To take shape.
Seven seconds till the accent.
The figure melts.
His neck and shoulders ache from the stance, his knees hurt from incessant hitting the floor.
“Don`t look towards Konoha-I`ve told you to bring knee pads-Akinori. Above all, don`t look towards Konoha Akinori,” tells he himself.
The exit is also messed up.
“Right shoulder! We agreed on the right one, Akaashi!” mute scream in Konoha`s eyes.
“I do remember.” The speechless stare in response.
Looked at Konoha anyway.
f*ck.
Music stops, the mentor pauses the rehearsal and sneaks out the door to the lobby, muttering something about his wish to get some fresh air. Rehearsal hall fills with heavy breathing and relieved sighs, walls cover with shadows of performers in a hurry to get to their training bags. Akaashi closes his eyelids and leans back on the pleasantly cool parquet floor in an attempt to catch his breath, focusing on rustling steps of mincing students, cautiously sidestepping the second-year.
“Catch it!”
Akaashi notices out of the corner of his eye a bottle of cold water, rolling towards him from where Sugawara's things should locate, and almost manages to reach for it, as someone's deft hand gets ahead and unexpectedly intercepts the bottle.
“How thoughtful of you, Mr. Refreshing, I`m very flattered!” even after a series of grueling run-throughs Oikawa still teases and grimaces.
“Who would doubt,” thinks Akaashi but pushes the thought away. He finds the strength to open his eyes and raise himself a little up on his elbows to see the towering figure (ha-ha) of smugly smiling at his own antics Oikawa. He opens the brazenly stolen bottle and savors every sip with ostentatious pleasure.
It got dark outside—along with the sun, disappeared the need to draw curtains in the big hall. Rattling of the raindrops, that have been lashing since morning, has subsided, dank hurricane wind howls in a draft. Akaashi nearly reacts with something as caustic as the door to the small hall and the vocal studio that follows jerks open, letting in musicians who are leaving their late rehearsal, laughing. When the musicians spot they are not alone in the student center, they immediately fall silent and, whispering apologies, disappear through the next door into the lobby.
“Cattle,” Oikawa speaks through his teeth with outright disgust, laying off drinking.
“If you were rejected just because you couldn`t play a single note right, doesn`t mean that they`re cattle.” Akaashi remarks with a sneer and mentally says goodbye to the cherished bottle.
Clearly not expecting the joke, Oikawa sticks out his tongue, showing all his displeasure, which only causes Sugawara to laugh.
“Mean! So mean!” his discontent abruptly gives way to fake delight, his face spreads into a mocking smile. “At least it wasn`t me today who was scolded in front of everyone, like a first-grader, for being late for a full hour.”
Contemplating the skirmish with frank curiosity, Sugawara savvies that the mockery hits right on its target. Akaashi frowns and wrinkles his nose in embarrassment, recalling overlaps in his schedule and absurd lateness to the rehearsal. Not only had his professor refused to let out of class earlier (“If you expect that batting your eyelashes and nodding your head will be enough to pass the exam then you are sorely mistaken. Additional task? Make room for studying in your busy with 'very important things' schedule, here`s my additional task for you.”), but also a cab ride to the student center had taken twice as long—and expensive—as usual due to crazy traffic jams and heavy downpour.
Sakusa Kiyoomi, the fourth-year student and part-time mentor of student shadow play theatre "Erebus", reacted with all severity to such, as he put it himself, "impudence": he reminded about time-pressure, burst into a speech about the importance of punctuality and respect for other people`s work, reprimanded Akaashi for his sins, committed in taking shapes, and sent him to run twenty penalty laps around the hall instead of warming up.
“One-one, it seems to be a tie,” Sugawara sympathetically places his hand on Akaashi`s shoulder.
Three sonorous handclaps attract their attention to the mentor, who had enjoyed plenty of peace and quiet before the musicians occupied the porch.
“One good run-through without any mistakes and you`ll be free,” Sakusa says in a decisive tone and sits down in his usual place behind the frame. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we finish.”
"One good run-through without any mistakes and you`ll be free," has become a kind of sign for performers that they`re stuck here for a long time, since the mentor isn`t going to finish neither after "one good run-through", nor after the second and even after third ones. However, they divide into "coulisses".
Sakusa turns on the music. Shadows form into shapes on the cloth.
* * *
“Man, it`s seven minutes long, the time limit is three!”
“So what? We can always shorten the song! `Sides, it`s much better than our current one! Kenma, tell!”
The bass player isn`t interested in the argument between his friends and continues to type on his phone without looking at Kuroo. Bokuto crosses his arms over his chest and hums triumphantly, as Kuroo rolls his eyes.
Flowing in the air humidity doesn`t let to forget about the recently ended downpour, the puddles around are mottled with the lights of lampposts, reflected in them, the beeping traffic signals and the occasional honks of passing cars can be heard from the main streets nearby. Rush hour is over, and the musicians rejoice at the prospect of quietly going home without the eternal waiting for cabs and crowding on public transport.
Iwaizumi`s phone display reads 22:19, their rehearsal ended twenty minutes ago, nevertheless, they don`t disperse: their final five-minute smoke break slipped into a group discussion that led them into a stalemate and irrevocably killed their already lousy mood. Iwaizumi lazily pulls a crumpled black cigarette pack from the back pocket of his jeans and takes first puff as slowly, thoughtfully watching the coming down from the porch students. The three of them stand on the other side, disregarding their "colleagues".
“Since when have been theater kids dwelling in the big hall? I thought dancers didn`t let anyone into their territory.”
Everyone remembers perfectly well that the dance mentor, Satori Tendou, made it clear at the beginning of the term that he would monopolize the most spacious and convenient for mass rehearsals hall in the student center and wouldn`t tolerate any incursions.
“Try to organize ten or so people and to set up props in fifteen square meters next to the vocal studio with no soundproofing,” Kiyoko, the keyboardist and backup vocalist, intercedes for the mentor of performance art. “Apparently Sakusa-san got tired of outvoicing our vocal experiments and took matters into his own hands.”
“When Yaku found out, he walked around for a week with a face…” Kuroo doesn`t finish. One of the shadow play theatre performers in a voluminous chestnut coat, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke into the face of grossed out by tobacco "fragrance" troupemate, arouses his genuine interest. “Isn`t that yours Akashi?”
“He`s not mine,” Bokuto knits his brows. “Still working on it. And he`s not Akashi, it`s Akaashi. Double 'a' .”
“Totally sh*t job,” quips Iwaizumi. He`s amused by their serialized soap opera. “While you`re sorting out papers instead of issue, Sakusa brings him to purple knees on all fours. Oikawa doesn`t sleep either, look, how he`s messing around him, he`s about to steal him away from under your nose!”
From visualization of Akaashi, ardently embraced by sneaky Oikawa and kissed by him on imaginary dates in cafés, Bokuto sulks, his sharp cowlicks bristle in protest. From imagining Akaashi in the mentioned pose he embarrassingly refrains. Under no circ*mstances should the vulgar robbery be allowed in broad daylight.
“What does he bum?” Kuroo squints slyly.
How it goes? A little party never killed nobody, didn`t it? Let`s put it into practice.
“Something with chocolate flavor,” conjectures Iwaizumi.
“Excellent, we`ll hit off.” Kuroo elbows Bokuto, who is boring into sham soft towards Akaashi Oikawa. “I show you once.”
Bokuto hoots suspiciously, but Kuroo walks away with a firm step to the trio nearby.
“Hey, theatre kids! Still recruiting? Three pretty boys don`t mind joining you!”
Sugawara, who had been complaining of crazy assignment criteria before the intrusion into their company, stares at the unexpected guest in silent surprise. Akaashi prefers to let lewd phrase pass his ears and bides his time, predicting the outsider`s potential actions. Enlightenment of what Kuroo is getting at comes when the musician points to the lit cigarette in his fingers, and Akaashi pulls one from the brown pack, offering him a light at the same time. Kuroo, unable to resist, brings the cigarette he is clutching in his lips to the lighter.
“Chocolate?” after eliciting an affirmative weak "uh-huh", Kuroo blows out a jet of smoke, almost forgetting to thank Akaashi.
Not taking his eyes from the dumb show, Oikawa greets with scepticism musician`s suggestion and instead of responding to the initiative spits out, “Actually, we aren`t theater kids, shadow play is a separate type of performance art. We call it 'original genre' .”
“Seriously?” Oikawa immediately wishes he left right after the end of the rehearsal like he had planned. Iwaizumi Hajime, the third-year engineering student, strolls to the newly formed group, taking in the others musicians, including pleadingly bulking Bokuto. “ 'Original genre' , huh?”
“Do you have any problems with that?” the best defense, according to Oikawa, is a good offense. Surrendering, especially to Iwaizumi, isn`t part of his plan.
“Well, I might as well claim that table tennis is a mind game not a sport,” the feigned amazement and uncertainty are replaced by contempt. “Theatre will always be theatre.”
The situation heats up, and it becomes obvious to everyone around that it`s time to stop before it ends as ad hominem fight and something more serious than the verbal altercation. Nobody knows when the conflict between these two originated, Kuroo tried to find out once or twice but didn`t hear from Iwaizumi anything more detailed than, “He's been bugging me since high school”.
“You and Bokuto—that`s clear, who`s the third?” Kiyoko returns Kuroo, carried away by the free play, to the original topic. “I bet it`s definitely not Kenma. He wouldn`t agree at gunpoint.”
The whole company easily reads "don't try to get me involved" in the look Kenma throws at the musicians, Kuroo thrusts both palms up—touché—while Bokuto jabs his index finger at the guitarist's chest.
“You!”
“Me?!” Iwaizumi echoes the gesture with his own hand with smoldering cigarette. “I`m out. First, this one,” he exchanges dismissive glances with Oikawa, “gonna drive me crazy with his presence only, and second, my basketball practices have not been canceled.”
“Jokes besides, we really need one or two people for the projector and props.” Sugawara interjects, eager to end it all and go home to finish—to start writing or at least to try it—his damned assignment. He faces the questioning expressions of Oikawa and Akaashi and quickly adds, “What? Sakusa-san won't be able to take it over, he'll be behind the scenes.”
“Fine, if you indeed want to help, and not come and stare at our asses in leggings, then tell him yourself,” Akaashi knows deep inside that Sugawara is right, but he isn`t entertained by fate of sweating in elaborate poses in front of senior students: they wouldn't miss an opportunity to whistle and vulgarly comment such sight.
The musicians appreciate the barb, Kiyoko and Kenma exchange a laugh, glancing approvingly at Akaashi. The students agree that Kuroo and Bokuto will contact Sakusa themselves, and on that note, they call it a night: some go to train stations and some have to walk.
“I`ll drop you off!” Bokuto blurts out to Akaashi, who endeavours to press the call button for a cab.
“Are we going the same way?” hesitates Akaashi with his finger threating millimeters away from the screen.
“Uh…” Bokuto peeks at the address and feels horrified by its remoteness. Akaashi lives relatively close to the student center, it isn`t the snag. The catch is that Bokuto`s bachelor pad is at a respectful distance from it: on the city map Akaashi's neighborhood is diametrically opposed to his. “Yeah! Yes!”
“Good.” The exhaustion after a long day gives voice and prevents Akaashi from turning his nose up at the lucrative—for him only—offer.
“You pay.” Kuroo hums at Kenma`s order and gives encouraging thumb-up to Bokuto, who looks over his shoulder while leading Akaashi to the car park. Lesson learned, top scored.
