Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Fucking again," Yaku mutters, stomping into the gym almost late—which, for him, was a flagrant violation. He likes cussing in Russian, it lands so much more satisfying than Japanese ever does. "My blankets, my pillows… making a mess EVERYWHERE and who's gonna clean it up? Me." He throws his bag in his locker and kicks it closed.

This is all pretty standard fare for Yaku Morisuke—his teammates are used to it. In fact, his bad attitude had won him a lot more points with his Russian team than it ever had back in Japan. Still, this is the first time they've heard him complain about something from his actual apartment! Was he…?

"Mori," their setter, Sergei, calls out, putting on a winsome smile. "Trouble at home?"

"Ugh. Just a…" he thinks over the words, looking for how to describe it with the vocab he knows. "…New arrival. Still getting used to the space."

Right, right. They all nodded along. After all, Yaku had mentioned liking dogs at one point, and no one should be living alone!

"But, you don't regret it, right?" one of the others asks.

"What? No. Of course not."

He doesn't regret Lev showing back up in his life and he doesn't regret allowing him to move in. If there's one thing he learned from Nekoma, it was that boys were like dogs.

Trainable.

"It's just until he gets back on his feet," Alisa insists, and why did she and her brother have to have the same stupid puppy eyes that you couldn't say no to?

At least he liked Alisa. She made it easy, with her confidence and energy and, of course, absolutely superb fashion sense. She'd moved back to Russia to promote her brand a few months after he joined the team, and he had honestly been so grateful to have a ready translator that they couldn't help becoming friends.

But they had one unwritten rule. They didn't talk about Lev.

Kuroo kept him updated on Nekoma news, and Alisa flew back to Japan often enough, but they simply didn't talk about it. Why would they, when there was so much else to talk about?

Until now, three months after Lev's graduation, when Alisa suddenly announces he's coming to join her agency and needed a roommate.

What the fuck was he supposed to say? No, because it would be fucking weird? He'd have to explain why. He'd have to tell Alisa Haiba that her little brother spent his whole first year of high school with a fat fucking crush on his senpai, wouldn't leave it alone, wouldn't take no for an answer. Which made Lev out to be some kind of weird ass stalker, which wasn't right either, it just…

Worse, he knows what the next question would inevitably be.

Mori-kun, why did you come to Russia?

Yaku's team just calls him 'Mori', he got tired of them butchering the second half and they already had a Yakov. It's a nice division, too, between his high school days and now. Not that he gets treated any differently, everyone on his team is like twice his height and meaner than Kuroo and the fucked up thing is that Yaku is starting to think he likes it.

"I swear to god I'm going to get him a goddamn cage and put him in it when I'm not home," Yaku growls.

"You don't already??" Yakov teases, and Yaku whips a foot directly into the back of his knees. "Fuck Mori what the hell!"

"Your 'new arrival' not going well?" Sergei, who is nice everywhere but on the court, gives them a warm smile.

"…It's fine. Just making some… adjustments." Yaku sighs. "It's fucking loud. And messy. But it's better than living alone."

They can all agree to that. Yaku had lived in the dorm when he first arrived, but after learning enough Russian to get by on his own, he'd promptly made a bid for his own space. His teammates knew he didn't want people living with him; but that didn't mean he didn't want company.

He waits at SVX in a three piece suit and sunglasses, hair slicked back. These days, he never left the house unless he looked good, and Alisa's contacts in the fashion industry made it so he always did.

And today of all days, Yaku desperately needs the armor, the pressed fabric to bolster his defenses.

But what the fuck does he have to be afraid of? It was just Lev. Just some kid he'd tried to tame once, a long time ago, who thought he knew everything. Who Yaku was now going to welcome into his space, willingly.

Jesus fuck Kuroo really was right, he's a goddamn masochist.

His chest does not squeeze when he sees a silver-haired head pop up over all the other arrivals from Tokyo. His breath doesn't catch, he doesn't go weak at the knees, none of that shit happens. He's a fucking adult. He's different now.

And, he realizes, just from watching at a distance—so is Lev.

