Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

秋

When the flood had receded and all that was left around them was mud and downward watery slopes of marsh, the two lovers stood together—alone. In the silence Astraea wept, tears forming stardust before gracing the slime and the mud.

Where the stardust had held solid ground, there bloomed white flowers.

Asters.

When Akaashi was young, he was told to be careful with the way he handled himself. You’re like your mom, his dad had said to him one morning. The smell of coffee echoed in the memory along with his dad’s laugh. She’s too kind. She’s too much. What did that mean? What was ‘too much’ and was it really so much worse than ‘too little.’ So, what does he do? Just be careful with the people you choose to love. Oh, that was it? How simple. How easy.

So he never fell in love.

Not when a woman’s perfume flooded his senses and her finger traced lines along his torso with just the tip of her nail, not when a man counted the very few freckles on his face just to have a piece of him that no one had—it was simple. He wanted to tell his dad that it wasn’t true, he wasn’t at all like his mother who fell in love with the flowers that they walk past and the clouds that hey, Keiji look that cloud looks like a rabbit.

He was curious as to what it could possibly feel like, that thing they all refer to as ‘falling in love’ and did it really involve any sort of falling? Hinata once told him that it felt like flying but then again his usage of ‘BWAH’ and ‘GWAH’ was a telling sign of his limited use of adjectives. When he asked Hinata’s lover, Kenma simply said ‘like breathing’ and ‘like exploding’ and ‘like suddenly understanding something you never wondered about’—it’ll have to do. He doesn’t plan to know for himself but, still, he’s curious.

It was simply in his best interest to agree to an arrangement because it was easier that way. There would be no need to be careful and there would be so little chances of ever stumbling across little mishaps along the way. His father was the one that sent him the manila envelope full of details and information that he needed. He ignores the blood type, likes and dislikes, and allergies in favor of staring at the matte picture carefully pinched in between his thumb and index finger.

“Bokuto Koutarou,” he says, tasting the name and feeling how it falls from his mouth.

He looked like a star, obvious in the gleam of his eyes and the sturdiness of his smile. He was attractive but he didn’t seem like the type to know that he was attractive, simply the type to attractively exist. To be arranged like this, he knew that neither of them looked for nor expected ‘love’ and yet Akaashi hopes for even a little—not ‘love’ but just ‘something’ and only a little of it.

The next afternoon when he meets Bokuto for the first time, he’s surprised by the look on the other man’s face. Bokuto hasn’t seen him yet, because of the way he stared at his coffee like it was burning the palms of his hands. Akaashi wanted to press his finger in between the man’s eyebrows to see if it would stop his face from looking so horribly pinched. He wondered, briefly, if their meeting was the cause of this. Still, Akaashi wanted to know the lilt of his voice. It was maybe the selfishness in him that’s causing him to take a step forward and another and another until his hip almost brushed their table.

“Bokuto-san?”

The man snaps out of his little trance, eyes landing on Akaashi before the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles. He stands and extends his hand towards him. “Hello, Akaashi-san, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

‘Finally’ is weird because it implies that in between receiving the envelopes and now there was some sort of length of time that’s too drawn-out for both of them and Akaashi only found out that Bokuto was allergic to peanuts yesterday afternoon, reading the piece of information as he ate his lunch. But it didn’t matter much because ‘finally’ felt right. It felt like finding a resting place amidst the white-knuckling and gritting of teeth—this was sitting on your couch knowing that that TV show you don’t particularly mind is on.

“Finally,” Akaashi says, shaking Bokuto’s hand. He appreciates that Bokuto doesn’t mention how cold his hands are. “Have you been here long? I’m sorry I’m late.”

“No, it’s okay. I normally wake up early to jog and I got a bit antsy at home so here we are now,” he rambles.

Akaashi finds out that Bokuto’s eyes light up when he rambles. “Let’s sit down?” They do. “Have you eaten here before?”

Bokuto flips through the menu, his other hand was on the table with fingers drumming a random pattern. “Once with a teammate, I don’t remember if I liked it or not though.”

