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“I’m going to overheat and die.” Bokuto tosses his volleyball aside and plops himself down beside Kuroo, who’s lying on his back on the wilting grass of his yard with his arms folded under his head. Summer is by far Bokuto’s favorite season, but even he has to admit it isn’t the most conducive weather for outdoor volleyball. He no longer wants to idly practice receives with Kuroo, not today (Kuroo pretended to be shocked: Bokuto Koutarou didn’t want to play volleyball? The world must be ending); instead, he craves simpler things—like the plate of watermelon Kuroo’s mom has put out for them. He quickly grabs a slice.
“Normally I’d say you’re overreacting, but it’s so sticky today I can feel each individual hair on my legs,” Akaashi says, adjusting the folds of his sundress as he sits on the engawa gracelessly; Kenma hums in agreement from beside him and sets down his old Game Boy to tie up his hair. Bokuto feels a twinge of nostalgia when he realizes he vaguely recognizes the tinny Pokémon music that fills the silent air now, the only other sounds being the cicadas’ chirping and the whoosh of the occasional, cherished breeze.
Kuroo turns to him and opens his eyes, but quickly screws them shut under the glare of the afternoon sun. “Bet I have more leg hair than you,” he says, one side of his mouth pulling upwards as if to taunt him.
Akaashi heaves a sigh, customary and long-suffering.
Bokuto is nothing if not quick to rise to a challenge. “We’ll see,” he says and rolls up his shorts to start counting with one hand, balancing the slice of watermelon in the other. Kuroo’s started counting too, sitting up now.
Bokuto puts up with Kuroo counting under his breath for longer he believes he ought to have, but when he gets to his sixtieth hair and feels the need to announce it triumphantly to everyone in the vicinity (though technically Bokuto supposes neither Akaashi nor Kenma could’ve actually heard him), Bokuto clicks his tongue, hoping he’d get the hint.
Kuroo is now at his sixty-first hair and booking it, his index finger moving quickly down the length of his calf. Bokuto, who still idly fiddles with his fourteenth hair, casts him a withering glance, then clicks his tongue louder. Kuroo doesn’t even spare him a glance.
Bokuto decides enough is enough. “Stop mumbling! I can’t concentrate.” A trickle of watermelon juice runs down his arm, and he resists the urge to turn away from his calf to wipe it off.
“I can’t help it, this is how I count!” Kuroo says defensively, but the look on his face soon changes to annoyance. “I can’t believe this. You’ve made me lose count now.”
“Dude, I had to start over three times—” Bokuto jabs three fingers in front of Kuroo’s face—“because you couldn’t keep your counting to yourself like anyone with even a shred of consideration for their fellow contestant would—”
“Why did I even open my mouth,” Akaashi mutters, resting his head in his palm and raising his juice box to his lips.
Kuroo flops back onto the grass. “You’re just jealous because clearly I have more hair. I bet your hair doesn’t even grow because of those damn kneepads you wear all the time.”
On days when the air is not as muggy and when coming up with responses doesn’t feel like so much effort, Bokuto would usually get defensive over his beloved kneepads (that, excuse you, he wears for medical reasons), but today he’s content to let his boyfriend goad him ineffectually. He’s saved from having to say something when Kenma tches in irritation.
“What, you want us to start counting again?” Kuroo asks.
“No, my Lairon just fainted.”
Kuroo hums in response. Akaashi sucks noisily on his juice box; Kenma doesn’t take his eyes off his game. It’s peaceful. Bokuto watches a small rivulet of sweat make its way down Kuroo’s neck, and once again he’s made aware of how hot it is—and yet he finds himself sitting so his thigh is pressed up against Kuroo’s side, so they’re in constant contact. It’s a stupid thing to do and Bokuto knows it—Kuroo is a living, breathing furnace and only a fool would sit so close to him on a hot summer day, but maybe he is a fool; he doesn’t particularly care. It’s nice, especially since Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind.
Kuroo breaks the silence. “What Pokémon do I remind you guys of?”
Bokuto perks up, reinvigorated—he’s pondered on this before—but before he can answer, Akaashi sits forward and says, “Probably Purugly.”
Kuroo looks at Akaashi, unimpressed. “Rude,” he says.
Akaashi shrugs, smiling slightly.
“Kenma?”
Kenma’s brow furrows in deliberation, but he still has eyes only for his game. Bokuto waits to see how Kenma will drag Kuroo this time, but he’s left a little deflated when Kenma finally looks up from the console, fixes Kuroo with his gaze and says, “Incineroar.”