He's grown into his gangly limbs, filled out in all the right places, his clothes fit and he's effortlessly graceful as he helps an old lady with her luggage. His hair has product in it, who puts in product for a 13-hour flight?

(Who, for that matter, puts in product to pick someone up from a 13-hour flight? Yeesh.)

You calm the FUCK down, Yaku tells his heart as sternly as he's ever done. It's just. Fucking. Lev.

Here is what happens when their eyes meet:

Stage one, Lev's eyes light up in recognition. He smiles so wide and bright it hurts. He lifts a hand to wave.

Stage two, the rest of the info from his optic nerve hits his sky high Russian brain, and he realizes what Yaku actually looks like. His mouth literally falls open. His hand freezes in the air. His eyes go wide, pupils blowing open.

This was all within Yaku's expectations.

Stage three, though, turns out a little differently.

Lev's eyelids lower. A smirk crawls onto his face. He looks… hungry.

It is at this point that Yaku thinks he might just have been very, very stupid. Quite possibly for his entire life.

"Yaaaku-saaan," Lev calls out, and his fingers crook, calling him in closer.

His legs move. What the fuck?? His legs are moving all on their own, does he not get a fucking say in this?

"Lev," he says shortly. "Здорогo."

Lev blinks. He has no idea what that means, because he is stupid. Yaku said it on purpose, to remind himself that Lev is a stupid baby who doesn't know his own language, not some hot supermodel angel descended from on high. He has to get a fucking GRIP.

Lev laughs, and Yaku laughs—this is so silly. They're both idiots. They got dressed up for an airport and they haven't seen each other in two years and they're gonna jump straight into living together and Lev doesn't even know Russian. Wow.

"I missed you," Lev says simply, and instead of feeling like a weight on Yaku's chest, it feels light, and free.

Loud Japanese bitching bounces off the walls of the locker room as Yaku barges his way in. Sergei's pretty sure he catches a 'dog' in there—'inu', right?—and 'korosu' means 'kill', so. It's obviously about the dog.

Yaku sighs. He doesn't say goodbye before he hangs up the phone, then whips around and launches it full strength into the nearest pile of towels, screeching incoherently.

"Mori, what's wrong? Your dumb dog strikes again?"

"You could say that," he growls. Then sighs. Visibly tries to shake it off. "He fucking ruined, not one, but three of my nice shirts." He had thought laundry would be a simple enough task for an idiot, but no. Apparently not.

"Well, they are at that age," one of the older team members says with an overly wise nod. It was obvious Yaku's dog was a puppy, or he wouldn't be causing this much trouble.

"Don't I fuckin' know it," Yaku mutters, and shoves his shoes on.

Yaku has barely seen Lev since Nationals. He's barely seen anyone, because he has been studying. He isn't banking everything on being scouted even though he has offers already, it just…

Okay, maybe he's avoiding them a little. And maybe it's entirely one hundred percent Lev's fault. Can you fucking blame him? Who says with their whole chest that they will go on a date when they win Nationals? When Yaku has told him at least three times there is no way in hell he's dating anyone??

Every time, Lev makes him give one reason why not. He's graduating in a few months. Lev has his whole high school years ahead of him. Long distance is shit. Oh, and most importantly—Yaku does not date teammates.

And every time, Lev stops just shy of pointing out that none of those reasons include 'I don't like you'.

It should definitely be on the list, because Yaku does not like Lev. He's stupid and annoying and he doesn't listen and he can be downright mean, casually digging into people's sore spots with a kind of thoughtless arrogance that makes Yaku's blood boil. He isn't even hot, he's all limb and eyes too wide and he slouches so he won't run into doorways. Clothes look stupid as hell on him because asian sizing was not made for boys like Haiba Lev. He gets this dumb smile on his face whenever Yaku gets even a little bit cross with him that suggests he's enjoying it way too much.

