Twenty
And then, of course, Kuroo is the one who hangs up in the end. But this time, he says, “I love you, bro.” Even if it’s a little frustrated, there’s still a certain weight to it, and in the end, Bokuto replies with an enthusiastic and amused, “Love you, too, you dick.”
“Go back.”
Oh, he thinks. It’s this dream again.
“Damn it, Kou—turn back!”
Cold, pale fingers seize the sleeves of his robe; its dark colour is stained darker still with blood. For the umpteenth time, Bokuto thinks he should be more concerned with how the skin looks almost grey, but, as always, the first thing his dream self bothers to think is, beautiful. Images fly by his mind: the slight curl of thin lips that he, inexplicably, knows is almost equivalent of a laugh. Vibrant eyes, gunmetal blue with bright green flecks, twinkling in amusement. The thought of porcelain, the feel of smooth skin against his hands. Beautiful.
He meets those eyes now; the beauty’s dark hair is plastered to his face, his face streaked with tears. Those pale fingers press against a bleeding wound on Bokuto’s side in a useless attempt to stanch the bleeding. It’s useless, Bokuto knows, but even so, his dream self can never bring himself to push those hands away.
A pendant the colour of jade flashes before his eyes, hung around that pale neck. Bokuto reaches for it in a trance; the world around him dims.
But he’s not scared.
No, he’s…
Peaceful.
Something in him sighs.
Yeah, he thinks. That’s a good word for it.
The jade is smooth and cold to the touch. The blood on his fingers smears against its cold surface.
The male above him hurries to remove it, saying, “Take it. Take it back. Take it back and go, Kou. Go back.”
Bokuto’s hand closes around the pendant and he shakes his head. A smile leaves his lips. “What did I tell you? It’s yours, Keiji. I gave it to you. Keep it.”
Frantically, the man named Keiji pulls against Bokuto’s grip. His dream self recalls that he’s never seen the person before him quite as expressive as he is now; his tears are streaming down his face, his eyebrows furrowed. That ever-so-calm expression in his eyes is absent, replaced by a burning desperation and sorrow. Even a little anger. But mostly concern. Panic. Keiji shakes his head desperately. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. Take it back! Take it back, Kou. Take it and go back. Please. This…” He uses his eyes—those gorgeous eyes that remind Bokuto of precious—no, priceless gems—to gesture at his wounded body as they glisten with tears and desperation and panic and—
Oh.
Love.
“It shouldn’t be you here. It shouldn’t be you here!” His voice cracks, raises in volume, as his breath itches. Bokuto realises his hands are shaking. And the world is so dim. He can barely keep his eyes open. “It should be me. Oh, Kou, why did you—”
“Hey,” he interrupts, casting his gaze skyward as a lazy smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Keep it. Remember me.”
“No, no, no.” Those delicate fingers desperately form a seal for the umpteenth time(despite the fact that the Bokuto watching this dream play out like it’s a movie has only seen it once) and his eyes glow with power, but they both know that this effort is futile.
But love is a funny, fickle thing.
It doesn’t stop him.
“Stay with me, Kou,” he chokes. “Stay with me.” Desperately, Keiji cups Bokuto’s face in his hands. They’re warm, now. He wonders if that makes him cold.
He wonders if he’ll see his little jewel again.
“Don’t die, don’t die, oh heavens—”
“Hey, do you remember what we talked about the other day?” Bokuto interrupts again, forcing Keiji to stop his stream of pleas. “When we were in the woods. It was night time.”
His jewel chokes; the tears drop onto Bokuto’s bloodstained robe as he nods his head, his body too racked with sobs to give a coherent answer.
Silence.
Then, quietly, he says, “Remember them.”
And then he wakes up.
————————
He can never remember his face—only that jade pendant he wears around his porcelain neck, so vividly that it almost seemed as though he’s owned it, touched it himself.
Whether that’s about the memory of that pendant or that porcelain neck, the male has a nagging suspicion that the answer to that is both.