“So what do you remember?”

“Just eating ‘cause I was starving that day.” The way he laughed made it feel like Akaashi should laugh too and he can’t so he smiles trying not to show teeth but fails. “So what made you want to get into a loveless marriage?”

“Safety,” Akaashi says. “And you?”

“Same reason.”

Akaashi looks up from the menu that has caught his attention and turns to Bokuto who not only accepts this gaze but reciprocates with something that was a softer contrast to his hard angles. He shoots him a hesitant smile as if to test the limits of what one can do in a situation like this but Bokuto returns it in the same manner. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I take back what I said earlier since I doubt it’ll be loveless.” Before Akaashi can reply, Bokuto’s backtracks a little. “Not like I’m romanticizing this but I mean I feel like it’ll be...kind?”

“Kind?”

A nod, now more sure. “Yeah. Kind.”

Akaashi gets a little bit of time to think about his reply when the waitress interrupts them. Bokuto orders hamburger steak which is a little too heavy for Akaashi to even think about then again he never really ate that much. He ordered pasta which he guessed is a form of defiance, something like a ‘watch me eat this thing that’s hard not to slurp and if you don’t like how ugly I eat then don’t bother finding me pretty at all’ statement which is a weird thought because this isn’t exactly a first date—not a date at all. It’s an agreement.

“Kind,” Akaashi repeats. “Yes, I think I agree with that. I’ll try my best.”

Bokuto smiles, wide. “Please take care of me.”

They got married in the middle of December, it wasn’t big at all. It was just the two of them, the hidden sun, and the officiator. It was something Akaashi had always wanted, the quiet and the soft chill that almost forced him to stay in bed a little later than intended but his alarm was persistent and so were Bokuto’s constant ringing of his phone.

“Good morning, Akaashi!”

“You sound excited.”

“I am.”

“Good morning, Bokuto-san.”

“That’s the last time you get to say that.”

"...good morning?"

"No. 'Bokuto-san'."

"So what do I call you?"

"To you, I'm Koutarou."

"And what does everyone else call you?"

"Anything else they want but 'Koutarou' is only for you. I only want to be 'Koutarou' when I'm around you."

"Just Koutarou..."

"Yeah."

"Then to you, can I just be Keiji?"

"Of course...Keiji?"

"Hmm?"

"Please take care of me."

The first thing that Akaashi registers is the look of ‘finally’ on Bokuto’s face when he sees him, the slow smile and the relaxation of tense shoulders. It’s like he wanted to say something but was forced to keep quiet until Akaashi got to where he was. Akaashi tries to quicken his pace while still not destroying the mood of the whole thing, doesn’t even know why he’s hurrying but it feels like getting there sooner than later was more rewarding.

“You almost stumbled,” Bokuto says, his hand reaching out to him.

Akaashi cleared his throat. Their hands were cold but as they continue to hold onto each other, Akaashi hopes that it’ll warm. “Right. I was nervous.”

Bokuto looked at him for a few short seconds, seconds that felt like forever, his eyes went down then up until they found his gaze. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you.”

He shook his head. “Don’t return the compliment, keep it. I think you’re beautiful. I think it’s hard for anyone to not find you beautiful.”

Akaashi swallows, hard. “Thank...you.”

When they kiss at the end of the ceremony, Akaashi’s thankful that he had a habit of moisturizing because the cold would not have done him any favors. Bokuto tasted like sweet honey tea and Akaashi leaned up at him to taste more of it. It didn’t feel like kissing a stranger, it felt like welcoming a strip of summer in the middle of a bitter winter. Summer decided to wrap their arm around his waist to hold him closer and even though he arches in such a weird angle, he finds that he doesn’t mind.

Later that night, their shadows mingle together in the low light. Akaashi is conscious that he tasted like what they had for dinner but Bokuto is quiet about all things he’s insecure about and he doesn’t know if he finds this comforting or not. He’s never heard someone breathe like this, wonders if he’s just becoming aware of the differences of the people he knows or if he’s just becoming more and more aware of Bokuto. Before his thoughts could go any deeper, he feels the other man pulling away.