That he's a man is, really the least of the issues. He goes to Nekoma, after all. His best friend is Kuroo Tetsurou, Homo-Simpatron 3000. Fukunaga tried to make a joke about boobs once and couldn't even get the words out. Kenma plays Nu: Carnival where everyone can watch. It would be weirder if he played volleyball and didn't like dick, at this point.

But he doesn't like Lev! Not his type at all. If he was going to like a Haiba, he'd obviously be trying to get with Alisa, the hot older sister. Not the dumb brother. Hot. Sister.

…Yeah, that excuse sounds dumb even in his own head.

A sound at the window yanks his attention away from his books. Which he was reading, because he is studying, not trying to convince himself (again) how phenomenally bad an idea it would be, dating Haiba Lev.

Assuming it's Kuroo—who else—Yaku rolls his chair over and yanks the window up. "Kuroo, just talk to him—Oh."

It's not Kuroo.

Lev props his elbows on the windowsill and puts his chin in his hands. "Yo~"

Yaku barely resists the urge to slam the window back down, elbows and all. "Lev what the fuck??"

"Let me in, Yaku-san!"

"Uh, no? You did this to yourself, haven't you heard of doors??"

"Come on," and he just starts climbing in, his stupid stork legs folding like pretzels to fit. "I haven't seen you since the bus ride home, I missed you."

This is absolutely preposterous. Yaku can already feel himself boiling like a teakettle. "Lev get out! Out of my room! We are not talking! I'm not your teammate anymore!"

"Exactly," he says, and promptly lays 196cm of insouciant bastard all over Yaku's neatly made bed. "We're not teammates anymore. And we didn't win, so it's the perfect time to go on a date so we don't feel sad."

Disregarding the blisteringly stupid logic—or lack thereof—behind this, Yaku sighs. "Lev. No means no. We're not dating."

The silence between them is… itchy, uncomfortable. Yaku didn't want to have to put it like that but what was he supposed to do?

"I still don't think you've given me a good enough reason," Lev finally says, something sly and distant in his green cat-eyes.

"I don't need a reason to say no!" Yaku snaps. "We are not talking about this! How am I supposed to believe you'll respect me in a relationship if you can't respect that?!"

And for once, what Yaku's saying actually hits. Lev's eyes widen, and he looks… surprised? Stricken? Guilty, even?

"…All right," Lev finally says, small and quiet. "All right, Yaku-san. I won't bother you any more."

Good!! He thinks, desperately, maybe a little too much so. Someone has to be the bigger person here, pun not the fuck intended!

Lev slides out of Yaku's bed, looking like a baby deer trying to get up and run. He sticks one leg out the window at a time, and has to bend his whole spine in half just to wedge himself out.

"…But, Yaku?"

He freezes, trying to tell his heart to calm the FUCK down. "What??"

Lev holds up two fingers, and smirks. "…In two years, after I graduate. If you aren't dating anyone, I'm going to ask again."

It takes everything Yaku has not to shove Lev bodily out the window—not even this hard-headed of idiots would survive that. "Get out! If you're still alive by then, fine! Ask away! See if I care!!"

"Ja ne~"

And that was the last time they'd spoken about it.

Yaku had to admit something.

Lev was learning.

Every day he'd do something new and stupid that would take five years off Yaku's life, but within a week, he realized Lev wasn't making the same mistake twice. He may have put dish soap in the dishwasher and washed polyester on high heat and broken one of Yaku's nice wine glasses, but. It was only once.

He still leaves his shit everywhere, though.

Yaku throws his gym bag down, angrily stomps over to the couch, grabs the sweatshirt—is that a Nekoma sweatshirt? Fucking figures—and intends, fully intends, to jam it in the hamper so hard the hamper safewords. That was the only thought in his head.

Somehow, the sweatshirt ends up getting pulled over his head instead.

Ugh, it's still warm. Lev wasn't home, he'd left for the studio, but he must have just left and the thought that he'd been wearing it all morning, only to shrug it off, leave it on the couch, right in the line of sight from the door… ugh.

If Yaku didn't know better, he'd think it was on purpose. But dumb dogs don't plan that far ahead, just like how he'd made all those promises two years ago and now, here they were. Living together. Not dating.

