Chapter Text
Maybe this is how the story begins.
Akaashi is still deciding between Fukurodani and Suzumeoka for high school when he comes to see a practice match at Fukurodani.
The first time he sees Bokuto, Bokuto is flying through the air, suspended for a moment like a string pulled taut, and it’s a blast of ice water to his face.
A star, Akaashi thinks, idle and fleeting, and the decision is already made before he blinks.
.
Bokuto is like a child, Akaashi quickly realizes. His moods swing like pendulums over the smallest things, and even though it’s a bafflement to Akaashi, he doesn’t mind, because seeing Bokuto in the air is the best feeling in the world.
He memorizes Bokuto’s weaknesses and strengths, knows what buttons to push to bring back that smile that brims with vitality, understands silently that Bokuto is someone who speaks his mind and wears his heart on his sleeve.
Akaashi doesn’t mind. He never misses the chance to practice with Bokuto, even when Konoha offers an out.
The two of them start to spend more time together. They hang out together outside of the gym, stay back late after practice when everyone has left. Sometimes Akaashi would help Bokuto with math homework—the parts that he understands as an underclassman anyway—and Bokuto would often run to Akaashi’s classroom during lunchtime with eyes shining gold, excited for something as trivial as having lunch with a mere teammate. Akaashi doesn’t quite understand, but can’t deny that it’s sort of charming.
“You really can handle him, huh,” Konoha has multiple times said to him, a helplessly amused look on his face.
It doesn’t really matter, because through all the exhaustion and sweat and leg pain and mood swings, whenever Bokuto grins like the sunrise and says, “Akaashi! Your tosses are the best!” Akaashi honestly doesn’t mind.
.
He doesn’t know when it started.
Akaashi initially deciphers his boost in spirits whenever he sees Bokuto as the natural effect Bokuto has on people, as how his contagious child-like energy spreads over to everyone around him.
But one day, Bokuto barges into the gym, shoulders heaving, late, and the colours are suddenly a little brighter, the air a little lighter.
“Sorry!” Bokuto says. “I was on time but then I ran into—I saw a dog on the road, and I just can’t, you know, when you see a dog—it was the cutest thing!”
Everyone laughs, even their managers, and the coach tells him to hurry up and change with a fond smile. When Bokuto comes back out in his gym clothes, he brightens up at the sight of Akaashi and trots up to him. It reminds Akaashi endearingly of a baby duck.
“I’ll show you pictures of the puppy after practice, Akaashi,” Bokuto promises. “I took them so you can see, she’s adorable!”
Akaashi feels a tingle from the tip of his fingers all the way down to his toes.
Huh, he thinks to himself.
Akaashi is smart. He can keep a cool composure and rationalize confounding things in a split second. Something is different with this feeling, he realizes, just as there is something more in the boost of happiness that he gets whenever Bokuto walks into the room. It’s not because of Bokuto’s natural effect on people. There is that little flutter in Akaashi’s chest, that flip of his stomach, that slight hitch of breath that gives the mask of platonic affection away.
Akaashi’s eyes go wide when it dawns on him.
“Oh, crap,” he blurts out.
Bokuto looks at him with a sad little pout. “Why? I thought you like dogs.”
.
Akaashi has never had a crush on a boy before.
To be fair, he’s only had one other crush in his sixteen years of life. She was sweet and cheerful and witty. Akaashi liked her for two years of elementary school and went out with her on innocent childish dates for one.
Having a crush on a boy is new. Having a crush on Bokuto of all people is something else.
It’s mostly because Bokuto doesn’t seem to have much room in his mind for anything other than volleyball. Besides academia and spending time with his friends and family, Akaashi doesn’t think that he’s interested in anything else, much less romance. This crush is just doomed from the start, Akaashi reasons as he’s walking down the school halls, ready to file it away in the back of his mind reserved for silly notions.
Then he catches sight of Bokuto talking to a girl outside, under a tree and over grass. The girl is fidgety, a little nervous and embarrassed as she says something unintelligible. Bokuto scratches his head and gives her a warm smile.
Akaashi’s brain goes ugh.
