Chapter Text
“How many, in total?”
“Seven in the past two months.”
“And you’re just now telling me?” Yamaguchi reached into his pocket, retrieving his cellphone. “That’s it - I’m calling the police.”
Kei snatched it before he could.
“I said no.”
With tired chestnut eyes, gray hairs peppering his otherwise mousy brown roots, and deep-set worry lines prematurely lining his forehead, Yamaguchi Tadashi appeared much older than his twenty-seven years. His body erred on the side of worn as well, too thin for his height with pallid skin. This job had him aging like milk.
Tsukishima Kei, in stark contrast, was a fine wine. He wore twenty-seven like eighteen, flaxen hair freshly toned and supple, porcelain skin remaining untouched by the ridges of stress and time that sunk his manager. Though this was less a reflection of nature and genetics, and more a consequence of his profession. Everyone's paycheck relied on that pretty face - Yamaguchi included - and thousands of dollars were spent preserving its marketability.
Even now, as they bickered, Kei's countenance was glowing from a morning facial treatment.
"Give it back."
"No."
"Tsukki."
Kei clenched his jaw, but he couldn't claim to be surprised. Yamaguchi was his childhood best friend first, and his manager second. Boundaries didn’t exist between them, and certainly not secrets. The fact that Kei had kept things hidden for so long was alarming, to say the least.
“You promised you wouldn’t make a big deal out of this,” the blond reminded.
“That was before I realized you’re in danger.”
“I’m not in danger. They’re just…” Kei gestured his hand vaguely as he searched for the right word, “...presents. You know, actors get them all the time.”
Yamaguchi ruffled his hair, letting out a deep sigh. “Not presents, Tsukki. These are threats.”
The threats in question were photos of Kei, and rather shocking ones at that. Paparazzi had caught the rising starlet in unexpected locations before, following him half-way across the world on exotic vacations and staking out his house for several days, all for the off chance of capturing that famous golden gaze on film. But these shots were different. They depicted places that no outsider should have access to: private film sets. They were blurry, snapped while Kei was walking or rehearsing or reading lines. Based on the odd angle, it was clear that whoever had taken the photos was doing so in secret.
And the images weren’t alone. There were letters, adoring in their contents. Trinkets too, not unfamiliar. Over the past several months, small things had gone missing from Kei’s trailer: combs and used make-up brushes. For a while, Kei simply thought he was misplacing them. But here the items were again, left in his personal mailbox to accompany the photos, wrapped carefully in paper and tied together with a bow, as if they were gifts.
Yamaguchi looked down at the collection now. They were splayed out on the kitchen counter, unsettling beacons of obsession. Even to the unknowing eye, the assortment was strange. A meticulously preserved pile of garbage, implying the sender had a warped perception of value.
“What else could they mean?” Yamaguchi insisted. “This person is essentially saying, I know exactly where to find you. That’s a threat, Kei. It seems harmless now, but what will you do when some creep sneaks into your trailer and assaults you?”
Kei didn’t say anything to that. He just stared at the floor.
Given the lull, Yamaguchi made another attempt to retrieve his cell. Kei held it up high, out of his reach.
“You’re acting like a child,” Yamaguchi huffed, nevertheless playing along and jumping up to snatch the phone back. Why did he have be so fucking tall?
“I don’t want the police involved,” Kei repeated, dodging him.
“Why not?” Yamaguchi asked, relenting with another sigh. “This isn’t some obsessive fan. This person - whoever they are - has access to you. We should at least investigate some of the staff on those sets. Maybe they noticed someone suspicious.”
Kei found himself wishing Yamaguchi was a little more impersonal and cutthroat, like his publicist, Akaashi, or his agent, Bokuto. They would understand where he was coming from. Certainly they would never offer unsolicited advice.
Not Yamaguchi, though. Because of their close relationship, Kei received exceptional regard. Yamaguchi joked with him, fretted over him, and understood him better than any stranger could.
At the same time, Yamaguchi had a troublesome habit of playing Kei’s mother, unable to separate personal feelings from business.
“We’re just about to start promoting Moonrise,” Kei admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “The last thing I want is some stupid scandal drawing attention away from that.”
Moonrise - in other words, his passion project and initial foray into the writer/director chair. Kei had been trying to get this film funded for seven years, since he first broke into the industry as a recurring character on a limited TV series, The Crow. People lauded his performance and he even won an Emmy for Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Drama Series.
But that proof of talent and vision wasn't enough to get the ball rolling. In the bureaucratic world of film production, you needed to know the right people, and only after earning the favor of Sawamura Daichi, one of Karasuno Picture’s top film producers, did Kei manage to get a foot in the door. Two years ago, his lead performance in their period piece, Allies & Enemies, garnered the company an Oscar nomination and record box office sales after a prolonged respite. In return, Sawamura vowed to support him on this new project.
An exceptional break that millions longed for, yet very few attained. Kei knew he was lucky, especially considering how quickly everything happened. Over the course of just three years, Tsukishima Kei went from niche character actor, to Hollywood's newest darling, and now, a multifaceted young mind taking on his newest challenge.
He wouldn't let this once in a lifetime opportunity pass him by. The future of his career depended on this film's success and critical reception. The last thing he needed was some scandal tainting the project and his name.
Yamaguchi locked his jaw, conflicted. Better than anyone, he understood Kei's feelings and desperation. But this was a matter of safety - something he wouldn't compromise on.
“This isn’t petty celebrity drama, Kei. This is a criminal offense."
“Like TMZ gives a shit about that distinction,” Kei snapped. “The tabloids will have a field day and you know it.”
“Well, what would you have me do?” Yamaguchi begged, raising his voice because the severity of the situation needed to be understood. “We can’t just sweep this under the rug. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something awful happened to you!”
The fear in his voice was visceral, and snapped Kei's mouth shut. His lips twisted to a pout, arms folding and eyes refusing contact. The same thing he always did when Yamaguchi was right and Kei didn't want to admit it.
Such pride and unyielding tenacity were assets on most occasions, taking Kei to new heights and earning accolades for his dedication to his craft. It was also something Yamaguchi deeply admired - the exact reason he had vowed to support Kei as a manager, all those years ago.
But now was not the time to prioritize his career.
"We are calling the police," Yamaguchi ordered.
"No," Kei hissed through his clenched jaw.
Another vehement protest was gathered on Yamaguchi's tongue, the words I wasn’t asking for permission, but the doorbell severed their argument. Kei's eight million dollar West Hollywood home was gated, with security cameras and the latest alarm system installed. Besides him and Yamaguchi, only two other people in the world knew the passcode to disarm it.
"Did you invite them over?" Kei asked.
"No," Yamaguchi answered. "But this is good - if you won't listen to me, then maybe Akaashi-san can get through that thick skull of yours."
"He'll be on my side," Kei corrected, walking to the intercom system and checking the front door cameras. Sure enough, Bokuto and Akaashi, his talent agent and publicist respectively, were waiting to be let in. Kei pressed a button and with a drawn out beeeeeep the front door was unlocked.
In the entryway, Bokuto's boisterous voice carried, "Keiiiiii, baby!! Where's my sugar??? My golden star???"
"We're in the kitchen, Bokuto-san," Kei replied, completely unfazed by the cloying pet names. His talent agent was just like that.
A sweet-talker, though every word was genuine. Half of the starlet's success could be attributed to Bokuto's uncanny affability. The man befriended anyone and everyone, worming his way into the heart's and pockets of bigwigs and reaping those fruitful relationships for the sake of his clients. There was no better connected person in the industry than talent agent Bokuto Koutarou, no name that roused more amicable feelings at the mention. A friend of Bokuto's was a friend to LA.
"There he is~" the audacious man sang, rounding the corner. Matching that big personality was an equally grand stature. Bokuto stood over six feet tall, with a broad chest and muscled arms accentuated by a deep tan and proclivity for white t-shirts (always a size too small). Adding a few additional inches to his height was salt and pepper hair, gelled to defy gravity. But nothing was more memorable than his eyes, bright yellow and wide. Always excited. Always happy to see you.
In his hands, Bokuto toted an expensive bottle of champagne and a pile of scripts for Kei to sift through. The usual gifts. He dropped them on one of the kitchen barstools, however, in favor of reaching out for his favorite client.
"C'mere, c'mere, kisses for my angel. Muah, muah," Bokuto cupped Kei's frowning face and pecked his cheeks repeatedly, cooing over him. The latter dipped back from those insistent lips and cringe-worthy sound effects, muttering enough, Bokuto-san. But the rosy apples of his cheeks did not escape the squeezes and pinches, as Bokuto further gushed, "Love this face, this perpetual frown. My cute little sourpuss."
Akaashi entered the room behind his husband, putting the lovefest to an abrupt end with the words, "Hands to yourself, babe."
The publicist had Bokuto well-trained after ten years together. Immediately, the latter took a courtesy step backwards and apologized in a rigid, almost robotic manner.
"I'm sorry for invading your personal space, Tsukishima-kun. I promise to be more mindful from now on."
Rather than comment on the obvious script Bokuto was reciting from, Kei peered over his shoulder to greet Akaashi directly, "Morning."
All he received was a curt nod.
Akaashi Keiji - in other words, the shadow following Bokuto's sunshine. Equally as well-known, but the invocation of his name garnered less affection and more apprehension. A confirmation of, yes, I know him, and the assurance that, no, no, calling him won't be necessary.
As a publicist, he was just as well-connected as Bokuto. They were not friends upon whom he called favors, however. Rather, his extensive contact list was amassed through less... virtuous ...methods, more closely resembling an underground intelligence circuit, linked through mutually-vested interests and, in some extreme cases, straight-up blackmail. In frank terms, Akaashi had enough dirt he had on every major media personality to end careers, ruin lives, and earn indictments.
The publicist wasn't a particularly malicious person, but he was efficient. With footholds and secret informants infiltrating every LA-based broadcast station, newspaper, and tabloid, Akaashi's finger ( chokehold ) was on the pulse of all stories concerning his clients. He knew precisely what was going to break and when. And God forbid a media outlet run with a narrative he didn't approve, lest they incur his wrath.
More often than not, however, Akaashi was benign. A dormant, unspoken threat trailing tight-lipped behind Bokuto, yanking the leash on his Labrador husband.
Highlighting their contrasting personas were equally mismatched appearances. Akaashi was shorter and slimmer than Bokuto, with close-cropped, neatly-styled raven hair and piercing onyx eyes to match. He was pale as a vampire, curiously evading the sun despite growing up in always-sunny SoCal, and even in 90 degree weather, he donned a black turtleneck and gray blazer - further proof this man was a cold-blooded creature of the night.
Those intuitive black eyes were drawn to the strange collection of trinkets arranged on the kitchen counter. Dancing over the ziplock bags of blond tuffs, gathered from hairbrushes and secured with twine, and the many letters scrawled like ransom notes, with cutout magazine letters to obscure penmanship, he deduced rather quickly the issue at hand.
Breezing past the actor in favor of his handler, Akaashi asked, "What's all this, Yamaguchi?"
"Nothing," Kei answered for him.
Akaashi snapped a cold look in his direction, squandering the shallow attempt at evasion.
"I don't believe I asked you."
Only after his partner commented on the gifts did Bokuto notice them. He reached for one of the notes, tilting his head to read. Yamaguchi smacked his hand away, however, before his fingerprints could contaminate the evidence.
