Chapter Text
If Koutarou had to describe himself in one word, it’d be “people pleaser”. Okay, maybe that was two words but the point still stands!
There was truly nothing worse in the world than disappointing those around him; whether it be his teammates or his boyfriends or his sisters or mom. He wanted to please all the people in his life, to be the best person he could be regardless.
Maybe it was why he let himself be coerced into practicing late with Shoyou.
Ever since graduating high school, Koutarou had managed to find a balance between life and volleyball, allowing himself necessary rest time and days off that he normally hadn’t in the past.
He was proud of himself for it, too, because whereas his first and second year he’d be running ahead of the crowd and always volunteering to come in early or late, he was leaving alongside the rest of his team and making it home with plenty of time to eat dinner with his boyfriends.
But today’s practice had been draining, strenuous, and Shoyou looked so upset at the frequent mistakes and it was a no-brainer to say goodbye to his typical routine and stay a little later to help his teammate. His friend.
Besides, it wasn’t as though they’d be staying for hours. Just 30 or so minutes of cleaning up some plays and then he’d be on his way home, waving goodbye to his little redhead.
There was another word that could be used to describe Koutarou, however: persistent.
It was easy for thirty measly minutes to morph into an hour, for an hour to morph into two, and for his persistence in nailing this play with Shoyou to outweigh the ticking clock or the consistent ringing of his phone in his discarded bag.
“Just one more.” Shoyou panted, sweat pouring from his frame as he chugs the last of his water bottle. “They’ll be here to lock up soon, yeah?”
Koutarou looks at the clock on the wall and startles. He was meant to be home an hour ago.
It was fine. It wasn’t too often lately he stayed after and with their hectic schedules this week, he was almost positive no one would be too miffed about his late return. Plus, he was helping a friend! He couldn’t leave Shoyou hanging!
“One more!” He agrees eagerly, bouncing the ball, “Ready?”
His bag feels heavy on his back as he unlocks the door and steps inside, nudging his shoes off with a wince and exhaling sharply at the pressure.
“Kou?” He looks up, setting his bag down, “Hi, baby. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Koutarou takes a deep breath before walking towards the kitchen, smiling at the pulse that shoots up his ankle and to his leg, “Hi. Sorry I’m so late…”
He’s waved over, the three of them all in their spots and their plates empty. There’s a deck of cards being shuffled, Kenma dealing them between the three of them.
“It’s okay, baby.” Tetsurou beams, “It’s been a while since you’ve stayed late, huh? Practice okay?”
Koutarou nods, sitting in his chair and smiling through the twinge that shoots up again, “Y-Yeah! Sho Sho just wanted to run a play a few times and we lost track of time.”
The cards move in front of him and he grabs his deck, peering over them to see Keiji, more invested in their game, and it helps ease the pain only a little.
“You seem tense.” Kenma hums, laying his card down. “Everything okay?”
He knew he couldn’t lie; not only was he bad at it but the last time he had lied it had caused a spiral of problems, but Keiji would be so disappointed and Kenma would chide him for not being safe and Tetsurou would coddle him and they’re just all so busy, it just wouldn’t be right!
“I might have… rolled my ankle practicing with Shoyou.”
All eyes fall on him instantaneously and it makes his stomach churn like it’s making butter. Like there’s a million bees swarming in his tummy. Like he ate Kenma’s cookies again, the ones that were practically raw.
“I’m okay though!” He’s quick to announce, hoping it’ll get the glaring daggers away from him and release the tension that billows inside him. “It’s nothing too bad.”
It’s Keiji who moves first, his youngest boyfriend all too familiar with Koutarou’s volleyball injuries, and he’s quick to wrap a hand around the swollen ankle; cold, clammy fingers pressing gently to elicit a hiss from him.
“Kenma, go grab the first aid kid from the office.”
Kenma nods and moves to grab it, not before sending one more parting glance to the three that remain in the now eerie kitchen.
The hand is still firm on his ankle, a gentle pressure that pulls more whimpers from him, and Tetsurou sighs.
“Kou… Why didn’t you say anything earlier? We could have helped you in. We could have picked you up!”
It makes Koutarou swallow down a thick sob, the first semblance of sadness being pushed down in favor of sending a quivering smile and a shake of his head.
“It’s okay! I mean really, it isn’t that bad and I know you’ve all been busy.”
He watches as Keiji and Tetsurou exchange a look, both of their mouths opening to retort something, when Kenma walks back in and slams the first aid kit down onto the table.
“Don’t be a dumbass.”