Bokuto’s eyes look up to meet his, and they brighten almost blindingly. Akaashi freezes and watches, his heartbeat quickening, as Bokuto mumbles something hastily to the girl. After they exchange awkward smiles, Bokuto jogs over to where he is.
“Bokuto-san.”
“Hey hey hey, Akaashi!” he says. “What are you doing? I thought you had cleaning duties today.”
“I went for a break,” Akaashi says, and can’t help himself. “Who was that?”
“Oh, right,” Bokuto says, averting his eyes. “She’s just someone in my year. She said she liked me, but—well, you know, nice girl, but I don’t have time for all that. So I said I can’t return her feelings.”
“Ah.” And Akaashi’s stomach does two consecutive things: it flies up from the ugly, pleasant relief he gets from the rejection, and immediately sinks down from the reminder that Bokuto has no time for romance—and certainly not with a male teammate.
Bokuto looks slightly uncomfortable. “So!” he says with purpose. “I, uh, I can walk you back to your classroom? Oh, and did you see that crazy dig Erik Shoji did in the match on TV yesterday? It was awesome! The way the ball makes it all the way over the net was…”
As Bokuto rambles on, Akaashi silences his feelings and puts them behind him. It’s what he does best.
.
Although it does get increasingly harder everyday to ignore it.
It’s not only when Bokuto is in the air anymore that Akaashi is enamoured with him. The overwhelming surges of affection wash over him in the most ordinary moments. It happens when Bokuto is staring concentratedly at his math homework with all the intensity and half the brainpower that he reserves for practice. It happens on bus rides, when Bokuto nods off to sleep and rests his head on Akaashi’s shoulder, the evening sunlight spanning the ground in its benign gold. It happens when Bokuto picks up little kids after teaching them volleyball, and lets them ruffle his hair until it drops naturally and all there is is laughter.
Mortifyingly, it also happens when Bokuto takes off his shirt in the changing room and Akaashi has to look away, a flush rising to his cheeks. But that’s to be expected.
“Am I a masochist,” Akaashi wonders to himself.
“With all the practice that you do with Bokuto,” Konoha says, patting him sympathetically on the back, “I think you might be.”
.
Akaashi has intentionally shied away from having Bokuto over for a sleepover, for obvious reasons, but Bokuto has been bombarding him with, “I’ve never had a sleepover with you, Akaashi!” and “I’ve done it with all my friends except you!” and, like a kicked puppy, “Do you not want me over?” So Akaashi relents, albeit reluctantly.
Bokuto comes over and makes himself at home. Akaashi’s parents keep shooting him looks of amusement as Bokuto rambles on and on about everything and anything.
“You two are very different,” his mom says, the corners of her mouth struggling to contain a smile.
“We are,” Bokuto says, draping an arm across Akaashi. “We’re like day and night. Like yin and yang. Like the sun and stars!”
“Well,” his dad says.
After dinner, they help his parents clean up, wash the dishes, put away the utensils, and when Akaashi’s parents start gushing over how sweet and adorable Bokuto is, Akaashi comes up with a blatant excuse for both of them to say goodnight and come up to Akaashi’s room.
“I didn’t know that the sun is a star,” Bokuto says as they put on a movie to watch. “Your dad’s so smart! They don’t teach you this stuff in school.”
“Well,” Akaashi says. “They do. You might’ve slept through it.”
The movie is all action: guns flying past people’s ears, murderous car chases down busy streets, the main muscular guy getting together with the pretty lady. Bokuto is pumped all the way through the movie and even after the end credits roll.
Akaashi lays out the futon on the floor afterwards and tells Bokuto to take the bed. Unsurprisingly, Bokuto doesn’t let up, and they get into a ridiculously formal argument about whether the host or the guest should be the one to give the other person comfort.
It ends up with them both lying flat on their backs on the bed, a ceremonially awkward distance away from each other.
Bokuto is on the side next to the window. A single huge blanket is draped over them. This is such an uncomfortable position, Akaashi thinks, feeling like his throat is tightening up, the tension in the air so palpable he can almost taste it.