Kuroo and Kenma have been standing—well, standing mostly for Kuroo, Kenma perched on the steps—on the porch of the student center for a good half hour. "Thanks" to Kuroo: he refused to order a cab because the price was "too high" and persuaded Kenma, carved to lock himself in his room of their rented two-bedroom flat, to wait until the price dropped. In the meantime, cabs had become exorbitantly expensive.
“You`re right,” Kenma mumbles, taking a drag on his vape pen. Kuroo stares at him uncomprehendingly, distracted from monitoring the driver`s geolocation. His unruly bangs intrusively poke into his eyes from beneath the hood. “Your new option is better.”
* * *
Akaashi wouldn`t call Bokuto`s car newfangled, but it`s not bad for a full-time student without a full-time job. The interior is cosy enough; instead of a stylish key fob, a shabby "reverse" uno card hangs on a rope from the rear-view mirror. Bokuto`s own training bag with short rubber flippers sticking out of it places on back seats next to Akaashi`s tote bag.
“Didn`t have time to warm up the car, feel free to turn on the seat warmer,” helpfully warns Bokuto and turns the ignition key. The lights on the speedometer come on, the dull hum of engine mixed with the barely discernible singing of the radio envelopes the interior. Before stepping on the gas, he corrects the rear-view mirror.
“Thank you, my seat was generously warmed up in the big hall today.” Akaashi says perhaps a little to sarcastic and defiant toward his mentor. Back at home, recollecting all the things he had said to people throughout the day, he would regret what he had said and would beat himself up for opening his mouth before thinking. But that would be later. Right now, he chuckles at his wit in unison with Bokuto`s barking laughter.
“Omi doesn`t spare you, huh?” with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearbox, he takes the main street. The traffic is light, it promises to be a short ride, at least that`s what Akaashi hopes, disbelieving that the accursed day is finally ending.
“It`s understandable.” Akaashi wants to rehabilitate himself from his rash shot in Sakusa`s direction and regain his prudence. He answers the rhetorical question as tactfully as possible: the answer is unambiguous just because of his dead tired look and the effort it took him to get to the car. His kneecaps throb with pain, and Akaashi has the unfortunate thought that new bruises would bloom on them tomorrow, completing colourful composition of the old, unhealed ones. It`s time to heed Konoha`s advice to buy kneepads and stop putting soft articles of clothes under his knees. “Although the performance is a matter of days, there`s still need in endless practices. Kuroo-san doesn`t have mercy on you either, otherwise he wouldn`t have put all–night rehearsals on weekdays.”
“Technically, Kuroo isn`t our mentor,” Bokuto`s brows drawn together, wrinkles show on his forehead as he finds the right words so he doesn`t spill the beans. “As things are now, he`s in charge, no matter how much he`d like to avoid that fate.”
Akaashi is perplexed. Kuroo isn`t the kind of person who runs away from responsibility and washes his hands of it. At least this impression Akaashi got of him from the collective rehearsals, held by mentors to put together their concert programme: Kuroo seemed like a reliable leader, open to discussion and defending his—and his teams—point of view to the hilt.
“Like, yeah, he kinda likes the move… organizing rehearsals and other 'mentorial' stuff,” Bokuto notices Akaashi`s stunned face and pulls his right hand away from the gearbox to flex his fingers like "quotes" in the air. “But he`s beyond exhausted, on top of it all, he refuses to bail on attendance.”
“On top of it all, he proposes you to change song a week before the performance. Rather reckless decision.”
As much as Bokuto wants to be on the same page with his best friend, he admits that Akaashi is right.
“It`s understandable,” he giggles nervously, his fingers drum restlessly on the steering wheel, and his pupils run across the windshield. Through it are seen people hurrying to cross the crosswalk while their traffic light twinkles green. When the pedestrians reach the sidewalk and the traffic light gives cars the green light, Bokuto hits the gas, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “Our current song is, joking apart, hard. We screw up so much that it seems like taking a new, simpler one and playing it in tune is the only right way out. But it`s just 'hard', not 'impossible' !”
Bokuto takes his eyes off the road for a moment and smiles warmly at Akaashi, lightening the atmosphere after their conversation about the upcoming performance. The Student Concert Programme Festival is in a week, and what is ready, as Sugawara`s good friend, third-year finance student and dancer Morisuke Yaku, likes to say, is "f*cking nothing". Akaashi hums in agreement and turns away to the window, not forcing the talk. Bokuto turns up the volume on the radio, and the students spend the rest of the ride in silence, thinking about home assignments, forthcoming rehearsals, and simple life problems.
In ten minutes—and after the same number of prompts from Akaashi on when to turn—the car stops outside the right entrance. Bokuto picks up Akaashi`s tote back from the back and carries it to the front door.
“Good luck with the song, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi grips on the metal handle of the bulky entryway door with one hand waiting in the wings to slip into the warm room. The tip of his nose and the helix of his ear tingle. From the piercing wind and rain freshness, of course.
“Thanks!” Bokuto`s hair has irretrievably turned into an irreparable mess, but he doesn`t care at all. His benevolent, from ear-to-ear smile shines as if it was about to dispel the leaden clouds and shine in the sky instead of the sun. “Oh!” a jubilant illumination appears on his cheerful face, only the light bulb above the top of his head is missing. “My old kneepads lay around somewhere at home… They`re too small for me, but they`ll fit you just right!”
“It would be nice.” The corners of Akaashi`s lips pull upward, as much as he wants to maintain his composure. “Time, Bokuto-san.”
The next second Akaashi learns the hard way what "bear hug" means. He`s enveloped by the warmth of another student`s body, burning and blazing in spite of the open jacket, and the smell of chlorine in Bokuto`s hair. His breathing falters, his hand loosens its grip on the doorknob and slips off. After Bokuto releases him from grasp, the heat continues to wrap Akaashi. He pivots toward the entrance and, fumbling for the doorknob behind him and gripping it like his life depends on it, gibbers something like goodbye. He unlocks the door with a snap and slips inside.
“Bye-bye!” Akaashi hears the carefree voice and feels the blood rush to his cheeks as he rushes up the stairs to his floor.
“I should have worn a hat today”, thinks Akaashi to himself.
* * *
“Cedar latte, sugar-free!”
A young man in a chestnut voluminous coat doesn`t react to the shouting and freezes when his path is blocked.
“I beg your pardon?” the young man blinks confusedly.
“Cedar latte, sugar-free!” the stranger smiles cheekily and folds his fingers into guns, endearing himself to him. “Gotcha!”
“I`m sorry, I don`t understand you.”
The stanger`s demeanor backfires, and the young man incredulously wraps his coat around him. His windswept hair reveals his sharp features, and Bokuto unknowingly admires him. The sniffle of the nose opposite him, reddened by the chill at the very tip, brings Bokuto back to reality.
“You`re… A-Akashi, right?” Bokuto doesn`t back down and insists on talking, which is more than can be said for his interlocutor, who keeps glancing at his electronic wristwatch with a touchscreen display.
“It`s Akaashi.” The young man pulls up his rectangular glasses with a scuff in the middle of the thin left lens to the bridge of his nose by the hinge.
“Akaashi! From 'Erebus' ?” the question elicits a doubtful response in the form of the raised eyebrow. “I mean, you play in Omi—I mean, Sakusa`s shadow theatre?”
“I`ve got an offer, however, I haven`t made a decision yet.” Akaashi resigns himself to the fact that the next few minutes the stranger won`t get away from him. He pulls the uncomfortably heavy tote bag off his shoulder and grips its handle.
“Why?”
“Excuse me, may I inquire for what purpose you ask?” the young man smiles. Not flirtatious or seductive at all, as Bokuto would have liked, but strained and critical.
“Uh… Well…” Bokuto is at a loss. He should have browbeaten Kuroo into hiding behind a trash can so that he could whisper him hints in any case—in now case, for instance. “I`ve just heard that they don`t recruit anyone off the street, and it`s very honorable to play there.”
“Flyers are put up all over the buildings. Moreover, I was offered by a barista at the coffee shop near the main campus.” Akaashi holds his tote bag with one hand and uncertainly scratches his nape with the other. Bokuto wants to bang his head against something very hard after realizing what nonsense he just told. The shadow play theatre is one of the smallest clubs, consisting of brave enough to perform in tight-fitting clothes girls (and Konoha), and it recruits members on a regular basis. “I`m literally one off the street.”
“No! Like… Man, I mean—” Bokuto mumbles, making up a good reason to join not–so–honorable–to–do club which members bang their knees against the solid surface of stage floor and flaunt their tights.
“I feel bad for interrupting our conversation,” Akaashi darts a look at the display of his touchscreen electronic wristwatch and stops the stranger from making excuses in a feigned apologetic tone. “I`ll think about what you said. See you later…”
“Bokuto,” says the no-longer-the-stranger.
“Bokuto-san.”
“Just Bok—”
“See you later, Bokuto-san.”
And the young man in the voluminous chestnut coat blends into the crowd of students just like him, leaving "Bokuto-san" to stare dejectedly after him.
“Dude, tell me you`re joking,” Kuroo hears Bokuto out and loses all his fragile hope that the tale of the unrequited in love troubadour will end with the phrase, "…happily ever after".
“Man, tell me I didn`t f*ck up,” Bokuto, overwhelmed with hopelessness, looks at his friend with puppy eyes. “He said, 'See you later' !”
“Let`s pray for Suga-chan and his persuasive skills.” Kuroo shrugs, and Bokuto presses his lips together resentfully. His fingers tap the steering wheel to the beat of the raindrops, tapping against the windshield.
* * *
Akaashi switches from an article for a student-run online-newspaper that was sent to him for editing and had a deadline for publication yesterday, but that didn`t prevent him from taking it up tonight, to a notification, pinging through the lo-fi radio, turned on in the background for concentration.
Sakusa Kiyoomi has added Kuroo Tetsurou
Sakusa Kiyoomi has added Bokuto Kotarou
Noticing Sakusa typing, Akaashi takes his time minimizing the messenger tab and waits for further information. It usually takes a while as the senior student double–checks message for mistakes. Sakusa Kiyoomi is distinguished from other mentors by his unrelenting strictness and unhealthy perfectionism. It isn`t surprising, given that he had spent his childhood and adolescence at the ballet classes, which he never mentions.
If Motoya Komori, his cousin and deputy mentor of their shadow theatre, hadn`t blurted it out during the party after the previous festival, Akaashi would hardly have ever learned this interesting fact from his mentor`s biography. On the one hand, his approach bears fruit: their shadow play theatre consistently wins nominations and prizes at student competitions, and judges shower Sakusa and Motoya with letters of appreciation. It`s probably worth it. (The battered knees with scarlet bruises and sore muscles believe otherwise.)
Second notification pulls Akaashi out of his memories of the after-party: drunken Kuroo and Bokuto had found a fox in the vicinity of rented cottage and tamed it with meowing and a piece of grilled meat; Oikawa, somehow, had broken out a window frame that Iwaizumi and Daichi had been trying to fix for half an hour—spoiler: unsuccessfully—and Akaashi himself had finished the rest of the cognac on the sly and had concealed the evidence by pouring cherry juice into the empty bottle of the alcohol he had drunk. It`s a different story, though.
From: Sakusa Kiyoomi 00:10
The projector and props issue has been resolved: the musicians have agreed to help and have taken it upon themselves. Tomorrow rehearsals: 12:00 — 14:00 and 19:00 — 22:00 in the big hall. Below I attach the consent to participating in life-threatening disciplines. It`s signed by everyone who performs in the original genre, including us. Submit it by Friday, i. e. the day before the performance.
Akaashi rereads the schedule and doesn`t know what to feel. The afternoon rehearsals are clashed with classes of the most principled professors with whom it`s impossible to agree on additional assignments or tasks.