“Kenma…”
Keiji sighs and reaches for the gauze, gingerly beginning to wrap Koutarou’s ankle with deft fingers as Kenma and Tetsurou watch on with intense focus.
It feels like high school again, for real. Having Keiji dutifully wrap his injury with the same gentleness, crooked and icy cold fingers hard at work.
Injuries were oh-so common, especially for him, yet there’s still that pit in his stomach as his boyfriend seals the gauze and gently pats his ankle.
“All good.” Keiji hums, hand lingering. “Does your coach know?”
Koutarou turns into a bobble head, nodding vigorously while the first aid kit is packed back up. “Yes.”
The hand doesn’t move and Koutarou feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Keiji continues speaking.
“Good. So that means you’ll be able to sit out of practice for the next few days to let it heal.”
Injuries were common. Sprains were common. Sitting out of a V-League practice was not common.
If it were high school he would have pushed through, he had to! He was captain and that meant he had a team to lead. He had pushed through with far worse than a measly sprained ankle.
Even now MSBY was demanding and taxing, a sprained ankle was akin to a paper cut and it was rare for anyone to sit out unless they were literally unable to move.
Coach would look at him crazy if he asked to sit out and Meian-san would ‘tsk’ at him on the bench, that was exactly what would happen.
“But-“
There’s a chorus of “no”s immediately in response cutting Koutarou off and making him pout.
“Don’t make it worse, baby.” Tetsurou urges, “You know what happens when you continue to push.”
His pout doesn’t disappear but he nods despite it, “I know…”
Tetsurou smiles and kisses his cheek, “Good. Everything will be okay, Kou. Missing a few days of practice won’t kill you, I promise.”
The oven dings and Tetsurou pushes himself to stand, walking over and having Kenma on his heels to help finish prepping the salads.
Keiji moves to kiss his cheek next, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, “He’s right, Koutarou. You’ll only make it worse, yeah? Promise me you’ll take a break? Just until it’s better?”
It’s a childish gesture but it’s one the two of them had done since his second year, Keiji’s pinky going up for Koutarou’s to wrap around, eyes so serious and focused as he waits.
“I promise.” Koutarou’s pinky meets his, “Pinky swear.”
One more kiss and a “good boy” before Keiji moves to help bring bowls to the table and Koutarou can’t help but stare at his pinky.
It was just for a few days… Yeah? That shouldn’t be too hard.
“Have a great day, Kou.” Tetsurou calls when the horn honks outside, bento being shoved into his hands as he’s steered towards the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Koutarou is quick to kiss him before hobbling towards Omi’s car, sending one more wave goodbye as the backseat is opened for him.
“Bye Kuroo~” Atsumu calls, waving devilishly and squeaking when the window almost rolls up on his outstretched arm. “Hey!”
“It’s 6 in the morning, stop yelling.”
Koutarou giggles and situates himself in his seat, making sure his bag is resting on the floor and bento is secured before buckling, and when he looks up he’s met with two sets of eyes focusing on him.
“What?”
Their gaze drifts from him to his ankle.
“Oh… I sprained my ankle after practice last night…”
Atsumu snorts the exact same time Omi sighs, “How the hell'd ya manage that?”
He squirms in his seat, fiddling with his seatbelt as Omi pulls away and begins driving.
“I tripped over my bag and fell into the bench.”
This time Atsumu lets out a cackle, body shaking in the passenger seat as Omi glances at him through his rear view and it pushes him to sink further and further down into his seat.
“Yer gonna break your neck next.” Atsumu points out, turning to face him fully. “Ya sittin’ out or what?”
Koutarou sighs dramatically, entire body sagging, “Ji, Tetsu, and Ken Ken want me to but…”
“But you don’t think it’s ‘that bad’.” Omi finishes, eyes moving back to the road. “That mentality is only going to make it worse, you know.”
“I know!” Koutarou laments, “But what if you need me?”
Omi merely shrugs as he turns, “We’ll need you more when you’re not incapacitated. Maybe the three of them were right about you taking a break, Bokuto.”
He hates it when Omi Omi is right.
“You can be our cheerleader.”
Atsumu’s attempt to break the tension manages to work, seeing as both he and the blond break into a fit of giggles as Omi shakes his head, and it helps to somewhat relieve the tension that continues to build up inside of Koutarou.
Between his wrapped and throbbing ankle and the pit that blooms in him, he feels like he’s bound to explode into a million pieces. The light hearted jab only eliminates the smallest fragment.
Honestly, to Koutarou, there was nothing worse than letting people down and he would be letting someone down no matter what decision he made.
If he sat out he’d let his team down, if he played he’d let his boyfriends down, if he wasn’t able to make his own decision he’d let himself down.