Bokuto clears his throat and says, “Do you think I put too much gel in my hair?”
“What?” Akaashi says. “I—um, I don’t think so.”
Bokuto hums ponderously and turns to look at him. “I think my hair doesn’t look good when it’s down. It doesn’t look as cool. But I don’t know if putting too much gel in my hair is really—is really nice or not.”
Akaashi feels a bubble of warm laughter rise from his chest and smiles. “I think you look great with your hair down, Bokuto-san.”
Akaashi always prided himself on being able to know exactly what Bokuto is thinking, but the way Bokuto is staring at him right now is nearly unreadable. His eyes are wide and something is flashing across them. He gazes at Akaashi—gentle and surprised and a little bit of something else that Akaashi can’t pinpoint—for a long time before he abruptly turns to the other side.
Akaashi is about to open his mouth to comment on it when Bokuto leaps up and exclaims, “It’s snowing!”
Outside the window, snow is falling, directionless and soft. It kisses the trees and houses and ground tender, and then covers them up snug in white. Akaashi stops breathing for a moment as he watches it lazily drift against the window and illuminate the darkness, as he watches Bokuto press his palms against the glass and his eyes sparkle like stars when he turns back to say, It’s snowing.
Akaashi thought falling in love would be like a storm. At least, that’s how he has known it to be in the books and movies—that it is a whirlwind of emotions, like stepping through fire that burns at your feet, like wild devotion that drives you mad, like passion so deep and so strong that it eats away at you and leaves you with nothing but a mass of desire.
“Don’t you like it, Akaashi?” Bokuto says, looking out the window at the snow that falls like confetti around them. “It’s so beautiful.”
And it’s at this moment that Akaashi realizes that falling in love is not like a storm, at least for him. It is quiet, as in the morning hours before the city wakes. Falling in love is like crawling under a blanket and tucking it all around you and redefining what the parameters of your world is going to be. It is saying, you and you and you, with every breath, while the blanket settles heavily all around you and the ceiling opens up to a whole other world, vast under the night sky.
“I love it,” Akaashi says, almost a confession. And as Bokuto turns around and beams at him, falling in love is also drowning.
.
.
.
.
Maybe this is how the story begins.
One of the first years says, “I am Akaashi Keiji, from Mori middle school. I played setter. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” and Bokuto is sold.
.
Bokuto initially likes Akaashi because he’s a setter. Then he likes Akaashi because Akaashi is the only one who would set for him whenever he wants to practice spiking. Then he likes Akaashi because, obvious or not, Akaashi always manages to put him in a good mood.
It’s funny how he gets so quickly and strongly attached to this boy even though he’s a year younger, even though there are four other second years on the team that Bokuto has spent twelve whole months playing with.
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, breaking him out the reverie. “Did you want to stay late for practice again today?”
Bokuto blinks and says, “Of course! You know me!”
The absurdity of it barely registers in his mind, if he can even call it that. He doesn’t have this strong of a friendship with Konoha, or Komi, or Washio, or Sarukui, who are all teammates his age. He’s been spending most of his time with Akaashi—Akaashi, who is calm and quiet and stoic and smart, who has a face so pretty that he can kiss it for days, who can say all the right things at all the right times and make Bokuto feel like he’s on top of the world. They understand each other nonverbally, and frankly, Bokuto doesn’t want to stop being around him.
Wait, Bokuto backtracks, who has a face what?
.
Bokuto is not very good at handling and acknowledging his emotions. He wishes he can be better, but when it comes to volleyball, his whole team doesn’t seem to mind.
When it comes to other private matters though, Bokuto doesn’t know who to consult.
Well, he always consults Akaashi, but recently Akaashi is the person that has been troubling Bokuto, so that leaves him with no one that he trusts enough to confide all these new and strange emotions that he doesn’t quite understand to.
Ah, whatever. He shrugs it off, as it is his nature. No use to dwell on it, really. Task focus.
.
“I love it.”
