Chapter Text
Commissioned Artwork by im_not_here134
Keiji knelt in the middle of the kyudojo, drenched in sweat. He’d been here far later than his teammates, determined to master the timing of the different orders of the shinsa. He’d gone through countless rounds, countless hassetsu, focusing his mind and body on the technique and the practice of the art itself. He checked and triple-checked his form, his balance, his posture, to the point of his body aching when he moved from kiza to torikake. He’d run through hassetsu so many times, he was sure he’d be raising and lowering his bow in his sleep.
But it was worth it. It was all worth it…
When it meant that Keiji would make the starting five for regionals…
When it meant that Keiji could impress Bokuto.
Bokuto wasn’t just the captain of the Chuo University kyudo team, although that was certainly a reason to make sure Bokuto noticed him.
But Keiji noticed Bokuto all the time: in practice, of course, when he was directing the team, or deep in conversation with Oikawa, Sawamura, and Nekomata. He noticed Bokuto on campus, where he was always surrounded by groups of people, girls and guys, all hanging on his every word. And he was loud, so loud, outside of the kyudojo, but never obnoxious, never annoying. He was boisterous, easily the center of attention, but never annoyingly so.
No, Keiji found it wonderful, endearing. He wished he could be part of that group, hanging on Bokuto’s every word. Kuroo was of course there, and Kenma, too, but as much as Kenma encouraged him to join, Keiji never could.
It didn’t feel right, not when he felt his heart beating so quickly at even just the sight of the man in regular clothing on campus, let alone how his body responded to seeing Bokuto in his keiko-gi and hakama, how he blushed when Bokuto asked permission to touch him, to guide him, to help with his form and positioning of the bow. Every time Bokuto touched him, Keiji thought he might combust on the spot.
But he wasn’t attracted to Bokuto. He couldn’t be. Bokuto was his captain, and Keiji was…well, Keiji.
Plain, simple. Good at school. Decent at kyudo.
Keiji was Keiji. Bokuto was a star.
But still, Keiji couldn’t help but feel a little thrill every time Bokuto smiled that brilliant smile at him, every time Bokuto took the time to help him with his form. He couldn’t help but feel excited, like maybe Bokuto was noticing him, like when Bokuto made a comment to the team, but his eyes were on Keiji, and Keiji alone.
As if Keiji truly was getting his attention.
It wasn’t his only goal—impressing Bokuto, that was. He really did want to do well; making the Chuo starting five as a first-year would be a huge accomplishment, and would bring Keiji closer to his goal of being the top kyudoka in the nation. He loved the feel of the bow in his grip; he loved the sensation of the arrow against his fingertips, the sound the feathers made when he nocked an arrow.
And, of course, most of all, he loved the tsurune.
When his bowstring hit his bow and made that perfect, shining sound, it never failed to make Keiji shiver. Even after hours of practice, even after the sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, even after Keiji’s fingers were split and blistered and sore…
That crisp sound slicing through the air, stirring Keiji’s soul…
“Akaashi?”
Keiji jumped, dropping his arrow and nearly falling over in his kiza. He looked up at the entrance of the kyudojo; Bokuto stood there, dressed in joggers and a muscle t-shirt, luminous in the dim light of the evening.
In an instant, Bokuto was at his side. “Akaashi?” he asked, picking up Keiji’s arrow and grabbing Keiji by the elbow. “Are you okay?” He frowned, but Keiji could see a light blush dusting the tips of his ears at the sight of Keiji shirtless. “What are you doing here so late?”
Now it was Keiji’s turn to blush. “I—I—” He trembled at the way Bokuto’s hand gripped his arm more tightly. “I’ve been staying late to practice, Bokuto-san,” he admitted quietly.
“You wanna make the starting five, huh.” It was more of a statement than a question. Keiji nodded, and Bokuto sighed.
“Come on,” he said, tugging gently at Keiji. “On your feet, Akaashi.”
Keiji obeyed, letting Bokuto guide him to his feet. For the first time, the cool breeze of the April evening cut through him, the wind brushing through his arm hair and raising goosebumps.