“Are you nervous? Are you scared?”

“What?”

“Is this okay?”

He was worried. He looked worried. It’s not like they never talked about this, they agreed that it would be fine for things to get physically intimate seeing as they both had experience in handling their feelings when things went in that direction. Akaashi was a little scared though because he’s never memorized someone’s mole placement so fast before, even with his poor eyesight, but he also feels excited to finally know what it’s like to have someone and know that tomorrow and the next day he can have them too.

It’s the ‘a little’ he was thinking about way back when. He doesn’t care if it’ll turn into ‘love’ or ‘loveless’, simply wants some thing and only just a little of it. He wants to be held by the same arms over and over again, he doesn’t want to keep figuring out how to fit his body into someone else's over and over again. It’s a little scary that it would be Bokuto from now on and no one else ever again, a little scary that this was what he got from an arrangement he didn’t even care for. He’s scared but only a little and scared of what, he doesn’t know.

“I’m not scared.”

Bokuto smiles, gently taking off Akaashi's eyeglasses. “We might destroy these.”

“Oh.” A weird silence falls upon them as Bokuto hesitates a little. It was very uncharacteristic of him and Akaashi’s vision was placed there on the bedside table so he can’t really be a good judge of things. “Are you scared?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I can give you most of me...” Bokuto starts then struggles to end the sentence. “...but not all.”

Akaashi is reminded of the time in his childhood where he tried to hide the fact that he broke his mom’s favorite vase. It was the most he’s talked in his life, the most he’s ever rambled on and on about nothing significant at all. Still, the vase was found and Akaashi hid in his room for the rest of the day but no one ever came to knock on his door and no one called out to him. He just hid and waited. Nothing.

This didn’t look like ‘a little scared’ at all. It felt like panic and a preamble to ‘hiding’ so Akaash slowly raises his hand and lets it rest on Bokuto’s cheek. He seemed younger now than when they first met, some sort of magic that insecurity gives, Akaashi doesn’t like this Bokuto that hesitates. There’s another silence that fell on them but this time it’s built on anticipation rather than hesitation.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says, the first time ever saying it. “If it’s not ‘Koutarou’ then I don’t want it.”

The kiss that follows was a little hard but Akaashi receives it easily, just happy he didn’t hit the headboard as he leans back. “I was right.”

“About what?” he breathes, shuddering at the feeling of Bokuto unbuttoning his shirt.

“That this’ll be kind.”

Akaashi tries to find the proper words even though his mind short circuits when Bokuto’s hands travel up his chest.

“I’ll take care of you.”

冬

Easy.

It was the only word Akaashi can think of while being with Bokuto. They fall into a routine of co-existence that he never thought would be possible at all. In the mornings, Bokuto wakes up to go out for a jog and Akaashi makes coffee fifteen minutes before he comes home. The cooking is done by the both of them since Bokuto needed to watch his calorie intake and Akaashi hated measuring how many teaspoons of oil is too much or too little. Koutarou, can you make the eggs? replied with Can you prepare the rice?

It’s their first winter together and the chill is biting but Bokuto insists on having at least one window open because his body temperature surpassed Akaashi’s own and turning on the AC unit while it’s winter felt like throwing their money away. He doesn’t mind that the window’s open, simply steals Bokuto’s heaviest sweater and puts it on without bothering to ask—did he have to when they’ve done more intimate things like talk at 3AM about a recurring nightmare that involved the whale from Finding Nemo...

Or sex.

The sex wasn’t bad, Bokuto always left fingerprints on his hips and little bite marks in between his thighs. Akaashi could take all of him in any way—wanted to take him and would beg for it on the nights that he’s shameless. They were compatible in that aspect but the one thing that he never understood was that Bokuto always had a bandage wrapped around his torso. It was his one boundary that Akaashi was careful to never poke and prod at. He made the mistake of asking one night and Bokuto’s face closes off, unreadable.

