Archive of Our Own

The scrape and scuff of Suga’s sneakers over the cracked, concrete sidewalk give away just how tired he really is. It’s all he can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, meandering through familiar shortcuts and avoiding the sickly glow of The Dancing Siren, a bar known for its rowdy crowds and cat-calling inhabitants.

As he crawls towards home, Suga tries to ignore the stickiness of his clothes and the ache of his bones. He wants a hot shower desperately… but he’d stopped paying the heating bill back in April to scrape by on rent, giving up cooking on the tiny, crappy stove in his tiny, crappy kitchen in favor of microwaveable meals.

Cold showers aren’t so bad either, not in the summer.

Besides, Suga doesn’t know if he’ll have much strength to do anything but tug his clothes off and fall into bed by the time he gets back. Daichi had been right — he should’ve canceled dinner and gotten some sleep instead.

"But then you wouldn’t have met Oikawa."

Suga rolls his eyes automatically at the tiny voice in his head. Not meeting Oikawa wouldn’t have been so bad — if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be walking home now in dirty, uncomfortable underwear.

But… he can’t deny that their rendezvous in the bathroom had been good. Especially not now, not when he’s willingly set up a second meet-up with a student from Aoba Johsai, the private college that outmatches Suga’s little community college in every way — with a guy whose life is completely different from Suga’s. So different that they never should’ve even crossed paths.

Even now, a good half-hour or so later, and Suga still doesn’t really know why he did it, why he let that invitation slip from between his lips.

Sure, Oikawa is hot… but so are a lot of other guys in this town. Not to mention, lots of other guys who wouldn’t have asked Suga out on an actual date after, who would’ve been content to go their separate way with nothing but the imprint of Suga’s flash of a grin on the gloom and the fading pleasure of a good fuck.

Suga knows the type.

Somehow, Oikawa hadn’t been like them.

"Two days at the old arcade, huh?" Suga thinks, scoffing as if the idea had been Oikawa’s and not his own.

Well, he’ll just have to wait and see — see especially if the pretty boy from across the tracks will show up at all.

Licking the corners of chapped lips and deciding not to think any more because his head and the backs of his eyes throb, Suga gives himself over to the steady, robotic motion of walking, blinking past the exhausted gunky film over his eyes.

Landmarks go by slowly, in a span of time that feels like thick liquid — the old, decrepit playground not far from The Dancing Siren, with its peeling paint and rusty swings; the small and tidy bookstore that Suga works at on the weekends, its glass windows crusted around the edges with sea salt and dark now at this hour; and beyond that, the far-off stretch of road that snakes along part of the coastline on this side of town, a ribbon of ink in the darkness. Not too far away from the small, private beach that Suga and Daichi love so much.

Suga averts his eyes quickly at the sight of it. A long, slow shudder works its way over his skin despite himself, despite how many times he’s seen it.

He’s always hated that part of the coastal road that wraps around town, that sharp and narrow bend by the black cliffs… and for good reason.

The locals had blessed it with a name long before Suga can remember — Breakneck Bend.

Accidents, too many to count, have taken place there. Too many lives lost.

The road is a death trap for anyone speeding or driving recklessly — usually slick with the humid ocean air on summer nights, too narrow and curved to avoid crashing into the metal guardrails and flipping down the steep drop to the water below on one side… or ramming into a sheer face of dark rock on the other. One tiny mistake, one little overcorrection, and it’s all over.

There are signs in place now. Bright, neon signs to warn of the danger. But they share the space with countless bouquets of flowers, stuffed toys, ribbons and strips of wood with the victims’ names painted across them.

And the locals claim that sometimes on windy nights, you can hear the screeches of metal on metal, the cries of the dying.

Suga scoffs at the notion every time he hears it. "It’s just the wind whistling over the cliffs," he always counters. "Nothing more."

But now, right now, with the heavy press of night all around him and the sickly, flickering yellow glow of the streetlights… Suga shoves his hands down into his pockets, shudders once more, and keeps walking.

And he’s so distracted with his thoughts, so eager to get home, that he doesn’t notice the sleek, black hulk of something approaching him slowly until it rolls right up beside him.

Suga turns at the faint whirring of an automatic window rolling down, at the burning ember-red of taillights bleeding over the dark road.

A car. It’s the first thing he sees. An expensive one too. Even Suga — who knows next to nothing about cars — can see that.

The next is the ring on the hand of the man leaning out of the window. It’s nondescript, but something about the polished gleam of gold draws Suga’s eyes towards it.

But it’s the man’s face — or more specifically, the way he’s looking at him — that sends Suga’s heart suddenly up into his throat. He’s seen that look before. He can spot it in a crowd, can pick out the people who wear it in a heartbeat.

That look had been his entire childhood.

He quickly turns his head, keeps walking… but the car follows and then a voice is echoing out into the still summer air.

"Sugawara Koushi… isn’t it?"

"Fuck," Suga thinks as his suspicions are confirmed. "Fuck you, Sora. God damn it."

He stops walking. Turns back to the car and it’s passenger. There’s someone else driving, but Suga can only make out a shadowy shape in the driver’s seat, a chauffeur probably. It only confirms the money practically dripping from this man’s smile — clean, bright spectacles sit firmly on the bridge of his nose, a hat shadows his eyes.

"Typical," Suga thinks. Where there’s money, his brother is sure to not be far behind.