A sudden drill of notifications causes Akaashi to jump up, nearly knocking a mug of long–cold tea, which existence he had conveniently forgotten, off the edge of the table with his elbow. Moving the mug to a safer place (on the opposite edge of the table), Akaashi squints at the monitor. Coloured circle blinks against a familiar name—Bokuto Kotarou, try to forget—and signals incoming messages.
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:23
hi, Akashi!!1!!
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:23
srry for late notice
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:23
urgent matter
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:23
could u stop by our rehearsal tmrw?
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:24
by our i mean us
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:24
by us i mean musicians
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:24
all u need to do is
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:24
listen to new song
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:24
and say what you think
Before activating the rational part of his brain, Akaashi types:
From: Akaashi Keiji 00:29
Good night, Bokuto-san. Firstly, *Akaashi.
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:29
oh sht
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:29
i mean
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:29
hi, *Akaashi!!1!
Akaashi smirks satisfyingly.
From: Akaashi Keiji 00:30
Secondly, at what time?
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:30
wait a minute
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:30
i check
With such approach it's no wonder why things change at the climax.
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:36
17:30 — 21:00
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:36
but u`ll be free by six
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:36
no overlaps with shadow theatre!
The few unrusted cogs in Akaashi`s head creakily process the information in an attempt to come up with the most sensible solution. He shifts his gaze from Bokuto`s messages to the document Sakusa sent.
"...being in my right mind, am aware of all possible dangers associated with my personal participation in the Festival, and take full responsibility for my actions, as well as my life and health".
"all u need to do is listen to our new song say what u think".
"...being in my right mind, am aware of all possible dangers associated with my personal participation in the Festival…"
"all u need to do is…"
"...being in my right mind, am aware…"
His hands reach for the keyboard and type on their own, his mind fills with vacuum without a single sensible thought:
From: Akaashi Keiji 00:47
OK, I`ll come.
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:47
gr8!!
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:47
we`ll be on ur afternoon rehearsal too
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:47
by we i mean us
From: Bokuto Kotarou 00:47
by us i mean me and kuro
I, Akaashi Keiji, date of birth "05" December 1995, being in my right mind, am aware of all possible dangers associated with my personal participation in the Festival, and take full personal responsibility for my actions, as well as my life and health.
Date, signature.
* * *
The afternoon rehearsal went "not bad", so praises Sakusa, which translates as "damn, it`s so sick, man!" in Bokuto and Kuroo`s language. Akaashi heads to the locker room to take off kneepads which Bokuto "solemnly" handed to him and to change into normal clothes. Though he may have overestimated himself: they have been practicing only for two hours, but the old bruises reminded of itself, and his mental and physical strength is only enough to throw on a worn hoodie right over a tight tank top and to do the same with jeans over leggings.
In the past weeks, all Akaashi`s attempts to keep his casual dress style had failed miserably. Perfectly ironed white shirts and black trousers, beige pullovers and steamed jackets, and patent leather oxford have been replaced by old blue jeans, black oversized hoodie, and once-white Nikes. To say nothing about his hair, now Akaashi has right to compete with Kuroo in disheveledness. The only thing about his appearance that remains unchanged is bags under his eyes.
He leaves the locker room before the impending pandemonium begins and comes back to Sugawara and Oikawa, who help Kuroo and Bokuto disassemble the metal frame. However, "help" is a too strong word for what they`re doing: while Sugawara really wants to facilitate their work and prompts which fasteners to unscrew first, Oikawa doesn`t even try to be helpful and shamelessly lounges around a long scotch-taped cardboard for storing round metal beams, texting with someone on his phone.
“Be careful with the frame, Sakusa-san and Motoya-san paid for it out of their own pockets,” warns Akaashi and takes a seat next to Oikawa.
“I thought they provide it at public expense,” says Kuroo, half joking, handing a corner bracket to Sugawara. He, clearly not too pleased that his friend idles, kicks the little metal part across the floor with all his might at the "insolent slacker".
“It was told to be careful!” Oikawa whines irritably but gets the hint and distributes metal parts into small plastic bags before packing them into the cardboard.
When the framework is done, Sugawara and Oikawa retire to the locker room, where the last students are leaving, and entrust the musicians to entertain Akaashi while they`re gone.
“Any classes today?” Kuroo packs up the projector and coils the wire.
“One started fifteen minutes ago,” Akaashi replies with a slight annoyance, the touchscreen display of his wristwatch shows 14:14. He is, to put it mildly, reluctant to rush across the city for boring and rumbling lecture. “Maybe I`ll go to the next one.”
“Maybe?” Kuroo grins like a Cheshire cat, and Akaashi shyly averts his eyes.
Akaashi feels ashamed not about being absent from class, let the one who has never skipped it throw the first stone. There are people just as busy as him, if not worse, yet they manage to be everywhere at once, combining extracurricular activities and studying. At the sight of students like Sakusa or Kuroo, whose attendance tends towards one hundred percent and who pass exams with top grades without difficulty, it`s hard to assure yourself that you`re doing enough.
“C`mon, I haven`t attended properly for two weeks either,” interjects Bokuto. Contrary to popular belief, Kotarou, even if he can`t always be called a diligent student, keeps his attendance at a good level. “Tsum-Tsum`s attendance rate was thirty–six percent latest term, and you know what? They didn`t kick him out!”
“Yeah, and also 'Tsum–Tsum' has three academic debts from latest term, that`s why we ended up where we did.” Kuroo frowns at the mention of the music "mentor" but shakes his head to ward off negative emotions. “Don`t take it seriously, I understand, got too much on my plate too.”
Akaashi nods encouragingly to Kuroo`s apologetic look. It doesn`t take a genius to put two plus two together and come to a conclusion why Kuroo took on the not meant for him responsibility. Atsumu Miya, the fourth-year musician mentor, had been suspended from mentoring due to academic debts.
With his cheek pressed against the wall, Akaashi closes his eyelids and listens to the commotion behind it. Muffled voices of the dancers are heard in the lobby, their mentor chats casually with the student center administrator—more precisely, he casually interferes with his work with annoying and irrelevant questions. Tsukishima, whose shift is today, either answers with the lion`s share of sarcasm or pointedly keeps silence. Every whoosh of the front door is accompanied by coherent greetings.
“Remember about today?” Akaashi feels Bokuto plopping dangerously close to him, their knees touch, but he keeps his composure.
“I do.” Akaashi opens his eyes and looks as calmly as possible. “I will come.”
“No idea how he talked you into this,” Kuroo impishly puts his two cents. “He certainly fed you empty promises.”
“A sleight of hand, nothing more!” Bokuto puts his hands up and moves his fingers to confirm his words. His elbow inadvertently touches Akaashi`s shoulder, causing a wave of goosebumps.
“Didn`t get paid a scholarship, so decided to pay another way?” provokes Kuroo, tilting his head sideways. Akaashi buries his nose in his knees, which are relatively intact thanks to now his kneepads, and watches roused Bokuto.
“Didn`t dancers kick down the door?” Sugawara comes out of the next door.
Akaashi leaps to his feet but misjudges and hits the back of his head on the wall lamp. He groans in a low voice, presses his palm against the bruise and painfully shuts his eyes. Oikawa snorts derisively and decides not to comment.
“They`re sitting in the lobby,” Kuroo distracts them from Akaashi, to whom Bokuto immediately rushes, and checks time on his phone. “Ok, let`s go until they didn`t let Yaku off the lash and drag us out in feet first.”
Kuroo takes on sarcastic sighs and attacks from the dancers first, Sugawara pops up behind him and waves at Yaku, spotting him. Oikawa ignores their presence and walks straight to a coat closet. Bokuto slips in front of Akaashi, who hasn`t crossed the threshold yet, holding the door for him. Akaashi`s reddened neck is masked behind the hood.
As the dancers emptied the lobby, silence finally falls,Tsukishima takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose and temples vigorously. Kuroo grabs Bokuto by the elbow—he also itches to pester the exhausted second-year student—and shakes his head negatively, signaling that it isn`t a good idea. For now. Taking pity on the administrator, they throw on their coats and go outside.
“Need a ride too?” Bokuto shakes his car key toward Kuroo. In his voice, Akaashi detects a note of request…
“No. I`m going to the library, deadlines are approaching.” …and discreetly destroys his air castle.
“See you later! At half past five, don`t forget!” Bokuto turns on his heels and shuffles to Kuroo. Akaashi tries to ignore the slumped shoulders after his rejection.
“Don`t stop dead.” Akaashi doesn`t say a word to mute question in Sugawara and Oikawa`s eyes, just fixes his tote bag on his right shoulder and sprints forward.
They look at each other puzzled but follow Akaashi`s pace.
* * *
Oikawa is getting sick and tired.
They have been sitting in the library for an hour at a table by a panoramic window, overlooking the city center, and pretending to be in the middle of something. Akaashi hides behind a screen of his laptop as though he takes lecture notes and doesn`t draw meaningless patterns in the margin of his notebook. The unnatural silence at their table certainly doesn`t pressure him, no. Sugawara immerses himself in crazy criteria of his assignment, which also isn`t true. He doesn`t even try to begin writing it, engrossed in chat–gossiping with a costume fashion mentor.
Oikawa, tired of hemming and hawing, leans back in his chair with a sharp exhalation and voices the question, hanging like a dead weight in the air, “Come on, spit it out, what happens between you two?”
Sugawara impulsively lifts his head from his tablet and stares into Oikawa with the scream in his eyes, "What the f*ck are you doing?"
“Are you going to sit here forever?” mouths Oikawa and spreads his hands.
Akaashi`s pen stops torturing the notebook, the patterns end with a crooked curl. He closes the lecture tab, shuts his laptop, looks at them as if nothing happened, and asks a counter–question as if he doesn`t know what Oikawa`s talking about, “With whom?”
Playing dumb goes from bad to worse, his voice shakes nervously. Sugawara and Oikawa exchange glances, and Koushi decides to intervene in the case, “You know. You`ve been playing your mating game for six months already.”
Akaashi gives up and rests his chin on his hands, folded on the table. Like it or lump it, but Sugawara is right. Their meeting, accidental for Akaashi and "grandly" planned by Bokuto, a year ago in the alley between university buildings, led to a series of encounters in the hallways, in the café near the main campus, in the stands at university games, until, to the immense surprise for Bokuto, who lost his faith and began to develop a plan B, they crossed paths at the all-night rehearsal for Akaashi`s first and Bokuto`s regular festival. The good–natured drummer and university team member in swimming from sport management department slowly but surely assimilated into the everyday life of the literature student, and now Akaashi remembers with disbelief the times without the full–throated laughter, red from a forgotten hat ears, and hair that smells like chlorine after morning practice.
“Nothing.” Akaashi lies, burying his nose in his forearms. As Akaashi gathers his thoughts, he mumbles into the fabric of his black hoodie, “Nothing happens.”
“Bo-chan thinks otherwise, he`s happy as pig in mud at the sight of you.” Oikawa rolls his eyes, waves his hand and monkeys around, parodying the aforementioned musician.
The improvisational performance makes Sugawara ringingly laugh and Akaasi`s cheeks go crimson. Oikawa slides down the back of the chair into a half–sitting position and drums his palms on his thighs, while Sugawara turns to the window, choosing words. To their delight, Akaashi raises his voice first.
“Is it that obvious?” his flushed face is still hidden in the folds of his hoodie.
“Just like cherry juice in the bottle of cognac,” the apt association comes to Sugawara`s mind, and he pokes Akaashi on the top of his head with his index finger. Akaashi doesn`t share his joy and responds with a long, anguished groan at the memory of his fiasco.
