Chapter Text
★
More than all failures, all success,
I loved you,
- Boris Pasternak, from “Waving a Bough,” featured in “A Treasury of Russian Verse,”
★
He visits sometimes.
The low ceiling and fluorescent lights force him to make himself small, in a setting he is not entirely used to. It always takes a while. He feels out of place – spiky hair and training bag – but no one minds; here, everyone has their own responsibilities that they have to focus on.
How very Akaashi of this place.
He dodges the stray pieces of paper and tries very, very hard not to bump into the mountains of novels and paperwork piled up at every corner of the many cubicles. It’s quiet, given that it’s 5 PM, but there’s a handful of other people bustling out and about, walking around the office and having casual conversations.
He finds Akaashi at the back, quietly sorting through the papers on his desk. Boxes overfilled with manga and scripts are on the floor next to him, but as with everything, Akaashi’s desk is probably the cleanest, most organized desk out of everyone’s he had seen on this floor.
A little spark of pride lights up deep within him, even more so when he sees the pictures taped on Akaashi’s personal board.
“Keiji,” he finally greets, a grin spreading through his face. “You ready?”
Dark eyes flutter up to look at him, and Bokuto can never get over this: feeling the same when Akaashi looks at him, seven years, his soul turning eighteen and lovesick all over again.
“Yes.”
★
The Tokyo nights are getting colder and colder.
Akaashi loves Onigiri Miya, so Onigiri Miya they go. Osamu made good on that promise for a Tokyo branch, and it immediately became a hit. Akaashi, in particular, loves it so much that Bokuto lost count of how many dinners they already had in the place. A routine.
Instead of a kiosk, Onigiri Miya expanded into a small, humble cafe – enough for at least four couples or one big group. The interiors are homey: warm, yellow lights splayed across the black walls with pictures of the MSBY Black Jackals, Schweiden Adler and other volleyball players, retired or not, framed and laid out on the wall. In at least one of them, you’d find Akaashi’s shy smile, and Bokuto’s wide grin next to him.
Seven years didn’t change Bokuto that much. He’s still very much the accidental genius and frequent idiot, loud and often the life of the party. No – if time changed anything about him, it’s more of how he acts alone. Or with Akaashi.
The years mellowed him out. He’s still fun and he still drags Akaashi around, but with the deepened bond comes him appreciating the sides of Akaashi that he continually recognizes and witnesses.
Like now. While waiting for ramen and onigiri, Akaashi tends to read a little to wind down from work - his short alone time, floating in a space he created for himself, before he’s ready to go back down to Earth and spend his time interacting with Bokuto.
Soft curls tickle Bokuto’s cheeks as Akaashi leans on his shoulder, glasses on, focusing on the book in front of him. Slender fingers and palms with spots of old calluses born from his volleyball days, hold up the book high enough for Bokuto to see.
“Read me this passage,” Bokuto says, a smile laying on his lips. He knows Akaashi loves it – reading to Bokuto, and spending time bonding over a piece of literature that he loves. The simplest quiets. “I really liked that.”
“This one?” Akaashi points out the passage that Bokuto is eyeing, and Bokuto gives an affirmative hum.
He clears his throat before softly reciting the paragraph for Bokuto, voice low but clear. The cafe is almost empty, and there’s nothing but the slightest hint of a tune playing from the speakers, and yet Akaashi’s voice envelops Bokuto in the way it always does.
The most considerate, intimate and passionate way of repaying her was none other than washing her socks, her second layer of skin. There was no more time, there were no more chances. There would not be another opportunity again. The life of a firework belonged to the night. To suddenly burst into shocking colors in the darkest, coldest, deepest night. And then, there was nothingness. It turned out that the most glorious moment had passed! From now on, no matter how bitter the memories were, they would bring with them a tinge of sweetness.
“That’s really good,” Bokuto hums. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about a separation of a woman, who used to be a comfort woman, from her husband,” Akaashi explains, “as the war was ending.”
Akaashi wedges in the bookmark. It’s a cute, cartoon owl that you put on the top of the page, making it look like it’s perched on the book. Bokuto can’t help but grin. He gave that to him.
Akaashi puts away Fireworks in March and looks up at Bokuto. “Don’t you ever think about separations, Bokuto-san?”
“When are you ever gonna call me Kotaro?” he playfully whines, melting against the editor.
In truth, he doesn’t really care that much, because -
“‘Bokuto-san’ just comes out of my mouth easier,” Akaashi teases, and Bokuto just.
He just falls in love all over again.
★
They walk really slow.
February weather is really cold, and they walk with just a sliver of space between them, Bokuto with his gloved hands around a warm drink and Akaashi already drinking his.
"I don't like it," Bokuto starts, remembering their conversation about the novel. He's better at remembering contexts now, he thinks. "Separation, I mean. It makes me really sad. I want to always be with the people that I've always been with - people who are family now."
He grins towards Akaashi – the familiar grin he always gives him. Akaashi breathes out a small puff of air at the sight, starstruck, like every other time that Bokuto grins at him. Every single time, he gives a small smile back.
Bokuto is also better at noticing that now. With that one, he's sure.
"I also don't like separations," Akaashi coyly smiles, and Bokuto leans in. Just a little bit. "Especially from people like you, Bokuto-san."
"People like me?"
The surprise in his voice is apparent. Snow gently dusts both of them, yet Bokuto feels his face just getting warmer.
Akaashi laughs - a rare laugh, and a laugh that Bokuto can describe as a laugh Akaashi only does with him.
"You're a star after all."
★
He walks Akaashi home with idle conversations as they kick through the snow.
This time, Akaashi lets him make a snow angel before complaining about the cold, but the little smile Bokuto spies easier throughout the years is present the whole time.
They're older now: softer, kinder. At this stage of life, the person you are most likely to be cruelest to is yourself.
They stand in front of his door: the 28th on the street.
"This is me," Akaashi breathes out, as if they haven't done this a million times. The address changed over the years, but the routine stays the same.
"This is you." Bokuto repeats, and for a moment, time stops.
They stare at each other, each in their own coats. Akaashi's hands fidgets, and his eyes lower – looking at the side, then back again. They both wonder if their heartbeats are fast and loud enough for the other to hear. They wonder if the other wonders it too.
Akaashi is the first to give, with a smile apologizing for something neither of them can understand. "See you, Bokuto-san. Let's meet again soon?"
Bokuto silently exhales air he didn't know he was holding in. "Yeah, I'll message you!"
They awkwardly shift around, Bokuto looking away lest he does something unthinkable.
He almost gives himself whiplash when he quickly looks back at Akaashi when the latter reaches out to hold one of his hands.
Akaashi's dark eyes look up at him, focused, with maybe a million different emotions just teetering over the edge. He looks like he wants to say something. Bokuto does, too.
But he just says -
"I really enjoyed today, Bokuto-san," Akaashi lets go of his hand. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Bokuto watches him enter his apartment, and stands there for longer than he likes.
He looks up, breathes out, then walks home.
★
A day passes by that joins the long years of feeling regret.
His heart lives to see another day, but he still doesn't know how he stops himself from blurting out I love you every time he's with Akaashi.
As he stares up at the ceiling of his room, he wonders if this is really enough.