Bokuto’s face softened at Keiji’s shiver. “How often have you been here practicing, Akaashi?” he asked.
Keiji tried to look away, but Bokuto’s hand on his arm was insistent, and Keiji found that he could not. Instead, he found himself gazing deeply into Bokuto’s golden eyes, which were warm, compassionate, and slightly darker than usual.
“I—nearly every day after practice,” he murmured.
Bokuto’s hand on his arm tightened; his eyes illuminated with concern. “For—for how long?” he asked next.
“Since the first week,” Keiji said, still quiet. “For—usually several hours at a time. Until after sundown. Until—” He looked down at his non-gloved hand. “Until my fingers split and bleed,” he added softly.
Bokuto made a strangled sound. “A—Akaashi,” he said, “you can’t—you can’t be—” He paused, took a breath. He seemed unnerved; by what, Keiji couldn’t be sure. “You can’t be doing this to yourself,” he said after a moment; Keiji could hear him struggling to keep his voice even. “You can’t be here, night after night, practicing so much. It’s not good for you: not your mind and definitely not your body. You can’t push the connection. You can’t force yourself to be one with the bow.”
“But only through practice can we achieve truth!” Keiji protested, chafing against Bokuto’s grip.
“Yes,” Bokuto agreed, still holding him steady, “but not when the practice is—is—” He looked, for the first time since Keiji had met him, a little lost. “You know,” he said finally, his face tense, as though he was searching for the right words, “when it’s bad for you.”
“A detriment?” Keiji suggested.
Bokuto lit up. “Yeah!” he agreed. “When it’s a detriment to you!”
“But it’s not a detriment, Bokuto-san,” Keiji countered, “not when it’s making me a better kyudoka.”
“But is it?” Bokuto challenged him, and Keiji found that he could not answer.
“The way I see it, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto said, his hand sliding down to take Keiji’s, and Keiji’s heart thundered at the way Bokuto said his name, combined with the way Bokuto threaded his fingers through Keiji’s, before turning his palm face-up, “practice is good—it’s great, even! But you have to know when to say enough. You have to know when to rest.” His thumb trailed over the callouses on Keiji’s fingertips, then down his pinky finger, when it danced over Keiji’s palm, almost absentmindedly, as though it was natural for him to touch Keiji like this.
For a fleeting moment, Keiji thought it was natural, too.
But it wasn’t, it couldn’t be…could it?
Dammit, focus, Keiji!
“E—even though it’s practice that allows us to improve?” Keiji asked, his voice hoarse from Bokuto’s touch and his own, rambling thoughts. He was so close to Keiji; Bokuto smelled of sweat, and a lingering hint of some musky cologne that was making Keiji quite heady.
No. No.
He blinked. He had to focus. He had to focus.
Stay sharp. Task focus. Hit the mark.
Bokuto smiled then: a brilliant, blinding grin that made Keiji waver where he stood. “It does!” Bokuto agreed, his voice louder than before. “It definitely does! But…” He turned Akaashi’s hand over, and Keiji was startled to note that even though his fingers were longer, Bokuto’s were thicker. He briefly wondered what else Bokuto could do with those beefy, deft hands other than nock an arrow so beautifully. “When practice is hurting you, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto whispered, tracing over the cracks in Keiji’s knuckles, the torn skin, “how can it be helpful?”
Their eyes met; Keiji could see himself reflected in Bokuto’s golden gaze. “After all,” Bokuto said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Keiji’s hand, “when a hand is this beautiful, it should be preserved, protected, not driven to the point of destruction.”
Bokuto’s thumb left Keiji’s skin tingling, his body quaking in its wake. He was so beautiful, the man before him: silver hair shining in the moonlight, chiseled jaw and broad shoulders stunning against the evening sky. “Bokuto-san,” Keiji whispered, unsure of what else to say.
“One more,” Bokuto whispered, back, threading their fingers together for a moment, before releasing Keiji’s hand and handing him the arrow. “One more…just for me.”
