𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐒! ➛ a. keiji ✔

𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝟬𝟭 ── 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘴

listen to the song above for a soundtrack! 

───── ◦'𖥸'◦ ─────

the letter took three days to arrive. sitting impatiently while talking on the phone with ichika, akaashi rambled on about what it felt to have a never-ending writer's block. the apartment, as always, reflected his and his roommate's messiness, the gray undertones of the walls slowly showing up through cracks on the navy-blue paint. he was about to shout to bokuto — who was taking a very long shower and belting notes of which the musician himself wasn't even aware of the existence — for him to fix the fissures with some photographs or a drawing, but then he remembered how koutarou was studying code, not visual arts.

"so that's what i was saying, dear. you need to get yourself out there to get out of this creative block..." ichika said, ever so patiently. the woman was truly an angel: the calmest person akaashi had ever met, which balanced out his best friend's hyperactiveness.

"well, i don't think it's about whether i 'get myself out there' or not. i just think i don't have the talent for this," keiji replied, which was partly true. in fact, the blue-eyed man had once been on the epitome of his songwriting skills, but something had stopped him, like a train coming to a halt in the middle of the track. watanabe answered with serene hums, showing she understood his position, yet didn't agree with what he'd said.

"well, i did talk to so-" keiji was about to say he had previously met another writer on the internet, but was quickly interrupted by the excited voice of an ichika who had apparently just got her pizza.

"damn, i was starving! gotta go now, tell bo i said hi!" she said, and ended the call.

keiji threw his slim body on the couch on which he sat as soon as his manager hung up the phone, and so did he. humming an indefinite melody, the musician thought about how he'd tell watanabe-san about the person he'd met. what can i say? i don't even know their name or where they live! in his imagination, he'd start with something along the lines of "i just met this stranger and sent them my address" and hope for ichika not to slap his dumb face and retort something along the lines of "you're stupid!". truly, he felt stupid.

bokuto had left his 2-hour long shower concert. "ichika says hi," keiji said, to which koutarou replied with a dreamy smile as he went back to his room to fetch something he'd probably forgotten.

"'kaashi, i'm leaving to meet with ichi-chan for pizza, you want anything along the way?" keiji's friend asked, as agitated as ever. akaashi shook his head as if to say "no, thanks" and plunked atop the sofa once again. in reality, akaashi was too tired to eat, overcome by a sinking feeling of uselessness. he closed his eyes, wishing for no more tone-deaf taylor swift covers filling his ears as his friend made his way out the door, but shot them open when he came back, said "there's mail for you!" and left once more.

bokuto had left a pile of papers atop their dining table — which was actually just a wooden, rectangle-shaped table the approximate size of a child's desk. akaashi sat on the wooden chair that matched the table. along with the papers koutarou had just left, there were some lunch leftovers (namely, sushi take-outs) and keys. shit, bokuto forgot his keys again. keiji wondered if he should call his friend, but he figured he wouldn't be leaving the house any time soon, thus he could open the door for the grey and black-haired man. he's probably going to stay at watanabe-san's place, anyway.

to be honest, akaashi didn't expect to get the lyrics that soon. the three days in between him talking to this @musicalities user and getting mail delivered on his doorstep were filled with nothing but grunts of exasperation as the musician tried — and failed to write his own lyrics. truly, what has happened to me? going through all the papers and trying to pretend he wasn't excited, — the good old "won't get my hopes up in case they're crushed down" trope — keiji took deep breaths between each letter. however, nothing could be more anticlimactic that receiving a bunch of bills when one is expecting songs. bills, bills, bills, mom sent a postcard from italy, bills...