"Kei is being stalked," he informed them, glaring at the blond in question. "And he won't let me file a report."
Bokuto whirled to read Kei for confirmation, those big, owlish eyes blown even wider with concern. "Oh my god. Kei, baby, are you alright?"
Kei swallowed the unpleasant emotion stirred by that innocent worry, his voice falling to a murmur. "I'm fine, Bokuto-san."
"To be clear," Akaashi began, taking a seat at one of the bar stools, crossing one elegant leg over the other. His demeanor was predictably calmer than Bokuto's, though that calm was a mere mask. "You've not informed the police?"
"Kei stole my phone so no, I haven't," Yamaguchi replied, glaring at his friend. "But I fully intend to. This person - whoever they are - has been sneaking onto private sets, stealing from his trailer, taking photos..."
"Hm," Akaashi concurred, sweeping over the unsettling snapshots fanned out before him. "And this has been going on for...?"
Yamaguchi turned and, with a raise of his brow, prompted Kei to answer. The blond did, albeit begrudgingly.
"Two months, now."
Akaashi was impassive, his expression betraying nothing. For several heavy moments, tension lay thick in the air.
Eventually, he shifted to interrogate Kei directly, those sharp daggers cutting down his pride in one fell swoop.
"Why did you keep this from us?"
"I-" He bit off the explanation this time, face heating up as buckets of shame poured over him.
Reading his silence, Akaashi guessed, "You're worried about Moonrise, I presume?"
Kei twiddled his fingers. An old, nervous habit from childhood. Those shallow concerns suddenly rang hollow, and he didn't possess the courage to back them this time.
Ever-empathetic Bokuto sensed the hesitance, the fear of judgment, and frowned. He lowered his voice to approach the actor with all the authenticity and care people loved him for, placing a gentle hand over Kei's back and rubbing it reassuringly. "Hey, sweetheart, it's okay. We're not mad. You didn't do anything wrong - we just want you to be safe." He smiled at Yamaguchi and Akaashi. "Isn't that right?"
"Of course," Akaashi agreed with a nod.
"Obviously we care about you, Kei," Yamaguchi added. Feeling slight remorse for raising his voice earlier, he too softened his regard and reminded, "You're like a brother to me. I only want what's best for you."
Kei felt his eyes burn, but he blinked away the urge and whispered, "This film is what's best for me."
Just as quickly as it was shed, frustration twisted its way back into Yamaguchi's expression and he scoffed - they would get nowhere at this rate.
"Tsukishima," Akaashi began suddenly, startling the blond to rapt attention. "You've read through the letters, correct?"
Kei didn't know why that mattered, but he nodded.
"And in those letters, was there any indication that this person had incriminating information on you? Any photos, videos, or documents you wouldn't want to be made public?"
Again, Kei didn't know the relevance. "N-No."
"Did they make any demands? Any threats?"
More confidently, he answered, "No. No threats. They just..." His attention flitted in the direction of the collaged notes, recalling their contents. "They just talk about how much they love me, how important I am to them."
"They always do," Akaashi demeaned with a roll of his eyes. "Now, let me ask you - is there any indication that this person has been inside your house?"
This time, Kei recoiled in fear. "H-How could they possibly-"
Akaashi snapped his fingers, cutting him off. "Focus, Tsukishima." He pointed to the assorted gifts and instructed him to, "Look over everything and tell me nothing came from your house."
Kei lingered on Akaashi, searching him for an extra beat, before shifting to the kitchen counter. Fearful golden eyes studied each individual item before arriving at the conclusion that, "No - nothing came from my house."
"What is the purpose of this, Akaashi-san?" Yamaguchi inquired.
"Threat evaluation," he replied, before turning back to Kei. At the corner of his lips, a rare, sympathetic smile curled. "Don't worry, Tsukishima. We're not getting the police involved."
"Wait just a-"
"With all due respect, Yamaguchi," Akaashi cut off the manager's next protest, to point out, "You're too close to Tsukishima to view the situation from an objective standpoint."
The allegation was true, and both of them knew it.
Akaashi went on, "I've seen cases like this a million times before: some obsessive creep gains unexpected access to the object of his affection and doesn't know how to conduct himself. He defaults to opportunistic behavior, moving by chance rather than premeditation, and that's important to note. This person hasn't planned a single thing out. Several months have passed and he's not yet leveraged any incriminating information against Tsukishima or made demands, so it's safe to assume he has none." Akashi's eyes fell to the photos, the locks of hair, old tissues blotted with makeup, and concluded, "He has nothing over us, aside from some junk stolen from a place Tsukishima will never again return to."
"But isn't that the scary part? " Yamaguchi begged. "They found a way onto sets and-"
Again, Akaashi interrupted him, "It's because of the location that I feel assured. He doesn't have everyday access to Tsukishima. Rather, this was an impulsive, one-time thing, committed by someone with general clearance: a member of the crew, concessions...even the clean-up staff. Considering the other project being shot around the same time in the same facilities, we're talking about 400 possible suspects. Maybe more. It would take us over a year to individually vet everyone."
"You keep saying he and his," Kei noted. "How do you know it's a man? The sender gave no indication of their gender in the notes."
Akaashi answered simply, "Over 87% of perpetrators in stalking cases are male. It's safe to assume we're dealing with a man." He crossed his arms, and corrected, "A pathetic, desperate man who just wants to communicate his feelings to his favorite movie star. It's scary, I'll concede, to know there are people out there like this. Those who obsess and fawn and cross boundaries because of their delusions, but it's an unfortunate result of being a public figure."
Kei swallowed something thick, and Bokuto was rubbing his back again, assuring you didn't do anything wrong.
The agent then turned to his husband, and asked with a frown, "Keiji, I don't understand. Isn't it safer to call the police, just in case?"
Akaashi returned the despondent expression, because in an ideal world, it would be. But as things currently stood, "Not necessarily. Right now, calling law enforcement may cause more harm than good. Unless Tsukishima wants to charge this person with petty theft, there's not much the cops can do. There's been no documented trespassing on Kei’s property, no overt harassment. Just uncomfortably familiar love notes and weird gifts - things celebrities receive all the time.” He paused, glancing once more over the presents in question. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised this person sent all this junk back to you, they would fetch a far greater price on Ebay.”
Kei couldn’t hide his own grimace at the idea of people paying thousands for pieces of plastic carrying tenuous fragments of his DNA.
Akaashi continued, “And that's to say nothing of the stir it would cause in the press. The last thing we want to do is give this nobody stalker attention. To inflate his ego and reinforce his efforts. In fact, the safest thing we can do is pretend like it never happened. Tsukishima will be able to promote his film unfettered, and this creep will lose confidence when his ardor goes unanswered."
"So - we do nothing?" Yamaguchi asked incredulously, before shaking his head. "I don't like it. I don't like it all."
"Come now, Yamaguchi...I never said that," Akaashi corrected with a dry smirk, before elaborating, "The police may be useless, but there are other methods of protection. Something more discreet."
This time, Bokuto was quick to fill in the blanks. "You want to hire a bodyguard?"
Kei stuttered with the suggestion, "I-I hardly think that's-"
"It's a natural progression," Akaashi maintained. "I'm actually ashamed it's taken us this long to consider finding personal security for you, Tsukishima. You're quickly becoming a household name - it's only a matter of time before this-" he gestured to the array of gifts and notes, "-becomes a regular occurrence."
Kei felt his own gut churning with unsettlement. Akaashi was right: this was the natural, albeit wholly unpleasant, progression of stardom. Fanaticism would always ride the heels of renown, especially when the famous person in question was as widely beloved as the untouchable and aloof Tsukishima Kei.
"A bodyguard..." Yamaguchi repeated, mulling the option and biting his lower lip. He rubbed the back of his neck, and settled, "Well, I suppose it's a step in the right direction…but jeez, I've got no idea where to start. Any recommendations?"
"Unfortunately, the few professionals I'm acquainted with aren't looking to take on new clients right now," the publicist admitted. From his trouser pocket, he pulled out his cellphone and began combing through his many contacts. "But I can start putting out feelers and-"
Before he could even finish, however, Bokuto was volunteering, “Wait, babe, I may know a guy!"
Akaashi blinked in alarm, though it really shouldn't have surprised him. Bokuto always knew a guy.
"With all due respect, darling, we're looking for a professional."
Bokuto pouted. "He is! A former Navy SEAL, in fact."
“A Navy SEAL?” Kei was aghast, and a little uncomfortable with the idea of some ex-military man trailing him like a threat. Though it stood in stark opposition with his profession, the actor preferred to keep a low profile whenever possible. "That's overkill, don't you think?"
"It's not. Most security personnel have a military background," Akaashi assured him. "Whoever we find will likely have similar training." He then turned back to Bokuto to needle with skepticism. "What's the name?"
"Kuroo Tetsurou."
The publicist repeated it, testing it against his memory, before furrowing his brow. "I don't know him."
"Oh, we go waaaay back," Bokuto said with a nostalgic smile. "Used to play volleyball together in middle and high school. After graduation, he enlisted and served for ten years abroad before moving back to LA. For the past year and a half he's been picking up odd jobs here and there - think he mentioned something about bouncing and stunt work? Can't really recall the details...I met him for drinks a few weeks ago. It's perfect timing, actually. He said he was looking for a new gig. Think it could be a perfect match, no?"
Akaashi asked, "How come I've never met this friend before?"
"You don't know everything about my life," Bokuto shrugged.
Akaashi was unamused, raising a thin eyebrow in challenge, because in fairness, he did know everything. Or just about, it seemed.
"And you trust this man?" Yamaguchi asked him tepidly.
"He's the best!" Bokuto enthused, completely failing to address the question. "Super cool and nice. A bit scary too! He's definitely more than qualified."
"Nice...and scary," Kei repeated the oxymoron with a Saharan dryness. The image conjured was a looming, grizzled, bully of a man with a beard and black eyes, probably smoked and definitely bore scars, built like a brick house with beat up knuckles as testimony to his force. A stark contrast to the model-thin, delicate, smooth-skinned actor.
"Oh sweetheart, you'd love him," Bokuto said, patting Kei's shoulders with confidence. "I'll call him up now and see if he's interested in the position."
"Just a moment," Akaashi stopped his husband before he found the contact. "I plan on conducting a thorough background check on any candidate considered for the position. This man - Kuroo Tetsurou - will need to consent to that before he even sets foot in the same room as Kei." Akaashi poked his husband's broad chest for emphasis. "Do you understand? I'll be checking into everything, including his time deployed."
"He's got nothing to hide, I promise. Kuroo's a stand up guy." He shifted attention to his phone, scrolling through a list of thousands of names - each one near and dear to his heart - before settling on one halfway down and pressing dial. As it rang, he flashed a bright smile at Yamaguchi, who seemed to hold reservations still.
"Don't worry, Mr. Manager. Our precious Kei will be safe in his care."
Kuroo Tetsurou, former US Navy SEAL and current jack of all trades, passed the background check with flying colors.
And that was a true testament to his character, because Akaashi left no stone unturned. Going beyond the typical fingerprint verification process, he snooped into Kuroo's childhood, considered the standing of his family, requested high school transcripts, interviewed old SEAL members as character witnesses, and required four separate professional references to vouch for his skill and qualifications - all of whom sang sweet praise. One testimony in particular stood out: a former commanding officer by the name of Nekomata who claimed to trust Kuroo, and Kuroo only, with his life.