And with Bokuto looking down at him like that, eyes a fiery haze that made Keiji tremble, for a whole other reason now?
“O—okay,” Keiji agreed, the breath leaving his body in a whoosh. “One more—just for you.”
Smiling softly, Bokuto crossed the kyudojo and took Keiji’s bow. Reverently, he handed it to Keiji, who accepted his bow with a bow. “Pretend I’m not here,” Bokuto said, stepping back into the shadows. “Let me see how Akaashi Keiji shoots an arrow when he’s alone.”
Bokuto’s words sent a heat through Keiji’s core and right up to his cheeks. He could feel himself breaking out into a blush, but Keiji knew that he had to stay calm if he was going to make this shot count.
He took a breath, closed his eyes. He let his breath out, and his eyes opened. He stepped up to the line, and began his hassetsu.
The past few days, Keiji’s movements through hassetsu had felt forced, as he’d been pushing through one after another after another. It was why he’d been pressing harder, both during practice and alone at night. But despite his best efforts, his body still felt stiff, disconnected, as though he couldn’t quite capture the bond with the bow he’d had before.
Keiji’s eyes widened. Had he been overworking himself? Had he been trying too hard? What if he had?
Fuck. Bokuto was right, wasn’t he?
But here, now, under Bokuto’s watchful gaze, Keiji no longer felt the exhaustion, the push to go from one step to the next. Instead, each movement felt careful, deliberate. He adjusted his body; he readied the bow; he nocked the arrow. As he raised the bow over his head, preparing for the draw, he took a deep breath again, letting his arms and the bow and the arrow all work as one.
This time, he could feel the power of the bow coursing through his muscles.
This time, he could feel the tension of the bow giving way to the forming of the draw.
And this time, he could feel the reverb as he released, could hear the tsurune as the bowstring twanged, brilliant and piercing and poignant.
He felt his body elongate; he felt his soul shift, somewhere inside of him.
And, he saw the arrow, an extension of his arm, as it flew through the air…
As it hit the mark, a perfect bullseye.
Keiji held zanshin, his body steady in the wake of the release, until the arrow struck the mato. Then, and only then, did he lower the bow, closing his eyes and taking in one last deep breath as he did so. When he opened his eyes again, he turned; Bokuto was there, watching Akaashi, his breath heavy and his eyes wide.
“Akaashi,” he murmured, stepping forward, “that was…”
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmured back, turning around fully to face him, “did I—”
Keiji’s words were interrupted as Bokuto took him full into his arms, holding both Keiji and his bow close. Keiji’s breath quickened; he was briefly, wildly glad he’d worn his contacts tonight, because surely his glasses would have fogged over.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto replied, his voice thick and reedy, “you’re incredible, you know that? That was…that was incredible.”
Keiji’s mouth gaped; his heart raced at the way Bokuto held him, his body strong but his touch so, so gentle. “Bokuto-san,” he managed to say, “I—I could not have done that without your words…with…without…”
Did he dare?
Did he dare say what was on his mind?
He did.
“Without you,” he finished.
Keiji would have expected Bokuto’s eyes to grow wide, but instead, they darkened to a delicious amber. “Akaashi,” he breathed, holding Keiji closer, “I’d—I’d really like to kiss you, if that’s okay.”
Kiss? Kiss me? Bokuto-san?
“O—only if it’s okay!” Bokuto said, starting to release his hold, but Keiji held firm, the shock of the moment finally knocking him out of his dumbfoundedness and into the realization that maybe, just maybe, all those longing looks and smiles and winks and hands lingering on his shoulder, his arm…
Maybe they hadn’t been in Keiji’s imagination.
Maybe they had been real.
“Yes,” Akaashi answered breathlessly, all thoughts of kyudo and captains and teams flying out of his mind—all that remained was Bokuto—his eyes, his jaw, his soft lips, his strong arms—”Yes, yes, please, it’s okay…you can.”
