Work Text:
Summer is an unforgiving season. The days are unbearably long with obligations and well-laid plans falling to the side in the face of sweltering heat and the promise of sunburn.
Even when the sun sets, the concrete holds onto the heat of the day, clinging to the thought of burning feet and melting bike tires with the same kind of stubbornness that is keeping Bokuto glued to the cool of the kitchen floor right this minute.
“It’s hot,” Kuroo says.
“No shit.”
“Get me an ice pop,” Kuroo says from his place on the couch. He’s aimed the fan to point only at him in a strategic move to force Bokuto to get him an ice pop but the other boy hasn’t moved in, like, fifteen minutes. The tinny sounds of some variety show playing on the TV acts as white noise.
“No.”
“Do it.”
“Oh ho ho ho, fuck you.”
Despite himself, Kuroo is impressed by how long Bokuto has held out without the fan even blowing a stray breeze his way. Their second fan had long since broken down, it’s dying sputters similar to the sounds Akaashi made when he realized they have been wearing his clothes to avoid having to do laundry for upwards of two weeks that one time he returned from whatever region of the world he’d been to that month on academic travel.
“Then let’s go out tonight,” Kuroo declares as he lazily channel surfs. He’s wearing Akaashi’s boxers right now as a matter of fact.
The only sound Bokuto makes is a quiet kind of grumbling that Kuroo takes to mean he agrees with this plan.
The four hours they burn until sunset are spent lounging around in their shared apartment in just underwear trying to move as little as possible.
Kuroo may or may not crane his neck a bit to admire the shape of Bokuto’s ass, also clothed in a pair of Akaashi’s boxers. It’s a nice looking butt as butts go, firm and definitely a handful by the looks of it. Bokuto also has some pretty shapely calves and Kuroo spends a moment appreciating this fact until Heartbroken Chocolatier recaptures his attention.
Ten o’clock sees them stumbling out of their apartment complex. They’ve both decided, respectively, to gel his hair to an inch of its life to counteract the summer heat that lingers late into the evening.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bokuto says as he slings a heavy arm around Kuroo’s shoulders.
Kuroo’s wearing a loose red tank, so he can feel the warmth of Bokuto’s skin settling stickily against his own. He doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.
“Arcade?”
“Yeah,” Bokuto breathes against Kuroo’s hair.
Kuroo smirks and snakes an arm around Bokuto to try and jab him in the side and make him flinch. Bokuto catches his hand and holds it against his side, as if Kuroo had meant to wrap his arms around him in the first place.
They’re close enough that each inhale makes their ribs clack against each other. One side step and their worlds would collide. The spark in Bokuto’s half-lidded eyes is enough to make Kuroo nod and drag them towards the nearest one.
“I accept your challenge and propose we raise the stakes,” Kuroo says, shouting over pounding music and the screams of a thousand dying pixelated characters. “First to three out of five games has to be on dish duty until Akaashi gets back home.”
“That’s not for another four days!” Bokuto cries.
“Oh, I know. You don’t have to remind me.”
“You should know that you’re the fucking devil,” Bokuto declares as they scope out what arcade games are currently unoccupied.
“Only when I’m getting down and dirty in the sheets.”
Sucking down a mouthful of the strawberry milkshake he bought outside, Kuroo meets Bokuto’s speculative gaze and laughs after Bokuto looks away first to flush hotly.
“Is that an invitation?” Bokuto asks in a tone that Kuroo can’t quite decipher. The music is so loud and the lights are so dim that he can’t read Bokuto’s expression to help clarify.
“Don’t you know it,” Kuroo responds easily because the only way to deal with these things is to bullshit your way right out of it.
Bokuto is the one who bursts out laughing this time, his head thrown back and his hands reaching forward to cradle Kuroo’s elbow. He guides
Kuroo to an ancient Dance Dance Revolution and gestures at it with a flourish.
“Is this alright for the wager?”
“Yep. It’s perfect.”
“I’m pretty good at this,” Bokuto says.
“Show me what you got.”
Bokuto’s got the stamina and the familiarity but Kuroo is flexible with quick reflexes. The first round seems to go on forever as they keep leveling up, the same competitive spirit that drove them on the volleyball court in high school is now turned towards DDR and it’s never ending multi-colored flashing arrows.
It’s two for two as they head into the fifth round. Kuroo is breathing hard and cursing the creators and that milkshake he had upon entering this cursed place. He can feel sweat pour down his back and he would be bothered except it’s been awhile since he’s felt this invested in winning something. It’s pretty great
“Alright, alright, alright, check this out,” Bokuto crows as he executes a quick succession of steps that has Kuroo stumbling. Partly because he’s hard pressed on deciding which colored arrows to press, and partly because he’s staring at Bokuto. His face is a study of intense focus and, strangely enough, joy, his smile wide and bright as the lights of the arcade wash over him.
“Yes! It’s dish duty for you, Tetsurou!” Bokuto whoops. He drags a hand through his sweaty hair and turns to smirk at Kuroo.
Kuroo feels that smirk like it’s a punch in the gut. The air leaves his lungs and he turns away for a moment because this is one of those moments where everything is too real. The overwhelming fondness he's feeling is a wave, swooping down from all sides and engulfing him in the depths of his own infatuation with the boy to his left shouting victoriously at a video game console that's nearly as old as he is.
They head out of the arcade and Kuroo shoots some absentminded sarcastic barbs Bokuto’s way as they walk back. They’re not even close to hitting their mark, instead, they slide off Bokuto’s broad shoulders as he chatters on, reliving his DDR victory.
“Hey, hey, hey did you see the way I was all whoosh, bam, and boom? It was pretty great.”
“It would be pretty great if you weren’t such a braggart,” Kuroo says as he unlocks the door to their apartment.
“Don’t be such a sore loser.”
“Can you do anything else with that clever mouth of yours?” Kuroo mutters.
Bokuto laughs and reaches out to pull Kuroo farther into the apartment. All the lights are out and Kuroo is worried about tripping on something but Bokuto pulls him flush against his chest so that they’re breathing each other’s air, their lips just a hairs breadth apart.
“Yea, yeah, I can do things to help soften the blow of your, uh, defeat.”
“I’d like that," Kuroo snarks. "Would you mind doing that for me?”
Bokuto leans forward and kisses him, affection plain in the way his hands splay across Kuroo’s hips, thumbs slipping under his shirt to trace his hip bones in soothing circles.
When they break apart, Bokuto’s face is flushed, lips parted, amber irises a ring of gold around blown-black pupils. He doesn’t even look the least bit repentant for chatting Kuroo's ear off about not having to do the dishes all the way home as he smiles at Kuroo now.
“Is that what it takes to quiet you down?” Kuroo asks in a hoarse whisper.
“I mean, I’m pretty tired from dancing my heart out for you.”
Kuroo fixes him with a flat stare and reaches out to catch his fingers on the short hairs at the nape of his neck to draw him closer for another kiss. He nips at Bokuto’s bottom lip and then traces his tongue across the same places as if to soothe the hurt. It’s slow, slow enough that even after Kuroo leans back carefully with a wet pop he can still catch the sight of Bokuto with his eyes closed, preciously near as if still waiting for the next kiss.
“I think I win this round,” Kuroo says, not a little triumphantly.
“Oh ho ho no,” Bokuto hoots as he reels Kuroo back in by after having slipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.