A beloved and respected man, all things considered. From a clipboard in his hands, Akaashi read aloud his findings.
"Trained at NAB Coronado, member of SEAL Team SEVEN with a spotless track record, no investigation or disciplinary actions from what I could glean. A total of ten years of service encompassing eight completed tours in the Western Pacific, in which you ultimately rose to the rank of O-4 and held the title of task unit commander, before being honorably discharged after suffering a fracture to your right femoral shaft in the line of duty. You speak English, Japanese, and Mandarin fluently, and have demonstrated professional proficiency in six other languages, including Cantonese, Thai, Russian, Hindi, Arabic, and..." Akaashi squinted at the page, before finishing, "Wolof, strangely enough."
That piercing black gaze lifted to inspect the man reclined in a leather upholstered chair, positioned squarely in the center of the publicist's high-rise office. The LA sun flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the room in soft morning light, catching in sharp amber eyes and painting luster through sable locks.
Kuroo Tetsurou.
No beard, no bully, no brick house. In other words, the complete antithesis to Kei's expectations.
It was ironic that he'd spent the last few months working as a stunt double, for Kuroo Tetsurou was leading man handsome, with chiseled features that socialites doled out millions for: high cheekbones, pearly white grin, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Framing that pretty face was thick, tousled raven hair, fanning up every which way and falling forward to shadow his right eye.
His body, too, was entirely unfair: standing over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and defined muscle that tapered to a comparably narrow waist. Even from beneath the crisp, tailored lines of his black suit, that sturdy strength shone through.
Kuroo was, and Kei did not say this lightly, a hard LA ten.
The only imperfection the blond could discern - if you could even call it that - was a singular scar; a clean white line cutting down the center of his crooked smile. But what should've marred only endeared. A curious tear in the otherwise beautiful tapestry. A conversation starter. A way to brag about his background and pick up women at bars.
How did I get this scar? Well, it's a funny story, actually...
Kei would roll his eyes, if they weren't already glued to the window, determined not to stare at the gorgeous interviewee.
"A member of our team was born in Senegal, sir," Kuroo answered Akaashi's unspoken question with a casual shrug. "I also picked up a little French and Spanish from him, but not enough to write on a resume. Didn't want to mislead, you understand."
Despite three pairs of eyes on him, two of which were patently unfriendly, Kuroo remained relaxed, his posture informal. No rigidity, no stiff shoulders or thousand mile stare, no allusion what-so-ever to the many lethal competencies listed plainly in his file. Outside of the fact that he called everyone 'sir' or 'ma'am', Kuroo didn't read as military in the slightest.
He wasn't intimidating, either, as Bokuto previously implied. He was tall and strong, sure, but no more than your average Hollywood gym rat working out their glamor muscles. Rather, Kuroo seemed quite affable, smiling and answering questions with a light, humorous air.
Just an easy-going guy inquiring about a job. Nothing more.
Akaashi backtracked in the file, lifting up several more papers from the clipboard to read, "You were born in Japan, but moved to the United States in...2004, it says. Gained citizenship soon afterwards and joined the Navy SEALs immediately out of high school. Was that always your plan?"
"No, not always. But it was ultimately the best fit. Good way to stay out of trouble and send money back home. Help the 'rents."
Akaashi wasn't happy with that response. He sat back against the outer edge of his mahogany desk and crossed his arms. Off to his right, Bokuto stood, and to his left, Yamaguchi. The former was beaming, per usual; excited by the prospect of working alongside an old friend. The latter, in contrast, was still skeptical of their candidate. He would be the hardest sell, Kuroo could already tell.
Behind them, off by his lonesome in the corner of the room, was Kei, leaning against the glass and watching the jammed up traffic below. Listening to the interview, though never volunteering any questions of his own.
"People don't join the SEALs to stay out of trouble. The national guard, maybe, but not the SEALs. Those half-hearted sentiments are squandered in the first month of training. You're in for a good reason, or you're not in at all."
Kuroo's grin twitched. Just a little. Just enough to betray annoyance.
"Speaking from experience, sir?"
"No," Akaashi replied curtly. "But after chatting with each of your former team members, I've come to understand the resilience and purpose required to make it through those initial twelve months of basic, and additional eighteen of pre-deployment." He dropped the clipboard behind him to clatter on the desk. "I'm not saying you're lying. I'm merely noting there's more to the story. And in order to be considered for this position, candidates are expected to provide us with the full truth."
Kuroo was quiet for a beat, considering his options, considering the room. He then leaned forward, propping a hand on his thigh.
"Alright, then. If you must know the ugly truth, my father went to prison during my junior year of high school. My mom didn't make enough to support us, so I resolved to enlist after graduation and start sending money home as soon as possible. We stood to lose the house, so my sentiments were never half-hearted, as you claim." He paused, considering Akaashi's impassive mask, not even cracking with the mention of incarceration. "But you already knew that too, didn't you, sir?"
"The charge was domestic violence," Akaashi stated bluntly.
Kei's attention pulled away from traffic to glance at his publicist, and then Kuroo. For the first time since the interview began, their eyes met. Amber melted into gold, heavy and hot and, all at once, too much. Kei retreated back to the safety of the window.
Domestic violence.
Jesus Christ. He didn't envy that.
"Well, shit. You sure did your research." A feline grin returned to Kuroo's lips. Amused, despite the morbid turn of their conversation. Or maybe, because of it. He let out a low chuckle, and asked, "You know my star sign, too?"
Without a trace of humor, Akaashi replied, "Born November 17th, 1995. Scorpio."
Kuroo licked across his perfect teeth. He informed Bokuto, "You got a good one there."
The agent's chest puffed with pride. "Yeah, Keiji's great."
Smart, too.
Akaashi ignored the flattery and said, "He's still serving time, if I'm not mistaken."
"Fifteen year sentence, on a second degree charge. But he'll be out early, in nine months and fourteen days," Kuroo explained. He was back to nonchalance, back to reclining, this time crossing his legs, one ankle propped at opposite knee. He then shrugged his shoulders and remarked, "Should've been longer, if you ask me."
Maybe he was posturing. Or maybe, Kuroo really was unaffected by his own father's shortcomings, his drunken streak, his violent hand. Maybe Kuroo tanked the abuse just like he tanked the indictment, the shunning, the whispers traded whenever he or his mother were spotted in public.
You just never know what goes on behind four walls.
Maybe he channeled all that residual anger and fear into the military, resolving himself to protect others after being unable to protect his own family. Kei supposed he would never know for sure.
Still, he wondered.
Akaashi only hummed in concurrence, having read through the unpleasant contents of court documents and able to fill in Kuroo's pointed blanks. He decided to grace the room with a change in topic.
"Returning to the honorable discharge - I presume you've gone through the strenuous efforts of rehabilitation? Physical therapy?"
Kuroo patted his right thigh, once shattered by a gunshot, now tended and mended and stronger than before. "Good as new."
"I noticed a slight limp, when you walked in," Akaashi said, with that borderline cruel frankness.
Kei couldn't mask his shock, trying and failing to recall an imbalance in Kuroo's step. To be fair, he was a little distracted by...other things...when this man first arrived. That handsome face, those brilliant eyes-
"There's no pain, and I'm perfectly healthy. It's just...habitual," he explained. "An old crutch I'm working on correcting. I can run without a problem. And more importantly, I can handle any threats."
"Yes," Akaashi agreed, glancing at his husband. "Koutarou informed me that you're already certified in executive protection."
"CPR and first aid, as well," Kuroo added. "I'm also licensed to carry."
After its prolonged respite, Kei's voice startled the room.
"I don't like guns."
The four men turned in unison, but Yamaguchi was the one to address him.
"Kei, don't be difficult. This is for your own protection."
The actor clenched his jaw, feeling demeaned and resenting that word. Difficult. Like a child.
He argued, "They don't make me feel any safer."
"Hey, hey - no worries," Kuroo appeased. He winked at Kei, as if to say, I've got your back, before promising his manager, "I'm confident in my ability to do my job without a firearm, if that's what the client prefers."
Akaashi inquired about alternatives. "Batons? Tasers?"
"Trained and licensed."
He then turned to Kei for approval, which the latter permitted with a mutter of, "Anything non-lethal is fine. Just...no guns."
"Done," Kuroo promised.
Focus then fell to Yamaguchi, who was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Reluctant, but relenting nevertheless, "I suppose...that would be sufficient."
And with that matter settled, Akaashi asked, "Any other demands, Tsukishima? Speak now or forever hold your peace."
Kei dropped his eyes to inspect his nails, picking and feigning disinterest to deflect the sudden spotlight. For the first time, the young starlet wished to be invisible.
"Do you smoke?" He asked eventually.
Kuroo answered, "No, sir. I stopped when I enlisted."
A shiver shot down the back of Kei's neck and he lifted his head. That 'sir' hit a little differently when it was addressed to him.
He informed Kuroo, "I can't stand the smell."
"Understood, sir."
This time, sparks. Filling his chest and itching his palms.
Unease or attraction...Kei couldn't ascertain where the reaction stemmed from. But he was curious enough to follow the roots.
He told Akaashi, "That's all."
The publicist walked the perimeter of his desk, bending over and pulling open an otherwise locked cabinet, excavating a ziplock bag that contained the seven letters Kei had received from his stalker. He then plopped them on the table like a prosecutor presenting the courtroom with evidence. Kuroo curled a brow, squinting to discern the contents through the plastic film.
"These," Akaashi began, "are the reason we're considering personal security. Love notes, or some warped version of it. They arrived in the mail alongside several belongings that had been stolen from Tsukishima's trailer."
Yamaguchi added, "Those sets were closed, which means the culprit had clearance. A member of the film crew or custodial staff...hell, even hair and makeup."
"Yes, thank you, Yamaguchi," Akaashi nodded. "Naturally, we've become quite concerned over Tsukishima's safety. This person-" he corrected, "This stalker has already crossed a line, so we thought it best to cover our bases. Provide him with a personal bodyguard for the foreseeable future. Maintaining tight security will be especially crucial during these next few months, as we'll be entering a promotional cycle for his upcoming film. That name and face is going to be plastered everywhere, on posters and billboards. Not to mention, the many appearances he'll be making on talk shows, in interviews, on the sets of photoshoots...the last thing we want is some delusional creep emboldened by the press, slinking into his quarters and attacking him."
Finally, Kuroo shed that catlike grin and nodded to show he understood the weight of the situation.
Akaashi continued, "This position is full-time and you are expected to be on-call 24/7, which means unpredictable hours. If Tsukishima is traveling, you will be traveling. If he's staying out late, so will you." The publicist placed both hands flat atop the desk surface, chilling the atmosphere with that stone cold severity. "Are you prepared for that level of commitment?"
Before answering, Kuroo's eyes toured the office. He first glanced at Bokuto, who smiled and nodded with encouragement, urging him to say ‘yes’. He then jumped to Yamaguchi, arms folded and brow furrowed, biting back down whatever reservations he surely held on to.
Finally, Kuroo's eyes rested upon Kei. Even more perfect in person than on screen: wheat hair and honey eyes aglow in the morning light, supple skin flawless and features delicate. His body was long and model-esk, draped in a silky jade button-down that billowed before cinching at the waist, tucked into tight black trousers. He was a work of art, the stunning subject of a renaissance painting.