Bokuto shivered; one hand reached up to cup Keiji’s cheek. His palm was smooth, despite how much he practiced, and Keiji trembled at his touch.
“Akaashi,” he whispered, and covered Keiji’s lips with his own.
They were soft, softer than Keiji could have ever imagined, and yet, there was a fierceness, a passion behind them, one that made Keiji keen and come apart under Bokuto’s gentleness. His bow clattered to the ground; he wrapped his arms around Bokuto, trying to pull him close, closer, closest. Bokuto’s chest rumbled and he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth and sucking the air from Keiji’s lungs.
Good. So fucking good. Bokuto’s tongue was in Keiji’s mouth and it was strong and Keiji might, indeed, burst into a million pieces, right here and now.
Instead, he let out a little moan, one that immediately embarrassed him, but Bokuto just adjusted Keiji in his arms and kissed him deeper, his mouth moving away from Keiji’s and to his jaw, down the column of his throat. “Akaashi,” Bokuto murmured, Keiji’s name vibrating against the delicate flesh, “gods you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Keiji heaved a breath. “Bo—Bokuto-san?” he said, suddenly feeling a bit tentative. Bokuto had—
“Yeah.” Bokuto kissed him one more time before releasing him. He bent down and retrieved Keiji’s bow, which Keiji accepted gratefully. A quick check revealed no damage, but he’d have to inspect it more closely at home. “Since the first day you stepped into the dojo, actually.”
“You—you’ve wanted to kiss me since then?” Keiji blinked, He couldn’t believe that Bokuto had wanted—had been thinking about—
“You were—you are—the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Bokuto confessed, running a hand through his wild hair. “And the way you talked about kyudo—how much you love it, how respectful of it you are—and then you were so hesitant about being goban? Most people would have jumped at the chance to unseat me.”
“But not me,” Keiji whispered.
“No,” Bokuto agreed, his eyes now blazing, “never you.”
Keiji’s body was on fire. Bokuto had—noticed his passion? Had admired it? Had—respected it?
No. No.
Bokuto had…noticed him. Admired him. Respected him.
And now…
“I—I love the way you shoot, too, Bokuto-san,” Keiji revealed. “You’re full of the passion of the sport, but yet, when you’re in the moment, your body is so calm, so focused. It’s—and you are—”
Bokuto’s face broke into a grin. “I’m what, Akaashi?” he asked, leaning in close.
He wanted a kiss.
Keiji decided to take a chance and gift him one.
Bokuto hummed under the touch of Keiji’s lips against his own.
“You’re amazing,” Keiji whispered against Bokuto’s mouth. “You’re amazing and handsome and strong and such a good captain. You shine brighter than the sun, and we’re all just lucky to be in your shadow. I—I admire you very much, Bokuto-san.”
“Is that all?” Bokuto laughed, pulling Akaashi close again.
“N—no,” Akaashi said, allowing himself to fall into the moment and be kissed by Bokuto again, “I think I also quite like you very much…”
“Kōtarō,” Bokuto said. “If you’re kissing me, you have to call me Kōtarō.”
“Kōtarō,” Keiji whispered, Bokuto’s given name dropping from his tongue like a prayer.
“Keiji,” Bokuto whispered back, “will you let me take you on a date? Like a real one, without bows and arrows and hassetsu?”
Keiji blushed. He’d never been asked out on a date—not like this, anyway. He’d always just gotten confessions from people in high school, notes in lockers, chocolates on Valentine's Day, that sort of thing. He’d gone out with a few admirers, but it never lasted long.
No one had ever captivated him quite like Bokuto.
No one had ever held him so tenderly, kissed him so sweetly, or asked him out so perfectly.
“Yes, Boku—Kōtarō,” Keiji said. “I’d like that very, very much.”
Bokuto grinned, and Keiji leaned close.
As the moon rose over the kyudojo, Bokuto and Keiji shared one more, soft kiss, full of the lingering magic of the evening as well as the promise of the future.
Because Keiji was sure that whatever their future held, in kyudo and in life?
It was going to be, just like Bokuto, pretty perfect.