It's not like he's been thinking about it or anything! He's had a few flings since arriving in Russia, but it was never more than a casual night. Too many assholes fetishizing his teeny tiny stature or what the fuck ever. He'd even found a proper kink club, but didn't hit it off with anyone. That's it really, he just hasn't met anyone he really liked.

Which, he reminds himself, includes Lev. Haiba Lev—Lev Haiba, now that they're here, though it still sounds weird like that—is not his type. He doesn't like him, like that or at all or anything in between. He's helping a former teammate out by letting him crash in his guest room, because he's a nice person, and Yaku wants to kill him every single day.

He rolls the sleeves of the sweatshirt up enough so his fingers can stick out. It's a nice one, all fuzzy inside still, and the softness feels good on his sore wrists. Anyway, it serves Lev right, getting his clothes stolen when he'd just—

Yaku enters his room, only to find an entire stack of every shirt and suit he owns, packed in garment bags and stacked neatly on the bed. There's a note attached, in Lev's cheerful loopy hiragana.

Yaku-san!

Sorry about the shirts. I talked to Alisa and she said all the clothes you like need dry cleaning, so I took everything to get cleaned and pressed, and replaced the shirts I messed up. I don't mind doing it in the future either, so just set aside what needs to be done and I'll take care of it!

Hope practice went well! I'll bring home dinner so don't worry!

—Lev

Yaku stares at the bottom of the note, inexplicably angry that it ends without a pet name or a heart or even a smiley.

Angry, too, that he spent all of practice in a bad mood, and he can't even be mad anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, a little angry that Lev hasn't fucking asked yet and he's still doing shit like this.

Yaku hangs up his suits. There are indeed three new shirts, not exactly the same ones he lost but close enough. There's another, too, in a silky crimson that would look so fucking good with the pinstripes—if someone actually asked him on a date already. Fuck!

He parks himself on the couch, tucks his knees into the baggy sweatshirt, and turns on the game he's supposed to be reviewing. If it brings the sweatshirt up to face level so he can sniff it like the thirsty bitch he is, so what. Maybe there's more than one dumb dog in this house. Maybe he's getting fucking tired of waiting.

Lev gets home a little later than he wanted, but getting out of makeup was a pain and traffic was a pain and the lines at the deli were long. He has an apology in his mouth already, as he juggles the takeout bag and unlocks the door, only for it to wither and crumble away.

Yaku is wearing his sweatshirt.

He's stuffed into a corner of the couch, curled up, head buried in a pillow and fast asleep—his knees are tucked in, into the sweatshirt, Lev's sweatshirt. The hood is up. His socks and his cute butt in his practice shorts stick out the other end.

Lev makes a garbled sound and, very carefully, sets the takeout on their hall table. Then he goes over, drops to his knees by the couch and whines.

What the fuck? What the fuck?? First the suits, now this?? How unfair could you get??

Yaku cracks an eye open and gives Lev a baleful look, even at half power it's more than deadly. "What," he challenges.

Lev's throat works and nothing comes out for a whole five seconds. Then, finally, he manages, "…Yaku-san, that's not fair."

Uh oh. Both eyes open now, but they're narrow and suspicious. "What's not fair?"

"You're wearing my clothes!" Lev bursts out, almost a wail. "I've been trying, I've been trying to be good and not push it and I keep breaking things or fucking up so I wait to do better because I don't want you mad but now you're—" he drops his head to the couch cushions and lets out a strangled yell. "Yaku Morisuke you are killing me here!"

Yaku’s eyes blink, wider. Then he slowly sits up—his hair is flattened to his head on that side, tufty over his forehead from the sweatshirt, and he looks so fucking good Lev wants to die.

"What? You… hang on. What are you waiting for?"

Lev feels his heart do stupid, stupid things because Yaku makes him such an idiot with how much he loves him. "You know. The promise I made, when you graduated. I said I'd ask you again, to be mine."

Yaku's face slowly, comically, fills with red until he practically blends into the sweatshirt. "You… remember that?"