Bokuto turns around from the window to give Akaashi the happiest smile he’s given, because he’s one of the happiest he’s ever been. The snowflakes are coming down outside in petals, whirling through the city air before they settle into layers. The bedroom is covered in patches of moonlight, here and there, here and there, here. The pale light dances and stretches over Akaashi’s face, who is sitting up and smiling back at him—a smile like glass breaking, like sirens singing, and something unlocks in Bokuto’s chest as impulse overtakes him.
He tackles Akaashi into a hug.
“Gah!” Akaashi yelps, his back hitting the mattress.
“I wanna cuddle, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, no inhibitions and all joy. “Can we cuddle and sleep?”
At this point, Bokuto knows Akaashi well enough to know that as long as it’s possible and plausible, Akaashi will go along with whatever Bokuto wants to do. It’s sort of unfair maybe, that he asks this, already knowing the answer.
Through the almost darkness, Bokuto can see the tip of Akaashi’s ears go pink. But, predictably, he says, “…Okay.”
They lie there like that, limbs tangled and facing each other and Bokuto’s arms are around Akaashi, who is a bit thinner and shorter, hands on his back. He can feel that Akaashi is tense, but after a while he relaxes, muscles easing; his breaths are coming out more even. Bokuto breathes in and smells fresh linen and the shampoo from Akaashi’s hair.
There are things people do sometimes, actions that you take based solely on impulse without stopping for a fraction to think, and this is essentially the foundation for most of what Bokuto does. I wonder what it’s like, is all he thinks as he reaches his fingers out and tentatively brushes through Akaashi’s hair.
Akaashi stills in his arms, but doesn’t pull away. “Bokuto-san?” he says, his voice small.
“Your hair is soft like the pillow is soft,” Bokuto murmurs.
A chuckle rumbles quietly out of Akaashi, and Bokuto drowns in the sound. He doesn’t quite do this with other boys, not really; not even when he’s tired and sad and desperate for contact. But Akaashi’s not like other boys, with his words like adulthood and his eyes ocean-blue. The thought lingers on Bokuto’s mind as his fingers absentmindedly thread through the locks, faintly and quietly, until they both drift to sleep.
.
It’s too much brainpower for him.
“There are two types of cells,” Akaashi says, and then Bokuto hears him say what sounds like, “something something prokaryote something something protozoa, you know, like the amoeba something something something tissues and debris et cetera.”
“Whoa,” Bokuto says. “Just because I have a brain doesn’t mean it works, Akaashi. Can you explain it in volleyball language maybe?”
“…You want me to explain biology in volleyball language,” Akaashi says.
“Pleaseeee,” Bokuto says. “I don’t want to fail!”
Akaashi sighs. “One minute,” he says obligingly, and then picks up the pencil to scribble some diagrams and words onto the notebook.
Bokuto watches him, feeling slightly guilty that Akaashi, who has only brushed up on this subject superficially in his class, is helping him prepare for exams. But Bokuto really can’t grasp the concepts around his head. When it comes to volleyball, it all has to do with firm stances and instinct, and nothing to do with thinking or over-thinking. It’s all movement and how your body reacts to everyone else’s, how it all comes together and all everyone thinks at the end of the day is just one more game, I want to play one more game. He wishes it were that simple when it comes to studying.
Or when it comes to feelings, for that matter. All the bits and pieces of everything that has to do with Akaashi has been slowly coming together, like water to a boil, like parts of a puzzle. He just needs one more piece to complete it, to understand what the hell he’s been feeling for pretty much the past year and pinpoint exactly what all the butterflies in his stomach are doing.
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, waving a hand in front of him. “Are you listening?”
“No,” Bokuto whimpers.
Akaashi smiles patiently, because he’s sweet like that, and as he starts to say something, Konoha barges into the room and wraps an arm around him.
“All this studying, you two,” Konoha says cheerfully, ruffling Akaashi’s hair. “Let’s take a break and go to karaoke tonight!”
Something flares up inside Bokuto’s chest as he stares at them—Konoha’s hand on Akaashi’s shoulder, his fingers through Akaashi’s hair, their bodies too close and too suffocating. Bokuto feels an itch to pry them away. All he feels is heat, is red; frustration and inexplicable jealousy.
And Bokuto will always remember this moment, because that’s when the final piece of the puzzle clicks in.