How many people will kill for an opportunity to breathe the same air as this man, let alone walk beside him? Tend to his every beck and call? Lay down their life for him?
Fighting the urge to smile again, Kuroo replied,
"Absolutely."
A gradual adjustment it was, gaining a shadow.
As a public figure, Kei was well-accustomed to receiving security during high profile events: red carpets, galas, and so on. The formal, beefed up guards that escorted him from point A to B, with wires in their ears and glasses shielding their eyes, looking like FBI agents straight out of a political thriller. But having a personal bodyguard, someone to trail and monitor him throughout the day, was new territory. Another rung on the ladder of stardom he steadily climbed, and one Kei wasn't sure how to accommodate.
The first morning had especially thrown him for a loop.
It had begun like any other. Kei slept in til the normal hour, waking around 10 AM to the golden streaks of LA sun sieving through slowly dancing linen curtains. He groaned softly, rolling on his stomach to pat the adjacent nightstand for his wire-frames. Sitting up, he slipped the circular lenses on and blinked to adjust his vision, before stretching off the lingering stiffness of sleep. Kei was no waif, but in the white, expansive sea of cotton sheets and plush down comforter spanning his California king, he nearly drowned.
His bedroom wasn't too large in comparison. A tastefully decorated, breezy room, featuring lots of creams and earth tones, with light wood accents and vining plants to keep the space feeling natural - his one demand through renovations. No dazzle, no gaudy. The rest of the house and surrounding land therefore remained simple and organic, with minimal landscaping to keep the foliage in its natal, free-flowing form, with a small orchard of loquat and persimmon trees lining the edge of the property, as well as cypress-style in-ground pool.
A refreshing, private oasis, removed from the harsh dust and light of the city.
Throwing off the covers, he stepped out of bed and into a comfortable pair of slippers, padding to the bathroom and going through the lethargic motions of his morning routine, washing his face and lathering on an expensive cocktail of serums, moisturizers, and skin brighteners. After brushing his teeth and combing through his fluffy locks, Kei shuffled through the hallway, past the living room, and into-
He froze. Leaning against the white marble island in the center of his kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, was his newly hired bodyguard.
Kuroo Tetsurou, handsome as ever and dressed to kill, in a black suit and a white collared shirt, the first few buttons of which were left undone. He seemed quite serene, staring out at the enclosed backyard, admiring the abundant greenery and looking like he belonged there. Like this was his home too.
Of course, it wasn't. Akaashi must've given him the code to disarm the security system as well as a spare key, which he used to let himself in.
The blond nearly stumbled backwards at the sight, feeling vulnerable and starkly underdressed: no shirt whatsoever (too stuffy to sleep in), leaving just a measly pair of flannel shorts, blue checkered in pattern and cutting off midway down his thighs.
Before he could retreat, however, Kuroo spotted him in his peripheral vision and turned.
"Morning, sir," he bid, taking another sip of coffee. Endearment twinkled in his eyes as Kei stuttered through his own greeting.
"M-morning. Is Ta-" he bit off, and rephrased, "Is Yamaguchi here yet?"
"No one but me, sir."
Kei's fingers flexed nervously at his side. "Oh."
He loathed how meekly his voice carried, like a nervous school girl floundering in front of her crush. This was not about to become their new normal. Kuroo was his bodyguard, the person charged with the task of ensuring his safety - nothing was going to happen between them. This relationship was strictly professional.
That's what Kei kept telling himself, strictly professional.
Swallowing his shyness, the actor strode forward into the kitchen and pretended like being half-naked in front of Kuroo didn't scald his cheeks or kick his heart. He had done countless photoshoots in less clothing and even filmed sex scenes before larger crowds. Realistically, this shouldn't be any worse.
(Oh, but it was. Much, much worse.)
Pulling out a mug from one of the lightwood cabinets, he set it onto the counter, before removing the pot from the warmer, its contents freshly brewed, wafting an enticing, caramelized aroma in the air, and filled his cup.
"Thank you for making coffee," he muttered.
"Of course," Kuroo said amicably. "Sleep well?"
"Mm," Kei agreed. He lifted the black beverage to his lips and closed his eyes to savor the taste. An Ethiopian blend, not too strong or acidic. Hot and pleasant on his tongue, but missing something. Kei reached for a sage ceramic bowl against the wall, popping off the lid and using the spoon to shovel in two large mounds of sugar.
From behind, Kuroo studied the contours of his back, the subtle ridges of muscle shifting under pale skin, the taut waist, the perky little...
"You like it sweet, sir."
Kei's shoulders shook with the observation. "Yes, and?"
Kuroo didn't answer. He just returned his attention to the yard and remarked, "It's a beautiful day."
Kei turned fully, wrapping both hands around the mug and letting them warm. He followed Kuroo's eyes out the window, considering the clear blue skies, the gentle winds. Another day of sun.
"It's always beautiful."
Kuroo hummed in agreement. "Can't beat LA weather."
Kei blew on his beverage to cool, scattering the steam, before taking another sip.
"Is that what brought you here?"
Kuroo let out a slight huff of laughter, like Kei had told a joke. He then set his mug down on the counter with a clack and mused, "I suppose it was." His amber eyes flickered away from the window to connect with Kei's, catching fire. With a strange intensity, he finished, "Among other things."
Again, Kei felt that tug in his chest - the curiosity. He parted his lips, only to discover a constricted throat and dry mouth. In remedy, he drained a quarter of his coffee, enduring the burn to wet his whistle and find his voice again.
"Such as?"
Kuroo shifted to lean forward on his elbows. "Oh, you know...the usual. Getting celebrity autographs, working on my tan, taking a picture with the Hollywood sign...finding a new purpose in life."
This time, it was the blond huffing out a laugh. Dry and sardonic. He informed, "This place is where purpose comes to die."
Kuroo shrugged. "S'not so bad. There's no shortage of things to do, and people to meet. I've enjoyed my time, so far."
"The charm wears quickly. Give it a year."
"Is there where you're at, sir?"
Kei's lips pursed with the question; a bit direct and personal, but not unearned. It was odd for Hollywood's newest darling to malign the city that made him. He was one of the lucky few: beating the odds, finding success in an industry where so many before him failed. Yet, he felt no sense of gratitude or fondness. Rather, Kei had quickly become disillusioned with this desert pit, void of personality, shallow as the people who inhabited it. A dry, callow, and unbearably hot wasteland of broken dreams.
"My career is staked here, so I could never leave," he admitted. "But I hold no attachment." He paused for another sip of coffee, and then confessed, with uncharacteristic candor, "Sometimes...I dream of going elsewhere. Somewhere cool and rainy. With lots of trees, and maybe a lake."
Kuroo hummed in agreement. "I can see that for you, sir."
Silence swallowed the room, but to Kei's surprise, it wasn't uncomfortable. Kuroo's was an undemanding presence, steady and not at all starstruck before Kei. He didn't berate him with questions or kiss his ass, which was a nice change of pace. Ever since the Oscar nomination, everyone outside of Yamaguchi, Akaashi, and Bokuto had been treating the actor differently, overly friendly and agreeable, fake on all fronts. The kind of empty behavior that Kei loathed.
He therefore found Kuroo's casual regard to be refreshing. Assuring.
Safe.
He didn't even notice the minutes passing until the front lock clicked and returned him to the present. Using his own spare key, the only other in existence, Yamaguchi let himself in. He shuffled to the kitchen with that typical busy-body, frantic air, talking on his cell pressed between his cheek and shoulder, while his arms fished through his tote bag, searching through a sea of clutter for God-knows-what.
"No, no, not at all...yes. Thank you, I appreciate the heads up. I'll make sure to have him there for-"
He stopped at the entrance, cutting off mid-sentence when he laid eyes on the unexpected sight. A familiar worry immediately knit up his brow. Kei was shirtless and alone with Kuroo, a man Yamaguchi didn't yet trust.
The voice on the end of his cell beckoned before he could say anything, however.
"Wha - no, no. I'm still here - yes, everything's fine. I'm sorry, just one moment please," he bid into the cellphone, before covering it with his palm, forgoing an explanation in favor of whisper-yelling at Kei, "Why aren't you dressed yet? We need to leave soon!"
Kei glanced at the analog clock hanging on the opposite wall, and belatedly realized the late hour. He had a fitting in thirty minutes.
Still, his default since elementary school was one to wave off Yamaguchi's anxious preoccupations and maintain a cool repose. So he just shrugged and told him, "I'll be out a second."
Kuroo's eyes tracked the blond until he disappeared down the hall, before shifting to Yamaguchi. The manager ended his call with Kei's stylist after another promise of We'll be there at 11. He then walked to the kitchen and habitually mothered Kei, cleaning up after him, pouring out and rinsing his half-drained coffee cup.
He didn't even bother greeting Kuroo, instead asking him outright, "Did Kei let you in?"
Kuroo pulled out a keyring from his pocket, twirling the spare around his pointer finger.
"Hm," was all Yamaguchi offered in response. He didn't like that Akaashi had made a copy without consulting him first, but he supposed this was normal protocol for security.
Still, the prospect of a stranger having his run of the place unsettled him. It didn't matter that Kuroo passed the background checks, or that Bokuto had personally vouched for him, or that Akaashi was impressed with his extensive qualifications - Yamaguchi wouldn't trust this man fully until he had proven himself.
Kuroo watched Yamaguchi finish tidying up the kitchen, wiping down the counters and starting the dishwasher.
He remarked, off-hand, "You take good care of him."
Less of a commendation than an observation. A question.
"He's my best friend. Of course I do."
Kuroo licked across his teeth again. An unconscious tick, it seemed. "He's lucky to have you."
Yamaguchi supposed there was some truth to that. Celebrities, especially those with aloof superiority complexes like his Kei, were notoriously hard to work with. To perfectly arrange their schedules and accommodate the hot and cold mood swings of a person whose ego rivaled the span of the Pacific - not an easy task. Yet Yamaguchi sure made it look easy, unstraying despite that cold, dismissive streak and finely tuned the many facets of Tsukishima Kei after spending the past two decades attached to his hip.
In many ways, the actor was lucky to have Yamaguchi.
At the same time, Yamaguchi viewed his devotion as penance. A debt he was still paying back from youth, when the roles were reversed: Kei as the protector, looking out for Yamaguchi, warding off bullies and instilling him with confidence. The blond entertained very few and cared for even less, but for some reason, he saw something good in Yamaguchi, something worthwhile, showing him a rare preference, taking him under his wing, and molding him into the man he was today.
So, from his perspective, Yamaguchi was the lucky one.
But rather than share those sentiments with a complete stranger, he brushed off the compliment. "Just doing my job."
Kuroo flashed him a toothy grin in response, but it read as insincere. Yamaguchi's gut churned.
"While punctuality is important, Kuroo-san, Kei appreciates his privacy, especially in the morning. He will not require your services until the moment he leaves the property." Yamaguchi typed in a six-digit passcode to unlock his cellphone, before pulling up a new contact and handing it over. "Your number, so I may share his itinerary."
Kuroo nodded, inputting his personal details. He then sent himself a courtesy text to share Yamaguchi's contact and returned the phone.
"In the future, try to arrive no more than five minutes before departure. For the exact time, you may reference the calendar."