"Of course I remember!" Lev grabs for whatever he can—Yaku's socked foot, it turns out—and shakes him. "I've thought about it every single day for the past two years! But I understood what you meant, and I knew I couldn't just come in and shove my way into your life and think you'd be grateful. So I…" his voice cracks. "…I've tried to be useful. And listen more. I'm not any good at it but even Kenma said I was getting better. Of course I didn't forget, I was waiting to see if you did."

Yaku stares, dumbstruck.

This kid. This—

No, he's not a kid anymore. That's been more and more obvious with each day they live together. Sure he didn't know how to do laundry or wash dishes, but when he made mistakes, he took responsibility. He listened. He made up for it.

Part of Yaku wants to say 'who the fuck is this and what happened to Lev??' but, he knows what happened. He grew up. Filled in, mentally and physically.

"All of that, and you still… want me?"

His voice is hesitant, wavering. He's never been unconfident, but it still seems unrealistic that Lev spent all of his high school days hung up on some guy he didn't even talk to anymore.

Lev tilts his head to one side. There it is again—the lowered lashes, the sly smirk. On sixteen-year-old Lev, it would have been cutely sexy, trying a bit too hard. Now? It's… frankly, devastating.

"Yaaaaku," Lev drawls. "Want to know what I thought when I saw you at the airport?"

Yaku makes a strangled sound and braces for impact. Strangely, though, he's met with silence—and after a moment, he realizes, Oh.

He's waiting for me to answer. If I say no, he'll listen.

"…Fine. Tell me," he mutters.

Lev leans in, until he can tuck his nose into the red hood and put his lips to Yaku's ear. "I wanted you to ruin me," he whispers.

Yaku makes a strangled noise and almost kicks Lev in the chest. He gets a throaty chuckle for his efforts, before Lev pulls away and pillows his cheek on his hands, all smiles now.

"So? What are you doing on Friday, Yaku-san?"

"…Practice in the morning, then nothing." He knows Lev knows his schedule, but he says it anyway.

"Will you come out to dinner with me? As a date." Lev's smile is so soft, so lovingly fond, and Yaku feels light as a feather. "There's a restaurant I'm thinking of, but it has a kind of formal dress code. If you're interested."

So, this is it, he thinks. This is how he dies.

"…Sounds perfect," Yaku sighs.

"Hey Mori… how are things at home?" Sergei leans on the locker door, peering down at Yaku digging through his bag. "You haven't been complaining as much."

Oh. Right. "We came to an agreement," he sighs out. "Not saying he's not gonna piss me off in the future, but. He's doing fine for now."

"You know, you should show us a picture!" Yakov gets in on it too. "I bet he's really cute!"

"Yeah, I guess." He'd never made a secret of his sexuality—and he wanted to start dragging Lev in sometimes, to practice. Just so he doesn't get rusty. So, without thinking any further on it, he takes out his phone and hunts down a good pic—well, he doesn't need to look far. They got a really good selfie at dinner a few nights ago, thanks to Lev's stupidly long arms. And the red shirt really did look fire with the pinstripes.

"…What the fuck?!" his teammates all exclaim.

"What?" Oh no. Did he misread this whole goddamn thing? If dating a guy is gonna be a problem—

"That's not a dog????"

After a lot of yelling, a lot of explaining, and some judicious translator usage, Yaku finally manages to convince everyone that he does not have a dog, he has a boyfriend, who might act like a dumb dog, but is not in fact a dog. At all.

They seem, overall, disappointed.

"Good for you though, I guess," Yakov drawls.

"Yeah, congrats," Sergei says, sounding anything but congratulatory.

Yaku narrows his eyes at them. "…Are you guys upset that it's not a dog?"

"What were we supposed to think?? You were mad that it was making messes and ruining your shirts!"

"Yeah, he put my nice shit in the washing machine," Yaku grinds out. "Can't fucking believe this. You thought Lev was a dog."

"How were we supposed to know??"

"Hey, bring your dog to dinner next week, okay?"

Yaku groans. He is never going to live this down.