“Don`t worry, no matter how much you`re into Bo-chan, we all know who`s your only one that makes your panties wet,” Oikawa smiles lewdly, enjoying his vulgar joke, “your PE professor.”
“Spend an hour and a half with a jump rope, we`ll see who has the last laugh!” Akaashi is as red as ever, indignation boiling in him, but Oikawa cannot be stopped.
“Why don`t you replace a jump rope with something else of someone else,” Oikawa moves his eyebrows playfully, “and jump on it for the same hour and a half? Combine business with pleasure!”
“One–two, you lag behind!” Sugawara laughs teasingly.
With a martyred howl Akaashi pulls up his hood and burrows his head deeper into the sleeves of his hoodie.
* * *
Akaashi compares the address, typed into the navigator, and the sign above the front door where the programme had led him. “Christian Church 'Faith Generation'. Gatherings take place every Sunday at 11:00.” Sounds promising. Akaashi takes a deep breath and pushes the metal door.
If it weren`t for the rasp of tuning guitars and the rhythmic beating of drums at the other end of the hallway, Akaashi would still be standing in the middle of the lounge, bewildered and surrounded by crosses and psalms quotes, printed and hung on the cracked walls. Knocking beforehand, he cautiously peeks into the room, reserved for makeshift music studio.
“Didn`t even get lost?” Kuroo is busy plugging in one of the electric guitars. Akaashi sees only Kuroo`s nape, but he can hear the nascent courage in his eyes. “No chance to schedule in the student center, it`s fully booked terms in advance, so we have to hang around here. C`mon in, we`ll start soon.”
Akaashi takes a look all around, studying the room. It can`t be compared with vocal studio in their student center: walls are upholstered in cheap, pilling in some places acoustic panels, dusty, shabby and probably creaky sofas live out their last years—Akaashi doubts their durability—in corners with swollen baseboards; tortured by Bokuto drums stand against the wall to the right of the entrance.Bokuto overenthusiastically waves both hands at Akaashi, each holding a drumstick, and fidgets on the stool that had been placed instead of normal chair for drummers. Akaashi involuntarily recollects Oikawa`s clownery and walks over to the table against the left wall. He lays his tote bag on the edge of the table and, after carefully removing his trainers, climbs in, nestling cross–legged.
“Iwaizumi hasn`t text anymore?” Kiyoko deals with colourful wires and adjusts the height of the stand after connecting the right ones to the synthesizer.
“Nope.” Kuroo pulls his phone out of his back pocket, checking the lack of response from the guitarist. “Last one forty minutes ago. Mizoguchi`s skinning them alive for losing the recent game.”
Akaashi couldn`t make it to the mentioned match, but Sugawara, who had called him and even obtained free tickets not without the help of Daichi, described in details the tough loss of their team: neither Iwaizumi`s cunning tricks with the basketball, nor Daichi`s unpredictable passes, nor the substitution of the rookie who had ruined their last chances to win for the more experienced player had saved them from inevitable crushing defeat.
Oikawa claimed he had preferred blissful ignorance of the game`s outcome and cramming for upcoming test at home, but his blank stare and thin lip line gave him away. He can have splurged on a ticket and hidden in a far corner, drooling over the not covered by jersey muscles of the fourth number.
“Let`s clear up things for Akaashi then?” Bokuto doesn`t calm down and continues to squirm on the stool.
“Broadly speaking,” Kuroo clears his throat with a cough, “due to circ*mstances beyond our control—”
“Atsumu shafted us.” Kuroo`s sluggishness tires Kenma: Kuroo is always spelling out the introductions, why not to say straight out? Kenma shares Akaashi`s doubts and sits down on the floor near his bass guitar, leaning against the wall. “Slipped away and left us with the song we have no idea how to play.”
“We do have an idea how to play it.” Bokuto stands up for the song, suddenly more serious. Akaashi is astonished to see such a quick change of mood. Just a moment ago, Bokuto was one step away from taking off on propeller drawn by Akaashi`s imagination. Now his face darkens and his voice lowers. “We`re just pressed by time.”
“It would have taken at least a couple of weeks just to learn it for our repertoire, considering everyone`s schedules, not to mention performances, especially competitive ones.” Kiyoko`s slender fingers glide over the keys without pressing them and play silent melody. “Moreover, Yachi won`t be able to participate, we stay without violin.”
“Somethin` like that,” summarizes Kuroo.
Akaashi glances awkwardly, his hands clasped together as he ponders the most appropriate response. “What`s the alternative?”
He remembers their collective rehearsals. The musicians were always reproved by "director" for their incessant stumbles, false notes, and "lack of performance wholeness". On a smoke break after the debrief Iwaizumi had threatened to "stick his plectrum in the bastard`s ass" so confidently that Akaashi had begun to stop questioning his intentions.
“We have one in mind… Have never played it properly in public—”
“Because Atsumu didn`t like it and banned it.” Kenma gives Kuroo eloquent eye.
“Despite that, we loved it and practiced without him.” Kuroo submits to Kenma`s rules of play. “Couple runs won`t be superfluous, but as it is, it`s ready.”
“Then why did you call me if you`ve made up your mind?” Akaashi raises his eyebrow questioningly.
However, none of the musicians gives him a strong argument. Kuroo evasively fiddles with his phone, Kenma gets intrigued by the swollen board, which he immediately begins to scratch, and Bokuto`s face gives Akaashi impression that his skull is inhabited by nothing but a cymbal-banging monkey. Even the sanest Kiyoko stops playing her mute melody.
“It doesn`t befit the knight to serenade without the princess!”
All present turn around to the deafening slam of the door, followed by Kiyoko`s shaking fist at Iwaizumi, who puffs and pants from the rush. Noticing the indignant at the excessive noise keyboardist, Iwaizumi puts on an extremely guilty look, apologizing for his misstep. Tiny drops of sweat drip down his temples, a hastily zipped turquoise-white training bag hangs on his right shoulder, his spiky hair doesn`t behave and doesn`t fix under his engorged palm.
“Iwa!” exclaims Bokuto, either cheerfully or offended, holds out his free of his drumstick hand with the intention to high-five him and playfully pokes in the ribs at the same time. Dodging the attack, Iwaizumi perks up.
“Huh? Did I say something wrong?” he picks up the cream-coloured guitar by the fingerboard and fastens the strap over his shoulder in one motion. “Tuned?”
“Yeah, everything plugged in.” Kuroo puts on the maroon one, and, not finding his plectrum nearby, checks his pockets.
“What are we waiting for then?” Iwaizumi strikes the strings and, pleased with the sound, looks expectantly at the others. “Bokuto doesn`t want his devoted listener to be mauled by the evil dragon Sakusa for being late, does he?”
“…`m not waiting for anythin`! I`m actually the readiest of all of you!” Bokuto ruffles up indignantly and backs up his words by a tricky break, after which he snatches with the corner of his eye any hint of reaction on Akaashi`s face.
Do you see me, Akaashi? Do you believe me, Akaashi?
Akaashi barely nods, so that only Bokuto could notice.
I see you, Bokuto-san. I believe you Bokuto-san.
“Then whack the tubes in the same vein,” cheers up Kiyoko, with her finger on one of the many buttons on the synthesizer, on high alert for pressing.
Kuroo waves his hand to stop Bokuto, who is about to bash the studio drums, sticks at the ready, and straightens the stand, that flatly refuses to hold the microphone at the height he needs. After a fashion, he figures it out, checks the volume, and gives the go–ahead to strike up. Bokuto counts Kiyoko in, and on the fifth beat she presses the button. The intro hit falls exactly on the first beat of the backing track, which Bokuto is overjoyed about, and he begins to whack on the instruction of Shimizu.
The rapid rhythm, set by Bokuto, and the backing track, controlled from Kiyoko`s synthesizer, make Akaashi sway to the beat like bobblehead owl with cartoonishly bulging eyes that stands on the dashboard of the used white Kia. Kuroo`s gloomy, guttural voice mesmerizes, implores, beckons with tantalizing bliss, while jerky riffs under Iwaizumi`s fingers with peeling cheap black nail polish keep him in suspense and prevent from losing himself in the hypnotizing timbre. Akaashi overpowers himself and dares to look at Bokuto and—
Oh.
Oh.
There is no world outside the drum kit for Bokuto. His sticks keep each other’s paces on cymbals and membranes, his feet do the same on pedals. The hems of his shirt`s sleeves ride up slightly, exposing the tense muscles of his biceps. Akaashi swallows unconsciously as he watches them contract. At the accents, Bokuto raises his arms higher, revealing more skin, to deliver with previously restrained force one punch to the gut after another.
His pupils race, they control the movement of the sticks on the kit. His eyes flame with the kind of sparks that burns Amazon rain forests to ashes, the kind of sparks that lights up Bengal lights on Christmas Eve, the kind of sparks that lost travelers use to determine the North in the night sky.
Bokuto Kotarou`s eyes light that spark that has never flashed for once over Akaashi Keiji`s lighter, no matter how hard he tried to shield it with his hand from the wind.
Sparks like that don`t light chocolate flavoured cigarettes.
Sparks like that flame up during the supernova explosion.
Akaashi finds himself choked by a warm, clammy feeling that clenches his chest, its creeping vines, clinging to his ribs and knotting dead knots between them, encasing his heart in an impenetrable cocoon. The heart resists, breaks through the blockade, but at the final notes it surrenders. It thumps to the rhythm of Bokuto`s knockouts, howls in unison with Kuroo`s velvet legato, barks simultaneously with Iwaizumi`s riffs, clamps and unclamps its valves at the command of Kiyoko`s manicured, aristocratic fingertips and Kenma`s tenacious, nimble ones.
K. O.
They spend a few moments in silence, the musicians catch their breath from the performance, Akaashi draws shaky breath from the epiphany. He gapes at Bokuto, unblinking, unable to take his eyes off him, while Bokuto shivers, not daring to look up, scrutinizing the toes of his gray trainers, digging into the pedals. His former cheer evaporates completely. Kuroo`s delicate cough sobers Akaashi, and he comes to his senses, clutching his wet palms to the knees of his blue jeans and looking at the musicians in confusion.
“That was…” his throat ligaments fail, his voice brakes without uttering a word. “That was def–definitely better than… w–what you delivered at re–rehearsals,” he squeezes out.
“Like I said!” Iwaizumi and Kuroo shriek with a laugh, fistbumping.
* * *
Akaashi is taking off his hoodie and jeans—he had been wearing leggings and the tank top under his street clothes all day—when two messages pop up on his phone screen, almost together:
From: Bokuto Kotarou 18:42
thx for coming!
From: Bokuto Kotarou 18:42
it was soo coooool!
From: Bokuto Kotarou 18:43
should do that again!!
From: Kozume Kenma 18:43
thanks for today. it was important to bokuto that you were the first one to hear us play this song
From: Kozume Kenma 18:43
not a word to him that i told you about that.
Both messages Akaashi leaves on read, assuring himself that it`s time to warm up.
Fifteen minutes prior to the rehearsal start and the empty big hall beg to differ.
* * *
“Man, you don`t get it!” Bokuto wails and throws his hands up to the cloudy sky.
A smoke break brought the musicians who had lingered after rehearsal back to the sudden crush of one of them. And "one of them" doesn`t imply Kuroo.
“Yeah, bro, I don`t get this sh*t.” Kuroo exhales tiredly and rolls his eyes. “You`ve seen him for the first time in your life, and already act like you gonna marry him tomorrow.”
“Would be great…” Bokuto babbles dreamily, pulling out the inside pockets of his favorite jacket.
“You don`t know anything about him: neither faculty, nor department.” It`s dead end to talk to the friend, who doesn`t think about anything but his newfound object of his heart`s worship. “Maybe he doesn`t even study here and is a random off the street who decided to drink some coffee.”