Kuroo's phone went off that very moment with the link. He followed it and the screen lit up with a color-blocked outline of the next two weeks, with absolutely no gaps. Kei was booked solid from the moment he woke to the moment he slept. On the top of today's agenda, in a bright orange, was:
11:00 AM - Fitting at Sugawara's house.
Asahi Azumane was a walking contradiction.
His towering height, broad chest, and strong bone-structure leant to an intimidating presence. Lying underneath, however, was nothing more than a soft-spoken sweetheart. Those who knew him well could attest to his quiet disposition. Even on the rare occasions when he did talk, Asahi's speech was polite and deferent. Especially now, as he circled the platform where Kei stood, inspecting the way his custom Christian Siriano suit draped with a precise focus in his warm brown eyes, he never touched or pinned or adjusted without asking for permission first.
"How does this feel? Too tight?" The tailor asked, searching Kei's reflection in the mirror as he pinched the coattail to hug his narrow waist more snugly.
Kei shook his head.
Taking one of the several pins clenched between his teeth, Asahi carefully secured the bunched fabric and tucked a strand of silky bronze hair behind his ear. It had grown even longer since the last fitting, flowing past his shoulders and parted down the middle, providing him a wildness that went juxtaposed by just about everything else. His goatee was perfectly manicured, and his style impeccable, donning a burgundy button-down and some black culottes.
He did one last circle, checking the fit at his slim wrists, the hem at his ankles, before asking, "What do you think, Tsukishima-kun? Are there any other adjustments you would like?"
Kei inspected his appearance in the mirror, shifting and turning to test the temporary alterations they'd made, content with the way the velvety fabric twisted and bent to his silhouette, like a second skin. The suit was navy, with meticulous swirling gold embroidery down the lapels and framing the shoulders. The jacket collar dipped low, allowing a tantalizing sliver of his bare chest and clavicle to be put on display. The trousers fit just as well, close to his thighs before fanning out at the knee to create a wider leg, with that same delicate embroidery circling the hem. A regal garment.
"No, it's perfect."
In the mirror, Kei watched as a figure peeked out behind him. Bright and refreshing, with long lashes, silvery hair, and a delicate beauty mark underlining his left eye. He beamed and nodded with his evaluation.
"I knew it - you're a total summer. Navy is your perfect neutral, it compliments your skin tone far better than black or gray."
Kei's personal stylist and Asahi's fiancé, Sugawara Koushi, was just as immaculately costumed as his husband. He wore a white cowl neck sweater with a silk scarf tied at his neck, and belted over top, a pair of breezy pleated slacks. Of course, everything was tailored perfectly to fit his slender body.
"You're going to stun the crowd at Dai-chan's gala next week, I just know it," he fawned, pleased with the way his vision came to fruition, the way Kei's natural beauty was emphasized and elevated by the designer piece. "Don't you agree, Yamaguchi?"
The manager was sitting in an armchair at the corner of the home-renovated dressing room, smiling as well, because Kei really did look like a prince.
"Beautiful, as always," he told Sugawara, before adding, "Thank you for making these alterations on such short notice, Asahi-san. We really appreciate it."
The tailor rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish from the gratitude, so his fiancé accepted in his stead, "Of course."
Asahi extended a hand, helping Kei step down from the platform and escorting him behind a paneled room divider, where he would undress without disturbing the pins. In the meantime, Sugawara plopped down in the armchair beside Yamaguchi, glancing pointedly to the ajar doorway where Kuroo was leaning, hands in his pockets and lips stretched in a lazy smile, watching the fitting like it was a show for his eyes only.
"So - a bodyguard? That's new."
Yamaguchi lost his grin. Discreetly omitting the stalking incident, he explained, "Kei's getting more and more press these days. It's only natural we'd take this precaution."
Sugawara hummed in agreement, inspecting Kuroo a second time, eyes glinting with intrigue. The stylist leaned closer, lifting a hand to shield his mouth and whisper, "Isn't he kinda hot, though?"
A shiver crawled down Yamaguchi's spine and his face flushed red. "Sugawara-san!"
"What? He is."
Kuroo's ears must have pricked, for he glanced in their direction and winked.
Sugawara's jaw dropped while Yamaguchi just rolled his eyes.
"Close your mouth, Sugawara-san. You're a married man."
"Not yet," he maintained, holding up his left hand to show off the diamond engagement ring: a giant, glittering rock framed by a golden band. In October, it would be underlined by a matching wedding band. "Where the hell did you find him?"
"He's a friend of Bokuto-san."
"Who isn't?" Sugawara asked with an air of humor, though it was an entirely valid question. "What does Tsukishima-kun think of him?"
Yamaguchi shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not sure. He's only started this morning."
Sugawara leveled him with a discerning look. "Yeah, but - it's Tsukishima-kun we're talking about. If he didn't like someone, you'd know in the first five seconds."
Another valid point.
As if on cue, the starlet re-emerged from behind the room divider, redressed in athleisure: an expensive pair of t-shirt and joggers, gifts from a past brand deal. Instinctively, he gravitated towards his handler.
"I'm starving, can we get something to eat before my 12 o'clock meeting?"
Yamaguchi asked, "What about breakfast?"
A telling silence followed, and Yamaguchi sighed.
"I told you to stop skipping meals. Tanaka-san isn't going to be happy about this."
Tanaka Ryuunosuke. In other words, Kei's personal trainer, affectionately referring to the actor as beanpole and chiding him for a lacking appetite. He'd put Kei on a strict meal plan two months ago, but the stubborn blond had never been good at following directions.
"I wasn't hungry then," he pouted.
Yamaguchi was unfortunately weak to that face. He glanced at his phone. "We're not going to have time...I'll just run out while you're in the meeting."
Kei crossed his arms and huffed. "I don't want to be there by myself. You know I'm not good at contract negotiations, especially with Tendou. He's so pushy and never lets me get a word in. Can't we just tell Ushijima's people we’re going to be a little late?"
"No, Kei, we can't do that - it's unprofessional."
"Fine. I just won't eat then."
The beginnings of a tantrum; Yamaguchi already saw that indignant frustration bleeding into his eyes. Certainly, a result of hunger, and due to worsen with time, especially over the course of a 90 minute meeting.
From the other side of the room, Kuroo volunteered, "Allow me, sir."
Kei whipped around, startled, as if he'd forgotten the bodyguard was even there.
"Huh?"
"I'll take the car while you're in your meeting and get you something to eat," he explained. "What would you like?"
Kei glanced at his manager, unsure if such a task fell under Kuroo's job description. It sure seemed like an unreasonable ask.
"You don't have to inconvenience yourself, Kuroo-san," Yamaguchi insisted. "I'll figure something out."
"No inconvenience at all," he promised coolly. "I'll just be waiting around while you cats talk business, might as well put the downtime to good use."
Again, Kei turned to his manager for approval. Yamaguchi was certainly caught off guard by the favor, unexpected in its selfless nature. An executive protection agent's responsibilities were normally very cut and dry: securing locations before the client arrived and ensuring their continued protection until they were home again safe. They were not paid, however, to run around on a clients' impulsive whims and act as an errand boys.
But Kei was a pain when he was hungry. And this deal with Shiratorizawa Inc. was an important stepping stone in his career…
Yamaguchi supposed...just this once was fine.
Just this once.
"That would be greatly appreciated, Kuroo-san," he eventually agreed, offering the bodyguard his first genuine smile. "I'll text you Kei's Starbucks order." He then pursed his lips and raised both eyebrows at Kei, expectant.
Rubbing his arm and averting his eyes to the floor, the latter blushed his way through a half-hearted bow, and the words, “Thank you, Kuroo-san.”
“Of course, anything you need, sir,” Kuroo returned, like it was obvious.
There it was again, the quickened pulse, the hummingbird heart. Inside his head, Kei’s self-control chanted over and over again, strictly professional, strictly professional, strictly-
Despite Yamaguchi's very clear instructions, Kuroo continued to arrive early.
A latent habit of the military, perhaps. He was simply too disciplined for his own good. Or maybe, he just wanted to leave a good impression on the boss, earn Kei's favor through diligence and punctuality.
Who really could say for sure?
Sometimes, he was a full hour ahead of schedule. Other times, only twenty minutes. Consistently, however, he was the presence Kei woke to. Steadfast and warm, like the morning sun. Kuroo would smile and speak softly and fill the kitchen with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
And every morning, Kei grew a little more comfortable around him.
Like a skittish cat acclimating to his new owner, he was reserved to begin, treading wide circles around Kuroo, ensuring a sufficient breadth between their bodies at all times while yielding little over small talk. He would startle on a hair trigger, betraying the electricity that touched him with every ‘ sir’ . Worst of all was Kuroo’s deep voice: regardless of context, of the words relayed, the sound of it snapped his body tense and strummed his heart.
But gradually, through repetitive exposure and the knowledge that Kuroo was only here to be of service, the cat’s defenses dropped. He ventured closer, exhibited a wider range of emotion, smiling and chuckling, becoming playful, even. Over time, Kei forgot his preoccupations in favor of anticipation, adjusting his bedtime to wake earlier, hoping to prolong that pleasant little window starting each day. To learn a little more about the bodyguard who piqued his curiosity.
And one morning, driven by that curiosity, the cat unwittingly stumbled over a boundary.
Kei had a pool not because he liked to swim, not because he liked to tan, and definitely not because he liked to host.
No. Kei had a pool because this was West Hollywood, and everyone had a pool.
While a luxury in other neighborhoods, they were terribly commonplace here. In fact, it was harder to find property in West Hollywood without a pool, than with it. So, even though Kei had no use for or interest in the amenity, he settled for the sake of convenience.
Most days, it went untouched, as Kei preferred to spend his time indoors. Naturally fair-skinned and quick to burn, he hid from bright rays and clear blue skies, those deceptively beautiful days when the UV index would spike, for his delicate body would pay dearly with bright red rashes the next day.
The only time he spent outside, therefore, were those rare occasions when the temperature dropped and skies were overcast. For as long as the fortunate weather allowed, he would venture out with his current read, recline on the lounge chairs, and enjoy the breeze.
That’s precisely where Kuroo found him at 9 AM on a Tuesday, lying beside his pristine and utterly useless pool, shadowed by a big white umbrella, dressed only in lemon-yellow trunks that bunched to his upper thigh, offering a tantalizing view of those mile-long legs, as well as a pair of prescription wayfarer sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here, sir,” Kuroo said in greeting, sliding the door closed behind him to preserve the interior A/C. He nodded overhead and finished, “What a day to choose.”
The bodyguard donned his daily uniform, a suit and tie, dark gray and a complimenting maroon respectively. His aviators meanwhile rested in that raven mess, currently unused on account of the clouds, allowing Kei a clear view of those compelling eyes…
Handsome, as always.
“I don’t like the sun,” Kei replied. His intonation was kept monotone - bored - so as to not betray the thrill he instinctively felt whenever Kuroo entered his orbit.
“Y’know, most people come to LA specifically for the sun.”
“Most people in LA get skin cancer before thirty.”
Kuroo snorted. “Touché.”
There was an identical lounge chair positioned beside Kei’s, and the bodyguard sat down on its edge to face him.
“But I suppose that makes sense. I was wondering why you’re so-” He cut off with a stunted chuckle, becoming sheepish over his own tactlessness.