“My receive at training was wrong.”

“Is...is that so?”

“Yes.”

He pretended to believe him.

Akaashi let himself be held that night, promising himself that he’d never dare to ask again. It wasn’t that important anyway, not when he can feel the outline of Bokuto’s body against him and not when Bokuto tells him every other secret he was willing to share.

“Are the eggs okay?” 

Akaashi nods. “Could use more salt.”

“It has plenty of salt,” he argues. “You’re just used to your fast food stuff.”

Still, Bokuto passes him the salt and Akaashi quietly shakes it and watches the small grains fall like snow. “How was your jog?”

“I may have had a thought.”

Akaashi waits but Bokuto seems to favor drumming his fingers on the table. “And? But? What comes after that thought?”

“Have you ever tried falling in love?”

“Tried?” Tried? Falling in love? “Don’t you just fall?”

“That sounds poetic.”

“You’re married to a writer.”

“Yes, I know,” Bokuto says, a look close to fondness accompanying it. “I can’t forget that because of the way you talk.”

Akaashi unconsciously touches his lips. “Sorry? Is that a bad thing?”

“I like the way you talk.”

He clears his throat. “Thanks. Anyway, falling in love? What made you ask?”

“I wanna remember how it feels.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Akaashi cradles his mug awkwardly.

“Stop holding it like that, you’ll burn your hands again.”

“If you close the window then maybe I won’t let it burn me.”

“You already have my sweater.”

Akaashi sighs. “So? Falling in love? I’ve never felt it. My dad told me to be careful so I didn’t.”

“That’s a little bit extreme, Ji, but I think I get it.” Then, he pauses, looking a little panicked. “Were you a....was I your....”

“Words, please.”

“Was I your first?”

Akaashi almost chokes on spit. “No, you weren’t. I had partners before you, you know. We talked about this”

A sigh. “Oh, thank god sorry I almost forgot.”

“And why, pray tell, are you so happy about that? Aren’t most men happy to be someone’s first?”

He evades. “Do you always follow what people tell you? Considering that you’ve taken your dad too seriously on the ‘be careful’ thing.”

“If it makes sense.”

“That made sense to you?”

He shrugs. “Plenty. You keep making me want to ask questions but I feel like you’re not going to answer them so at least tell me something.”

Bokuto shrugs the same way as he did, but he seems a little secretive. “You should just keep following what your dad told you and not fall in love.”

Akaashi snorted, looking at him through his lashes. He knows exactly what he’s saying the ‘don’t fall in love with me’ didn’t need to be said. “You only told me to take care of you, right? That’s all”

Bokuto gives him nothing.

They eat.

Later that night, Bokuto is a bit antsy. It was his break from training. The constant training and then suddenly not training was probably getting to him and if it wasn’t, it was certainly getting to Akaashi. He can’t write a single sentence because of the other man’s constant tinkering with this and that and whatever. He’s not mad but he might just be if this continued on and on.

He sighs, slamming his pen down as he leans back on his chair. The movement behind him pauses. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Yes,” is the immediate reply.

He regrets it.

Of course he regrets it.

He hates the cold, can’t stand the numbness that falls upon his nose and the tension on his knees but Bokuto was humming so happily beside him so he just bites back the little annoyance he feels. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad, at least he had an excuse to step back from his work and breathe. It’s been a bit taxing on him, his schedule and the fact that he barely slept at all—he figures he might get sick from just this walk.

“I heard someone new got into your team,” Akaashi says. “They’re debuting soon, right?”

Bokuto nods, excited. “He came fresh from Brazil, his name’s Hinata Shoyo.”

“What?” Akaashi chokes then coughs. “Shoyo?”

He hardly notices that Bokuto was patting his back. “You know him?”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Akaashi takes his phone out of his pocket, his brows furrowed as he types ( To Hinata: I heard you got into the Black Jackals?). He makes a mental note to call him later and maybe ask Kenma why he never told him that they were in a long distance relationship and also he should really keep himself up to date with the whereabouts of his own friends, just how long has he been such a hermit?