"Look," Suga starts, struggling to keep his voice calm. Under his anger, a deep and dark fear is sloshing in the pit of his stomach. He’s been avoiding Sora for over a year now and yet this man is somehow here, somehow knows his name and what he looks like. He holds onto the sick feeling growing in his stomach. "I know you’re probably… acquaintances with my brother, but I don’t work for him. If he’s given you my name, he’s only leading you on a goose chase or distracting you from something else. I suggest you go find out what that is -"

"I’ve never met your brother." Again, the man’s voice cuts through the humidity like a knife through butter. He’s still smiling, but something about it gives Suga the creeps, a prickle of goosebumps over the back of his neck. "I’ve heard of him, that’s true. And I need him to do something for me."

Suga crosses his arms over his chest — partly to keep the chill that’s stolen over him from creeping over his skin and partly to seem intimidating, bigger than he is.

"I have nothing to do with my brother, Mr. …," Suga trails off but the man doesn’t answer, just taps a gloved finger against the windowsill. "So I suggest you go seek him out directly."

Hoping — praying — that this conversation had been a mistake, that it’s over now, Suga turns to leave. He hasn’t been contacted since he left home — is this man someone his father had known? An old family acquaintance who got lucky and remembers Suga from when he was a child?

More importantly, how did he find him?

And just like that, the man is speaking again… as if he’s read Suga’s mind.

"He doesn’t know where you live, does he? Your brother."

The blood in Suga’s veins goes ice-cold.

He stops, frozen, staring unseeingly at the stretch of empty road ahead of him. In his mind he sees a quick flash of his apartment — small and crappy, but his. Only his and safe, hidden away from his past.

How does this man… how does he… how could he know?

He’s about to demand the answer, about to scoff and call out this man’s obvious bluff, but the stranger isn’t finished and more words float over the breeze — words that Suga wants to snatch from the air and rip to tiny shreds as soon as they reach his ears.

"It’s a quaint little place, isn’t it? Number 311 with the peeling white paint and that lovely cigarette burn in the carpet just outside the door?"

The words die in Suga’s throat. They turn to ash.

"He knows." Two useless words that echo back and forth as the images of faded carpet with a cigarette burn and peeling eggshell paint drift through Suga’s consciousness.

His knees feel weak.

"What do you want?" The words leave Suga’s lips in a voice that frightens him — distant, detached, flat. Like gray snowflakes falling from the hoarfrost now creeping over his heart, falling down into the slosh of oily, black water rising in his stomach and numbing him from the inside out. He doesn’t move, not even when the man answers.

"Nothing much, really. Just for you to talk to your brother, convince him and his group to stir up a little… trouble, let’s say, around the old theatre down by the coast. Nothing too absurd. Just a bit of vandalism, drug-dealing, maybe a few fights here and there."

Suga licks his lips. He tastes sea-salt. Or maybe it’s blood from where his teeth have sunk into the new scab from his last fight.

"Why don’t you just ask him yourself?" he manages, knowing all the while that it’s a useless, last attempt to get this man — and therefore his brother — as far away from him as possible.

A few beats of silence hang and then drop like lifeless things in the pools of streetlights, broken wings flapping. This man is enjoying this, Suga realizes somewhere in the back of his mind. Enjoying the power he’s dangling over Suga’s head, a knife pushed between Suga’s shoulder blades, threatening to carve through muscle and bone in one swift shove.

And then, "Well, I know a little bit about family influence. He’s busy, your brother. But I’m sure a little visit from his estranged little brother will help tip the scales in my favor."

Suga digs his teeth in deeper. His head feels heavy, too heavy to keep upright. His fingertips are numb and cold. And he tries to think of a way out. His brain works as fast as it can to find a loophole, to find an escape route.

But all he keeps seeing is that dark stretch of Breakneck Bend, littered with memorials and useless neon signs. No escape. No other way to turn.

"Fine," he chokes out, hating himself so much in that moment that it sends a wash of white-hot heat over his head. "I’ll see what I can do."

"Excellent." Suga turns then, finally facing the stranger again. A slim, white card is being held out the window now, that gold ring flashing. Suga takes it but can’t read the words clearly over the haze in his head.

He looks up at the man who’s just turned his quiet life upside down… a vicious uppercut that Suga had never seen coming.

"My apartment…," he tries and stops, thoughts crashing into each other. "Sora."

The man shakes his head, smiles again. "Not a peep," he murmurs, drawing a slow X over his heart. "It’ll be our little secret."

And Suga sees it again, that look.

It’s the look he imagines sharks wear when fresh blood has been spilt. The look of a predator.

And then the car is gone, speeding off down the road in a blaze of sleek black and scorching crimson, turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

The creak of his front door echoes into the hollow space of Suga’s tiny living room.

His fingers linger on the lock once he’s closed it behind him. He keeps them there, pushed to cold metal, as if trying to reassure himself that he’s safe.

"You’re okay. You’re fine, shhh, shhh, I’m here." A memory floats up out of the dusky room. It’s Akiko’s voice. Suga doesn’t remember when or why but he can hear his sister’s words as clear as if she’s standing right next to him, whispering in his ear.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Swallows past the tightness of his throat.

"You choose to fight, you deal with the consequences."

Against the darkness behind his eyes Suga sees her.

Long, dark hair. Eyes like a doll’s, framed with generous, feathery eyelashes. A pink mouth and pale, graceful fingers that shift and tilt to make up a hand lying outstretched on a tile floor, reaching out. And blood on a marble floor and a scream somewhere in the distance and metal on metal and cold, cold, cold -

Suga wrenches himself away from the front door and sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

"Not now, not now, not now," he chants to himself, eyes wide open because he can’t, not now. He can’t keep them closed and relive that night. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t and the air in his chest feels like it’s being funneled through a needlepoint, barely enough going in and out, and Suga tries to slow it down but his heart is pounding in his ears and the linoleum is cold through his jeans and the white card has fluttered to the floor, a death wish on cream card-stock, and -

Suga scrabbles for his cellphone in his pocket. His shaking fingers slide and fumble over the slick plastic but he manages to dial the right number the first time.

