bokuakakuroken
Sep. 2nd, 2016 06:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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likealarkstarted 6 sept 2015
_________________________________________
Kenma's waiting at the bus stop when Akaashi gets there. His hands are bundled into gloves with fraying holes in place of fingertips, and a scarf pulled fussily up to cover his mouth. By contrast, Akaashi is wearing the lightest sweater he owns; it's barely October. Neither of them comment on it.
"Sorry I'm late," Akaashi says instead. "How are we on time?"
Kenma shrugs, pressing a button on his 3DS to pull up the home menu and check the clock. "We'll be okay," he says. Then his eyes slide over to Akaashi. "You're never late."
Akaashi's only a little winded from running there. "I got caught up in a few things," he says. "Sorry." Kenma nods, understanding the oft-repeated line for what it really means; again, neither of them comment on it.
The cross-town bus arrives a few minutes later, squealing as it lowers itself to make it easier to step inside. Kenma boards first, Akaashi following, and together they squeeze and squirm their way to the back. They jostle together on the bus, bobbing with the ebb and flow of changing passengers at each stop. Kenma's free hand curls in Akaashi's sleeve to keep his balance as he tips his head back and forth, making faces at his 3DS. Akaashi watches out of the corner of his eye as the glameow on the other side of the screen makes faces back.
"It seems hard," Akaashi comments after Kenma disappoints his Glameow for the fourth time.
"Yeah," Kenma says, "the light's bad," but he keeps playing anyway. Akaashi bends his knees to better ground himself, endeavoring to balance Kenma a little better and give him more room to focus.
They get to the last stop 20 minutes later, so far downtown that Akaashi barely recognizes it. The landscape has changed to low buildings and twisting, cow-path-like streets. Kenma closes his 3DS and lets go of Akaashi's sleeve, and they depart the bus to vanish into the street traffic. Akaashi's always liked that about living in the city—the sense of purposeful anonymity.
"This way," Kenma says, his voice plain but authoritative, and Akaashi follows his lead. They pass bakeries, galleries, second-hand stores, all sheltered by the overhang of trees whose broad trunks narrow the sidewalk at regular intervals. They walk single-file when that happens, Akaashi's eyes fixed on Kenma's narrow shoulders.
"Here," Kenma says after several minutes' brisk walk, pointing.
The place Kenma gestures to is metal door laid into a brick wall, adorned only by posted flyers for art galleries and various events. Above the door is a painted sign: Owl's Nest.
Akaashi raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but Kenma is moving forward without hesitation to pull the door open. Immediately a wash of cheerful voices and the smell of alcohol wafts over them both.
"Are you sure—?" Akaashi starts, but Kenma is holding the door open for him to pass through, looking expectant.
--
The space is a repurposed garage, it seems, with stairs leading to a second floor balcony and a high ceiling that's scattered with fairy lights. The floor beneath his feet is scuffed gray concrete. The room is filled with the soft murmur of a hundred conversations and people are scattered throughout, sitting at or on tables or perched on the metal radiators that line the perimeter. In the center is a rough-made stage, particle board painted black with some cinderblocks supporting it. Behind the stage is a drape of dark red cloth; beyond that the walls are flat white. Akaashi's fingers itch to fill all of that white space, which he supposes is the point.
Kenma pauses beside him, waiting for his verdict, and Akaashi nods. As they step forward to pay the cover fee, the person at the table says, "Hey, you're Kuroo's friends, right?"
Kenma blinks a few times and then nods. "Is he here yet?" Akaashi asks.
The guy nods.
_________________________________________
Kenma's waiting at the bus stop when Akaashi gets there. His hands are bundled into gloves with fraying holes in place of fingertips, and a scarf pulled fussily up to cover his mouth. By contrast, Akaashi is wearing the lightest sweater he owns; it's barely October. Neither of them comment on it.
"Sorry I'm late," Akaashi says instead. "How are we on time?"
Kenma shrugs, pressing a button on his 3DS to pull up the home menu and check the clock. "We'll be okay," he says. Then his eyes slide over to Akaashi. "You're never late."
Akaashi's only a little winded from running there. "I got caught up in a few things," he says. "Sorry." Kenma nods, understanding the oft-repeated line for what it really means; again, neither of them comment on it.
The cross-town bus arrives a few minutes later, squealing as it lowers itself to make it easier to step inside. Kenma boards first, Akaashi following, and together they squeeze and squirm their way to the back. They jostle together on the bus, bobbing with the ebb and flow of changing passengers at each stop. Kenma's free hand curls in Akaashi's sleeve to keep his balance as he tips his head back and forth, making faces at his 3DS. Akaashi watches out of the corner of his eye as the glameow on the other side of the screen makes faces back.
"It seems hard," Akaashi comments after Kenma disappoints his Glameow for the fourth time.
"Yeah," Kenma says, "the light's bad," but he keeps playing anyway. Akaashi bends his knees to better ground himself, endeavoring to balance Kenma a little better and give him more room to focus.
They get to the last stop 20 minutes later, so far downtown that Akaashi barely recognizes it. The landscape has changed to low buildings and twisting, cow-path-like streets. Kenma closes his 3DS and lets go of Akaashi's sleeve, and they depart the bus to vanish into the street traffic. Akaashi's always liked that about living in the city—the sense of purposeful anonymity.
"This way," Kenma says, his voice plain but authoritative, and Akaashi follows his lead. They pass bakeries, galleries, second-hand stores, all sheltered by the overhang of trees whose broad trunks narrow the sidewalk at regular intervals. They walk single-file when that happens, Akaashi's eyes fixed on Kenma's narrow shoulders.
"Here," Kenma says after several minutes' brisk walk, pointing.
The place Kenma gestures to is metal door laid into a brick wall, adorned only by posted flyers for art galleries and various events. Above the door is a painted sign: Owl's Nest.
Akaashi raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but Kenma is moving forward without hesitation to pull the door open. Immediately a wash of cheerful voices and the smell of alcohol wafts over them both.
"Are you sure—?" Akaashi starts, but Kenma is holding the door open for him to pass through, looking expectant.
--
The space is a repurposed garage, it seems, with stairs leading to a second floor balcony and a high ceiling that's scattered with fairy lights. The floor beneath his feet is scuffed gray concrete. The room is filled with the soft murmur of a hundred conversations and people are scattered throughout, sitting at or on tables or perched on the metal radiators that line the perimeter. In the center is a rough-made stage, particle board painted black with some cinderblocks supporting it. Behind the stage is a drape of dark red cloth; beyond that the walls are flat white. Akaashi's fingers itch to fill all of that white space, which he supposes is the point.
Kenma pauses beside him, waiting for his verdict, and Akaashi nods. As they step forward to pay the cover fee, the person at the table says, "Hey, you're Kuroo's friends, right?"
Kenma blinks a few times and then nods. "Is he here yet?" Akaashi asks.
The guy nods.