“Well, he’s amazing. He jumps so high, it almost defies physics. I actually wanna do a quick like him but I don’t think I’m as fast as him and Atsumu got really mad after five tries.” Bokuto is kind of pouting which Akaashi finds a little endearing.

Akaashi takes pity on him, hides his smile beneath his collar. “I think you can be amazing in your own way. He’s him and you’re you, right? Besides, I think you’re pretty amazing already.”

He finds that he’s not lying.

He’s not given any sort of reply but when he looks at him, he sees a little smile.

They walk in silence after that, there’s nothing much to say and the road where they live was filled with uphill paths so they’re trying to save their breath despite it being already short. Tonight, the moon sort of looked like the smile of a Cheshire cat and the stars were a little seen but Akaashi thinks that the brightest star would have to be the streetlights that guided their way to nowhere and somewhere.

His thoughts bring back what Bokuto had said earlier this morning: Have you ever tried falling in love?

He hasn’t, it was true. He believed that falling in love didn’t even need effort but then again what would he know? He’s barely looked at anyone and he’s barely viewed anyone as more than a concept for him to write about in one of his stories so to talk about ‘falling in love’ was a bit...far from him. But he was curious about what it felt, how it would feel to look at someone and feel ‘falling’ and ‘being caught’. Falling in love is a concept he’d be willing to understand if it meant that it would be returned.

“Ji,” Bokuto says, stopping under one of the streetlights.

Akaashi looks up—he’s been staring at the pavement this whole walk. He stops just right in front of Bokuto. “Do you want to go back?”

Bokuto was removing his scarf, eyebrows a little furrowed. “No, I don’t. Do you? Are you tired?”

“I’m not tired,” he says. “I’m just thinking.”

“That’s tiring,” he hums before looping his scarf around Akaashi’s neck then bundling it at the front to cover his face. “Your nose is red.”

“Sorry.”

Bokuto smiles, obviously a little weirded out. “Sorry that you’re cold? You’re funny.”

“I’m—”

But before he could answer, he felt a little flutter that ran along the back of his throat then down his stomach. It felt a little itchy and a little ticklish but there’s not enough harshness to it to make Akaashi feel annoyed or bothered. He just thought that if these were to be the ‘butterflies’ in his stomach then it should’ve felt more metaphorical rather than this feeling like his insides were coated in sort of this odd flutter.

“Keiji?”

“Nothing. Nevermind”

Bokuto looks at him for a few seconds, assessing. “When we reach the intersection at the end, we can turn back.”

Bokuto takes Akaashi’s gloved hands and cups it with his own. They stand there for a few seconds with Bokuto just trying to warm his hands. Akaashi didn’t have it in him to tell him that he already felt plenty warm with just the scarf he’s already offered. Besides, he liked being held like this.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

Bokuto lets go of one of his hands then intertwines fingers with the other. “Just a little more walking then we’ll get back home.”

“Can we turn the heater on?”

“Yeah and I’ll close the window.”

春

When spring comes, Akaashi washes Bokuto’s leather jacket.

He takes really good care to not destroy it as he cleans it with a homemade solution that his dad used to make. He takes care of it because it’s his favorite jacket that Bokuto wears—because it crinkles. It crinkles whenever there is movement, small or big it just crinkles and makes any sort of sound that it pleases. Perhaps it should annoy Akaashi and his sensitivity to all his senses but there’s an association that comes with the sound and it only brings him some sort of tingling feeling he can’t quite understand.

Because when they ate at an izakaya, the place was loud and Akaashi could barely hear himself talk so he didn't know whether or not the tone he used was correct but then Bokuto would sit there and look at him whenever he had something to say and when he leans then Bokuto was sure to follow this movement as if words alone could push and pull him to whichever direction Akaashi pleased—sometimes the movement is so small that it’s barely seen but then the jacket crinkles and Akaashi can’t help but notice it.