It’s strange, he thinks. That dream. It plays in his head over and over, invading his sleep every few days. Heartbreaking, at first. Tiring, now that he’s seen it again and again for years on end. He doesn’t know what Dream Bokuto is doing, doesn’t know who that Keiji—who he can never remember the face of—is, and only that he feels he was—is—someone important to him. It’s in the way his voice brings him in and makes him fall into some sort of abyss, some sort of deep well of bliss that he never wants to crawl out of; and the way they spoke to each other, like they were soulmates.
It’s just that Bokuto can never understand why, whenever he wakes up from that dream, he cries. He can never understand why his hand hugs at his side where that pain was so vivid and sharp before, as though he’s actually felt it himself, even though he’s never experienced a wound like that in his life. Even though he’s clearly never even fought, he can still somehow recall the weight of a sword.
And also why he feels that today, something big will happen.
And that it won’t be something good.
Am I really going to worry about this on my twentieth birthday when it makes no sense? He slides from his bed with a groan, then stretches. Nope!
Bokuto reaches for his phone; it lies on the table beside his bed. The moment its screen brightens, his eyes catch onto the countless birthday texts, sent from… well. Everyone, it seems. His Twitter is blowing up and jamming. His Instagram is useless.
He grins.
Feels great to be a celebrity.
Because Bokuto Koutarou likes attention like that.
His phone pings.
From: Rooster
You awake already, sleepyhead?
His grin widens impossibly and he types back immediately.
To: Rooster
Says the one with the constant bedhead
From: Rooster
Fuck you
From: Rooster
Happy 2000th birthday, fucker
To: Rooster
Can’t you type the numbers properly for once
Bringing his phone to the bathroom, Bokuto props it aside and reaches for his toothbrush. He (thankfully)has no matches today, and he’s planning to splurge on himself in style. Though, knowing himself, one way or another, his money would be spent on sports equipment or something useless. The sound of water running fills the room as Bokuto tries for the third time to open Instagram.
No dice.
Pouting, the athlete finally sets the useless and overpriced thing aside in favour of brushing his teeth and cleaning up. He styles his hair with practiced ease before getting out and getting dressed before reaches for his phone again.
From: Glasses-kun
Happy birthday
And nothing else. Of course. But Bokuto knows better than to take any sort of wish from Tsukishima Kei at face value. So, he types a reply in all caps, because he can and because that’s just how he is.
His mind flashes to the feeling of those delicate fingers desperately pressing against his wound as they glow in an attempt to heal him, but to no avail. That voice; so vivid in the dream but nothing but a whisper of a memory now, murmuring something incoherent that should have been understandable, but wasn’t. For a moment, Bokuto wonders if Fate is trying to ruin his birthday with the dream of him dying(again, because he dreamt it last week, and the week before that, and the week before that week, and so on and so forth). But he also finds himself wondering why he always clings to it like it’s an important memory.
His phone rings. Bokuto picks it up without bothering to check for the name.
“‘Sup?” Comes Kuroo’s voice from the other end of the line. Judging by how quiet it is on the other end, the athlete assumes that the bed-headed man is still at home. A part of him snorts as he thinks, and you slandered me for sleeping in! “How’s it feel to be twenty? I messaged you on the dot, dude—I can’t believe you clocked out at your usual time, as usual! It’s your fucking birthday!”
“Hey!” Bokuto warns. “It’s still a day. I need my sleep!” The sound of a bowl clattering on the table fills the room, followed by the clang of a spoon being dropped down next to it. On the other end, Kuroo lets out a curse; it’s breathless and soft and sounds unbearably old.
“You’re having a whole-ass party over there, aren’t you?” He snaps, like the old lady he is. Bokuto barks out a laugh and purposely lifts the bowl to slam it back on the table to piss the male on the other end off with zero regard for his ears as he puts his phone near the source of sound. As expected, when the athlete brings the device back to his ear again, Kuroo’s cursing at a million kilometres per second, and, honestly, Bokuto’s certain the guy has started using another language altogether. “Oi!”
“What?” He reaches over for a carton of milk, not bothering to keep that smug smile off his face and knowing that Kuroo can hear it even if he can’t see it. “I’m lettin’ you get a taste of the party! You’re missing out, bro.”
“I’m missing my fucking hearing is what I’m missing!” Kuroo hisses into the phone. Rustling on the other end tells the man getting his breakfast ready that the other one on the end is sliding back into his bed. The image of Kuroo Tetsurou falling off his bed with flailing arms all because of a too-loud sound prompts Bokuto to start guffawing on the spot.