Why did things have to be so difficult!? What happened to easy?
He doesn’t get any more time to lament the situation though, not when Omi is pulling in and Atsumu is hopping out and going around to help Koutarou out of the car and towards the gym.
“Bokuto? What in the world happened?”
Koutarou grimaces at his captain’s question, fiddling with the strap of his bag as he shifts his weight to alleviate the pressure on his bum ankle. “It’s just a little sprain.”
His reassurance is more for himself than anyone else at this point and it’s clear Meian feels the same way when he narrows his eyes before crouching to look at the gauze Keiji rewrapped for him this morning prior to him leaving for work.
“Can you walk on it?” Koutarou makes a face. “Then you’re not practicing. Find a spot and sit there.”
There’s no point in arguing, even if Koutarou wants to pout and stomp in response to being benched, so he merely hobbles off instead; occupying the bench they reserve for bags and frowning down at his wrapped ankle in frustration.
It wasn’t fair.
He’s in the middle of scowling and sulking when a figure shifts next to him, a small gasp pulling him from his thoughts and causing him to look up at a shocked redhead.
“Your ankle! Is it really that bad!?”
Shoyou is already fiddling with the gauze, trying to peek under it to assess the damage, and Koutarou reaches to pats his shoulder in his best attempt of reassurance.
“It’s sprained.” He pouts again. “I’m benched. By pretty much everyone, I guess.”
The younger boy frowns, lip quirking into a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry… I feel like this is my fault. If I hadn’t asked you to stay late…”
“It’s not your fault I tripped over the bench, Sho Sho.”
There’s another pout pulled from his lips at the confession, hating to be reminded of how clumsy he had been and how it resulted in… all of this.
He had never been graceful or flexible, not like Omi or Kenma, but he wasn’t a walking disaster either. He could be nimble at times!
Except too bad he managed to set his bag down right in front of the bench and too bad he tripped on it and right into the bench when attempting to show Shoyou the right footing.
“Yeah, but…”
His friend trails off when the whistle sounds and they exchange one more glance before he bounces off, red headed curls deflated similarly to his own entire body.
To be honest, the quick glances and looks sent from his teammates as he sits on the bench like an amoeba being inspected under a microscope hurts far worse than his ankle right now.
He should’ve never opened his mouth about any of this.
Practice feels excruciatingly long today, longer than normal, and while normally Koutarou would never complain about it, not being able to play for even a single minute of it made it drag on for what felt like eternity.
Granted he’s packing up and leaving the same time as always but it would’ve gone by so much faster if he had been involved.
All he was able to do was have a quick chat that was filled with pity during water breaks and help Coach Foster keep score during the two on twos.
This wasn’t his idea of fun!
The car ride back only makes the feeling amplify, a gross, icky feeling brewing inside of him as Atsumu and Omi go on and on and on about today’s practice and some new play they went over today.
He was a man of action, involvement, he wasn’t made to sit on the sidelines and watch. His ankle was barely even throbbing anymore, too, just a small twinge of pain when he turned it a certain way.
Maybe… He would be set to rejoin tomorrow?
The car pulls up to his house after what seems like hours and he’s quick to grab his things and hobble out, letting the door shut loudly behind him as he all but limps to the door, ignoring the waves and shouts from his teammates in lieu of finding his keys.
“See you tomorrow…” He finds himself grumbling as the door clicks open. “Can’t wait.”
His ankle twinges as he steps in, the pain reigniting with the contact of their hard floor, and he can’t help but let out a hiss.
“Still hurting, baby?”
Koutarou glances up at Tetsurou’s small smile, hand outstretched to help guide him the rest of the way.
He shrugs, allowing his boyfriend to gingerly untie and maneuver his shoe off his hurt foot.
“Not really.” The lie slips through his teeth. “Where’s Ji?”
Tetsurou lifts his eyebrow as he sets his sneaker down, “Mhm… Keiji is in his office, I don’t think he’s too busy. Go in and say hi, I’ll get Kenma down to help finish dinner.”
There’s a kiss pressed to his temple that lingers before Tetsurou nudges him towards the hallway, the light from Keiji’s office illuminating in the corridor like a beacon.
He pushes the door open slowly, Keiji’s shoulders hunched as he types aggressively on his laptop, unaware of Koutarou’s presence, as he mutters unintelligibly.
Koutarou is about to retreat, turn on his heels and allow his boyfriend to continue working when his head snaps backwards, glasses on the bridge of his nose and warm smile across his lips.
“Welcome home.” Keiji greets, turning his desk chair fully around, “Have a seat. I’m almost done with this draft and then you can tell me about your day.”