He was new to this sort of attention, a gaze glued onto him as if wanting more than the words he provided. He wondered why Bokuto was so attentive, wondered how long it’s been since someone looked at his eyes and his lips whenever he talked. Akaashi liked that Bokuto would lean closer whenever he can’t hear, not minding at all that they’re so close that their hair is touching. He liked it even more when Bokuto was slow to pull away.

“Is it laundry day today?” Bokuto’s voice comes from the doorway.

Akaashi looks at him to respond and he finds him leaning there looking like how coffee smelled. “I just wanted to clean your jacket, leather needs undivided attention.”

There is a smirk thrown his way. “So if I wear it would you give me that same attention.”

Akaashi looks away, eyebrows knitted together. “I already take good care of you, what more do you want.”

Bokuto’s laugh echoes. “Lately...the weather’s been nice.”

“Spring is always nice.”

“Do you wanna go and have a picnic together?”

He doesn’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, instead he says, “What kind of food would you like me to pack?”

“Onigiri?”

Akaashi knows that Bokuto’s telling him what he wants to hear so, in response, he does the same thing. “I also want sweet bread.”

There’s a smile in Bokuto’s voice. “Okay.”

Bokuto wears his leather jacket when they go out for the picnic.

When they move to step out of the apartment, Bokuto is wordless when he takes the picnic basket from Akaashi’s grip. He stares at him but Bokuto only stares back, waiting for Akaashi to lock the door and when he does and looks at him again Bokuto is still watching him.

When Akaashi was a child, his parents were more on the doting side. They would panic at the most insignificant things like if Akaashi accidentally drops something. It’s awkward to move and he can never shake the eyes away from him but, this time, he finds that he likes the feeling of Bokuto’s eyes on him, likes the feeling of a gaze following him. He once thought that it was because it was something he was accustomed to but then he realized that he liked it purely because of who was gazing at him.

“I knew it,” Bokuto suddenly says, grinning at him as he carries their picnic basket.

Akaashi puts his hands up as if to placate him. “Be careful with our basket, Koutarou, the food might get ruined.”

“Ah, sorry.” He adjusts himself. “I just got excited.”

“About?”

“The weather. I just knew it’d be the perfect day today.” He sounded so sure that even if it rained today, Akaashi would consider it as the perfect weather anyway.

Akaashi rolls his eyes and fiddles with the sleeves of his cardigan. “You couldn’t have known something like that.”

Bokuto only hums in response, his smile still in place.

When Akaashi lays down the picnic blanket, Bokuto is quick to lie down. He pats the space beside him and Akaashi had no choice but to follow. The sunlight was filtered through the branches and leaves of the trees, its beam softened as it rests on their faces and their space. He watches the wind talk to the trees, receiving the response through the sway of the branches. He doesn’t know what nature’s conversation is but it seems to descend upon them like some sort of fresh breeze.

Akaashi watches Bokuto raise his arm and trace the shape of the clouds with his index finger. They see a myriad of things, one of which being a rabbit. It dawns on Akaashi then that he’s somewhat like his mother and this fact alone scares him.

“You packed so much onigiri. Why do you like them so much?”

How odd that even the blandest of topics seemed warm if it was him that opened it. “My mom and I used to make them a lot.”

“Liking a certain food is like knowing a person, right? You eat the food again because you know the food otherwise you’d be hesitant at first try.”

“You sound drunk.”

“Really? I feel like it made sense.”

Again, Akaashi remembers his mother and that one afternoon they made onigiri together. He remembers her not even looking up the recipe, she just knows which ingredient to use and how much of it. It was like knowing everything about someone and taking great pride in doing so.

And, oh.

His mother didn’t fall in love so easily with many things because she didn’t know them—she fell in love because she knew them.

And Akaashi knows Bokuto.