Kuroo immediately hides his face in his hands, wailing what sounds like a long, drawn-out “no,” but it’s overshadowed by Akaashi who’s visibly losing his shit, snorting juice through his nose and slapping his own thigh in mirth. Kenma goes back to his game, but it’s clear he’s enjoying this, if the small smile on his lips is anything to go by.
But Bokuto sits there, feeling like he’s been left out of the joke. “I don’t get it, he’s a good Pokémon though.”
Akaashi is wheezing now, juice dribbling everywhere; Bokuto wonders if he’s okay.
“Only you would think that,” Kuroo says, removing one hand from his face and revealing an expression of great pain and shame.
Bokuto frowns and spits a line of watermelon seeds at him in response. Kuroo flicks them away; one of them hits Kenma, who cringes like a touch-me-not bush through which a snake has slithered.
“But no, dude,” says Bokuto, “you’re probably like… Gengar. Or Mismagius.” The dry grass tickles his calves; his fingers are sticky.
Kuroo gasps theatrically and puts a hand to his chest, as though deeply touched. “Bokuto is the only one who truly loves me among all of you,” he says, and laces his fingers through Bokuto’s free hand, pulls it towards him and kisses the back of it. Then he’s saying something to Akaashi but Bokuto’s not even listening because 1) he’s melting; 2) how the heck does Kuroo make it seem so easy?
“Okay, what about Bokuto—”
Before Kuroo can finish, Akaashi says, “Vigoroth,” as if he’s already given this a lot of thought.
Kenma actually looks up from his game. “That actually fits,” he says. “Something about Bokuto just screams Normal type.”
“Hey!”
“Why, what do you have against Normal types?” Akaashi’s eyebrows are raised.
“Yeah, they’re not any less than the other types, y’know,” Kuroo says.
Bokuto feels strangely cornered. “They’re boring!”
Kenma shrugs, but he does it in this way that always makes Bokuto, a proud full-body shrugger, wonder how he puts so little action into it and still manages to convey the sentiment. “I don’t know, you just remind me of Vigoroth.”
Bokuto only glares at him reproachfully. A soothing breeze blows by, and he bares the back of his neck to it, exhaling as it cools. He doesn’t know why this bothers him so much, Vigoroth isn’t even a bad Pokémon—why does he feel so out of it today?
“What does he remind you of?” Akaashi asks Kuroo.
Kuroo frowns in thought at the hot, white sky, but turns to Bokuto with a grin so wide Bokuto’s heart misses a beat. It’s such a genuine smile, nothing like his routine smirking. “Chimecho.”
Bokuto tilts his head, tries to summon up what he knows about Chimecho.
“That’s cute,” says Akaashi.
Bokuto’s face is warm. “What.”
Kuroo is suddenly no longer looking at him—Bokuto can tell he’s flustered, he’s deliberately looking away—but he gets up and pulls Bokuto up by the arm. “Let’s get some more watermelon.”
Bokuto lets himself be pulled along into the house but what the fuck, honestly, Bokuto can’t believe they’ve been together for a month and he still can’t take it when Akaashi calls them cute. And Chimecho? That adorable Pokémon that tinkles when you run into it? Bokuto dumps watermelon rinds into the bin; he reminds Kuroo of Chimecho, and it’s so unfair that Kuroo can say things like that and smile at him and make him feel things in his chest.
Just as Bokuto feels like the silence is spilling over with his speeding heartbeat, Kuroo looks up from where he’s setting slices onto a plate and says, “Chimecho is cute.”
“Thanks,” Bokuto says and immediately feels like whacking himself upside the head. Good save, Koutarou, REAL nice save.
“You’re welcome,” Kuroo says, as though by reflex, and Bokuto barks out a laugh as he watches the same expression of embarrassment he wore not two seconds ago flit over Kuroo’s face. Kuroo cracks a smile, but hesitates—then he leans over and gives him a peck on the cheek before picking up the plate and heading back out. “Not as cute as Vigoroth though.”
Bokuto can hear the smirk in his voice. “You nasty—”
“Vigoroth did nothing wrong!”
“He’s about to beat your Purugly ass,” Bokuto says, linking his arm through Kuroo’s, and he realizes how much better he feels, because suddenly it feels like he isn’t the only one saying all the wrong things, the only one learning to be brave. Kuroo laughs his terrible horse-laugh, but Bokuto doesn’t think he’d mind listening to it a thousand more times if he has to as they head out into the sunlight together.