“Man, you don`t get it!” whings Bokuto, swaying impatiently from heel to toe. “I feel his vibe!”
Second year is just around the corner, and Bokuto is already asking for trouble. He would have become an honor student, if he had had the same attitude towards studying.
“What did you say his name was?” Kuroo takes pity on the frowning "Romeo" and plays along with him.
“Something with 'a'…” Bokuto dives into the depths of his memory. “Ak– No… Yes?... Wait! Akashi?... Suga called him something like that… But what I do remember is that he ordered cedar latte! Sugar-free!”
“Only you couldn`t remember the name,” Kuroo laughs out loud, miraculously not choking on nicotine. The attempt goes down in flames, and all pity to his friend instantly fades away. “Unlike the order.”
“Man, you don`t get it! Love is blind!” Bokuto stamps his foot and steps into a puddle, kicking the water up.
“As well as hatred.”
“His name isn`t as important as how I`ll make him fall in love with me!” Bokuto`s scowl turns a deep thoughtfulness.
“What makes you think you`re his type?” Kuroo misses, and his cigarette butt falls next to the trash can, not landing on its target.
“Ma-a-a-an,” Bokuto spreads his hands with a face as if what he`s saying is common sense that everyone understands. “I feel his vibe.”
“That explains a lot.” Kuroo imagines irritated, watching the security cameras, Tsukishima and picks up the finished cigarette to throw it in the trash can.
Kuroo is greeted not by the sorrowfully pondering face, but by the excited about set for success idea one. Bokuto is rooted to the spot from amazement, as though an apple that fell from a tree on his full of sawdust—and since recently of the guy who ordered sugar-free cedar latte at the coffee shop near the main campus—head gave him answer to all the questions of the universe. Or to one specific one, which is a not bad thing either.
“Bro. A plan.”
“I fear for your Akashi`s life.” Kuroo worries about the health of the unsuspecting first–year who was unlucky enough to enter the coffee shop at the same time as enthusing over a dessert display Bokuto.
“No! Not like the last time!” yells Bokuto, and Kuroo pretends to believe it. “If he studies here—and he does study here, don`t look at me like that—it`s probably not his first time at the coffee shop, which means Suga`s shift must have fallen on his visit a few times. Right? Right!”
“It might be not right at all—” Bokuto shushes him with index finger on his lips.
“That`s right! First, Suga knows his name. Second, Suga does Omi`s shadow theater. Third, Suga`s friends with Daichi, Daichi`s on the same team as Iwa, Iwa`s in the same group with us. Which means,” Bokuto inhales, “I talk Iwa into talking Daichi into talking Suga into talking Akashi into joining 'Erebus' , we perform at the same festival in December and fall in love!”
“The f*ck?” Kuroo`s brain can`t process the information as fast as his friend`s jabbering and prints an error.
“Dumbass!” Bokuto bumps his shoulder and repeats, slower this time. “I talk Iwa into talking Daichi into talking Suga into talking Akaashi into joining Omi`s shadow theatre!”
“This is what it takes,” jokes Kuroo sarcastically, but "Romeo" who is on cloud nine doesn`t catch his sarcasm.
“This`s what it takes! Yeah!” Bokuto clicks the button on his keys and starts his car`s engine.
“Yeah… yeah-yeah,” snorts Kutoo, trailing behind Bokuto, who is a hundred percent sure of his plan.
* * *
Akaashi`s morning didn`t start with a cup of coffee, if only because he woke up at six in the evening, and instead of a cup of espresso to awaken he got his knee skinned. Which was no less effective but way less pleasant, because, as it turned out, when you wander to your bed in the dark after the first alarm ring, you should look where you`re falling, otherwise you`ll land half a meter away from the bead instead of face down on your pillow. After hobbling to the bathroom, Akaashi dresses his wound and bandages it, assuming the skin under the knee pad wouldn`t be skinned completely.
He stares tiredly into the mirror, mentally horrified at his reflection. The circles under his eyes scream about the lack of long and restful sleep, as evidenced by the burst capillaries in the corner of his left eye. His skin has taken on a pale, sickly hue that makes Akaashi look like his own shadow (ha-ha). After washing his face and freshening himself up, Akaashi checks his tote bag for his rehearsal wear and thigh high kneepads, and rushes out of his flat, almost forgetting his pass card on his desk in the bedroom, to which he waddled on his heels across the flat, still wearing his Nikes.
At seven in the evening, all normal people go home from work or school, spend their evening with their family or all alone. Trains are overcrowded with schoolchildren, returning from extra classes, busses are filled with passengers in white shirts with coffee stains on their office papers of secondary importance, hastily stuffed into business bags. The cab driver colourfully expresses himself at every red light and honks at cutting in at the last seconds of green motorcyclists.
A wistful thought runs through Akaashi`s mind about what it would be like to be drawing patterns on the fogged window of the used Kia, sitting in the warming his back passenger seat, to be listening not to the swearing of the cab driver, pissed off by traffic and the stupidity of other drivers to the accompaniment of car horns, but to the unrestrained exclamations about the new "so cool, you can`t even imagine, Akaashi—I can`t even imagine, Akaashi!—how cool he is!" coach of the university swimming team, boasts about perfected blast beat (whatever that means) and gossips about the Iwaizumi and Daichi`s basketball team.
“Here!” snaps the driver and dissipate his fleeting spleen. Akaashi clambers off his seat, feeling stern eyes on his back.
A quick, maimed stride carries Akaashi, who has never dreamed of standing out, down the crowded brick–paved street, skirting the clumsy old ladies and overtaking gawking passersby, toward the university building that accumulates an excited crowd.
In the thick of things, the theatre kids bustle, anticipating for the night ahead. The trio of Terushima, Kazuma and Takeharu bursts into laughter, picked up by the occasional laughs of Kamasaki, Moniwa and Takehito. Koganegawa and Futakuchi, as usual, bicker over.
The dancers stay close in a less fervent but combative mood, Goshiki alone stands as determined as if he is going to participate in a gunfight rather than spend seven hours listening to Tendou reproach him for a wrong move in a combo and correcting it to the point of fainting. Eita imitates their mentor and abstracts himself from reality, wearing headphones. Yaku is surprisingly calm, his features soften from casual—soothing—conversation with Shibayama, his voice lacks the usual coldness. The inherent strictness in the dancer`s face is replaced by a reassuring smile, and his hands, usually hidden in the pockets of his red hoodie, play with an empty can of energy drink.
To Lev from fashion club, as for a first-year who only recently has started taking part in such events, everything is new, and he dashes around from knot to knot, eavesdropping here and there. Akaashi assures himself that he`s looking around for his mentor, not for the white–haired crown, and—to his dismay—finds only the first one.
Sakusa is not difficult to find, he stands apart from the main crowd, surrounded by other senior mentors. Akaashi doesn`t know all of them: that one, in the beige trench coat with his hair pulled back in a bun, Asahi, is a head costume designer in the fashion, runs his student sewing association, with him and Daichi Sugawara spends gaps between classes on Mondays and lunch break in a cafeteria on Thursdays. The blonde girl, whose styling is always perfect, in the fitted cashmere coat to his left, Alisa, is a fourth–year marketing student, she stages runway shows and hones model`s technique. Tendou is the only one who doesn`t stand still, he dances along to the music on his headphones, actively gesticulating. Kita and Osamu are nowhere to be seen, they should be in the building with other theater mentors, preparing everything for the rehearsal.
“Looking out for your betrothed?” Sugawara`s hand falls on Akaashi`s shoulder, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he smiled, and Akaashi mumbles something inaudible in defense. “Musicians are already inside, they carry their equipment with Atsumu–san up.”
“Atsumu is allowed to rehearse?”
“Musicians got into trouble.”
“They`re always in trouble.”
“I heard they changed song.”
“They did what?!”
“One week before?”
“Neither talent, nor brains.”
“Gonna be fun tonight,” Oikawa drawls disappointingly, listening to the gossipy rumble of the crowd, and Akaashi, as much as he wants to, can`t help but agree with him.
Tonight is the last collective rehearsal, the day after tomorrow they do a run–through in front of the festival`s chief director, and Saturday is X-day. They are on the home stretch, the most difficult stage, consisting of quarrels, scandals, intrigues and endless practices. The stage when everything and nothing is ready at the same time, the silliest mistakes are made, everything calls into question.
“Let`s cut this out!”
“And cut short that!”
“No, we bring it back!”
“But cut out anyway!”
Akaashi feels sick.
Akaashi`s knee stings under the thick layer of ointment and bandage.
When they enter the university building, the musicians don`t announce themselves outside.
* * *
“Shoes off!” Sakusa calls out warningly. Ennosh*ta and Yamaguchi, accustomed to Kita`s cold tone, freeze on the threshold but obey the order.
Sakusa and Komori had brought the frame into the empty classroom before the students started streaming in from all floors, now they`re making sure everyone who enters takes off their outdoor shoes and doesn`t touch the frame.
Kiyoko and Kenma bring in guitars and wires from the lecture hall, reserved for their studio, Iwaizumi and Bokuto scarry around the floors, hauling bulky equipment. Kuroo and Atsumu`s argument over the best way to set up the combo amplifier can be heard over the lively buzz of the performers, over reminders for first–line dancer from Tendou, over adjusting their fineries Mika and Yahaba and over the screech of props, moving by Osamu and Aran.
Akaashi nervously rubs the edges of his kneepads and explores "creative mess" from the side. The energy drink he had thoughtfully bought doesn`t keep him awake, his eyes sting from waves of drowsiness. The compression kneepads press the bandage tightly to his skin and holds it in place, dulling the pain. As luck would have it, a ridiculously shaped scar will form on this knee.
Needless to say, Oikawa was right. Before the all-together run-through, they spent hours practicing the same thirty seconds, that will haunt every ‘Erebus’ member at night, and making the same mistakes. At some point, Sakusa gave up repeating remarks like a parrot and silently watched them squabble after another blunder: Konoha forgot what line he leaves the cloth canvas, causing collision with Yukie, who took shape, Akaashi himself joined Sugawara`s figure far too late, Oikawa didn`t calculate the distance and ended up too close — generally speaking, they are neck-deep into flaws.
No matter how hard Akaashi tried to concentrate and improve himself, he was mentally plunged into the meeting with the musicians. Their song has got stuck in his head, has settled in his playlist and played on his headphones on his way home, to classes and rehearsals. Bokuto with Kuroo had skipped their rehearsals on the weekends because of their own, and Akaashi had been busy with meeting deadlines. They had agreed to see each other tonight, but even here they have they hands full.
The excited, “Akaashi!” from the other end of the classroom distracts Akaashi from his unhappy musings, and he only discerns the nimbly oncoming silhouette as Kita, the director of their programme and one of the theater mentors, claps his hands several times, attracting the attention of the yapping students.
“You have had enough time to practice separately, we`re moving on to putting everything together. I beg you to listen to me and all the mentors carefully.” Kita`s voice echoes through the room. Even Lev, at whose back Asahi is finishing taking the vest in, falls silent. ”The shadow theatre begins, following by fashion, music and dance—each performance is demarcated by theatre, but you should already know about that. Sakusa-san, set the frame.”
Bokuto and Kuroo pick up the frame by Sakusa`s decree.
“Set it front side to distant wall.”
“So they stand backs to the audience?” Komori objects perplexedly. “What`s the point if no one can see the scenes?”
“This way we`ll spend less time taking out props—that`s our priority tonight.” Haggling with Kita is futile, the original genre mentors know this better than anyone and signal their members to change sides and Kuroo and Bokuto to go behind the projector once the frame is set.