The seat he’s referring to is a tattered brown couch from his and Keiji’s first flat, moving from a studio to a one bedroom to now, their first home. It’s nostalgic and aside from the wear and tear and loose strands that mar it, Koutarou finds himself loving it the most out of anything in their house.
“Hi,” He sighs, knowing he sounds mopey, already fiddling with the long strand that sticks out from the cushion.
Keiji continues to peer at him from over his glasses before he sighs out himself, turning his chair back around to face his laptop. “Don’t sound too excited to see me, now. Rough practice?”
His shoulders meet his ears before his entire body sulks, practically hanging off of the sofa while his foot levitates in mid-air. Keiji must sense his awkward positioning because he gestures without turning back, fingers still clicking away on the keyboard.
“Pillow is next to the sofa, elevate your foot. Why was practice so rough today, Kou?”
That simple question is enough to pull it all out of Koutarou instantaneously, body deflating altogether as his sighing cuts off with a choked gasp. He doesn’t want to cry, no, nor does he feel the need to hide away, he just… he just wants to sulk.
So he does.
“I don’t like sitting out.” He whines, hating the way his voice grows shrill, too akin to his whining when he’s being scolded, “I want to play…”
“I know.”
The answer is nonchalant but Koutarou still knows he’s being attentive and it’s his sign to keep going, “And my ankle doesn’t hurt as much-”
“No.”
Koutarou scowls.
“Now stop sulking before your face gets stuck like that.”
There isn’t any sense in arguing, not when he can hear the sound of a laptop closing and a hand gingerly moving his ankle up and onto his boyfriend’s lap as he sits down beside him. The touch is gentle, the same clammy hands and practiced precision rubbing against his ankle bone in a way that makes him exhale in relief instead of frustration.
Out of the four of them, Keiji always gave the best massages. Where Tetsurou was too stiff or rigged and Kenma was way too harsh, Keiji managed to find that perfect balance.
“What happened during your second year when you had a sprain like this one?” The silence breaks, Keiji’s fingers pausing its massage to nudge the sock lower to better expose his ankle.
His lip juts out, “I practiced on it…”
He’s met with a hum as the sock is guided back up gently.
It didn’t end particularly well for him; his ankle ended up bruising pretty badly and he was out for longer than he should have been had he just let it heal without disruption, but he had been so stubborn. Not to mention, the earful he had gotten from Coach Yamiji, Keiji, his mom, Konoha, Tetsurou… Pretty much everybody.
“Exactly.” Keiji lets the elastic band snap against his ankle, “So unless you want a repeat of that, you’ll do as you're told and rest it until the end of the week. Get it?”
“Got it…”
Lips press against his cheek as he’s guided up carefully, “Good. Now, let’s eat dinner.”
Koutarou really was a people pleaser. He always had been and most likely always would be. There was truly nothing better than making people happy.
Maybe that was why having to sit out bothered him so much, because it was very hard to please teammates and coaches and peers when you weren’t able to practice alongside them. And sure he was pleasing his boyfriends, Keiji and Kenma and Tetsurou were very pleased at the fact he was resting his ankle, but he wasn’t pleasing himself .
All in all, it was all one big pickle. A big, fat sour one that practically laughed mockingly in his face as he sprawled across the bench.
He robotically flips the score chart over once more, eyes glazed over from where he watches with apt interest, and tries not to sigh too loudly at the whooping and high fives that carry inside the gym.
Koutarou would have much rather preferred being at home in bed than watching volleyball right now.
The grumbling and huffing must be apparent because Meian places a hand on his shoulder mid water swig, a soft smile and sparkling eyes that just swirl the gross feeling in his gut with more intensity.
“You’ll be back out there soon, Bo.” His captain appeases, setting his bottle down with a ruffle to his hair. “Yer not gonna die by takin’ it easy, yeah?”
He will. He will quite literally drop dead into a pool of nothing but sadness and sweat and then everyone will feel real sorry!
Koutarou just nods instead, finger tracing the outline of the scorecard as he watches Meian jog back out and wave over the rest of his teammates. He’s prepared to resign himself to this fate for the time being, to be nothing more than just a scorecard flipper and water bottle holder; to make a permanent spot on the cold bench and watch with as much intensity that he can as not to fall behind, when it happens.
The exact play that they all had been trying to nail, the very same one that he had been helping Shoyou practice that caused him to hurt his ankle.
A cruel, taunting thing, one that he can never seem to escape, even when he’s not involved.
It makes him groan loudly, hands covering his face to muffle the sound and he can’t even watch the rest of the practice match, choosing, instead, to play with his zipper until he hears them call for lunch.