“Quit being such a princess, jeez!” He huffs as he pours in the milk, then the cereal(it started out as a joke to spite Tsukishima, but now he finds that it’s a habit he can’t be bothered to get rid of; plus, the reactions he gets when he mentions he pours the milk before the cereal are priceless ). “‘Twas but a sound, my good sir.”
“Yeah, a damn loud one! You try clanging some fucking bowl or whatever on the table or counter or whatever next to your own ear and tell me how you feel!” Kuroo snaps.
“You’re such a baaaaby,” Bokuto drags, amused as he scoops up a bite. He’s met with another endless string of curses(though this one more for the sake of it than actual anger). “I’m friends with an infant!”
“I’m older than you—”
“My birthday is today, and yours isn’t until November!”
“—and you still treat me like I’m not!”
“I am though?”
“Why do I bother?”
“What?”
“What?”
Silence.
And then, together, “What?”
And then they’re laughing. Bokuto’s shoulders shake and he has to painfully swallow the food in his mouth to avoid spitting out both the milk and bits of cereal as his hands fist and bang against the table. This, paired with the sound of Kuroo’s boisterous and unrestrained laughter on the other end, prompts the athlete to wonder just why he was so concerned about how the day would play out when he first woke.
(He uses it as an excuse to shove away the disquiet in his heart, and the thoughts of that jade pendant and that… oh. He’s already forgotten his name. By the end of the day, he’ll forget that dream, too; it’ll be tucked away into some dusty corner in the darkest recesses of his mind, never to be seen again until the next time the dream finds him, because if he had the choice, he would never seek it.)
“Let me eat my breakfast, you dick!” Bokuto snaps finally as his mood calms(not counting the occasional chuckles that escape his lips because he’s never been good at controlling himself or the droplets of milk that have spilled onto the table from when he slammed his fist on it in an attempt to release his pent-up amusement). “Some people actually have all their meals! Unlike you! You’re probably still in bed!”
“Oi! Why is this about me all of a sudden?” Comes Kuroo’s offended remark; Bokuto can almost imagine the way he puffs out his chest, like a proud rooster refusing to take a blow, no matter how small the offense. Though he knows that the ravenette is by no means that shallow a person, Kuroo Tetsurou likes to act like he is all the same. Bokuto supposes it comes in handy in situations like these, where he feels he’s being “wrongfully slandered”, as he would so eloquently put it, accompanied by a string of curses dating back to Bokuto’s great-great-great-something grandpa, because the dude’s old-fashioned like that. The athlete is pulled from his reverie by Kuroo’s voice on the other end again as he asks, “By the way, you goin’ out today? Or are you gonna spend your day off lazing around at home again?”
Bokuto doesn’t hear that undertone of something in Kuroo’s voice. So he pouts, shoves another spoonful of milk and cereal into his mouth, and says, while he chews, “Hey! That was one time! I’m going out today, thank you very much. I’m planning to splurge!” He pumps a fist into the air, hyping himself up, even though he knows there’s no one to see it.
“When are you going out, then?” Comes Kuroo’s bemused reply. Again, there’s rustling, and Bokuto assumes that the guy is finally hauling his ass out of bed to get ready for the day. His point is, of course, proven by the sound of running water and something falling onto the ground, followed by another torrent of ineligible but indescribably familiar curses. “I’ll drive you. I don’t trust your hazardous driving skills one fucking bit. Especially today.”
He downs the last of his cereal and picks up his now empty bowl, bringing it over to the dishwasher. The bi-coloured-haired male squeezes his phone between his ear and shoulder as he gets the thing running as his mouth gathers into a pout and a groan leaves his lips. “Dude, you’re supposed to be the baby! Not me! Play the part right!”
“What’re you gonna do if I break character, huh?” Comes Kuroo’s smug reply. “Use your tiny fists to punch my shoulder and call for mother? Come, I’ll let you do just that. Uncle Kuroo knows best, Boku-baby. Don’t be shy!”
“I hate you.”
“Aw, shucks, you flatter me.”