Kei finished for him, “-pale? Yes, I am.” His eyes were still glued to the book in his hands, curtly flipping a page in punctuation.
Kuroo rubbed the back of his head, remorseful now. “I meant no offense, sir.”
“No offense taken.” It was the truth, though Kei’s resting bitch face didn’t do much to convince. “I burn, in any case. Couldn’t go darker if I tried.”
“There’s spray tan. And self tanner, if you’re actually interested.”
“Yes, I am aware.” Kei lifted his sunglasses to needle Kuroo directly in the eye. The glare lacked any real vitriol behind it, however. “Just because everyone else in this city is obsessed with altering their body doesn’t mean I have to partake.”
Kuroo cracked a grin, almost as if he were proud of the hard stance.
“Certainly not, sir. You’re perfect the way you are.”
The actor felt his face burn despite the shade. As a diversion, he brought the book closer to his blushed cheeks and told Kuroo to, “Shut up.”
His bodyguard just laughed again, because by now, he understood Kei’s sass was largely empty and oftentimes a sign of endearment. After a short few weeks, they'd finally reached that blissful level of familiarity where confounding walls and stilted formalities could be dropped.
In other words, Kei’s preferred place to live.
“Oh - looks like the sun’s coming out, after all,” Kuroo noted, bending back to peer past the umbrella’s cover and take in the sky, catching a fast approaching gap in clouds. Already the foliage around them brightened under its impending radiance.
Kei frowned when he saw it as well, because that meant retreating back indoors. With a sigh, he sat up, bending over to collect his book and water and sunscreen and-
Oh.
Kei’s fingers stalled on the bottle of Banana Boat SPF 35 as a terrible, awful, no good idea materialized in his brain.
Don’t, his self control begged.
The plea fell on deaf ears, however. Driven by curiosity - that burning desire to know if the attraction, the strange electricity tickling his hands and toes and crawling down his spine every time Kuroo referred to him, was mutual - Kei picked up the bottle of sunscreen, turned it over and squeezed a dollop into his palm.
Kuroo’s eyes flickered back, drawn in by the movement, only to widen marginally with the realization that Kei was about to-
He promptly averted his gaze, just so their eyes would meet and catch fire, as Kei spread the white cream along his skin, up his arms first, along his shoulders, then petting down his chest, leaving behind a slick sheen, highlighting every perfect contour and ridge of his body. Kei didn’t need fake tan to be beautiful. To be a California god.
He took another helping and switched focus to those sinful legs, well-toned after all those sweat-filled sessions with Tanaka. He spread the sunscreen over the peak of his bent knee, leaning forward to cover his calf and ankle. All the while, the actor played at ignorance. He moved further up, massaging into his thighs with mindless, languid movements and acted like it wasn’t an intentional show being put on for the man sitting adjacent.
Kuroo cleared his throat, as if to make his presence known, to say, hey, I’m still here, remember? But Kei kept deliberately obtuse, glancing up at him and smiling with almost cruel innocence.
“Kuroo-san?” He asked sweetly. A foreign flavor on the tongue of Tsukishima Kei.
The bodyguard's voice was noticeably strained, as he answered, “Sir.”
Kei’s impassive facade held firm, revealing no sign of the devilish glee he felt, as he requested, “Get my back, will you?”
Kei wasn’t proud of his actions. The pure gall he had for teasing Kuroo like this. If questioned about it later, Kei would surely deny the allegations.
But he wouldn’t - couldn’t - deny the way his heart jumped into his throat, when the corner of Kuroo’s lip twitched into a half-awed smirk and said, with equal gall,
“Anything for you, sir.”
The confidence that previously emboldened him was swiftly boiled from Kei’s body and released in a puff of steam. The apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears, the tops of his shoulders - everything stained red with embarrassment, because Oh, my god, he’s actually going to touch me.
Kuroo took the bottle from Kei’s hand before he had the chance to walk back on the suggestion, instructing him to, “Turn around.”
Kei did, albeit awkwardly, shifting away from Kuroo so that his feet planted into the plush grass and his back was on full display. An agonizing position, for he was unable to anticipate Kuroo’s movements, forced instead to rely on faint auditory cues. The squirting of the sunscreen, the slap and rubbing of his palms together as Kuroo warmed the cream up, and then-
Kei jolted, inhaling sharply as those calloused, expansive hands pressed to his waist, fingers stretching to nearly encompass its entirety. Why Kuroo had chosen there to start was beyond Kei, but he couldn’t fold now.
Not when he’d been the one to start this game.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, sir,” Kuroo apologized, and - had his voice always been that close?
Kei didn't have time to decide. Mimicking his frustrating indulgence from just moments ago, Kuroo started moving his hands in slow circular motions, fingers twisting down, just barely brushing the waistband of his bathing suit, pushing down on the soft flesh, before dragging back up. An awful pattern that left Kei simultaneously aching for more and begging for an end.
“You’ve got quite a bit of muscle, for someone so thin,” Kuroo narrated as he worked. “Forgive the assumption, but I took you as someone who didn’t like working out.”
“I have a personal trainer to help me stay in shape,” Kei confessed, stubbornly biting his lip to keep any noises from escaping. Fuck, it feels so good.
Kuroo’s hands retracted, only for him to ghost a single finger up the ridge of Kei’s spine and come on, that had to be intentional.
“Hm, I see.”
More sunscreen was doled to each hand, before landing again on Kei’s body, this time smearing over his shoulders, working the white cream along his upper back. Kei’s head lolled forward and eyes fluttered closed with the feeling. Borderline euphoric, until…
Kuroo’s fingers stopped, dwelling on the muscle between his shoulder blades.
“You’re…really tense,” Kuroo observed, and there wasn’t a joke tied to it. Rather, he seemed concerned. “Stressed?”
Kei scoffed, answering honestly, “All the time.”
Kuroo considered this, and then, without asking permission, he pressed harder, kneading his thumb and knuckles into the crux between Kei’s neck and shoulders, working to release a knot and, in the process, ripping a borderline obscene moan from the back of Kei’s throat.
His eyes snapped back open. His body doused in cold, sobering shame.
Alright, game over. Kei folded. This dangerous play needed to stop before he-
Again without consent, Kuroo pressed the heel of his palm along Kei’s left shoulder blade, offering him short, blissful rapture. And again, Kei couldn’t contain the compulsory gasp, breaking off to a whine.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You’re all wound up,” Kuroo murmured, working that same muscle over and over again. Kei wanted to scream at him to stop, lest his own body betray him. Already, he could feel the blood rushing, the warmth pooling in his gut.
But every attempt he made at speaking was undercut, throttled by another traitorous cry.
“Really, I’m - nhg-hah! ”
Kuroo was back at his ear, assuring in a low tone, “It’s alright, I know what I’m doing.”
The close resonance had Kei’s toes curling in the grass, his mouth hung slack, his cock twitching in his swimsuit.
As if competency was the issue here.
“K- Ku- Stop!” He finally managed to cry through the throes of pleasure. Kuroo’s hands were off him in a split second.
“Apologies, sir. Did I hit something sensitive?”
Kei’s heart was racing, his chest shuddering still. He could barely catch his breath, yet somehow he managed to whip around and string together the reprimand, “I did not ask for any of that.”
And - it was quick - but Kuroo’s eyes eclipsed, causing Kei’s instincts to quail, as Bokuto’s words resurfaced in his head.
Nice, and scary.
The darkness waned from his expression just as fast, however. Kuroo was returned to his normal, easy-going self, leaving Kei to wonder if he’d just imagined all that.
“My bad. I got a little carried away, didn’t I?”
His tone was humorous, but Kei was still reeling from whiplash. With scalded cheeks and wounded pride, he gathered his belongings, stood up, and informed Kuroo that he was going to take a shower. In his retreat, he never once looked back.
Kei hated galas.
To be clear - he didn’t hate charity, the causes that these events benefited. He wasn’t that cold-hearted. Anyone with an excess of wealth was obligated to give back in some capacity, and Kei had no problem involving himself in philanthropic pursuits and grassroots organizations following his own success, provided he actually believed in the cause.
No - the problem wasn’t the purpose of these events. It was the production. The parade.
Galas were, in his opinion, the epitome of LA ego: extravagant and wasteful and pain-stakingly drawn out. A show of empathy for people who were patently lacking. There would be vapid speeches and indulgent live performances and expensive auctions and all the proceeds would go to a charity founded by some celebrity (who was only in it for the tax deductions, let’s be real).
The pinnacle of performative activism.
Typically, Kei avoided such events like plague. But he was in the pocket of a bigwig now: Sawamura Daichi, the man who had single handedly green lit Kei’s passion project and oversought its production. The father of his child, in many ways - Kei would never be able to pay him back.
And so, he swallowed his pride and sat pretty in his newly-tailored Christian Siriano suit, plastering a smile and idly swirling a glass of hundred dollar champagne as the rings on his fingers caught the low light, pretending like he was utterly enthralled by the words of the keynote speaker. She stood at the front of the hall at a staged podium, framed by a black banner that was adorned with the glittering words: 32nd Annual Karasuno Pictures Gala, benefiting poverty and homelessness in LA since 1992.
A star-studded crowd surrounded Kei, comprised of fellow actors, musicians, directors, producers, and the like, each one dressed to the nines and seated at identical circular tables, with black satin tablecloths and white rose centerpieces. Outside media drones huddled behind velvet ropes, initially gathered to snap shots of guest entrance looks on the red carpet, and now, lying patiently in wait for their eventual departure.
As the speaker waxed on about her experience working at local shelters, Kei’s fingers dug deeper into his thigh. This whole ordeal wouldn’t be so intolerable if Kei just spent the night beside strangers, silently biding his time until he could throw in a couple tens of thousands towards some pretentious art piece and then swiftly exit before midnight.
But good-natured and stupidly oblivious Daichi had done Kei the awful favor of seating him next to Kageyama Tobio. The lead in Kei’s film Moonrise, as well as the bane of his existence.
Also, his ex. Kinda.
The two had initially become acquainted on the set of The Crow, Kageyama as the main character and Kei as his slowburn love interest. On-screen, their chemistry was palpable, the heat between two bodies visceral, but as soon as the camera’s cut, the pair became like oil and water, pulling away from each other and scowling, bickering over every little thing. Kageyama would chide him for the imperfect delivery of a line, while Tsukishima snapped back about his unbearable God complex. As witness to their daily spats, the crew were mindful to separate them the second that filming was finished.
But the fans weren’t privy to that ugliness, and quickly they became enamored with the fictional dynamic of the show’s first season, speculating about a possible on-set romance. Gag-worthy for Kei, but the producers were enticed by the possibilities. With dollar signs in their eyes, they approached the co-stars and proposed a staged relationship in the months leading up to the second season’s release, in the hope of garnering a ratings spike.
And the worst part?
It actually worked.
People ate up every crumb they dropped, no matter how measly: holding hands in public, gushing about each other in interviews, walking the red carpet arm in arm. One time Kageyama had gone off script - the fucking hypocrite - grabbing Kei by the back on the neck and kissing him while they were in clear view of paparazzi. And you better believe the tabloids went wild with that.