One ring, two, three.

"Come on, Dai, please pick up." Suga digs the nails of his free hand into his thigh. He focuses on breathing, on the shrill, steady count of the ring of the line. He wants to hear Daichi’s voice. He needs to hear Daichi’s voice.

Four.

"Please. Pick up."

Five.

Suga hangs up before the voicemail can kick in. Breathes in, then out. Breathes in, holds it this time, then out. His lungs flutter like they’re trying to fly away and a broken noise leaves his lips, a whimper.

Daichi isn’t going to answer. But just the idea of him is enough for Suga to grab ahold of something solid in his panic. He breathes in again, holds it longer this time. Feels his heartbeat begin to slow.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

It’s the only thing Suga knows for the next countless minutes, hours maybe. Through his windows, he imagines he can hear the sound of the sea, water crashing into rock. A head-on collision.

But slowly, other noises begin to drift back in, as if his hearing has tuned to the right channel and away from the static — the hum of the old fridge, the odd creak as someone walks across the floor above him, the faint beat of music coming from one of the bars across the street.

The darkness in his head recedes, sucked back out to some far and distant sea.

When at last his breathing has evened out, when his heart-rate is a normal pace and his knees feel shaky, Suga releases the grip he has on his phone and it clatters to the floor. He unclenches his nails from his thigh, blood rushing back in to paint his white knuckles pink.

He stands up. Bends to grab the card between fingers that still tremble. He needs to read it. He needs to know who’s threatening him.

And when he finally looks at it, really looks at the measured intervals of letters and numbers stamped over the cream background, his heart gives one more quick, startled jump.

"No fucking way." The quiet words drop from Suga’s lips into the tepid air.

Because there, written on this card, is the name of the chairman of Aoba Johsai University.

And his last name is Oikawa.

Oikawa Itsuki.

Suga stares up at his dark ceiling.

"Oikawa," he thinks. "Oikawa Tooru. Oikawa Itsuki. Is he a father? Uncle? Grandfather?"

But no, the man in the car had been too young to be a grandfather. So father then. Or uncle. Maybe.

Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. Still…

Suga sighs, rolls over. He’s finally in bed, changed and cleaned up as best he could manage before his weak knees couldn’t handle much more.

And yet, sleep isn’t coming.

He keeps trying to shut his eyes but every time he does, he sees Tooru’s eyes in the bathroom. He keeps remembering the heat of his skin and the feel of his hands on him and it’s infuriatingly distracting.

Not to mention that he keeps jumping at every little noise.

Oikawa Itsuki knows where he lives. He’s threatening him. And Sora…

Suga pushes deeper down into the harsh bedsprings beneath him, curling his knees to his stomach. He can’t contact Sora. There has to be another way.

He can’t go to the cops. Who would believe that the wealthy, prestigious chairman of Aoba Johsai would blackmail a nineteen-year old? Let alone a nineteen-year old who can’t even dream of attending his fancy, private university, who works multiple jobs just to scrape by? What would he have to offer someone who already has it all?

Except… except, Itsuki obviously wants something more. The old theatre.

Suga knows the place well. It’s old and decrepit and sometimes the candy tastes stale but he had used to go see movies there all the time, back in high school. With Daichi and Asahi.

Suga frowns, watching the play of shadows over his thin walls. Why had they stopped? They had loved watching cheap films at midnight, going out to eat fries afterwards.

He spends a few seconds thinking and then gives up. Probably for the same reason that he hasn’t seen Asahi in ages — after graduation, they had all scattered like marbles in a pinball machine, too busy working on their newfound adult independence to keep up silly, old traditions.

Anyway, obviously the land is important to Itsuki. Suga can guess right now why. It’s right by the ocean and with all of the new development going on in town, it’d be the perfect spot to slap some cheap condos and apartment complexes down and then charge patrons three times the amount to buy. For the location, of course.

And even though the theatre is shabby, the couple who owns it will be hard-won to separate with it. Having Sora and his gang create a bad aura around the place would make it easier.

Sora’s face swims before Suga’s eyes in the dark. Silver hair and dark eyes. Eyes that had always been cold and flat, like rocks polished by the waves. Eyes that held nothing within their depths.

Suga curves his body tighter in on itself and squeezes his eyes shut. And then he imagines driving down the interstate out of town and nothing else. He sees the milky glow of the streetlights and the white lines on the road, feels that sensation of flying and the euphoria of leaving and never looking back, running towards something new.

And it works, the way it always does. Slowly, little by little, his body relaxes, thin frame uncurling along the thin mattress.

Suga’s breathing slows, his thoughts a hazy mix of Tooru, Itsuki, white cards and his brother’s laugh. Sleep is finally sitting on his doorstep, turning his head dark and murky, as if he is floating deep underwater.

But he has time to think one more thing before it claims him.

He’ll figure this out. He has to. He’ll find a way to keep his home safe.

He has to.

It’s raining this morning.

Suga ducks his head and pulls his hood farther up over his head. Not that it matters. He’s already soaked through.

The storm had come off of the ocean suddenly, while Suga had been busy training at school. It had hit the tin roof of the gym with a ferocity that had momentarily startled and then soothed him.

Suga has always loved the sound of rain on the roof. Closing him in, wrapping him up, shielding him when he so often feels exposed.

He sidesteps a puddle on the sidewalk now, shoulders his bag farther up on his shoulder, and makes for Higher Grounds across the road. Tetsu should be working today.

It’s Monday, Suga’s one day off. And, inevitably, his scheduled meet-up with Tooru. Suga sighs.

