with whoever received it. They found each other through it, and he was happy with him. He had one of the instances where he felt romantically attracted to his mate.
His mother had one of a birthmark. She and his dad shared the same one, a detailed picture of a feathered pen on their ankles. They found each other a beach.
One of his cousins had one that was somewhat unfortunate. Your body wouldn’t physically age past the age of eighteen until you meet your mate; which meant there were people who were in their hundreds, but looked and felt as though they were still that young. Although it seemed like a power, the chance to be ageless, it made them much more aware of death. She had met her mate when she was twenty-four, but of course, was still technically eighteen. She didn’t want to find him; she wanted to live as long as possible. She was still pretty depressed, and although having found her soulmate, she despised him.
The most tragic one was one that was considered a curse. It only applied to soulmates who were destined to fall in love. It was only possible for one of them to die; the other one would remain ageless at whatever age they were at the other’s death. Although it seemed interesting to live forever, many people who suffered this path had the strongest of love. Double suicides were common once soulmates found each other – they didn’t want to live a life without each other.
He had one that had to do with color; at the moment, he was colorblind. He had been since he was born. For himself, and his soulmate, they could only see one color. Theirs was purple, everything else being black and white. They would be able to see all the other colors once they saw each other, and although he didn’t know how that would look, it was one of the things that excited him about having a partner.
When he got home at around four in the afternoon, he began picking up books and rewriting the amount of notes he had messily scribbled into one that suited him more; a neat, clean, almost too perfect sheet of word after word. He tensed his throat as if to give an inward groan, even though the only forms of heat in the apartment came from a machine, and himself. He loathed physiology, he came to realize only two weeks into the semester. He grew fond of anatomy though; it was much more straightforward, and also helped him with his art.
He dragged the tips of his fingers past his ears, a habit he developed to push curls of his dark hair away to avoid them tickling his skin. Although he wasn’t sleepy, he felt tired, almost drained. He had no motivation to finish the work he had in front of him (the physiology one, at least) but despite repeating the mantra of curses and self-loathing in his head, he ended up finishing everything in a little past two hours.
He blinked, his eyes straining, and closed all his books with more force than needed. He jumped a bit at the sound of a soft jingling sound, and strode on the wooden flooring to one that eventually became carpet. He retrieved his phone, and held it up to his ear, the chill of the glass not fazing him compared to the frost developing outside his window.
“Kuroo-san?” his voice was kept low even though there was no one around to hear it.
“Hey, Akaashi!” his name was drawn out on his friend’s tongue, “You wanna come practice with me?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling up to it right now, Kuroo-san,” he replied, and it wasn’t a lie. Having only gotten five hours of sleep with the clock just brushing past six thirty, he planned on eating an early dinner and attempting to fall asleep just as early.
“Aw, really?” Although his voice sounded concerned for whatever reason that made Akaashi object, he knew his friend well enough to imagine his pouting face on the other side, more upset that he wouldn’t have someone to toss to him.
“You’re a middle blocker, anyways. Shouldn’t you be more focused on honing your blocking?”
“Please, Akaashi, don’t understate my skills. There’s no room for improvement. My blocking is completely in sync with the highest standard possible. Which is why I might as well learn a little offense, too.”
Akaashi began walking back to the table, but once his feet stepped onto the area of frigid wood, he back tracked onto the soft, cream carpet in his small living room. “You could call Tobio-kun.” He suggests, “He’d be more beneficial to you.”
“Oh, shut up, dude,” He imagined his untidy friend rolling his eyes as there was a lull in his sentence, “What’s the point of practicing with Kageyama once, when I’m only ever going to have to spike your tosses?”
“I suppose you’re right.” He admitted, and mustered the courage to step on the chilling floorboards and towards his kitchen. “I…” his voice tapered off as he immediately regretted it, “I can help you for a quarter till. An hour maximum.”
“Alright,” he hummed, grinning through the phone, “Okay. Meet you there in half an hour.”
“Alright, Kuroo-san,” he sighed a bit dramatically, hoping to at least make him feel guilty.
“I’m not guilty,” he said quickly before hanging up.
He knew he was guilty.
December 4th
His birthday was tomorrow.
He pretended to be oblivious when Kuroo texted him to come over tomorrow, as if he didn’t throw a party for him every year at his place. He didn’t have class that day, and was lazing about in his bedroom, as it seemed to be warmer in there. He was sketching, practicing bodies and poses, half of them shoved into a drawer filled with papers he would probably never look at again, but would never be thrown away, either.