“Oh, crap,” he says.
.
Bokuto can’t tell Akaashi this.
Not only does it seem like Akaashi is not interested in anyone romantically, it doesn’t seem at all possible that of all people, he would want to date Bokuto. Akaashi is pretty, smart, kind, hard-working, and the notion that anyone would not want to be with him is completely mind-boggling. There isn’t any point in confessing.
“What are you going to do after high school?”
They are sitting in a circle on the grass on school grounds—Konoha, Komi, Akaashi, and Bokuto—lunch boxes in all of their hands.
“I want to be an editor at a literary magazine,” Akaashi says. “You?”
“I’ll probably do something related to pharmacy,” Konoha says, swallowing his food. “Not sure. Bokuto?”
Bokuto doesn’t even need to think about it as he says, with utmost confidence, “I’m gonna go pro! I wanna be at the top, the best ace!”
“Ah, yes,” Komi says, “why am I not surprised,” and they all laugh.
Bokuto is sure that he can go forward. He loves volleyball like it’s his breath, his lifeline. If he’s being perfectly honest, in the last two years of high school, there have only been two main sources of his happiness. One of them is volleyball, of course, and the other one—well, ever since he realized what it is, he has kept it in a box in the corner of his mind, withering in the dark for fear of change.
As they continue eating, Bokuto turns over to Akaashi, seeking some kind of opinion, like do you think I can make it, or would you want to support me, the words hanging invisible in the air.
Akaashi catches his eyes and immediately understands.
“I’m happy to hear that, Bokuto-san,” he says, smiling like dawn. “I love watching you play.”
Bokuto was ready to keep his feelings under dark, stored away in the recesses of his mind. But five words from Akaashi, and Bokuto finds his resolution turn into I’ll do anything for you, just say the word, I’ll play for you as long as you want to see me, until the skin on my fingers wear off layer after layer, until my legs crumble and bleed into sand, until the whole world is against me, and even then I’ll keep playing if you ask me to, because it’s for you. Just for you. It’s all for you.
.
.
.
The day after nationals ended, Bokuto calls Akaashi and says, “Come with me to the beach!”
“Why,” Akaashi complains.
They end up on the train, heading for almost two hours to Bokuto’s favourite spot on a nearby beach. The ride there is smooth, with Bokuto ranting on about how different of a player he’s going to be when he goes pro. Akaashi lets him talk, because he knows that despite the bubbly demeanour, Bokuto is disappointed that they didn’t win.
Once there, they walk along the beach barefoot. It’s really a beautiful place: a swathe of golden sand framed by granite cliffs, surrounded by the steady crashing of waves against shore. They walk for a long time; seemingly endless, before they reach a cliff and Bokuto excitedly says, let’s get up there! and so they go.
“I can see why you like this beach,” Akaashi says once they’re at the top of the cliff. There are shouts and laughter of the swimmers beneath them, the chirping of birds above them through the afternoon sun. It’s like heaven, he thinks fondly.
“Right?” Bokuto grins. “You’re the first friend I’ve ever shown this place to. Now take off your clothes.”
“What?” Akaashi says, heat instantly rising up to his cheeks as Bokuto starts unbuttoning his own shirt.
“We’re going for a swim!”
“We—?” Akaashi halts, panicking. They’re at the top of a cliff.
He frantically peers down. Granted, it’s not a very high cliff, and there are people below, children and parents, who have spotted them and are now nauseatingly urging them to join them. “You don’t mean—”
“Come on, Akaashi!” Bokuto has now discarded of his shirt, and are pulling down his pants so that he’s left in nothing but a pair of boxers (don’t stare don’t stare don’t stare). He looks like he’s about to laugh at the expression on Akaashi’s face. “I’ve done this before. We’re not gonna die. It’s really fun! Come, strip!”
“No.” Akaashi repeatedly shakes his head. “God, no. What if there are rocks down there?”
“Are there rocks down there?” Bokuto yells to the swimmers below.
“Nope!” one of them shouts back.
“See,” Bokuto says, extending his arms with the most nonchalant grin. “We can even jump together, if you want.”