“I’m hanging up!”
“Pussy — ”
“I’m doing it!”
“Oi! Hold up!”
His thumb hovers over the red button with the words END CALL written on it, but, of course, the athlete’s curiosity prevents him from actually doing the deed, spurred on by the strange sense of urgency—maybe even panic?—in Kuroo’s tone. So, instead, he goes, “What now?” In a mocking tone of exasperation. “I know you love me, man, but like, I don’t like you like that.”
Kuroo’s words are immediately reduced to dumbfounded sputtering. Then, like an exasperated aunt, he goes, “Like hell I’d ever get it on with you!”
“I’m going to hang up no—!”
“What the fu—just listen! You stay where you are. You’re not allowed to leave the house until I get there!”
And then, of course, Kuroo is the one who hangs up in the end. But this time, he says, “I love you, bro.” Even if it’s a little frustrated, there’s still a certain weight to it, and in the end, Bokuto replies with an enthusiastic and amused, “Love you, too, you dick.”
——————————
Kenma walks into the bathroom, fixing his large, feline-like eyes on Kuroo’s figure. His expression is not unlike someone newly roused from sleep(it reminds the ravenette of a newborn kitten, really), but his gaze is as keen and unnerving as ever as he leans his forehead against the taller’s broad back. There’s silence; comfortable and tense at the same time. Kuroo knows what his boyfriend’s going to ask, but he can’t bring himself to speak up. Like a coward, he continues to brush his teeth and wash his face as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary, despite his rushed and almost frantic actions, because, for as long as he has known Bokuto Koutarou, he has never been able to control him, and he doubts that today will be any different. He hates how this is a trait that’s never changed, but loves it all the same.
Finally, Kenma breaks the silence, his words soft but somehow cutting through that comfortable but suffocating blanket as he asks, “Why bother?”
Kuroo takes his time. He doesn’t answer immediately; instead, he wipes his face, strips off his clothes to toss on some casual ones and styles his hair as best as he can so he looks less like he just tumbled out of bed and more like he’s got absolutely no sense of style when it comes to hair to begin with. Then he sighs. “I can’t help it.”
“You keep doing it, but you know how it’ll end up anyway…” Kenma shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
The ravenette chuckles; something about it is melancholy. “Honestly? Me neither.” He walks out of the room and doesn’t bother to eat his breakfast; there’s no need for it anyway. Kenma trails behind him and Kuroo looks back, asking, “You coming or nah?” Because even if he’s rushing and Kenma seems like he doesn’t care, the fact that the pudding-haired male went through his morning routine alongside his boyfriend tells the ravenette that he cares, too.
Naturally, he doesn’t answer, but when the car door opens, Kozume Kenma slides in next to him, and, like always, with their hands held, they’re praying that everything will be fine, that no, it won’t turn out like last time.
Because it can’t.
But no one can control the will of the heavens.
————————
No one can control Bokuto Koutarou’s will, either.
He grabs the keys off the counter and sends a photo to Kuroo of the oh-so-dreaded outside world, and his barely-used car, because, if given the choice, the athlete would always take public transport for convenience’s sake. But he can still drive.
Barely.
But, hey, the driving license is there for a reason, and definitely not for show.
And, Bokuto tells himself, he’s driven before! Plenty of times! He’ll be fine! He shouldn’t be allowing Kuroo’s anxiety to get into his head! This definitely has nothing to do with that odd sense of foreboding he’s had since he’s woken up! Nothing to do with that dream, either, when he can barely remember it now ! Except for that pendant. It’s always that damn pendant that remains especially vivid in his mind’s eye.
He gets into his car.
It still smells new.
He sweats a little.
Stop being a pussy!
He starts the engine.
And then he’s driving. His phone blows up as Kuroo calls, and Bokuto reaches for it, his heart calming, because, damn, he’s still got it. This is gonna be a breeze. “‘Sup?”
“Where are you right now?”
“Driving to the mall. Relax, dude! I’m fine. Seriously, stop being a worrywart!” He makes a turn and rolls his eyes at a driver promptly disobeying the traffic light. “I’m gonna get myself those new shoes I keep yammering about—hopefully they’re still there.”
He can see the mall in front of him. Just a few more turns and he’ll be there.