He hasn’t been able to shake the idea of it from his head ever since that night. He should’ve been sleeping in, should’ve stayed home and let his bruised body recover instead of tiring himself out at the gym this morning. His next fight is only a week away and rest is just as important as training.

But a plan has been unfurling within him since Saturday night. A plan that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A plan that makes it hard to just lie in bed and think any harder about what he has to do.

He had done an Internet search on Oikawa Itsuki — and there, in a photo from not too long ago, had been Tooru. Father and son, it had said in the caption, both dressed in formal attire and framed by the glittering background of some charity event Suga can’t remember the name of. Tooru’s mouth had been twisted down into a scowl, eyes flat. Itsuki’s face had shown nothing of the predator of the other night — instead, he had looked annoyed, his arms stiffly down by his sides, a good space between him and his son.

Suga hadn’t believed it at first, despite the physical evidence. But the more he had stared at the picture, the more he had seen the similarities between the two — the same nose, same eye color. That same disdainful curve of the lip, but for what reason, Suga didn’t know.

The rain continues to thunder down, smearing colors over the potholed street, glistening along the black window frames of Higher Grounds, and Suga pushes through the front door, trailing water all over the hardwood floors.

"Oy, whaddya think your’e doing, walking in here like a drowned cat? Gosh, you look horrible. Like you got hit by a car or something."

Suga smiles at the voice that follows the tinkle of the bell, pushes his wet bangs up on his face and slips his hood off, dropping his gym bag by the door.

"Morning to you too, asshole," he greets easily, saluting at the boy standing behind the front counter, a black apron tied around his waist.

Kuroo Tetsurō grins, automatically grabs a cup and begins to fix Suga’s order. "Always the same," he had used to say before realizing that Suga would never change his mind. "How boring."

"Morning," Tetsu returns, deft hands moving behind the counter. Suga pulls out a chair at the bar to the barista’s right, sighs and rests his cheek on cold granite. The coffeeshop is unusually empty for the time of day, but Suga puts that down to the sudden storm.

Besides, it’s comforting to not have to avoid people’s stares when they see his face — bruised and scraped, new cuts an angry red at his mouth or the corner of an eye. Suga hates having all of their gazes on him, staring as if they can look straight through the dark centers of his eyes down to the darkness inside him… down even to all the secrets he keeps there.

"Here ya go."

There’s the clink of porcelain near his right ear and Suga straightens, wipes rainwater from his eyes. "Thanks, Tetsu."

He rummages in his sweatpants for the few crumpled bills he has shoved in there, but Tetsu is shaking his head. "Nope, no, Kou, you look like crap this morning, honestly. It’s on me."

"It’s always on you," Suga protests, but Tetsu just shrugs and turns away, ignoring the money Suga is holding out.

"S’not my problem you always come in here looking like shit, is it?"

Suga frowns and then sighs. There’s no use arguing.

Besides, he knows how bad he looks this morning. The face staring back at him in his water-stained bathroom mirror had been pale, drained. There are dark circles blooming in smudges of purple under his eyes and his busted lip looks worse from where he had re-opened the wound the other night.

Not to mention the embarrassing slew of hickeys and bite marks left by Tooru all over his neck. Thankfully Suga had made sure to tug his high-necked sweatshirt back on before leaving the gym. God knows what Tetsu would’ve made of the sight but Suga knows that the questions would’ve been endless.

"Thanks, Tetsu."

Tetsu hums and nods and then goes back to wiping down behind the counter and Suga wraps his cold hands around his mug and takes a cautionary sip. His lip stings at the heat but it’s not too bad and he takes another drink, letting the warmth of the coffee and steamed milk unfurl in his belly.

As he drinks, the two of them lapse into a comfortable silence. Suga watches the rain lash against the front windows and lets his brain go blank. People rush to and fro on the sidewalk outside, umbrellas glistening, shoes splashing up dirty puddles of water. Headlights cut through the gloom in watery slices of brightness and the flickering neon sign on the drugstore across the road bleeds neon through the downpour.

He thinks then of the old arcade, of his secret spot up on the roof, and he prays that the rain stops before tonight.

He has to meet Tooru. He has to.

Suga takes another sip of coffee, averts his eyes from the rain to Tetsu instead. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Tetsu is busy, a few more drenched patrons suddenly whisking through the front door, but Suga lets himself think about his friend instead of the boy from Aoba Johsai.

Tetsu and him go way back. Well, kind of.

After high school, Suga had run away from home. He had found his small apartment, had had enough saved up over past summers working and his street fights to lay down a few month’s rent, and had suddenly found himself alone and free in a world he had never dared to dream of. Free from his father and Sora and the suffocating walls of his childhood home. Free to make his own path.

He had enrolled in the local community college, Karasuno City College, under a fake name — the same one he had rented his apartment under. It hadn’t been hard to get fake IDs, fake papers, not after growing up in the world he had been raised in. And he had a few safe, personal connections outside of Sora and his father’s network.

And he had met Tetsu here, in Higher Grounds, as soon as his first semester had started. Tetsu had been his first friend in his new life, the first person he had actually told his real name to because Higher Grounds was far enough away from Suga’s family’s reach that he hadn’t felt the need to lie. Just his first name though.

No reason to invite trouble in, after all.

And ever since then he’s been coming here, drinking coffee and letting the weights and worries of his past and his present drift away into the dregs. Tetsu listens to him talk about his fights, about school. Sometimes Tetsu works the night shift and Suga stays until the shop’s closed up and they sit at a table and drink coffee and chat late into the night.

Suga takes another sip of his order as he reminisces and then his eye lands on Tetsu’s wallet sticking out of his back pocket. There’s a keychain dangling from it, a familiar piece of round metal with a familiar emblem carved into it — a red background with five black claws outspread in a black paw. Cat claws.