“But,” Akaashi protests.
“Do you love me?” Bokuto demands.
Akaashi’s mind goes completely blank.
“Er,” he says.
Bokuto’s eyes immediately widen, his face flushing red. “I-I mean no, I meant to say,” he stammers, his words tumbling and tripping over each other, his hands fumbling with his boxers clumsily. He’s looking anywhere but at Akaashi. “I meant to say, do you trust me, trust, not—not do you love me, oh God. Trust! Shit, Akaashi, I’m so sorry!”
And then Bokuto jumps off the cliff.
.
He hits the water with a huge splash! There are faint sounds of children’s laughter when he’s submerged underwater, the salt of it burning his nose and the cold enveloping him for a brief moment before he rises up to the surface.
Do you love me, he had asked.
What was I thinking?
Part of him thinks that maybe he can be underwater for the rest of his life and never come back up, because that’s probably the lesser of two evils compared to what he’s just done. And part of him—a very small, hopeful part—is glad that he did it, that he got it off his chest, that he had the balls to do it even though it was completely by accident.
Bokuto gasps for air as he resurfaces.
Do you love me, he had asked.
“I’m an idiot,” he says aloud.
“You are,” comes Akaashi’s voice behind him.
Bokuto whips around so fast the water sprays almost into his eyes. Akaashi is there, his chest bare and submerged to his shoulders in the ocean. His hair is wet, strands stuck to his face, and droplets rain down his body in rivulets.
He looks deeply annoyed.
“You,” Bokuto says, because he doesn’t know what else is appropriate to say, “you jumped.”
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, his voice level but simmering with what Bokuto thinks is repressed anger, “you can’t just say that and then yeet yourself off a cliff!”
“I—I made a mistake,” he says, looking off nervously to the side. “It was a slip of the tongue, you know, because of nationals yesterday, and I’m graduating, and everything is just—”
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats, with unfamiliar urgency. He’s swimming closer to Bokuto now, so that they are only a forearm’s length away, and through the waves moving around them Bokuto can see that Akaashi’s face is turning a funny colour. “I do.”
Bokuto blinks.
“To your question earlier,” Akaashi says, “I do.”
“Oh,” Bokuto says. “Yes. I mean. It makes sense since we’re setter and hitter, and of course there has to be trust there, right—”
Akaashi makes a noise that is sort of a laugh and sort of a groan and then, in one swift motion and without any warning, presses his lips against Bokuto’s.
The kiss is sloppy and wet and there’s too much breath in there, so it’s impossible for Bokuto to describe why this is so good, why the incoherence and inexperience of both of them can result in something so addicting. He vaguely registers someone say, Aw you two! and there is applause all around them, but he doesn’t care about anything right now besides the slide of their mouths and the awkward, foreign way Akaashi’s hand is on his cheek. Something is connecting that wasn’t connected before, like fog clearing out for cartographic alignment. A different kind of gravity.
So it’s unsurprising that when they break apart, Bokuto’s stomach drops.
“I… If that’s what you mean by trust,” Bokuto says.
Akaashi gives him a look. His cheeks are pink and his mouth is slightly red, but the lines of his face is all determination. “I won’t go around kissing everyone in our team,” he says, but lightly and with no real scorn.
“Hm,” Bokuto says, but he’s smiling. “I wouldn’t like that.”
“Neither would I,” Akaashi says, moving towards him. And this time, Bokuto magnetizes into the kiss.
He’s here, they think. He’s all here, neck and heart and foibles and all. They relish in the sensation of arms over arms, the cool water tickling their skin, the wind’s fingers brushing by and the sunlight drenching them in the soft glow of near autumn. It doesn’t matter that people are watching. It doesn’t matter that they can’t feel the bottom of the ocean, can’t see what lies ahead of them, because right here and now they are happy, protagonists of the world and all. No one will ever believe in this moment as much as they do, in the time-stopping feel of the way they move against each other, warm body to warm body.
And in three years when they look back on it, or in ten years when he remembers it, this moment, like water under bedrock, always stays alive in the foliage of their memories, distant as a good dream.
.