The gym is empty. Just Koutarou surrounded by the nets and all the loose volleyballs they couldn’t corral in before their cool down run, and it doesn’t take much contemplation for him to hobble out of his seat and grab the spare volleyball that rolled under the bench.
Just one go, that was all he needed. Just one, and then he’d sit back down and eat lunch. He could do it.
Whoever was spinning the wheel of fate for Koutarou’s life at the moment must have it out for him because really, truly, it continues to land on “bad luck and misfortune”. Naturally, he fucks his ankle up even more. So much more, in fact, that he can barely walk on it anymore when he tries to hobble back to the bench to sit down. His eyes squeeze shut, mind echoing a mantra the whole time he shuffles to sit back down. He can handle this, he can. He can do it-
He can’t.
He needs to go home.
It doesn’t take long for him to fish his phone out and call the first person he can think of, heart pounding in his chest a mile a minute the entire time it rings, eyes screwing shut to focus on literally anything besides the pain in his ankle that blossoms.
“H-Hey!” He squeaks out when they finally pick up, head falling practically in between his knees. “I, uhm, I need you to pick me up. Please.”
“Start from the beginning.” Keiji sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I want to know exactly how this happened.”
He gestures to the ice pack on his ankle and it makes the pain pulse more intensely, lip quivering in unison.
Koutarou sniffs, “I told you-“
Keiji holds his hand up, cutting him off effectively.
“ Not the injury. You lied about resting, didn’t you? I want the truth.”
The pain is so excruciating, more painful than any other injury he’s gotten playing volleyball, and the fact that it was all because of him being clumsy and not actually playing makes it all the more unbearable.
He sniffs again, hands moving to grab at the stray fabric on the sofa. “I was tired of sitting out on the bench.”
The silence he’s met with is unbearable, deafening, and he’d much rather prefer the scolding over it.
His mouth is opening to beg Keiji to say something when there’s a heavy sigh that echoes instead, fingers drumming on a desk in a rhythm that makes his stomach flip flop.
That was Keiji’s irritated drumming.
There weren't many things Koutarou disliked, it was hard to hate when there was so much to love in the world.
But the one thing he hated more than anything was being in trouble.
It wasn’t just because of the spankings, even if they hurt, it was the fact that he had messed up enough to disappoint someone.
Especially if that someone were his boyfriends.
“I was! Tsumu wouldn’t stop talking about this new play and Sho Sho wanted to learn it too and- and I was just sitting! My ankle didn’t even hurt that bad so-“
The drumming stops and so does his heart, a loud thump before stilling completely.
Keiji stands, pushing his chair in quietly, before he’s moving across his office towards Koutarou; his eyes are blank, mouth set, and Koutarou is seconds from bolting and hobbling all the way into a ditch.
“You mean to tell me you ignored several people’s requests to sit out and let your ankle heal because you wanted to learn some play that couldn’t have waited until next week?”
“But it wasn’t hurting!”
His eyes narrow as he leans closer, “That wasn’t my question.”
Koutarou feels his lip set, fingers tugging the strings of fabric from the sofa free and twirling it around a finger.
“It wasn’t…”
There’s a sigh as he clenches the strand, glancing up to see Keiji’s face still so close towards his own, eyes still narrow and sharp. It sucks, really, it all does.
If he hadn’t put his bag in front of the bench instead of leaving it in his locker he never would’ve gotten hurt but also if he hadn’t have stayed late to help Shoyou he never would’ve gotten hurt either but Shoyou never would’ve asked him to stay late if Atsumu hadn’t seen that one Red Rocket’s player go viral for his serve so really it isn’t all his fault!
“It wasn’t my fault.” He mumbles out with as much confidence he can muster when his ankle twinges and Keiji looks seconds away from tugging at his ear — which he hates. “Shoyou and Atsumu-“
“Enough.”
Koutarou lets his mouth snap shut and he scowls.
“No more excuses, Kou. You’re a big boy now.” He holds up a hand before Koutarou can squeak out an argument. “You pulled this exact kind of crap in high school but I’m not going to let it slide anymore. It’s time you own up to your mistakes, especially if you’re trying to blame your teammates for your injury.”
His ankle twinges at the mention of injury, like a radiating sign reminding him of how dumb he had been and how impatient he remains, and he smacks his hand against the couch.
“Stop mentioning it…”
If looks could kill, Koutarou would be seven feet under right now.