Tetsu goes to Nekoma Prep, another smaller college farther north. The same college Daichi attends because it’s closest to his house.

Suga’s asked both of them whether they’ve run into each other on campus but they haven’t yet. Tetsu always says he’s never heard of a Sawamura and Daichi always shrugs and says he’s maybe heard of a Kuroo who runs the school’s student council, but he’s never met him.

Suga’s been planning on introducing them himself, but somehow he’s never found the opportunity.

"I’ll have to invite Tetsu over to The Scruffy Cat sometime, I’m sure Daichi wouldn’t mind." Deciding that he’ll do it soon, Suga focuses on finishing his coffee, letting the caffeine wake him up a little although it only makes the dull ache of a headache behind his eyes worse. Outside the rain has gotten heavier, drumming on the roof, spattering down from the gutters and spraying unlucky passerby.

"Two days at the old arcade."

Suga sighs inwardly, his peace shattered once more. He’s tried running from his thoughts since last night when the idea had fully taken shape — while he lied in bed and held his breath every time the wind rattled the windows or an old pipe creaked in the walls.

He’d tried to run from it this morning in the gym, had tired himself out practicing punches on the old bag in the corner and had taken a long, hot shower in the locker room, a luxury he didn’t have at home at the moment. The warmth of the water had distracted him for a little bit, turning the sharp aches and pains in his joints and over his skin to dull, distant memories.

But then, as he had been getting dressed, he had remembered Tooru pushing him up against the bathroom wall, kissing him until he couldn’t breathe… and the small, tentative plan that had been growing in the back of his mind had taken root once more.

It’s inevitable. It’s Suga’s only escape and he’s reaching for it like a man drowning at sea would reach for the flash of a lighthouse. Even if it makes him sick. Even if it turns his stomach over and leaves his fingers ice-cold and digs sharp fingernails into his chest at the thought.

Tooru is his way out.

And Suga has to use him.

"Koushi?"

Suga whirls at the voice behind him. His hand accidentally knocks the mug over in his surprise, heart skipping a beat, but it’s empty and he manages to stop it before it rolls off the edge of the bar.

What he can’t stop, however, is the widening of his eyes when he sees who’s behind him. Adrenaline pounds and rushes through the veins at his wrists, as if the dark thoughts he had been thinking before are tattooed all over his skin, public for the world to see.

"Asahi?" Suga’s voice comes out cracked, tilted high with disbelief.

But it is Asahi, standing there with his hands down in the pockets of a wet raincoat, dark brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail and those eyes Suga remembers so well matching Suga’s surprise. A prickle of deja vu skitters across the back of Suga’s neck when he remembers his recollection of grabbing movies on late weekend nights.

And then he can’t help but smile.

Asahi’s here, after so long. And he hasn’t changed much at all — besides being a bit taller, a little broader around the shoulders, and sporting some dark circles under his eyes, probably from helping teach summer school or something. Asahi, unlike Daichi, had ended up going to Karasuno City College with Suga. But, like Suga had thought before, they had scattered like marbles in a pinball machine and he hasn’t seen him since last summer.

He realizes then, suddenly and all at once, how odd it is that he’s not been more concerned about the lack of seeing Asahi after graduation. As if Asahi had just been erased from his life and Suga’s memories along with him.

"How are you?" Suga asks, suddenly feeling awkward and confused. His brain continues to whirl even as he keeps the smile on his face.

Why hasn’t he seen Asahi for so long? And why is Asahi looking at him like that? Like he’s seen a ghost or Suga is sporting a second head.

Why hasn’t Suga been more worried about the distance between them? They’re best friends and that only brings up another question in his head.

Why hasn’t Daichi said anything? Surely Daichi would be just as bothered by this?

"It’s just been a rough year," the logical part of his brain cuts in. "You’ve been busy running from home, building up a new life for yourself. Dai has been keeping his family together. You know that. Asahi has also probably been busy. Friends grow apart after high school. It’s natural."

On some level, Suga knows he’s right. On another, he’s too preoccupied watching Asahi’s eyes dart back and forth from his face to the front door, as if he’s regretting coming over and saying hi.

"I’m…," Asahi begins and his voice is just like Suga remembers — soft and strong at the same time. "I’ve been good," he finishes, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. "How’re you, Kou?"

The sound of his nickname from Asahi’s mouth rushes through Suga unexpectedly, leaves him aching for something he can’t remember. He reaches for it but it’s gone, the memory melting away into the rain outside, swirling down into the street gutters to be washed away to the ocean.

"I’ve been…," he starts, but his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth. "I’ve been okay," he manages finally and for a second, something bright blooms in Asahi’s eyes. Suga stares at him, trying to figure out that look, that spark of light like someone’s struck a match deep inside him.

Happiness? Relief? Hope?

But Asahi is speaking again and Suga focuses on the shape of his words as they leave his lips. He feels, oddly, like he’s missing something, something big and glaring, something that’s important, that he should remember.

"I’m really glad to hear that," Asahi murmurs, smiling tentatively now. It’s a strained smile but it’s real. Even if it looks extremely fragile. "And how about -," he begins.

But at that moment, Suga suddenly wants to leave. Maybe it’s the rush of new customers suddenly swarming through the door, turning the small space claustrophobic. Maybe it’s guilt about not reaching out to Asahi before this or anger that Asahi hasn’t tried calling him either.

One thing’s for sure though. Suga has to go. He can’t breathe in here.

The feeling washes over him at the same time that the rain on the roof of the coffeeshop intensifies, pounding down now and causing a few customers to startle. Tetsu looks up, frowning, glancing out at the lashing wind and how it’s tossing his "Open/Closed" sign around like a toy on the front door.