“I’ll meet you the—”
Black robes. A green pendant. An inexplicable sense of longing. Bokuto’s head swivels to the side, to catch a glimpse of—of that something, of that someone—but it’s gone. His mouth is dry.
The fuck was that?
“Earth to Bokuto Koutarou! Hello! You still there?”
He shakes his head quickly, gathering his wits as he drives onward. “Yeah, just saw something really weird. Anyway, I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, okay, but don’t you dare hang up. Keep talking to me.”
Bokuto raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t object. “Ooookay then. I’m gonna grab myself some McDonalds after this, too. And maybe some boba! To hell with my diet!” He grins at the thought. It’s not counted as violating “the rules” if his coach or dietician or whatever doesn’t find out, right?
Kuroo snorts on the other end. “What makes you so confident that I won’t tell on you, hotshot?”
“You’re my bro! You—”
Oh my god that’s a dog what’s a dog doing on the road like that—
He yanks the wheel to the side. Hard.
His tyres screech.
Someone’s honking at him and he’s trying to swerve back onto the road. There’s a lamppost in front of him.
But his eyes look in the direction of the dog. It’s run off the road in fear.
“Oi, Koutarou! What was that? What’s happe—”
He’s never called me Koutarou before.
A green pendant. Black, silken robes. Pale hands, unbearably hot, on his face, as someone cries for him to go back. Go back. Turn back. Take it back!
There’s the sound of metal being crushed. Cars, honking at each other. Tyres screeching.
And then it’s dark.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
——————
I’m alive?
There’s a sort of calm in his chest that he normally doesn’t feel. No surprise at all. But then his eyes catch onto the wreckage before him, and he tilts his head, thinks, no, that’s not right. Whose blood is that?
He nears that familiar car. Then, oh.
Oh, it’s my blood.
I’m dead.
.
I’M DEAD?
Frantically, Bokuto paws at his body, but his hands don’t pass through his form. He reaches for the lamppost; his hands go right through.
One part of him is panicking. And another part is…
I’m not surprised?
No, he’s…
Peaceful.
Something in him sighs.
Yeah, he thinks. That’s a good word for it.
Then he wonders why those thoughts are so familiar.
And then he wonders, again, why he isn’t panicking like he should.
And then Bokuto Koutarou, in a trance, turns around and starts to follow some unknown path, thoughts of his death probably making the headlines far from his mind as he thinks, I guess I’ll try to stay here longer than I did last time.
Even though he can’t remember when or what last time was.
Or why he feels like he’s looking for someone.
Why indeed.
And then four months pass in the blink of an eye, so quickly that not even he realises it until he checks the date.
Something strange’s been happening, recently. He’s been able to move things. He swears people can see him, sometimes, too. He even has a reflection! But then, when he looks once more, it’s gone. A part of him thinks, I’m turning solid? And another goes, that’s ridiculous! While some other other part of him—one he’s never had, says—not at all. And this part of him is calm, always. Taking charge when Bokuto’s faced with some demons and ghosts and whatnot that always seem to be out for his flesh. He doesn’t know why—aren’t they all the same? Ghosts?
The first week after his death, he spent wandering. Sometimes, he’d blank out, and then he wouldn’t be in Tokyo anymore. His death did, in fact, make the headlines, and seeing the words “World-class Athlete Bokuto Koutarou Meets With Tragic Accident” gave him an odd mix of fascination, satisfaction, excitement and unfathomable sadness. And a sort of bone-deep exhaustion.
His friends grieved a lot.
He made it back to Tokyo on his second month. He visited his own grave, which was abundant with flowers. Sometimes, he sees Kenma and Kuroo there.
Sometimes, he thinks that they can see him.
That’s when he started truly feeling the weight of his death. When he started cursing everyone and everything, because aren’t spirits supposed to be guided to the underworld unless they’ve got some grievances? What the hell is he still doing here? What reasons could he possibly have to make him stay in the living world when he has no friends to talk to, nothing to do?
But at night, all he can think, is, where are you?
And then, Who are ‘you’?