Kei didn’t regret the publicity stunt, or the way it might have functioned as a campaign for his eventual Emmy nomination. But it was the starlet’s first cruel lesson in Hollywood: everything is fake and nothing is your choice. Submitting to the whims of people with more money and power, he put on the greatest show of his lifetime: pretending to love the insufferable, entitled jerk who was currently seated to his right.
His dark hair was slicked back for the occasion, blue eyes deep and treacherous as the ocean, features sharp and unapproachable. A sucker for the classics, Kei knew this man to be, so he was unsurprised by the simple black suit and tie. Nothing compared to Kei’s one-of-a-kind piece, but that just made it all the more obnoxious, didn’t it? Kageyama was essentially saying, I don’t need all that craftsmanship and embellishment to look expensive.
Kei hated that he was right.
Kageyama must’ve felt Kei’s attention on him, because those navy eyes flickered away from the stage to settle on him. He wasn’t smiling, never smiled. Didn’t know how to. The weirdo. But after spending the better half of a decade at each other's throats, constantly pushed together by forces outside their control, Kei had learned to discern unspoken tells in his stony expression. The way his lips thinned in annoyance, the way his brow raised marginally in question.
What the hell are you looking at?
Kei flashed a charming smile, just to keep the bastard guessing. He also didn’t know who might be watching at that moment, and even five years post-breakup, they were careful to preserve the facade.
Kageyama Tobio and Tsukishima Kei’s tragic split had been framed as a mutual, amicable parting, to spare fans further heartache. In the years following, the pair were careful to not speak ill of each other in public and even collaborated professionally several more times, all to preserve that lie of friendliness.
And of course, the most recent partnership came in the form of Moonrise. Daichi really thought he’d been doing Kei a favor by setting up an audition with Kageyama for the lead role, believing like many others that the feelings had been genuine. That they actually enjoyed each other’s company.
Kei didn’t have the heart (or money, or power, etc;) to correct him.
So, Kageyama got the part and fans were back to speculating. During promotional interviews, the Moonrise lead would allude to feelings that persisted after all these years, that he still cared about Kei, and maybe, in another life, things could have gone differently. Headlines following that article read, Will working on a film together bring them closer? Will they rekindle their romance and try again?
Absolutely the fuck not. But Kei would happily let them run away with speculation, so long as it boosted ticket sales and ensured a successful premiere week.
In truth, Kei still loathed Kageyama, just like he loathed galas and, by extension, LA’s sick fascination with wealth. As the grandson of Kageyama Kazuyo, an acclaimed, old Hollywood director who Kei used to idolize (emphasis on used to ), this spoiled brat was destined to attain success, in one way or another. Even if Kageyama didn’t possess a natural aptitude for acting (which he did, much to Kei’s chagrin), his family’s recognition and financial success would’ve still opened doors and carried him to great heights. There was never uncertainty to his career.
Kei, on the other hand, clawed tooth and fucking nail to be where was now, sucking up to the right people and - in some awful instances that he was stll working through in therapy - sucking off the right people. Doing anything and everything as a fresh-faced nineteen year old, newly arrived to the city and flat broke, to hit his break.
Kageyama would never know the shit he went through, the lows he stooped too, and because of that, Kei would always hate him, and everyone like him.
As if reading his thoughts, Kageyama had the audacity to return his insincere smile with a smirk of his own.
Fuck you.
An uproarious applause broke, and both Kei and Kageyama joined in, though their eyes never tore away from spiteful contact. The speaker exited the stage, briefly shaking hands with Daichi, who took her place at the podium. With that broad smile and even broader stature underneath that gray suit, Sawamura Daichi felt larger than life. His deep voice commanded the room as he thanked the keynote one last time, urging them to applaud again, which the crowd did because he had that kind of effect on people. Daichi then informed everyone that the auction would follow dinner.
“In my experience, you lot are more generous with your bids when the alcohol’s free, so please,” he gestured to the open bar at the back of the hall, “drink to your heart's content.”
The room laughed with that one, though not Kei. His mood was officially soured and appetite ruined by Kageyama’s shitty attitude.
“Ungrateful as ever,” the latter muttered under his breath when the entree was served and Kei didn’t touch it. One of the many points of contention between them since the very beginning and something Kageyama was a jerk for dredging up now.
Kei was careful to lift his champagne flute as a shield, just so no one could read his lips as he mouthed, Go to hell.
Kageyama rolled his eyes.
“I saw your interview with Vogue the other day, Tobio,” Kei volunteered as a sudden change of topic. His demeanor too shifted on a dime, annoyance melting to make room for a convincing endearment; as talented as ever. “You really ought to be more careful with what you say to the press - might give people the wrong idea that we’re actually getting back together.”
Kageyama wasn’t quick enough to hide the scowl that bent his lips at the use of his first name. A relic from their fake relationship.
“Isn’t that the point?”
Kei traced his pointer finger around the rim of his glass, eyes distancing in consideration.
“Hmm, I guess so. Just makes my skin crawl when you say you still love me. Little bit of an oversell, no?”
This time, it was Kageyama’s turn to be subtle. Kei felt a sharp pain on his thigh, and belatedly realized he’d been pinched under the table.
Swatting away his hand, Kei whispered, “Asshole.”
“Bitch,” Kageyama returned, just as easy.
Kei would’ve tacked on something worse, just to steal the last word, but his body jolted with the feeling of a different sensation against his thigh - the vibration of his ringing cell. He pulled it out from his pocket to check the caller ID, though he could already rule out Yamaguchi or Akaashi or Bokuto. They knew about tonight’s event, and wouldn’t interrupt the formalities with a text, let alone a call.
He guessed it might’ve been a family member, but when he looked down, his eyes were greeted by the word Unknown.
Kei’s first instinct was to brush it off as a telemarketer, because obscuring their number was a common trick of the trade. Just some robot trying to reach him regarding his car’s extended warranty. Kei was two seconds away from sending the caller to voicemail, when he paused with another, more compelling thought.
The overlapping chatter of the grand hall fizzled out to nothing as blood rushed to his ears.
What if…
“Didn’t your mother teach it’s rude to take a call during dinner?”
Kei didn’t have the wherewithal to retaliate with something clever. He just stood up, as if compelled by an otherworldly force, and excused himself from the table.
“Be right back.”
His voice was a little too serious for their typical back-and-forth, as if Kageyama might actually feel lonely in his absence. This startled the latter, who turned around to call, Where the hell are you going?
But Kei didn’t offer further explanation. He just swiftly made an exit, pushing open one of the double doors that fed out into the venue foyer. Everything was warmer out here: built in the 1940s but with an interior reminiscent of 1920s art deco, with lots of golden accents and silky black curtains and intricate wallpaper. Quieter too, with only security posted at the front doors and a few guests ferrying themselves off to the bathroom.
Kei dipped into a small enclave, originally designated for smoking and now home to some overgrown monstera plants, and checked his phone again. Still ringing, though it would soon go to voicemail if he left it alone.
Kei could guess what everyone’s reactions would be, if they knew what he contemplated. Akaashi would instruct him not to give this creep the attention he so desperately vied for. Yamaguchi would huff and puff because Tsukki, stop, it’s too dangerous, while Bokuto wouldn’t say anything at all and just gently coax the phone out of his hands.
But none of them were there to stop him, and a morbidly curious presence - the same to read the love letters in all their disgusting intimacy and cloying affection - sat on his shoulder and whispered,
Answer it.
Kei inhaled, gathering courage, before hitting the green button and pressing the phone to his ear.
At first, there was silence on both ends. A pregnant pause.
One second passed. Then two.
After the third beat, Kei was convinced this was a robocall after all, because a person would’ve said something by now. To verify, he tried triggering the automatic message.
“Hello?”
But there was no reply, robot or otherwise. He checked to verify that the caller hadn’t hung up, and sure enough, the timer was still running.
An icy chill ran down his spine.
Someone was there, listening, not saying a word.
That morbid curiosity was rearing its head again, pushing Kei to,
Confront him.
It was a stupid idea, he knew. Likely to yield nothing. But his heart was in his throat with the anticipation, and couldn’t stop himself from saying,
“It’s you.”
Spoken like a fact, not a question. Kei didn’t know why that was his first impulse, but it felt right. Like he was leveling the playing field. You know me, and now, I know you.
Predictably, there was no reply.
“I got your letters,” he continued. “I read them all.”
His eyes frantically jumped around the faces of the foyer, as if his mystery caller might be placed somewhere in this very room.
Of course, that was ridiculous. Security was still stationed at the door; it was only his fear talking.
Again, nothing.
Kei wanted a reaction. Something, anything that might indicate an identity.
“You…” He bit down on his bottom lip and swallowed, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “You really love me, huh?”
The call dropped.
Kei wrenched the phone away, only to find a black screen. And that’s when he realized his hand was shaking. His knees, too, were flimsy under the weight of his body. Instinctively, he reached out to prop himself against the nearest wall.
An awful sort of dread ate away at his stomach, his palms simultaneously sweaty and cold. It was like he had just glimpsed into the future and witnessed his own demise.
Kei glanced at his phone again. He couldn’t call Yamaguchi or Akaashi or Bokuto, couldn’t confide in them regarding what just happened, though he desperately wanted to hear their voices - to hear someone, anyone, on the other end of the line, so he wasn’t speaking into a void - because he already knew what they’d say to him.
Idiot, you shouldn’t have answered!
And that I told you so sentiment might’ve carried worse than silence right now.
Back in the grand hall, muffled through the closed doors, Kei heard the crowd cheer and applaud again, which he took to mean the auction had started. The last thing the blond wanted to do right now was re-enter the festivities to endure Kageyama’s rude comments and the lively crowd that threw away their money.
He wanted to go home, to leave before the gala ended because who knows what may be lurking out in the darkness come midnight, waiting for me…
Without much thought, Kei swiftly opened his contact list and scrolled to the most recently added one. The same who had driven him to the event, and was now waiting patiently in the car for it to end.
Things hadn’t been the same between him and Kuroo since the sunscreen incident, back to stilted. To distant.
All that lingering awkwardness and embarrassment, however, felt utterly trivial now.
Without hesitation, he pressed dial. After two rings, the call was picked up.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
As steadfast as Kei remembered, Kuroo’s cadence felt like a genuine comfort. The first good thing to happen to him tonight. Sure and steady and there.
“Take me home. Please.”
Kei hated the way his voice came out all strangled and hoarse and so obviously terrified. But, in the very least, it signaled to Kuroo that something was wrong. The bodyguard’s tone, too, took on an imperative nature. Not scared, just concerned.
“Are you alright, sir? Did something happen? Are you safe?”
Kei didn’t know how to answer those questions. He just massaged his temple and repeated, “I, um - c-can you please take me home?”
“Of course, sir.” Kuroo was surely alarmed by the request, almost childish in nature, like Kei was a grade school student asking for his mother to come pick him up. The bodyguard still complied dutifully, however. “I’ll bring the car around in two minutes, wait out in the front for-”
Kei cut him off, “The back. Go to the back entrance.”
Kuroo paused, surprised again. He then repeated, “Alright. The back.”
Kei considered hanging up, because everything that needed to be said had been said. But he lingered on the call, scared of what might happen if Kuroo’s voice wasn’t there to ground him.
“Anything else, sir?”