Fortunately, he’s granted with grace that Keiji’s looks can’t actually murder him but send a full body chill down his spine and through him instead, eyes unblinking and gaze way too focused on him.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Keiji’s voice taking on that authoritarian tone. “You have two choices. Either you take your spanking now and then we have dinner or you can take it after dinner before your bedtime.”
Koutarou doesn’t mean to scowl but that doesn’t matter to Keiji, not when he matches his scowl with a swat to his thigh and a set jaw.
“Make up your mind before I do it for you, Koutarou.”
Keiji usually made a lot of decisions for him: his tax write-offs, what to eat for dinner, what to pack for lunch – it was the little things that he typically felt indecisive or hopeless about. This, however, was not one of those times where he needed his boyfriend pulling the strings and making a decision for him. Not when it was in regards to the circumstances of his punishment.
But Koutarou was notoriously bad at deciding the circumstances himself, it was why he was never really given a choice when it came down to it. Not even Tetsurou let him negotiate.
His mouth matches Keiji’s own, jaw setting in an effort to hide the wobbling that persists, and he shrugs his shoulders.
The pinch of a nose and huff of distaste makes his shoulder fall sharply, body shoving further down onto the ground until he’s basically sitting on the carpet.
“‘s not fair.” He mumbles, picking at the carpet strands and giving the poor couch some relief.
Keiji’s huff is more of a snort, and Koutarou can’t understand what is so funny about anything right now.
“It’s not fair, you’re right. Not letting yourself get better and then blaming others is very unfair, but here we are.” Keiji guides Koutarou back up with a grunt, settling him onto the sofa beside him. “When you choose to act like a highschooler again instead of a grown adult you lose any fairness.”
“Well-”
Keiji’s hand rests on his thigh and his mouth snaps shut. It was all so crappy; his ankle hurt, his head was starting to hurt, and, to make everything worse, he felt like crap.
“Let’s deal with it now.” The lapse of silence filled with Keiji’s proclamation, “Your sulking tells me you need it sooner rather than later. Then, we can eat dinner and get you into bed.”
And despite how mad Keiji had been and the scolding and narrowed eyes and just overall disappointment, his voice is as calm and leveled as always.
Even if Koutarou had been the biggest brat and sulked and stropped.
He had been wrong, he knew that from the beginning, but it was always easiest to just pretend he was innocent; being on Keiji’s good side, being his good boy, that was what he wanted. Being bratty didn’t suit him, none of his boyfriends liked bratty Koutarou, hell, he didn’t like bratty Koutarou.
It’s why he gives up any restraint, just letting his body deflate more as he nods solemnly. Keiji seems to be pleased he isn’t arguing anymore or making up excuses because the hand on his thigh comes down to pat him gently.
“Good boy.”
He nods again before looking up from the poor mangled couch strand that had been trapped in his hand, meeting Keiji’s gentle gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Keiji nods, patting his thigh twice more, “I know you are. You typically aren’t bratty, are you?”
His stomach flips in embarrassment and he has to let out a whine.
“We’ll address that when you’re over my knee, it’s okay.” And just like that, stern Keiji returns much like the bile rising up from before, and he squirms. “Come on, Koutarou. No more stalling.”
“But- my ankle-”
The tsk makes him squirm more and he tries to ignore the hand on his thigh that is moving to reach for his arm.
“Wasn’t a problem before.” His boyfriend finishes for him while continuing to tug on his arm to guide him towards his lap, “If you can practice on it then surely you can take your spanking.”
It still manages to surprise Koutarou how nimbly he can be guided over a lap. Not only did he have several centimeters on Keiji, he also had way more weight and muscle, a good amount, nonetheless. Yet it never seemed to be any issue to his boyfriend, seeing now as he’s upturning him without any restraint or issues; a practiced ease that can only come from having done this time and time again.
The positioning is the same as always except Keiji has graciously let his ankle rest on the pillow he placed back onto the couch, making sure to reach over and coerce him exactly where he’ll lay comfortably — or as comfortably as he can be when splayed like this — despite how his limbs are sprawled and sporadically strewn about. He grabs the tattered arm of the sofa with tenseness, feeling the pulse of his ankle with even the smallest jolt.
“Ji…” He whines again. “I’m sorry…”
Keiji lets out a mix of a hum and a snort, hand rubbing the swollen ankle gently, “Keep your ankle still, please. It’s healing, for sure, but I don’t need you to thrash around and nix that.”
He can picture the look on Keiji’s face as he tells him this: blue eyes solemn, mouth set firmly, eyebrows furrowed and pinched in deep concentration. Koutarou wants to crane his neck around to see it for himself but even the smallest shuffle sends a twinge coursing through him and he settles for resting his chin in his arms with a huff.