When the frame is rearranged and f*ckunaga, nudged by Yamamoto, turns off the light, Sakusa connects to a speaker and starts a timer. Kuroo releases the beam of the projector, and Bokuto without delay puts a cardboard cut-out under it. Komori sits behind them with notes app open to capture mistakes and blank scenes. Sakusa leans on the edge of the table, with his arms crossed over his chest, and stares at the scenes and the poses of the performers, detecting flaws. Yukie and Rinko simultaneously stand at the edges and put their arms out as ledges at the height, required not to overlap Sugawara and Michimiya heads.
The shadows don`t run late nor lazily stretch behind their owners, the shadows don`t outpace the performers and don`t run ahead of the music — the shadows faultlessly reflect the movements on the canvas, missing neither the agile curve of the body, nor the smooth arm sweep, nor the fleeting confusion.
The shadow doesn`t demand soulful conversations and doesn`t beg for solemn oaths. It understands without words, it cuts with inky black gloom on the snow–white cloth without a knife. The shadow doesn`t attract thieves with its diamond shine—it cannot be stolen and auctioned for an unthinkable price. The shadow haunts its human for life, never retreating a step, tickles heels with its ghostly presence. The shadow terrifies with the bizarre contours of monsters under the beds. The shadow enfolds intimately in icy solitude and shamelessly exposes in public.
“Shirof*cku`s shoulder is lower than the top edge.” Sakusa dictates in an undertone to Komori, leaning over to his left shoulder, after a bit he adds, “Sagawara closer to the center, Michimiya must be to the left.”
The scene changes with the mood of the music, and as the tune picks up pace, Aihara sticks out her hip, hiding Konoha on all fours in its shadow as Kaori and Rinko leave the canvas down his back. Kuroo messes with cutouts and belatedly pulls out the right one, for which he gets a poke under the ribs and a hissed, “Stay awake!” from Bokuto. The response pinch doesn`t take long, but Sakusa`s shushing stops the scuffle.
“To sign the props,” Komori whispers to himself, typing the note. “With a black permanent marker pen.”
“Blank scene on 1:40.” Sakusa adds, peeking at the timer.
Akaashi waits for Sugawara to take shape and rolls out in front of him, blending into his shadow. With three seconds counted down, he completes the scene with an intricate hand pattern and his leg pulled behind his back with an admired sigh from Bokuto.
Akaashi has never been afraid of the dark. He doesn`t shy away from dusky nooks and crannies, nor does he turn on the light as he moves through the cramped one–room apartment at night. Darkness is just a shadow clot; the darker the shadow is, the brighter is the light behind it. The light and the shadow are united and interconnected. Light is the absence of the shadow. Shadow is the absence of the light. Presence and absence create each other.
Exactly with the musical accent, they melt in sync.
“Too far, leg crooked.” Komori`s fingers run sharply across the keyboard.
Rolling to the right, Akaashi stands up and walks around behind the projector. As he passes the audience, he hears Terushima`s hooting and Kuroo`s whistling, “Hajime, hands on the table!”
Akaashi turns to the scene and sees Oikawa on his back with his legs crossed in the air. If it weren`t for his hands, supporting his body under his hips, he wouldn`t have missed the opportunity to reward the musician who is insolently staring at him with a middle finger, but all he can do for now is drill Iwaizumi with a sizzling stare. Akaashi hums in sympathy, reaches his coulisse and picks up a cutout, ready to give it performers at the scene.
The second part of the run goes off without a hitch, including Konoha not forgetting what line he leaves. Sakusa and Komori exchange final remarks but, in general, are satisfied: Kiyomi doesn`t turn away, helplessly hiding an anxious look behind the rubbing the bridge of his nose hand, and Motoya doesn`t bite his fist, holding back his dwindling positive spirit. The performers break out of the final figures, Bokuto closes the beam of the projector, signaling the end of the spectacle.
f*ckunaga, without a hint from Yamamoto, flicks the switch, and the room fills with light applause and unintelligible whispers. While Hana and Nametsu, the dancers, reproduce poses with their hands, marvelling at the elasticity of the "shadows", the flexibility of the not-theatre-kids has an opposite effect on the teasing trio of Terushima, Kazuma and Takeharu.
“If you keep laughing, I`ll put you in their place!” Yaku disciplines with a bark the insolence of the theatral trio, applauding and showing Sugawara thumbs up. “You, Terushima, will get the tightest tights!”
The reproached theatral kids shut up cowardly, frightened by the threating dancer. The lesson that Yaku is not to be trifled with everyone learned after the accident at the first all-night rehearsal of the season: Yaku dragged Lev, who had been talking non-stop during the dancers` run-through and drowning out the music, by the scuff of the neck to his central place in the first line and forced the resisting teammates to repeat the run again to teach the "unscrupulous" first-year a lesson. Since then, Lev has kept quiet when he hears the first notes of music, and Tendou seems to have decided on the next head of the club after his graduation.
Sakusa stops the timer and shows Kita "00:04:56" on the screen.
“Very good,” comments Kita. “You have five seconds to get the frame off the stage.”
* * *
“Smoke!”
Akaashi takes a sip of energetic drink that Bokuto passed him through the crowd from the other end of the classroom. After doing their bit first, the shadow play theatre performers placed themselves on desks against the side wall and "hibernated": Aihara snuffed dreamily with her had in Michimiya`s lap, Michimiya rested her head on Rinko`s shoulder, Yukie and Kaori crawled from the desk to a window sill and buried their noses in their bent knees, lazily tapping their phone screens with their fingers, Oikawa leaned against the wall and picked at the shabby desk out of boredom. Only Sakusa, Komori and Sugawara watched the rest of performances with genuine interest and exchanged quite comments. Akaashi sat down next to sluggish Konoha and sleepily nodded, stubbornly pretending to be engaged in the process. Apparently, on a particularly strong peck, Bokuto feared for the integrity of his nose and donated him his energetic drink, which Akaashi found cloying.
Typical for such meetings farce tears the room, Akaashi waits for everyone to scatter to smoking areas so he could either take a nap or just lie down on one of the desks for a break. His head is fuzzy from commotion around him, he can feel his bandage soak with drops of blood from the open scratch. With his glasses off—and his contects forgotten on the bedside table at home—everything blurs and dazzles with colourful spots.
Two dark spots on the side argue in raised tones with voices of Kuroo and Atsumu, which is strange, because the musician`s run–through was one of the best. Furthermore, Kita found something to praise them for and approved the song change, which the music "mentor" disagreed with, but Shinsuke ignored his displeasure. The other one, the blonde, whose long, freshly manicured nails are visible without visual acuity, coos around the highest blurred outline in the room and fusses over several others, shorter ones.
A bunch of the friskiest—of course they are the most frisky ones, their mentor properly prepared for the "all-nighter" and brought two plastic bags filled to the brim with 0,5 aluminium cans—students merge into a single mass and flow out of the threshold. The bright red haired silhouette yanks one of them out—Kunimi, judging by the dark turquoise sweatpants—takes him by the elbow and elucidate something vigorously.
His glasses are left in the room where the shadow play theater inhabited before the collective rehearsal, and Akaashi isn`t eager to stagger blindly around the floors—to break his other knee is what he lacks for complete happiness. Notwithstanding that his spectacles are badly battered, the lenses aren`t as powerful as they used to be, and how much he would like to buy new ones, the gap between prices for high–quality glasses and the amount of money on his saving account put off the purchase.
“Wanna have a cig?” Sugawara has a bad habit of appearing quietly and unnoticed out of nowhere.
“No, I don`t think so.” Akaashi doesn`t pay attention to the surprised grimace. He`s not without fault either: if Akaashi gets a chance to spend some free minutes in the smoking room, he`s not likely to turn it down. In spite of the storm warnings the heavy snowfall, common sense and the risk of lung cancer.
“Guess who else isn`t going?” Oikawa purrs suggestively and points his thumb over his shoulder. Following him, Akaashi`s eyes meet Bokuto`s ones, he talks to Iwaizumi and Kiyoko but furtively glances over to where the shadow play theater is swarming. “What a coincidence! Wow!”
“True.” Akaashi says, unnatural being convinced of his correctness, but confidently intercepts Oikawa`s wrist and points to the other musician. “And guess who wouldn`t miss a chance to run after your ass, waggling his tail, to the edge of the world?”
Oikawa snatches his hand away and mutters something angrily, but Akaashi doesn`t listen to his grumbling, instead shifting his gaze behind him. Bokuto guides his shoulder towards the door questioningly. Akaashi shakes his head. Bokuto nods in agreement. That`s the deal: sleep is postponed indefinitely.
After convincing Sakusa that the two of them can handle the airing and damp cleaning, Bokuto and Akaashi obligingly "uh-huh" at his errands. Intrusive Konoha takes their mentor`s spotlight: he stabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue, mouth ajar, and moves his fist back and forth in the air. Akaashi doesn`t react to facetious Konoha, while Bokuto, who doesn`t have his iron self-control, snorts, stifling a laugh, but the loud snort breaks through and ruins Akaashi`s composure, making Akaashi choke on his laugh. Kaori pulls Konoha towards the exit before he could think of a more perverted gesture and gave himself away.
“Did I say something hilarious?” Sakusa’s strict tone sobers him up.
“No, Sakusa-san.” Akaashi clears his throat and straightens his crooked smile.
“Not at all.” Bokuto shakes his head, glancing at roaring from silent laughter Iwaizumi who had gone in search of sneaked out of the classroom, dropping his cigarettes, Kuroo and came back with nothing. Kuroo hadn`t been be found nor in the lecture hall, nor in the man`s room on the first floor, nor here. He hadn`t even respond to, “Kitty-kitty-kitty.”
“Don`t touch the cloth and don`t plug the projector in.” Sakusa finally commands, kicking out the crowd of onlookers.
Oikawa takes advantage of being the last one out and shouts through the crack of the door, “Don`t forget to show off your signature doggy style!” after which he slams the door. Akaashi, unblinking, hypnotizes the doorway where the cheeky man disappeared. Silence whistles in his ears, drowning out the pulsing of blood in his temples.
“Oikawa mentioned… some kind of style—”
“He meant no style.” Akaashi interrupts. “Turn off the lights.”
While Bokuto is fighting with the switch buttons, Akaashi, contrary to his mentor`s order, moves the frame away from the wall far enough to fit in between and turns on the flashlight on his phone. Having set up the makeshift projector and waited for the personal viewer to take a seat in front of the frame, he moves on his knees closer to the cloth, bends his left elbow and puts it behind his head, curving his palm parallel to his ear.
“Wow! Man! Akaashi, you are really a dog!” Bokuto laughs out loud. Realising what he just has said, he excuses himself, “I don`t mean you`re a real dog, I mean your style— I mean—”
“What about the next one?” Akaashi, confused by the comment, distracts him with second figure.
He stands on his right leg and places on its inner thigh his left, bent at the knee, one. His both hands` elbows circle his head and merge into a single shadow. Bokuto puffs thoughtfully, attempting to unravel this enigma, behind the cloth. Akaashi turns slightly sideways, the shadow repeats his pecking motions.
“Crane? No! No-no-no, wait! Flamingo?!” his jeans rustle on the tiles. “Ah! Stork!!!”
“This one will be easier.” Akaashi takes a breath and sits back on his heels, right hand tucked to his chest and clenched into a fist in front of his chin, left palm peeking out slightly from behind his head and pressing behind his ear.
“Cat! It`s a cat!”
Akaashi decides has entertained the musician well enough and changes sides, sitting down nearby. He could swear that even in the darkness Bokuto`s owl–like eyes are smouldering with unquenched embers.
