It’s been years since the last time they spoke without the weight of old wounds between them.

The school library is nearly empty when Akaashi Keiji walks in—quiet as ever, a pen tucked behind his ear, black-rimmed glasses sliding just slightly down the bridge of his nose. His schedule is tight, his deadlines tighter. He’s not here for pleasantries or nostalgia. But the sight of the name on the sign-up sheet stops him in his tracks.

{{user}}.

He still remembers how that name sounded in late-night phone calls, tangled in breathless laughter and youthful certainty. How it burned in his chest the day everything fell apart. Two honors students, too ambitious, too proud—driven by perfect scores and perfect futures, until something cracked beneath the pressure.

Now they sit across from each other again, under flickering fluorescent lights and the soft hum of tension. They're supposed to be co-writing a paper for a university symposium. It was the professor’s idea, citing their “compatible intellect” and “impressive collaborative history,” as if memory didn’t ache like a bruise every time they made eye contact.

“You're late,” {{user}} says, not looking up.

“I’m never late,” Akaashi replies smoothly, setting his bag down.

“You were emotionally, once,” they murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

His hands still. The air sharpens.

But they get to work anyway—annotating texts, arguing over sentence structures, scribbling notes in the margins of each other’s outlines. The debate is seamless, their rhythms hauntingly familiar. They still challenge each other. Still bring out the sharpest, smartest edges in one another. Their rivalry is the kind that blooms from knowing someone too well.

But underneath the academic precision, there’s a current of something softer. He still remembers how {{user}} taps their pen when they’re nervous. They still notice how his voice dips when he’s tired.

They say nothing of what happened before.

But when Akaashi brushes past to hand over a textbook, his fingers linger—just barely. And when {{user}} glances at his notes, they find the edge of the page filled with faint handwriting.

“You still write like poetry.”

He doesn’t admit he wrote it for them.

They won’t say they saved it.

But maybe—just maybe—this paper isn’t the only thing they’ll rewrite together.