Kei knew it wasn’t Kuroo’s job to comfort him. To offer emotional support to some frantic movie star, but Kei could feel his edges already beginning to fray, and so he begged, “Talk to me, until you get here. I, um-” he trailed off, furrowing his brows, trying to think through a drunken fog. In reality, his fear had absorbed whatever champagne was currently sitting in his bloodstream, sobering him quicker than a cold shower.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” he finished.
Kuroo didn’t judge him for the request. Like every unreasonable thing Kei had asked of him - grabbing lunch before a meeting, applying sunscreen to his back, and now, talking him down from a panic attack - Kuroo agreed without hesitation.
“Did I ever tell you the story of how Bokuto and I first met, sir?”
At this, a small, incredulous smile fractured Kei’s fear.
“I - no, you haven’t.”
“Would you like to hear it?”
“Sure,” Kei decided. Because he did. And because the resonance of Kuroo’s voice already returned some warmth to Kei’s body. He walked the end of the foyer and followed the glowing red signs that denoted an emergency exit, pushing on a metal door and entering a stairwell, in which his footsteps reverberated loudly.
Kuroo began, “I started playing volleyball when I was ten years old, the summer before starting 5th grade. Middle blocker. You know anything about the sport, sir?”
“Not a thing,” Kei answered, and finally, his voice didn’t waver on the words.
“Middle blocker…well, it’s a position you need height for. Or jumping ability. Actually, you’d be a great middle blocker, with those long legs of yours.”
Kei felt his cheeks burn with the comment: spoken innocuously, yet he was still flattered because Kuroo’s been looking at my legs?
“Anyway-” he went on, “I was a middle blocker. A good one, too. Best in my county for my age group, and the age group above.”
Kei possessed enough composure to joke, “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a celebrity, Kuroo-san.”
This had him chuckling, low and raspy. The accomplishment had Kei feeling way too pleased.
“Indeed, you are. I’ll give you an autograph when you get to the car.”
Kei felt his grin fall slightly as he passed by several security detail, each of whom nodded at him as he made his way to the back of the building. He was far from the first star to dip out early from one of these events, so they thought nothing of it.
“ETA?”
“One minute, thirty seconds.”
Kei wagered he could make it that long.
“So - best middle blocker in the county? That’s something.”
“Yep. No one could get past me. “ Kuroo then sighed with the admittance, “For a while, at least. In my final year of middle school, we played a team from a couple towns over. They were good, but not so good that they stood a chance. That is, until halfway through, when they rotated in this loud-mouth kid with the worst hair imaginable.” Kuroo paused, and Kei could practically feel the smirk taking form on his lips. “As I'm sure you’ve noticed, I know a thing or two about bad hair. And this was an exceptional case.”
Kei wanted to tell Kuroo that, actually, he thought his hair was beautiful, unruly or not. But he didn’t have the courage to be so candid, so instead, he said, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re too kind, sir.”
Kei arrived at the back exit, though he didn’t push it open, still anxious to be outside and vulnerable in the night. So he elected instead to wait for Kuroo’s signal.
“Dumb hair aside - this guy was good. Annoyingly so. His spikes were way stronger than anyone I’d ever been up against before - better than most high schoolers, actually - and he managed to score ten points alone in one set. Suffice to say we lost that match.”
“Let me guess,” Kei mused, his voice playful though he was still checking timidly over his shoulder, “that was our dear Bokuto Koutarou?”
“The very same,” Kuroo answered. “Boy, was I livid. Spent the entire summer before my freshman year training for our eventual rematch. You see - I got recruited for this private school near my hometown. They were known for their sports programs. A lot of D1 colleges would send scouts there, looking for promising athletes to offer full ride scholarships.”
At this detail, Kei’s heart bled a little. He remembered that interview, the details of Kuroo’s past leveraged tactlessly. A father in prison. A house he stood to lose. A mother he felt obligated to take care of. Maybe, if he hadn’t felt cornered into enlisting, he might’ve actually landed on a decent team and earned a degree.
But if that were the case, then an equally distressing idea dawned on him: they would have never met. And for some reason, Kei didn’t care to entertain such a scenario.
Not when Kuroo was his only solace right now.
“Currently pulling into the lot, I’ll be around back in…twenty-nine seconds,” he informed him.
Kei actually huffed out a laugh at that. “How precise.”
“I’m a precise man,” he affirmed. “Didn’t you read my resume, sir? In the skills section, it clearly states that I’m ‘ detail-oriented’.”
Kei rolled his eyes, though Kuroo wouldn’t see the gesture.
“I didn't, actually. Akaashi handled everything for me. That’s what happens when you’re famous - you get people to do tedious things for you.”
Spoken sarcastically, of course. Kei didn’t actually like to brag about his renown and wealth. And especially not tonight, when it garnered the worst kind of reverence.
Thankfully, Kuroo understood it was a joke, because he offered up one of his own in trade.
“Oh, I’m quite familiar, sir. Or did you already forget my celebrity status?”
The smile on Kei's lips was soft, betraying the affection he felt for this moment. Their return to familiarity.
“Of course, how careless of me.”
“Very careless, sir,” Kuroo agreed, before losing his humor, to lecture, “You ought to personally vet the people closest to you.”
Kei supposed he was right - not paying close enough attention to those around him was precisely how he found himself the victim of a stalker.
But he didn’t need to worry about Kuroo, some instinctual part of him assured. Kuroo was there to protect Kei, and because of that, he felt at ease.
“Arrived,” Kuroo announced, and the word lifted a thousand pound weight from Kei's chest.
Finally, he ended the call, pushed open the back entrance, and sure enough, the black SUV with tinted windows was parked in the back lot. Kuroo stepped out of the driver’s seat, grinning and waving Kei over - until he caught sight of that fear-stricken face. His own expression fell in kind.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kuroo noted, and his voice was far more gentle than Kei was equipped to handle. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” he defaulted. A poor lie and one Kuroo didn’t buy for a second.
Per his job description, the bodyguard was not required, nor encouraged, to pry. He should have accepted the evasion at face value, quietly opened the door for his client, and drove them off without another word. But Kuroo was never one to abandon a person in need. It wasn’t in his blood.
So, he refused to step aside, blocking Kei’s entrance to the vehicle in order to get a clearer look at the starlet.
“With all due respect, sir, my job is to keep you safe.”
Kei had to drop his head in shame, because he knew what would inevitably follow those words.
“I can’t do that job if you aren’t honest with me. So, I’ll ask again, is everything alright?”
Kei could feel it, the splitting seams of his chest as it was ripped open, spilling his insides at Kuroo’s feet. The wires locking his jaw too were cut, allowing the truth to escape.
“He has my number. He-” The blond cut off just as suddenly as he started, because inevitably following the truth were tears. A flood of terror waterfalling down the side of his cheeks.
Kuroo frowned - didn't need to ask who he was.
“I-I don’t know why I answered, but he didn’t say anything. Just - listened.” Kei took to hugging himself, rubbing the sides of his arms as a comfort, though it did little to calm him. “It’s stupid. I know. But I was so scared-”
“Hey.” Kuroo’s stern command silenced him, as he reprimanded, “It’s not stupid.”
Kei lifted his head, eyes glistening in the faint glow of a distant streetlight. Many times, he’d cried for the camera, but those crocodile tears were designed for glamorized fiction: pretty droplets gathered on his eyelashes, clean streams delicately blotted off by a tissue. Nothing like the sniffling, red-eyed, whimpering emotion that stained his face and shook his shoulders now.
“I was so scared,” he repeated breathlessly, as the weight of that fear crushed him.
All of a sudden, Kei felt a force jerk him forward and he stumbled into Kuroo’s solid chest.
“Hey, it’s alright,” the latter hushed him. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
With one arm snaking around his back and the other carding fingers through Kei’s flaxen hair, Kuroo’s embrace was a perfect dichotomy: undemanding yet secure. Kei knew he could’ve pulled away if it was too much, too intimate for an actor and his bodyguard. Kuroo would’ve let him go without a fight.
But Kei didn’t want to pull away. Rather, the notoriously uptight, cold, and aloof Tsukishima Kei was melting into the shape of Kuroo’s chest, spine curling inward to fit the mold he’d been given, arms lifting up and palms hooking onto shoulders to squeeze fiercely, eyes closing because this felt right. Broad, sturdy, and right. The assurance he needed. The words unspoken, but communicated clearly, you’re safe with me.
“I was so scared,” he whispered a third time. Kuroo held him tighter.
“You’re alright,” he repeated, and gradually, Kei re-learned how to believe those words.
They stayed wrapped in that tight embrace for a few more minutes than necessary. Even when the panic passed and there was no need for consolation, Kei dwelled, wishing to disappear completely in the other’s embrace - a longing he'd never once experienced towards another person, but something he now felt deeply in his bones.
The pacifying spell was broken, however, when Kuroo pulled away. Kei mourned the loss a few seconds, before Kuroo dropped his hand to cup along the actor's jaw and again Kei was contented, reduced to putty, ready to be molded to Kuroo's design.
“You did the right thing by calling me,” Kuroo praised in a low voice, stroking his thumb over his cheek. With their faces lined up perfectly like this, Kei had a front row seat to the endearment cast upon Kuroo’s features, brows furrowed together and lips stretched in a fond smile.
Instantly, Kei was lost in those amber eyes. Not sharp, per his initial impression, but precise. Detail-oriented.
And that stamped out any residual unease, inflating Kei instead with confidence, positive that he would be taken care of, so long as those eyes were keeping watch over him.
Kuroo echoed the sentiment, with the words, “If this happens again, I don’t want you to try to handle this on your own, okay? Your instincts are good, Tsukishima Kei. Listen to them, and when something doesn’t feel right, come to me and I’ll handle it. Okay?”
Kei could only nod.
It was on the ride home that Kei snapped from his near-hypnotic trance. With his forehead leaning against the cool window, body slumped over the door of the backseat, he remembered something.
In a far away voice, he called for, “Kuroo-san?”
The man in question was sitting in the driver’s seat, eyes trained forward as he chauffeured them. “Yes, sir?”
“You never finished your story,” Kei murmured, the words tapering off to a yawn. God, he was exhausted. How was it only eleven?
In the rearview mirror, that feline grin was back on Kuroo’s lips.
“What do you think happened, sir?”
Kei yawned again, covering his mouth this time with his palm. He curled his neck and arched up his back to stretch, before guessing, “You finally beat Bokuto in high school?”
Kei watched the darkened silhouette of Kuroo’s head as it shook in denial, suddenly overcome with the strange desire to reach out, lace his fingers through those thick sable locks, and angle Kuroo’s face away from the road.
To capture his lips…
The vision was muddled when Kuroo corrected, “I walked in on my first day of practice, only to immediately come face to face with that same obnoxious kid, with terrible hair and insane spikes. The very person I’d been training all summer to crush…was now my teammate.”
Kei closed his eyes and smiled with the punchline.
“How ironic. Bet you were mad, Kuroo-san.”
The actor dwelled on that prospect: imagining how this put-together man might come undone with anger. He’d seen a glimpse of the darkness before. Fleeting, but magnetic.
Kei shivered.
“Oh no, on the contrary, sir. I was thrilled to see Bokuto again. In fact, I think it was fate.”
“Mm. Is that so?”
It was Kuroo’s eyes that were visible in the rearview mirror now, glancing up to briefly lock with Kei’s, before returning to the road.
He finished, “Of course. There’s only one thing in life better than a powerful opponent - and that’s a powerful ally.”