He rolled the pencil between his fingers, and glanced out the window.
It had finally begun to snow.
December 5th
He received no text messages that morning regarding his birthday, but the situation wasn’t pitiful. He almost smiled when he scrolled through his friends’ statuses, casually mentioning they were doing the most awkward, vague things that day. He imagined them giggling at Kuroo’s place, most likely forcing Hinata to post the most unbelievable and obvious one as his status.
He wasn’t wrong; at around five in the afternoon, a few minutes before he was going to leave, he saw Hinata post,
‘Going to a museum! I think it’s about astronomy – Oikawa put me up to it. What a nice…prESent… aha..’
A) Hinata hated museums.
B) Oikawa wouldn’t give Hinata of all people an invitation to a space museum.
C) He wasn’t sure what the emphasis in ‘prESent’ was, but if he had to guess, he could see himself going to an astronomical museum in the near future with Oikawa, and possibly Iwaizumi.
He walked the way to Kuroo’s house, as he did for most places, and enjoyed the cold weather for once seeing as he was finally prepared for it. He rapped on the door after going up the elevator and down the hall, and was greeted with none other than Kuroo himself, one hand over his chest and one held out in his typical, ‘I’m always this kind,’ pose.
“Ah yes, you have arrived.” He greeted, far more formal than anything Akaashi can recall coming out of his mouth.
Akaashi opened his mouth to speak, a small smile began to form, but was interrupted by him continuing, “Now then, get out.”
Akaashi only closed his mouth, the expression on his face not mirroring the confused thoughts in his mind. He was a considerate person. He didn’t think he was as social as most people, but did visit his friends at least once a week. He knew how to be polite, how to treat others respectfully, and never overdid his stay. What he meant was – never, in the history of Akaashi’s forced attempts to tolerate noise for the sake of his friends, was he told to get out.
He held his friend’s stare, before replying with a simple, “…Alright. Sorry to bother you, then, Kuroo-san.” And turned to head down the hall.
He heard a chuckle, and already shifted his weight back a second before Kuroo tugged him through the doorway by grasping the back of his sweater.
“Akaashi!” they greeted him almost simultaneously, immediately getting out of their seats to greet him.
“Twenty-three!” Hinata whispered up at him, stars in his shining, brown eyes. “That’s- that’s amazing. I’m only twenty-one!”
“Yes, that’s what happens when one is a year and a half older than someone else.” Tsukishima rolled his eyes from his seat on the couch.
Daichi grinned, “Only Hinata.”
Tsukishima stifled a laugh, and they followed his gaze, seeing Kageyama staring at Akaashi as well, arms crossed, a frown upon his face despite the same stars gleaming in his eyes. “How good will I be when I’m that old? Will I surpass your current skills at this age?” he muttered to himself quickly, and Akaashi offered him a smile.
“Tobio-kun,” the younger snapped out of his daze at this, and apologized, slightly stuttering, “Ah- uh, happy birthday, Akaashi-san,” he bowed slightly.
“Thank you, Tobio-kun,” he smiled again, and turned to Hinata, “Thank you, too.”
They both rubbed the back of their necks, and muttered incoherently, and Akaashi’s smile stretched a milliliter wider. The youngest of the group were the most endearing, definitely, and their matching soulmate tattoos only added to the fondness Akaashi felt towards them.
“So, Akaashi,” Kuroo slung his arm around his shoulder, shaking him a little, “I decided to be considerate this year!” He raised his eyebrows, and blinked at him, motioning for him to continue. “Well, usually we just sorta throw a party. Drinking and music and talking, but you don’t even drink, and I don’t know what kind of best friend I’d be if I kept it on any longer.” He rolled his hand as he talked, emphasizing his words. “Anyways, you won’t believe this!” he began excitedly bouncing his leg, “I got us – all of us – tickets to that band you love oh so much.”
“The Frozen Gorillas!” Hinata piped up, and was gently shoved away by his boyfriend who hissed, “Dumbass! Hinata, dumbass! That’s not their name!”
“You…” Akaashi blinked at his friend in surprise, “Are you-“
“Yup!” he grinned proudly, “Kenma’s uncle supervises the arena they’re playing in tonight, so, I thought, wow! What a saint Kuroo-sama would be if he got his loving, deserving, weird little friend tickets for his birthday. So I did.”
“You’re acting like you did any work,” Kenma spoke up in his monotone voice, putting his small gaming console in the pocket of his jacket, “You just asked me. I had to pull the strings.”