And now he’s here. On the top of a hill overlooking Tokyo; the lights are a gorgeous mix of colours, the brightness a stark contrast to the night sky. It’s a pity he can’t see the stars, but he supposes the artificial grounded ones are enough for now.
“What are you still doing here?”
The voice startles him out of his reverie. It shakes him to the bone. It’s so familiar. It’s too familiar. His chest swells with an inexplicable feeling and Bokuto whips his head around, hurrying to stand, his eyes wide.
Black, silken robes. Pale skin. Gunmetal blue eyes. And—
The pendant.
His eyes brighten.
The pendant!
And then, as though his mouth isn’t his own, he breathes, “Found you.”
And this man, he tilts his head to the side, and his eyebrows raise delicately as he asks, “Do I know you, Bokuto Koutarou?” His voice is soothing, cool, and it washes over Bokuto like his very first breath of fresh air.
He blinks, shakes his head to force himself out of his reverie, because that voice—that voice —makes him feel like he’s falling. Falling, into some endless abyss, that he’ll never want to get out of. “How do you know my name?”
The man takes out a book; it’s old-fashioned and aged, the edges creased and wrinkled. It’s a wonder how it’s still usable. “Bokuto Koutarou, aged twenty, professional athlete. Time of death: eleven eighteen in the morning, September twentieth. Your soul should have found its way to the underworld a long time ago.” He pockets the book. Bokuto realises it's agonisingly familiar. “So why are you still here?”
“Wait,” Bokuto says, after a pause, as the man’s words sink in, his gaze still fixed on that pendant hung around his neck. “You’re telling me there is an underworld? Are you a grim reaper, then?”
The male’s expression sours ever-so-slightly(but really, it’s just the slightest furrow of his brows) and his pale fingers close around the pendant to tuck it safely into his collar, forcing Bokuto to meet his cool gaze. “Not a grim reaper. An immortal official. And, yes, there is an underworld.” The male approaches Bokuto, tilts his head to the side. “And you seem like you’ve some grievances to settle before you can get down there. What are they?”
Bokuto shakes his head helplessly. “I’ll be honest with you, dude, I got no idea either. I’ve been here for four months.”
The man’s expression is puzzled. “What?” He appraises Bokuto, taking a step back to give him a once-over. “Strange. You’re gaining power. But you shouldn’t be?”
Something about the “immortal official”’s confusion stokes something in the former athlete’s heart. It’s an agonising sort of swelling, a sharp feeling so full but somehow so agonising that he has to look away. What the hell is going on?
“Say, do I know you from somewhere?” Bokuto blurts, unable to hold himself back. He fixes his bright gaze on the pale-skinned official before him, tilting his head to the side. “I feel like I should. Know you, I mean.”
The male crosses his arms. “You’ve the wrong person.”
The coldness in his tone is uncertain. Bokuto doesn’t know how, but he can tell. The smallest of things that he ordinarily wouldn’t notice when it comes to someone he’s just met—he notices all of them now, with an inexplicable, familiar fondness that makes him feel like something’s definitely not right in his head. Nevertheless, he pushes on. “But that jade pendant you’re wearing—”
“What about it?” The dark-robed male’s tone hitches defensively; pale fingers close around the object hidden beneath his collar. He tenses ever-so-slightly, like a caged animal ready to defend its treasure. It’s a little… pitiful, really.
“Who gave it to you?”
His face falls and he looks away. He hesitates, then says, “I don’t know. I just know…” He pauses, then sighs as his hand falls, once more regaining his composure. “It’s important to me. But it isn’t to you. Why do you care?”
“Is your name Keiji?”
His face hardens. “How do you know that?”
And then, something in his heart whispers, I know you.
But he replies with, “I don’t know either.”
“You can’t call me that,” he finally responds, folding his hands together beneath the long, loose sleeves of his robe. “My name is Akaashi.”
“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, testing the name on his tongue. Then he grins. “That’s a really nice name you got there.”
The gaze he gets in return is complicated. Then he says, “If you can’t remember your grievances, you can’t enter the wheel of reincarnation. I’ll help you.”
A pause.
And then, “And… I think you did know me, Bokuto Koutarou. And I, you. But I don’t know who you are. So you’re going to help me solve that mystery, too.”
And that's how the rusty wheels of fate start spinning anew.