"Dai’s good," Suga answers hastily, knowing that that’s who Asahi had been about to ask about. "He’s just busy with school, teaching summer camp and all that, you know? But I’ve got to get going. This storm’s only going to get worse. It was nice seeing you, Asahi. We should get together again soon. All three of us, like old times."

He reaches for a reason to explain how rude he’s being — now that Asahi has materialized before him after so long — but he can’t find it and the urge to go itches over his skin again, rests a heavy hand on the back of his neck. It has to be everything pooling together that’s causing him to feel like this… like the walls are closing in on him suddenly. Tooru and Itsuki and the idea of meeting Sora face-to-face again and the threat hanging over his apartment.

And that bright flare of light deep in the cores of Asahi’s eyes.

Suga grabs his phone from the countertop, stands, and only then does he look up at his old best friend — only then does he see the ugly twist to Asahi’s mouth, the gut-wrenching darkness that’s fallen over his face as if Suga has slapped him.

Grief. It’s written plain and simple all over Asahi’s face and Suga hesitates at the sight of it. His stomach clenches, nausea swells in his throat. Bewilderment nearly convinces him to sit back down because Asahi looks so sad, so lost, and it can’t just be because Suga is leaving. Guilt almost makes him stay.

But he can’t. He has planning to do after all.

And he’s already guilty of so many things.

So walking out of the front door and leaving Asahi behind in the tinkle of the bell as Suga bleeds away into the rain to be washed down to the ocean isn’t so hard to do.

The rain stops.

"Now," Suga thinks, "all I have to do is wait."

Over on Breakneck Bend, headlights flash over dark rock and the sun drowns below the horizon.

The moon is high in the sky by the time Suga leaves home. He locks the door behind him and tucks his key deep down into his jeans pocket, pulls his jacket closer around himself. The rain off of the ocean has left a chill in the air, unusual for this time of the year, and everything smells like brine.

He licks his lips as he climbs down the stairs to the cracked parking lot, weaving around old cars and passing beneath flickering streetlights. It’s quiet apart from the thud of music across the road, the distant crash of the waves on the shore.

"This is crazy." Suga wishes he could say it isn’t but he can’t. It’s late, way past midnight, and he’s getting ready to walk all of the way to the old arcade, a good half-hour trip from here. He doesn’t even know if Tooru will show.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.

"You don’t have a choice," another part of him whispers. "Do you?"

The answer to that question is clear enough. So Suga shoves his bare hands down into his jacket pockets and he walks.

The years have not been kind to the old arcade building, Suga realizes when it finally materializes out of the dark.

It’s sheltered in the back by a tall stand of trees, framed on two sides by other businesses that have closed down for the night. But years of neglect and weathering storms has caused the concrete sidewalk to crack and corrode, the wood slats to swell and expand with salt until they’ve splintered. One window must’ve been broken and is now boarded up with two thick sheets of plywood. The remaining one is so crusted over with dust and dirt and salt that Suga can’t make out anything inside apart from a few large, shadowy blocks of what must be old gaming stations.

Suga hasn’t been here in forever.

But he distantly remembers colorful lights and electronic beeps, the excited cries of kids and the sweetness of vending machine soda on his tongue. The last time he had been here he must’ve been eleven, twelve at the oldest.

And more clearly he remembers the ladder around the side of the arcade. The one that climbs to the top of the flat roof. He had been older the first time he had crawled up it, a teenager trying to find a quiet place to think.

Now, in the present, Suga steps carefully over a giant puddle in the sidewalk, its black surface reflecting his pale face and yellow rain-jacket back up at him.

He thinks, for a second, about falling into it, down it, disappearing to the other side.

And then he’s slipping into the narrow side-alley on the right, avoiding a pile of old newspapers, a few dusty bottles and a tangle of blue and black wires.

There it is.

Suga’s hand fits around the closest rung, white paint chipping off into his palm. He fits a sneaker onto the bottom step and then steps up, pulling his weight up slowly, cautiously. The ladder creaks a little but seems steady.

Suga jumps a little just to make sure.

When he’s satisfied, it takes no time at all to climb to the top, pushing himself up and over the low concrete wall at the roof’s edge.

"Just like I remember," is the first thought to pass through his head when he stands and looks around. There’s the wide expanse of white roof, sloping in at the middle a bit, dotted with vents and other things Suga doesn’t know the names for. There’s the small door that opens out up here from the inside, painted a dull gray and set into the side of the roof access, and when Suga takes a step forward, the edge of his sneaker catches on a few empty soda bottles and a shiny candy wrapper.

So he isn’t the only one who uses this roof after all. He’d wondered as a teenager if he’d ever climb the ladder one night to find someone else up here… another person lost and looking for answers in the depths of the burning stars above their head. Or maybe just someone looking to smoke a joint in secret or meeting up with someone at midnight… much like Suga’s doing right now.

Suga watches the knocked-over plastic bottle roll away from him towards the middle of the floor, shining in the moonlight and making a quiet rattling sound… and that’s when he sees him.

Tooru steps out from behind the roof access and Suga blinks, heart going from a steady thrum to the rev of a car engine in seconds.

He’s so surprised that Tooru is already here, that he’s on the roof with him — something even more out of place than the strange littering of soda caps and a chocolate bar wrapper — that he just stares, brain working to come up with something to say.

But all he can do is look.

Tooru’s wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, no sign of his varsity jacket in sight. Converse that look like they’ve seen better days still manage to gleam a bright red from his feet and Suga can just make out the thick, dark streak of what looks like a choker at his pale neck.

He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat at the sight of the boy from the diner.

"Get a grip," some snide, snarky voice says in his head. "You can’t afford to go tongue-tied. Who cares why he came? The important thing is that he’s here."