When he feels the hand leave his ankle he squeezes his eyes shut.
Only for them to fly open at the same time Keiji’s hand cracks down.
It’s bad enough his ankle is in excruciating pain, every small movement and shift making his body light up, but that combined with the heat that’s building in his backside, he’s almost positive he’s going to be a puddle of nothingness soon.
His limbs feel looser and numb. His eyes are already watering. His heart is bursting, rapidly pounding in his chest like a timpani.
“Kei-“ He chokes, all the spit built up in his throat forcing out a hacking cough. “Keiji!”
He knew he hated spankings, even if he had a good pain tolerance, but this was on a whole other level.
“Relax your body.” Keiji reads his mind, stopping momentarily to run his thumb on the bump of his ankle. “You’re tensing up and making it so much harder on yourself because of it.”
“But it hurts!” Koutarou warbles, doing his best to relax his body and ease his nerves. “My ankle hurts…”
There’s another hum, Keiji’s hand remaining firmly on the bump, “Don’t think about it.”
“Think about this instead.”
The hand on his ankle moves back to hover against his bottom and he gasps, tensing for a brief second before allowing his legs to loosen. When Keiji’s hand falls this time, it hurts far less.
“Why did you think it was a good idea to practice on a hurt ankle?”
Koutarou clenches his eyes shut. Even with his body relaxing and Keiji’s voice to distract from his ankle, the spanking itself is still very painful — his boyfriend never seemed to take it easy, even with his injury.
He ponders the question and merely lifts his shoulders up, “I wanted to nail the move, but-“
“But that’s not a legitimate reason.” His boyfriend finishes with a matching smack on the other cheek. “You keep saying you were tired of sitting out and wanted to learn it but you’re not telling the whole truth, are you?”
His eyes flutter open, “Noooot really?”
Keiji’s hum is usually so airy and light; he loves to hear it when he’s reading or cleaning, fingers either hard at work playing with his hair or massaging him or when they wipe the dishes dry. Now though, the hums are heavy and tired. Much like Keiji himself— filled with disappointment.
“So? What is the reason then?”
The spit making him choke before is thick as he swallows it down and he nuzzles his chin deeper into his arms, “I thought I could handle it.”
The hum cuts off, everything in the room freezing and stilling in time as the proclamation rattles the air. So many past conversations about bravado, handling things and holding a mentality of “being able to despite” tumbling to the surface that he had tried so hard to repress. Keiji had been at the forefront of those discussions, no, he had been the sole reason behind them, really. Kenma didn’t see it as a huge offense, unless it was blatant and disparaging, Tetsurou shared that same common ground and mentality, but Keiji was the only one who had it pressed under a thumb.
The only one who would be quick to nip it in the bud.
His boyfriend’s entire demeanor tilts on its axis after that, hands moving double time to tug him up and off his lap so hazel eyes can meet burning ones, and he squeaks when hands tighten on his shoulder.
“Are you serious , Kou?” His voice is venomous as he hisses, “When have you ever been invincible?”
It’s a trick question, he knows Keiji isn’t actually looking for an answer nor wanting one, but Koutarou whines one out anyway in a fit of frustration.
“I know I’m not! I’m not stupid-”
The hand on his shoulder is lead, “I didn’t think you were. I didn’t apply that you were. You’re very smart, Kou, very aware, and you know what to do. But what you did was extremely stupid.”
His hand loosens, much like his own chest, and he slumps as Keiji continues.
“I was willing to take the impatience and desire to play as reason enough. I get that one, I’ve seen that one, you’ve always hated having to sit out and miss, but not even in high school did you push yourself to play “because you thought you could handle it”.”
“It’s different now…”
Keiji exhales, hands dropping from the shoulder he had been death gripping to rest clasped together in his lap. The expression on his face is unreadable; it isn’t disappointed like it had been at first or irritated like it just was, it’s blank. Nothing but a cold, blank stare as he contemplates. Koutarou can practically hear him thinking, eyes darting around the room and knuckles cracking with each passing second.
“Kei-”
“Hush.”
His ankle pulses.
“You’re not going to go to any more practices for the rest of the month.” Keiji declares, hand lifting before Koutarou can let it fully register and open his mouth in protest. “I’ll call your coach and let him know. Did you get everything you needed from the gym when you left?”
Koutarou shakes his head up and down, unable to find the energy to respond with words, and Keiji hums along with a nod of approval.
“Good, you won’t be going back until next Wednesday.”
“But-”
“But nothing.” His hand drops to his lap as he pats his legs again, “If the only way you’ll let your ankle heal is to stay at home and not be around temptations, then that’s what we’ll have to do.”