He knows how he parts his hair in the morning when he’s stood in front of the mirror with just a t-shirt and towel on. He knows how he liked his coffee in the morning, how many teaspoons of sugar for when he wants to relax or when he wants to be jolted awake. He knows that he preferred his carrots to be chopped to resemble flowers rather than thin sticks. He knows how Bokuto hides himself from him when there is complete nudity involved, always so secretive with his body that it almost breaks their intimacy—he’s never once seen his chest. He knows. He just knows.

He knows that Bokuto never did anything intimate towards Akaashi without there being a proper meaning to it and so when Bokuto holds his hand it’s because he’s trying to warm him and when they kiss it’s always to make sex for them less disconnected so when he stares at him what does that then mean?

Akaashi’s head turns at the call of his name. He sees his own reflection in golden eyes. “What is it?”

“Nothing, you were just spacing out a lot.”

“You’re always looking at me.”

Bokuto blinks at him as if registering his words. “I....guess. Is there anything else to look at?”

He even loved the way Bokuto used such informal words and phrases like ‘I guess’ and ‘like’.

“I like that you look at me.”

There’s a look on Bokuto’s face that seemed abnormal to the collection of looks that Akaashi has stored in his mind. It didn’t fit ‘discomfort’ but it didn’t fit ‘upset’ either. It’s ambiguous in a way that makes him feel a chill in his chest. “You’ve been nothing but caring, you know.”

Akaashi feels himself clear his throat, not knowing why he felt like doing it when it wasn’t necessary. “It comes with the fact that we’re not in a loveless marriage.”

The look shifts to something familiar, something like ‘comfortable’. “Right. We said it’d be kind.”

Was Akaashi kind?

Was this kindness?

Was it kindness when Akaashi left the window open in the middle of bitter winter because Bokuto felt hot? Was it kindness when Akaashi learned how to make his favorite meals? Was it kindness when Akaashi started to hold him in his sleep? Was it kindness when he never used to call out names at the height of his climax but now he says ‘Koutarou’ at the simplest of touches?

Is it still considered kindness to feel this way as he sees the filtered glow of sunlight wrap itself on Bokuto’s nose.

He touches Bokuto’s face and Bokuto watches him with this look of neutrality but he moves to fully face him—the jacket crinkles. There is a feeling in his chest that he’s never felt but knows of because he is his mother’s son.

It’s not that he chose not to fall in love, it’s that he never stayed long enough to know something or someone because love is in the ‘knowing’.

Suddenly the ‘a little’ he wished for becomes ‘a lot’, suddenly he’s in love with the person he married.

夏

Akaashi felt hungry for air.

It’s like whenever Bokuto touched him or called for him, the air would just walk out on him and abandon him. It was painful especially since it’s accompanied by his raging heart beat. He just wonders why being in love had to feel like this—like pain to further exacerbate the overall feeling of falling. The only time it ever goes away is if he’s able to distract himself or if he’s at work with Bokuto no where near him.

As much as possible, Akaashi tries not to do things together with him. They eat at the same time but practically ghosts sharing the space to haunt. They watch TV but understand the program more differently than the other, both sat on opposite sides of the couch. They would sleep in the same bed but Akaashi sleeps an hour before Bokuto wakes and even then he’d make sure that not a single limb would brush against him.

He doesn’t understand it himself, he chalks it all up to the fact that he’s never fallen in love before so whenever Bokuto places a hand on his shoulder in a movement that’s not more than casual, Akaashi just doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s shameful to destroy something gentle that they’ve built together but this is Akaashi’s version of kindness.

“You’ve been coughing a lot recently,” Tenma says, not even giving Akaashi a single glance as he leans into his work.

Akaashi clears his throat, already bothered by it. “Sorry.”

“Perhaps, you should cut back on your sugar intake.”

The ‘perhaps’ is nice because it comes off as concern rather than an order. It’s like saying ‘I suggest you do this but if you don’t want to then it’s alright but know that I am concerned for you’ but compressed into just one single word of ‘perhaps’.

“I should.” It’s strange, however, that his sugar intake did not increase in any sort of way but still he feels like grains of sugar were stuck on his throat just begging to be coughed out. He wonders if he should go to the hospital to have himself checked but then again he might just be overdramatic. He makes a mental note to purchase vitamins before he goes home. He wonders if Bokuto will care?