“That doesn’t matter Kenma,” Kuroo rushed, and shot a blaringly obvious glare at his lover. The two of them had tattoos of a cat on their left shoulders.
As Akaashi stared at the two of them continue to bicker, his thoughts were focused on processing on what happened. He opened his mouth to thank them, but felt a weight on his shoulder, and met Oikawa’s bright, scheming eyes, “Hey. Akaashi-chan,” he whispered, “Indie bands are cool, but you know what’s cooler? Aliens and museums and the great Oikawa-san!”
“Of course,” he smiled at him, “Thank you, Oikawa-san,” and the elder smiled happily.
“Yo!” Kuroo caught Akaashi’s attention again, “We have to leave right now if we want to be on time.”
“It’s tonight?” he asked, and Kuroo nodded quickly, “Get your crap together guys! We leave now! Anything left here becomes my property!”
He guided Akaashi and Kenma by the shoulders out of his apartment, seeing as he was most attached to them, and Akaashi managed to slip in his sincerest thanks to them. Kenma gave a polite smile and a nod, and Kuroo ruffled his hair. “No problem, dude!”
The three of them and Tsukki piled into Kuroo’s car, and the other four followed them in Oikawa’s. To say the whole thing uplifted Akaashi’s mood was an understatement.
Akaashi was a methodical guy. He did the same things, or similar things, almost every day. So, as a result, he felt the same feelings everyday – tiredness, then boredom, then interest, then some more tiredness, until the next day. He wasn’t charmingly awkward like Kageyama, or comfortable with almost everything like Kuroo.
He was, apparently, as described by Oikawa, ‘almost as attractive as him,’ followed by a peace sign and his tongue sticking out. He was approachable, and every so often got hit on by people on the streets. Despite this, he wasn’t too comfortable with people outside his friends. He could get through with needed contact – asking people for help in classes or nailing presentations with ease. It was the physical things he believed he felt out of place in.
So when they arrived to their seats, and the lights went out before kicking back up, Akaashi must’ve felt incredibly happy to have wrapped his arms around his friend and give him a genuine hug. Kuroo blinked down at the head of curled hair, and grinned, before throwing an arm around his shoulder as well. “A, ‘thank you, Kuroo-sama,’ wouldn’t be uncalled for.”
“Don’t push it,” Kenma’s quiet voice still managed to chime in despite the low burn of the bass through the air and the call of the crowd.
Akaashi smiled, and Kuroo laughed, before turning his head around. His eyes grazed over the entirety of the crowd, “It’s pretty wild for the audience of an indie band.”
Akaashi shrugged, “For the music, it’s reasonable. It’s not blind screaming.”
“True – I once went to a Katy Perry concert, bro, and girls in rainbow wigs are viscous.”
Akaashi stifled a laugh, and turned his head around to see what Kuroo was describing. His dark eyes were finally able to look at people without them turning away in discomfort – he was told he had a somewhat intense stare, not so as much as Kageyama, but one that was more at ease and smug like Oikawa’s.
He wasn’t sure what happened, between the span of time of his eyes raking across the crowd, to lights that suddenly seemed all too loud.
He was observing the audience, most of them seeming to be about five to six years younger or older than him, the age group somewhat consistent. He had been looking right to left, he remembered, observing the slope of the seats going up, seeing as they had ones on the floor. And then, he wasn’t sure what happened, but as he just finished glancing, and turned his head back to the stage, he felt a pulsing in his head.
He didn’t know how to describe it – it was a combination of visual and physical, and even emotional perception. It felt as though he was almost completely blind, for a second, instead of just colorblind, whiteness seeping into his vision and then fading into grey, then black, and he felt as though his body was thrown forward, yet his feet stayed planted on the ground. When he opened his eyes, and everything became clear, there was sense to everything that made his skin heat and cool.
The lights, the crowd in front of him, everything – the light the stage gave felt warm against his cheeks, and a cold breeze swept his fingertips as he looked down at the cement and his shoes. He looked at Kuroo, and saw a physical heat to his cheeks, his eyes still dark, similar to black, but not quite.
His friend noticed him staring and gave him a concerned look, “You okay?”
He wanted to speak, but could only give him a blank look, before turning his head back around, to the left side of the crowd.
They were there, somewhere.
“Who?” Kuroo asked him over the music, leaning over to see what he was looking at. Akaashi didn’t remember saying it outloud, but he answered in a tapered voice,
“Whoever made me see color.”