He clambers back over Keiji’s lap with little grace, huffing when the hand immediately restarts its stinging descent all over his backside, and even with the brief lapse in conversation and Keiji’s eyes losing their cold hue, it still feels miserable.
“I’m glad you told the truth.” Keiji’s voice interrupts between each heavy smack, “Even if you were bratty about it.”
Koutarou nods and nods as he squirms more fervently, “Sorry! Sorry, sorry!”
He doesn’t know when he started his chanted apologies but his voice feels hoarse when he finally cuts it off at the same time Keiji’s hand stills, lungs burning. The mutinous repetition, the sound echoing in his ears when Keiji decides he’s lectured enough, the way his body twitches in response to each lower spank, all of it is enough to have his body shaking from where it lay bonelessly across Keiji.
Keiji’s hand doesn’t move, though. It doesn’t swat back down but it doesn’t rub away the sting or move to guide him up. It just sits there, pressing against Koutarou as he continues to shake and squirm.
“Koutarou.” His body lurches. “You can not do something like this. Not ever again.”
He nods, pressing up until Keijis hand is flesh to his back.
His boyfriend tuts, “I can’t believe it, still. Do I just need to start coming to monitor your practices again?”
For the first time in weeks, Koutarou lets out an airy laugh, body still shaking and feeling boneless but lungs filling up with a breath of fresh air instead of raspy and shaky ones. “You could… I really am sorry, Ji. I didn’t mean to disappoint you or cause problems, I just-”
“Wanted to play. Wanted to prove yourself.” He finishes and finally lets his hand stroke, “You and Tetsurou share that trait, the inability to rest for fear of people seeing you as weak or, in your case, bad.”
“Well, Ken Ken hates asking for help… And you are too much of a perfectionist. We all have our flaws!”
Keiji pats his back, “Yes, we all do. And we’ll work on bettering ourselves, but for now…”
He winces slightly at the way he’s guided entirely up, returning to that spot right beside Keiji, and brings his head down to rest against his shoulder.
“We’ll work on your ankle getting better.”
It takes longer than it should have, due in part to Koutarou’s insistence to keep putting pressure on it and the practice incident, but his ankle finally heals.
The entire process had been grueling. Koutarou was never a patient person and Keiji, as patient as ever, had little patience for his constant attempts at doing things for himself instead of resting. It certainly didn’t help, either, that the post dinner conversation had determined he’d go over a knee every night the rest of the month, but Koutarou suspects he had that one coming.
Yet there were many things that managed to help his healing process so much more bearable.
Kenma spent a lot of the healing time with him, being able to work from home for the remainder of the month and letting Koutarou rest on his sofa during streams and filming. And Kodzuken fans were more than happy to meet a new face: Kodzuken’s pro-athlete boyfriend.
Tetsurou called him every lunch break, his boyfriend chatting with him about coworker drama or a new movie he had heard about that they should watch and Koutarou would tell him about the show he had finally managed to catch up on, not having much of anything to do besides watch television.
Keiji wrapped his ankle every night and every morning. Each morning, bright and early before he left for work, and each night, ankle propped on his lap as Keiji took a break from sending emails or revising panels. Every single wrap sealed with a gentle peck of lips right on the swollen tendon.
It isn’t until that Tuesday, the last day of the month, that Koutarou finally feels his entire body relax fully. That those days spent with Kenma watching streams and those hour long phone call updates with Tetsurou and those kiss-sealed ankle wraps have a full body, mind, and soul effect on him.
That not only does his ankle feel a million times better, but he does too. Because he hasn’t thought about that silly play the rest of the team had been egging each other to master once. All that matters is his ankle is good as new – or as good as a swollen ankle can be – and he’s clear to come back tomorrow.
Dinner is back to the same jovialness as always. Kenma and Keiji are bickering about cup ramen not being a real dinner, Tetsurou is nudging Koutarou to laugh along with him, and he finds his eyes crinkling when Kenma scowls at the three of them with no real menace. Everything, not just his ankle, felt so much better.
Even after dinner is cleaned up and Tetsurou has his lunch packed up in the fridge for tomorrow and he’s upturned over Keiji’s knee getting his bottom dusted pink; the icky, sicky, gross feeling is nowhere to be found.
And when he steps into the gym that next morning as Kenma waves him off, he feels a sense of pride course through him when he sets his bag in the locker room, not paying any mind to the sounds of Omi ridiculing Atsumu for still doing that silly play, because he doesn’t care about any of that.
He can only care about the three little notes that rest at the top of his bento, all with the same thing just in three different scrawled prints.
Always our ace.