But Suga cares, on some level. On some level his pulse is racing because Tooru is actually here. He actually came.

On the other hand, a heavy weight has fallen over Suga’s shoulders. His stomach feels tight, mouth dry. Tooru is here. Which means Suga can’t back out.

Before he can think much more, before he can feel much more, Tooru raises a hand in greeting, takes a few steps forward until they’re only feet apart.

"Hey."

Suga swallows. "Hi."

Tooru smiles, the grin barely turning up the corners of his mouth and already Suga knows he’s screwed. Why does he feel like his heart is going to beat out of his chest?

Tooru takes another step forward. Suga stands his ground.

"Think of it like a fight." There’s that voice, finally floating up from the dark. The calm, collected voice that tells Suga what to do during fights, that he uses to strategize and follow and observe.

It takes a little effort, but Suga manages to grin back. He makes it loose, nonchalant. He tries to act like this is just another summer hookup, just another fling that he’ll forget about in a few weeks.

"But it’s really not, is it? If this had been just another one-night stand, then you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be planning to use him."

Ignoring that, Suga steps closer this time, and now him and Tooru are nearly chest to chest and he had forgotten how he has to tilt his head back just a little to look at the other boy’s face, had forgotten the sharp smell of Tooru’s cologne. And this close he can see other, finer details that come back to him from the hazy, fluorescent-memories of The Scruffy Cat’s bathroom — a faint smattering of freckles over Tooru’s nose, the feathery back and forth of his long eyelashes when he blinks.

Suga lets his eyes linger on the slender line of Tooru’s neck a little too long, watching the stretch and pull of that damn choker.

"You came," he says, mostly to distract Tooru. He can see the satisfaction already, curving the other boy’s mouth up as he watches Suga study him and it’s frustrating, how easily he’s distracted.

"Mm," Tooru answers. The heat coming off of him from under his sweatshirt prickles along Suga’s bare hands. "Surprised?"

Suga blinks a few times, peering up from under his eyelashes. "Draw him in, convince him you’re glad he’s here," his brain murmurs. Suga ignores the part of him that knows he doesn’t have to work too hard to act glad. There’s something unfamiliar fluttering in his chest — something close to giddiness, excitement.

It pushes out the guilt, turns the fear he’s been feeling over the past couple of days into something distant and small. It terrifies him.

"Not really," he says out loud, teasing even as his insides feel like they’re twisting around each other. "You were pretty quick to ask me out for a second date…"

Tooru smirks, scoffing up at the sky, and then he returns his dark gaze to Suga, eyes trailing over his face slowly. "And you were quick to agree."

Suga shrugs but he can’t help it. His smile grows wider, pulse edging up under his skin.

"I want to kiss him."

So he does. Or rather, he makes the first move.

Suga, against his better judgement — against every piece of him that’s telling him he shouldn’t, that this is bad, that he shouldn’t feel this happy, this attracted to this boy whose father is holding a knife to Suga’s throat, that he had had a plan and he should be following it right now — leans forward, hesitating, hovering, watching Tooru’s pupils dilate, studying him and waiting.

He needs this. Right now he needs to be distracted. Distracted from everything he can feel pushing at his back, dark wings flapping in the humid air and beating the back of his neck.

He inhales Tooru’s cologne, inhales sea-salt.

His skin is burning and Tooru hasn’t even touched him yet.

"Hajime told me I shouldn’t have come," Tooru murmurs, eyes dropping to Suga’s mouth, voice going low.

"Oh?" Suga asks quietly. He stays where he is, the air in his lungs threatening to leave him, the desire he had felt back at the diner returning ten-fold to wash over his head like a wave, sucking every other thought — every other objective — away and drowning them. Tooru looks at him like he’s drowning too.

"He said you’re dangerous," Tooru breathes, a small, rueful smile slipping over his face. His hands are suddenly at Suga’s waist, holding him. "That I shouldn’t be this far gone this fast. That I shouldn’t want you as much as I do."

Suga’s eyes widen then, flickering up from Tooru’s mouth to his eyes, surprise shooting sharp and quick and strong through the pit of his stomach.

He’s sure he misheard. He -

But Tooru decides that then’s the right time to kiss him and as soon as his mouth catches Suga’s, all wondering stops.

It’s slow, so slow, and Suga knows he’s fucked as soon as it happens, feels something hot and blistering bloom within his ribcage as Tooru kisses his lower lip, top lip, pulls back to look at him and then pushes back in again, slow and deep and lingering.

Suga’s hands lift as if on puppet strings to fist in the front of Tooru’s sweatshirt, his eyes falling closed against his will, giving himself over much too easily. But he doesn’t care.

And Tooru keeps kissing him like that, purposeful, covering every inch of his mouth, something that sounds like Suga’s name dropping from his lips. His fingers stay at Suga’s waist, every other part of him still besides the slow movement of his kisses, pulling Suga apart.

Suga’s heart crashes in his ears, his breath is hard to get back. He pushes closer into Tooru’s body, can’t help but moan, quietly, at every feeling that’s suddenly beating through him.

And, like he had been expecting it too, a switch flips then, the slow, simmering desire catching fire.

They’re on fire.

Suga’s only focus is on Tooru, on getting as close as possible, kissing him back with a fervor he didn’t know he had. He lets Tooru push his tongue past his lips, opening his mouth to let Tooru kiss him deeper, harder.

Seconds pass. Minutes. All Suga knows, all he wants to know, is this. The push and pull of the two of them, the heat building up between them, the pressure of Tooru’s hands and the taste of his tongue and how dark his eyes look whenever they part only to fit back together again.