“That`s cool as hell!” Bokuto persists, and Akaashi struggles to hold back a silly smile.
Somehow, he misses the moment when Bokuto`s face is only a dozen centimeters away from his, deep breaths through his nose fail to restore his racing heartbeat. The musician`s gaze sharpens, scrutinizing Akaashi`s expression, titling his head to his left and right shoulder, getting closer. Akaashi bites his lips hesitantly, the already vague face opposite blurs even more. Akaashi leans forward to finally cut the distance—
“Bro, have you seen my cig pack—” Without knocking, a tall silhouette darkens in the doorway, almost stepping into the room and immediately facing two bewildered pairs of eyes. “Oh, f*ck…”
Akaashi rushes away from Bokuto, who is taken aback by the shameless intrusion just as well, and scolds himself for shown at the wrong time persistence that caused them to end up in such awkward situation. The door rattles shut, Kuroo voices guiltily, “Bro, I`m sorry!” Akaashi shifts his gaze to Bokuto, and, met with embarrassed, apologetic for his friend look, hides his smile with his hand.
“I should go out to see hem before he blabs to anyone, shouldn`t I?” jokes Bokuto, rubbing his nape.
He`s called out by the insinuating voice.
“Bokuto-san, can I ask you a favour?”
“Of course!”
“Could you ask Iwaizumi-san to take in and out the frame on stage with you?” Akaashi pushes the frame against the wall. “Please.”
“Easy as anything.” Bokuto winks and retreats. Akaashi locks himself alone in the dark room with cursing his over–assertiveness thoughts and ruined knee bandage.
No one opens the windows. Rag and mop, shoved by Sakusa, aren`t used neither for their intended purpose nor otherwise.
* * *
“By cab with us?” asks Sugawara, praying to all existing gods that it doesn`t cost a fortune. The last thing he wants to do at the half past six in the morning, after countless run–throughs of the entire concert programme and classes in three hours, is to spend whole scholarship to get home. Oikawa, having put his rehearsal clothes in his bag, looks into Sugawara`s phone and, seeing the coveted price, victoriously throws his hands up.
“Come on, order, before it rises!” Oikawa says through teeth. He hoped that mentors wouldn`t set them free till seven in the morning and he would go straight to classes. Unfortunately for him, senior mentors took pity on them and ended rehearsal two hours earlier than planned: now he has to visit his flat before classes. Because of the inversely proportional amount of sleep and cans of sugar–free energy drink, irritation overtakes common sense, his arms shake uncontrollably, and his legs are so jelly he can barely bend his knees.
“Made a deal with Bokuto-san during smoke break.” Akaashi turns his back to Sugawara and Oikawa, almost crying at their good fortune, to change his black sweaty tank top for dry hoodie.
Predicting a flurry of witticisms, he grabs his tote bag and leaves the room, warning that he`ll be waiting on the porch. Akaashi is jogging down the stairs as his foot slips off the step, and with a quiet, “f*ck,” he flies out into the hallway where dancers and fashion members crowd, turning at the shadow theatre performer who nearly broke his nose. Ignoring laughs and compassionate glances, Akaashi limps straight to the exit, fumbling for lifesaving cigarettes` pack in his pocket. The turnstile beeps green, scanning his pass card, and lets him out the door.
“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto is the first one to notice the familiar figure, flicking his lighter and taking a drag with genuine pleasure, on the porch. Oikawa and Sugawara come out right after him, surrounding and drawing attention to themselves.
“Let him catch breath, they can barely walk,” Kuroo cools his ardour. It`s not that the musicians are less tired, but lugging equipment from ground floor to the fourth few times a night is no match for untiring somersaults on the tiles.
“You`re doing a hell of the things with your feet,” Iwaizumi whistles mockingly, tucking a half-empty pack into his jeans pocket, instead of greeting.
Oikawa grins and grits his teeth, “I begged Omi-chan in tears to practice ass to the audience. knew you`d appreciate it. Oh no, too bad, our cab is already here, adios!” Oikawa coos sarcastically in a high-pitch tone and, “accidentally" pushing Iwaizumi with his shoulder, rushes to the car.
After waving goodbye to Akaashi, Sugawara follows Oikawa, checking the app to make sure that it`s their cab. Their circle falls into silence, interrupted only by nicotine puffs of Iwaizumi and Akaashi and shuffling of Bokuto`s trainers on the pavement.
“We should leave as well,” breaks their idyll Kuroo. He opens the cab app, but is disappointed to see that the price ahs risen in seemingly short time.
“No worries, I`ll ride us home,” Bokuto says, overconfident for a man who`s slept last time twenty–four hours ago.
“There`re six of us, that`s first,” reminds him feebly Kenma, twirling an empty can in his hand. It`s hard to tell whether he`s slouching more from fatigue and desire to go to bed and sleep through his morning classes or from the bass guitar hanging on his shoulder. “We all live in different parts of the city, that`s second. And there`s no way for my foot to even step into the trunk like the last time, that`s third.”
“Why the trunk?” Iwaizumi wipes his eyes sleepily. “I take the front seat, Akaashi, Kuroo and Kyioko will take the back ones, and you`ll lie along on their knees. All we need is to hide you while passing cops.”
Kenma, too exhausted from the rehearsal to resist absurd ideas, capitulates and follows Bokuto, remembering where he parked his car, and Iwaizumi, finishing his cigarette. Noticing Kenma`s aggravated slouch, Kuroo suggests to take the case off his shoulder, and in case Kenma doesn`t want him to hang the bass on his own guitar–free shoulder—and Kenma definitely doesn`t want it—at least to hold it by its handle. The case is taken off—out of an urge to nip the unbidden concern in the bud—the stoop continues to curve his spine.
Bokuto slows down and waits for Kiyoko and Akaashi to pull Akaashi`s tote bag down by the handles and, smiling broadly, rushes forward, shouting to shy first–year, “Step lively!” Akaashi dodges Kiyoko`s penetrating gaze and stares down at wet pavement`s pebbles, returning her attention to the story about his philosophy essay, which deadline is in a week and he still didn`t start it.
Dashingly throwing guitars and bags into the trunk, the company proceeds to the most exciting part of their trip: seating arrangement. Iwaizumi shamelessly takes the front seat, slamming the door in front of Kuroo`s face as he jokingly throws his fist at him through the side glass. Akaashi takes a seat behind the driver`s side and presses himself against the door, making room for Kiyoko, who has agreed to sit in the middle, and Kuroo, who reaches his hand to Kenma, helping him into the cabin. Resting his head on Akaashi`s lap and tipping his legs over Kuroo`s, Kenma gives Bokuto the go–ahead and pulls his phone out his sport sweatpants, opening a dialog tab with redhead icon. Not wanting to deprive Kenma of his right to secrecy of correspondence, Akaashi averts his gaze to the window.
Sunset is in about an hour, the horizon is slowly illuminated by saffron spotlights of the sunlight that has been released from its nightly imprisonment. It has been raining all night and has filled the potholes (that Bokuto tries to avoid, even if he doesn`t always succeed and still splashes the sidewalks). The comfortable silence is broken only by the occasional car speeding along the empty lanes, Kiyoko`s steady breathing and the tapping of Kenma`s fingers on the display. But someone gets bored with it.
“This time, we turn on my music,” says Kuroo confidently, holding out his phone to Bokuto, who slows down at the traffic light, to plug it into the speaker.
“What made you think that?” Iwaizumi protests. “Whoever`s in the front is the DJ.”
“Said who?”
“Said me!”
“Said whoever snored the loudest!”
“Hush! Don`t yell!” Bokuto jokingly barks and turns back, leaning his right arm on his seat. “Akaashi! Whose music do you want?”
“Iwaizumi-san`s,” Akaashi glances softly at Bikuto`s dishevelled hair and suppresses the urge to smooth it back to its usual appearance. “Perhaps, a miracle will happen, and Kuroo-san will get it into his head that people usually knock before entering.”
Kenma, not distracting from his chatting, cackles and weakly pushes ashamed Kuroo with his heel, which he grips with one hand and, despite Kenma`s zeal to twist his shin, grasps it with his other hand, keeping his foot at a height that ensures its inaccessibility. Insuring Kenma from slipping into the space between the seats, Akaashi carefully, not to hurt him, pins his collarbone and ribs down. Kenma assists his efforts to keep him from falling and, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his oversized hoodie, clings to Akaashi and pulls himself up. dodging Kuroo`s grasping hands.
“Cops!”
Iwaizumi`s battle cry silences its participants.
Kuroo frees Kenma`s leg from air jail, Akaashi pulls him up by his armpits, and Kenma takes aim to painless curl at Akaashi`s feet, but Iwaizumi and Bokuto`s gloating laughter stops them from rescuing Kenma from traffic warden.
“Y-you… you—” Iwaizumi is unable to resist an uncontrollable fit of laughter, each gulp of air accompanied by strangled wheeze, “your faces— Ouch!”
The unstoppable torrent of guffaws cuts by a pinch on the neck from Kuroo, whose cheeks flush with indignation and resentment at having been so simplistically screwed over, provoking Bokuto`s cackling, which is quieted by restraining, “Bokuto-san, focus on the road,” from scared by foolish prank Akaashi. The erupted fuss wakes Kiyoko from her brief slumber and, yawning, urges them to quiet down.
Kenma resume tapping on the screen—demanding response, messages pile up the notification bar. Kiyoko snicks back into slumber, leaning back against the headrest. Kuroo, Iwaizumi and Bokuto barely audible wail to the baritone of the lead singer one of Hajime`s favourite punk bands, whose logo t-shirts, according to Bokuto, he keeps on the top shelves of wardrobe so that there`s no chance his dorm mates will stumble across them.
Akaashi leans against the window, listening to the chamber quintet`s blues, and his heart warms at the falsely half-toned howling of Bokuto, whose glance he catches in the rearview mirror, at the weight of the dyed hair head on his knees, at Kuroo`s crazy idea to teach Kenma a lesson for his mockery, at Iwaizumi`s prank, and at the closeness bordering on intimacy. The orchestra of sensations that sweeps through Akaashi`s body sends heat through his nerves and arteries to the pads of his fingers, electrocuting every cell in the path of the searing avalanche.
He fretfully wishes the time stood still, Kuroo didn`t wake Kiyoko, Iwaizumi didn`t unplug his phone with music blaring from the speaker, Kenma (who flatly refused to leave horizontal position after Kiyoko disembarked) wasn`t dragged out by his ankles. He wishes the moment, when Bokuto extended his hand in a gentlemanly manner to help him to get out to transfer to the passenger seat and handed him his tote bag he had taken out from the trunk beforehand, was relived over and over again. He wishes the button for seat heating was turned to the maximum volume, so that aching spine was charred by mechanised heat. He wishes…
The white Kia parks in the driveway under its flickering dirty yellow lights.
“I owe you something.” Says Akaashi, eager to prolong the moment.
The lonely one–room flat on the fifth floor will greet him with the freezing cold from the open window. Bokuto`s car will bid farewell in the midday sun.
“I`ve already told you to take the kneepads for good.” His hair is tousled, his brows furrow. “And no, you don`t have to pay back for that energy drink.”
“I meant neither the kneepads, Bokuto-san, nor the energy drink. I mean this.”
Akaashi slowly draws a breath, brushing away the shyness, and closes his eyes till they sharply sting. The touch on the not anticipating such turn of events lips lasts no longer that a couple of seconds, however it makes his cheekbones are treacherously glowing, his heart skips a beat. Akaashi imagines the worrying wrinkles of misunderstanding smoothing out, the startled brows rising, the flaming supernova in Bokuto`s eyes.