And when Suga has to pull back to breathe, Tooru’s lips travel. He kisses over Suga’s cheek, down to his jaw, further down still to his neck. His mouth is hot and searching, his own breaths fluttering over Suga’s warm skin. When he sucks on a sensitive spot — probably one already marked from last time — Suga can’t help the little noise that crawls up his throat to be imprinted on the cool, summer breeze.

It’s embarrassing, his face flushing hot, how weak his knees have gotten, how hard he’s gripping Tooru to him.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on that because Tooru is murmuring something against him, his palms now pressed flat to Suga’s back to hold him flush against his body, and then searching for his lips again and they crash back together, a tangle of lips and tongue and Tooru kissing him so hard Suga feels it all of the way through him.

Suga wants him. He’s tried to deny it up until now but he’s drunk on this. He’s lost all rational thought in his head and they’re just kissing. It’s hot and messy and a desperate heat is building up inside him, but Suga’s felt desire before.

This, this is something different.

This is more like yearning. It’s a furious ache in his bones, under his skin, that makes him want Tooru in every way possible.

And the thought, as it hits him, is enough for Suga to freeze. To remember what he’s here for, what he has to do.

Suddenly he’s cold. Suddenly he feels the sharp edge of betrayal in his hand and the weight of lies on his tongue like ash.

He sees the flashing headlights on Breakneck Bend and the blood-red burn of taillights and the gleam of a white card and he’s afraid that all of that brightness is going to lay bare what he’s keeping hidden from this boy pressed close to him.

"Tooru," Suga whispers against his mouth, voice shaking just the barest bit. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what he’s planning on saying.

But Tooru stops, breathing just as hard as Suga is against him, the heat of his skin pushing through his hoodie and jeans to turn Suga’s thoughts to static once more. They keep their faces inches apart, lips still brushing, and Suga keeps his eyes closed, pushes his forehead to Tooru’s.

"Are you okay?"

The question wrenches in Suga’s chest. He’d almost rather have had Tooru shove a knife in between his ribs.

Finally, finally, he lets the full brunt of what he’s  been planning since Saturday night edge fully into his head.

This boy — Tooru, who had just come to The Scruffy Cat to stand up for his best friend, who had agreed to meet a complete stranger at an abandoned arcade in the middle of the night — is innocent. Suga had wondered, that first night, if maybe the whole thing had been set up. Because what were the odds? Hooking up with Tooru and then running into Itsuki in the same night, the chairman of the private university that Tooru just happened to attend? Not to mention that he’s Tooru’s father.

But his brain had put a quick stop to that theory. Tooru had only come to defend Hajime — because Suga had fractured his jaw.

And Suga doesn’t fight under his full name, just a shortened version of his first. There are tons of Kou’s in this town. Hajime, even if he were also somehow involved, wouldn’t even have known who he had truly been facing.

Or, at least, Suga can hope. Because if he doesn’t, then that means there’s an infinitesimal possibility that it had been set up. That Tooru is in on Itsuki’s business plans and that all of this — the fight, the diner, here — are part of some plan to back Suga into a corner he can’t get out of. A backup plan.

But isn’t the blackmail enough? Somehow Itsuki knows about Suga’s secret. Knows that he uses a fake name on all official documents and in places that Sora could track him down. He has him pinned like a butterfly in a glass display.

And that in itself is enough to prove Tooru’s innocence in the whole thing. Itsuki doesn’t need a backup plan. He has his checkmate — and the less pieces on the board, the easier, because that means less loose ends to tie up.

Suga knows how these things work.

"Hey." Suga’s eyes flicker open at Tooru’s voice, the chaos in his head breaking. "You feel like you’re a million miles away."

Tooru’s looking down at Suga now, still holding him close, and Suga feels odd suddenly, this near to someone else. Someone else who isn’t Dai or Akiko.

It feels alien, strange, frightening. Scarier still that Suga is letting himself get this close, so different from the hurried pleasure of before.

That had been normal — it had been quick and emotionless, nothing but a high they had both been chasing with no strings attached. Suga is no stranger to leaving beds in the middle of the night, to parting ways with someone and never seeing them again.

But he had already fucked up just by giving Tooru his full name in the bathroom. And now this?

The words leave his mouth, before he can stop them.

"How did you find me?"

It’s one thing that’s been bugging him since the night Itsuki threatened everything Suga holds dear. How had Oikawa found him at The Scruffy Cat? And so early in the morning?

Tooru frowns, confused. He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, and Suga speaks again, still breathing faster than he’d like. He tries not to notice the kiss-pink of Tooru’s mouth, the darkness to his pretty eyes or the wanting he sees there.

God, he doesn’t want to do this.

"At the diner. When we met. How did you know I’d be there?"

Tooru only pauses for a moment.

"I saw you."

Suga blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that answer. He’s not sure what he had been expecting.

Tooru continues. "I was out late, walking, and I recognized you through the window. I had been going there to eat anyway. It was just a happy coincidence."

Suga snorts, managing to keep up his facade of nonchalance… hoping it distracts from how he’s searching Tooru’s face for a lie.

"Happy coincidence, huh?" he asks and Tooru smirks, the desire making room in his eyes for something that sends prickles up and down Suga’s spine, dark and tempting.

"Happy in the end," he drawls and suddenly he’s close again, too close for Suga to study his eyes any longer. But there had been something there, something in his voice — not a lie exactly, but something hidden.

Suga files it away, smiles coyly when Tooru fits a hand beneath his chin and pulls his mouth back to him.

Cold fills the pit of his stomach.

He has no choice. He’s known that from the beginning.

Tooru is his ticket away from Itsuki and that means not allowing feelings to get in the way — no matter how he feels right now, in this moment.

He needs to get back on the board.

And Tooru is the perfect pawn.