Before dazed Bokuto regains his senses, Akaashi frantically jumps out of the car. A frosty wind blows over the match–flashed Akaashi and strives to lick away with a refreshing breeze his glowing scarlet. Ignoring his bad knee, he flies up the concrete steps. Akaashi turns to see Bokuto staring out the side window, his eyes wide with amazement, his mouth agape at the lightning through him.
Akaashi`s guess hits the bull`s–eye, and the previously unknown feeling makes his chest heave with frequent sighs. Wide, cheerful smile spreads across Akaashi`s flushed face—this time not at all from the penetrating wind and rain freshness.
* * *
Iwaizumi met him while smoking.
There was no one else in the backyard except them—all decent students were either earning points in seminars or squeaking their pens in lectures, not choking on nicotine in the smoking space. A guy in a voluminous chestnut coat was smoking under the eaves, shielding from the rain, and scrolling on his phone. Iwaizumi pulled up the hood of his hoodie so he wouldn`t have to huddle under the roof and reached into his jean jacket pocket for the lighter, but instead he found a hole in the bottom. Soft, “There,” and lent lighter under the eaves distracted him from cursing to himself.
That`s how it started.
“Still can`t recruit?” Iwaizumi nonchalantly points lit cigarette to the flyer.
“Strange campaign.” Concurs Akaashi. “First time, I was offered to join by a barista at a coffe shop, then some random guy stopped me on the street and questioned why I didn`t agree.”
“You`re about Bokuto?”
Iwaizumi was amazed at the desperation with which he had been begged to talk a certain "Akashi" through Daichi and Sugawara to join the shadow play theatre. He pretended as if he heard about "Akashi" (who had to be lured into joining the club at any cost) for the first time, and obediently gave Daichi order–request, while mentally rubbing his hands and warmed up popcorn to wholly enjoy the show.
“Yes.” Akaashi`s hand stops halfway to his lips. “Do you know each other?”
“Play in the same band.” Iwaizumi shakes off the ashes. “He`s a drummer.”
“Did you take him off the street so he attacks other just like that?” Akaashi puts his cigarette out on the edge of the urn.
“No,” close enough, though. “He`s a nice guy, just with special kind of trash in his head.”
“I see.” Akaashi pulls back the cuff of his coat, making sure he has extra ten minutes prior classes.
Iwaizumi watches as the edge of the burning wrapper inevitably gets closer to the filter. Judging by reaction to their attempts to matchmaking Akaashi to performances in the original genre (and to someone else into the bargain), every Sugawara and Bokuto`s effort is failing, one right after the another. The image of the wistful, frustrated lover, sniffing behind the kit flashes before his eyes, and Iwaizumi decides to go for a little trick.
“Still zero percent attendance in your PE class?”
Akaashi has repeatedly grumbled about the overly principled professor of said subject who lowers grades and sets unrealistic standards for fit tests. This information plays into his hands just as well.
“Still.” Akaashi frowns at the dry pavement.
Satisfied with the response, Iwaizumi pauses, so as not to seem intrusive and repeat the mistake of his "predecessors". He is lucky in this regard: playing for the university`s basketball team offers advantages, such as permission to miss classes during intense practices before important games or mot to attend PE classes. And just because all university team players have this privilege it doesn`t mean that everyone who is exempt from PE classes is a university team player.
“I`ve heard, they get exemption from attending PE.” Says Iwaizumi casually and puts out his cigarette on the brick wall beneath the loose corner of the flyer, catching Akaashi out of the corner of his eye. It`s unclear for him why Sakusa and Komori didn`t add this fact in caps and bold to the advert. “Their rehearsals have equal workload as our practices.”
“Yeah?” clarifies Akaashi and looks at the flyer with much more interest than he used to. After getting confirming "uh–huh" he sinks back into thoughts.
“Worth a try.” Iwaizumi rejects a call from Matsukawa, who managed to oversleep afternoon classes and goes looking for Hanamaki, who was spamming their chat with idiotic emojis and whining about his stuffy, boring class.
As he approaches to marketer`s room, he makes a note that Bokuto owes him at least one case of beer, if not two, for his secret heroism.
* * *
Akaashi gives his badge to the politely smiling volunteers and plunges the twilight of the backstage area. The narrow corridor with countless doors to the shabby dressing rooms, leading to the stage, buzzes with the hum of the audience and the energy of wearing make–up students swarming around.
The performance is a matter of minutes, his knees buckle. Osamu and Aran prepare the props for the stage players who are gibbering their text in a frantic whisper. Pale, freckled and frightened by the stage shambles Yamaguchi helplessly rustles his lines, Kita uses his practised manoeuvres with his fingers to hook the microphones to f*ckunaga and Chizuru, who hide the wires in the myriad layers of their elegant costumes, Kogane and Kamasaki, separated by Aone, who has had enough of their acrimonious bickering, tease each other, sticking out their tongues.
Bokuto and Iwaizumi are tinkering with the frame, shifting the steamed cloth to the left and right under the guidance of Sakusa, who bends his stunningly flexible wrists with vitiligo spots on phalanges. Komori adjusts the scale of the projector`s beam to the screen, letting shivering from increasing confusion Kuroo, who rushes over to Atsumu to plug in wires into the combo amplifier, go and packs the cardboard cut outs, marked with black marker, into to handfuls: one for Bokuto, another for Kuroo. Kenma guards the guitars and clenches plectrums in his fists, Kiyoko watches the microphone stand and synthesiser.
A bunch of girls in black tops and shorts fix their low bundles with hairpins and murmur restlessly. Oikawa and Sugawara stand shoulder to shoulder but keep quiet, apparently recalling their figures and scenes.
Akaashi skulks between the curtains and lurks behind the plywood sets, shielded from the dancers, outlining combinations with a firm step on the non-slip flooring—which makes it much more difficult to rearrange figures and leave the scene, yet Akaashi expels his flustered mind`s depressive agitation. He curses the prohibition on performing, wearing knee pads: his knees are so used to the protective padding that during morning dress rehearsal they just resisted the unyielding stage`s parquet and he saw stars from the debilitating pain, managed to become a distant memory. That`s why, in free time, an expedition to the pharmacy for bandages and cotton wool was undertaken, and he implemented measures to resuscitate his lilac-purple kneecaps. People get used to good thing quickly.
His palms sweat traitorously, no matter how Akaashi dries them, wiping them with pressure on the leggings, dusty from every possible flooring. Someone`s big, warm hand lays gently on his bare (because of loose strap) shoulder.
“Hey,” Bokuto sneaks up—a lie, he can`t physically move quietly, rather Akaashi was so out of the reality that he didn`t hear the rumble of heavy footsteps pushing the nimble dancers out. “Not the best time to play hide and seek.”
Akaashi flinches in surprise and fearfully turns round, almost stepping on another`s man lacquered shoe, but, just in time, he`s caught by his forearms and held steady. Bokuto is dressed for the two of them: he`s dressed as it should be for someone who will conquer the stage and drown in applause. In contrast to his ironed white three–piece suit without a single crinkle and his hair sharply fixed with hair spray, Akaashi, dressed in his soiled tights with his hair patted with running water from the sink in men`s room, looks like a ridiculous backstage worker whose job is to hand out microphones to the artists on the stage, keep silent behind the dark curtains and hide in the shadows of the main characters.
“It`s not the best time for speeches either, anyway…” his hand tighten grip. “Don`t worry about it.”
Akaashi swallows loudly, chocking unspoken, “How much is it, dr. Obviousness?”
“Okay, never mind, I admit it isn`t a promising start,” Bokuto sights sorrowfully. “I mean… It`s sure not for you, the theater, well, the shadow theatre, I mean,” it didn`t get any easier, “to worry. I could understand if it were Aone or Kogane… but you! Hell, man, you guys are literally the coolest of us! You can fold your bodies like origami into dogs, cats, even storks! Akaashi, storks!” The chuckle at the sight of childishly enthusiastic Bokuto nervously comes out, the corners of his lips pull up a little. “Yeah, Omi has snapped at you in the morning run, but, believe me, by us it was just as bad! Kuroo and Tsum-Tsum were at each other`s throats so bad that Kita had to step in. Imagine that!”
Gossips about how Atsumu had been a step away from clamping Kuroo`s shaggy head between the drum cymbals and giving it a good banging had reached Akaashi, but he didn`t pay them any mind, given their unreliable source in the face of Lev, who heard from a deaf man told by a mute man that there was a blind man who saw a legless man walking on water.
“Anything can happen on stage, you can forget your moves or the curtains can fall, but still!” Although it can`t be told from Akaashi`s grim features, he marvels at Bokuto`s inexhaustible optimism and how he shines at the fantastic possibility of a backstage fall. “Just… have fun? Show them your signature doggy style!”
“Thank you, Bokuto-san.”
Akaashi ignores the last instruction, unlike Yaku, who "unwittingly" eavesdrops behind the plywood set and muffles his laughter with a fake cough. Big warm palms straighten his posture, giving him a reassuring squeeze.
“Break a leg, Bokuto–san.”
“Thanks!”
Tail of the blond coattails flicks behind the curtain.
Akaashi returns the strap on his shoulder and minces to his side of the backstage, squeezing past the dancers biting their tongues—Nozomi and Suakunami rub their black caps with metal rings on the brim—stepping by accident on Nametsu`s foot, slipping between Lev and Mika, dressed in the latest avant-garde fashions, and stopping beside Konoha. The latter grabs him by the chin and pokes him in the opposite direction.
Akaashi wrinkles at the finger against his skin, but easily forgets the discomfort as he discerns Iwaizumi, wearing black dinner jacket and red bowtie under his shirt collar, hidden in the echo of the projector`s light and zealously whispering in Oikawa`s ear. Oikawa adjusts the musician`s bowtie before letting him go and buries his fingers in his hair after Iwaizumi leaves. When Oikawa comes to his senses, he smooths his now dishevelled, styled with hairspray strands and moves his lips in mute curses.
Reflection on what he just saw is cut off by time running out, the announce their concert programme and applause of the audience. Konoha`s hand slips from his chin, and Akaashi, closing his eyes, concentrates on his breathing.
Inhale. To roll out, pulling up knees. Exhale.
Inhale. To join Sugawara`s shadow. Exhale.
Inhale. To count three seconds.Exhale.
Inhale. Hand at the accent. Exhale.
Inhale. To outstretch toe. Exhale.
Inhale. To melt in synch. Exhale.
Inhale. To change sides. Exhale.
They`ve honed every move hundreds, no, thousands of times, in spite of that, Akaashi feels like he`s forgotten everything and missed every rehearsal.
Akaashi feels someone`s gaze on his back. This "someone`s gaze" belongs to Bokuto, who squats, so as not to get his trousers dirty, behind the projector with cut–out figures on wooden sticks in his fingers, Kotaro. Bokuto, who sits behind the drum kit and pounds on the membranes of the drums and listeners, Kotaro. Bokuto, who regularly gets colds because he`s too lazy to blow–dry his hair after practice in pool and who refuses to wear a hat despite his illness, Kotaro. Bokuto, who shows off with his 200–meters butterfly personal best time, Kotaro.
“Do you see me, Bokuto-san? Do you believe me, Bokuto-san?”
No.
Not like that.
“Do you see me, Bokuto? Do you believe me, Bokuto?”
This "someone`s gaze" belongs to Bokuto Kotarou, who seemed like a naïve weirdo to Akaashi Keiji in their first meeting.
This "someone`s gaze" belongs to Bokuto Kotarou, whose supernova light draws the outline of Akaashi Keiji`s silent shadow.
“I see you, Akaashi, I believe you.”
The intro.
Three seconds till the accent.
The figure takes shape.
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