No, nevermind that.

“While we’re on this subject,” Tenma continues even though Akaashi was sure that they’ve finished their conversation. “Should you decide to take a few days off, it’ll be fine with me.”

“I can’t leave you alone on such short notice.”

“The deadlines aren’t too strict and I can shoulder what little you have over there. You always seem to be dead on your feet. Have you been sleeping?”

“Fatigue must be setting in.” It’s the only explanation.

“Pardon my rudeness but is Bokuto-san treating you well?”

Akaashi’s pauses mid-pen stroke. “He’s taking care of me.”

It’s me that has failed him.

“I see.” He knows he’s not being believed in. “You should hurry and make up with him and rest.”

How do you make up with someone when the argument isn’t even with Bokuto but within Akaashi? Was he supposed to just come up to Bokuto’s face and yell: ‘Please take responsibility for this’ even though Bokuto’s done no such thing to warrant such unnecessary load of feelings?

“I will.”

When he arrives home that night, Bokuto is waiting for him on the dinner table, food laid out and still warm. He knows that he’s been waiting because the pitcher for their tea is half empty and he just knows of his habit of mindlessly drinking whenever he has nothing to do. It’s why he has two water jugs instead of one and exactly why Akaashi is about to buy him a third one once he’s got time to go to the shops.

Entering their home, people can already pick up just how different the two of them really are. Akaashi preferred to hang his clothes while Bokuto preferred to fold them even if they’re dirty and in need of washing—his clothes were always folded neatly in the hamper. Akaashi preferred white lights while Bokuto preferred warm yellow ones. Somehow, there’s a clear and distinct line between them yet the opacity of it is so low that it’s hardly seen anyway.

“You went to the pharmacy?”

Akaashi settles in his seat, letting the plastic bag fall on the chair beside him. “Just a cough.”

“Just a cough,” Bokuto repeats as if it had significance to him. “You’re sure?”

“Probably.” Akaashi snorts at a ridiculous thought. “Not as if I’ve caught a disease.”

Bokuto doesn’t laugh which is odd because he laughs even when he’s uncomfortable. “Maybe we should get you checked.”

“It’s just a cough, Koutarou,” he says, trying to reassure him with the calmness of his tone. The calm is ruined by the way Akaashi had to cover his mouth to cushion an incoming cough—his body betrayed him in so many ways.

Without preamble, Bokuto leans forward and lays his palm on Akaashi’s forehead. The coughing comes up again at this exact moment of quiet intimacy and it frustrates him even more because whatever he has, he doesn’t want Bokuto to catch it. “You’re hot. I think you have a fever.”

“It was hot outside. Listen, let’s just eat. I want to sleep early today.”

This is what acquiesces him and so they eat in odd silence and whenever he feels an itch at the back of his throat, he downs his tea. Bokuto, as always, is the first to finish his food but tonight it seems he was trying to make a decision. It takes a few minutes before he stands and tells him that: I’ll prepare the bath for you since you’re tired. Akaashi doesn’t have the energy nor was he given the time to thank him or tell him that he didn’t need to do that.

He coughs at the same time he hears the water run.

This time, however, he feels like something comes up with it. He doesn’t spit it out to check, too limbless to get up. If anything, it’s probably just phlegm and it really won’t be something that’ll kill him. He pushes the tea and sweet bread away from him, deciding to really cut back on the sugar.

In the silence, he can hear the faucet leaking. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

“The bath’s ready.”

“The faucet’s leaking.” It’s not particularly distracting or anything but it seems like the apartment is older than they thought it was and maybe things are starting to show. The DRIP DRIP DRIP was always catching Akaashi’s attention and he had wondered if it would affect them in any sort of way—this type of decay. “And the flowers you bought are wilting.”

Bokuto looks at the vase on the kitchen counter. “Well, flowers do...wilt. It’s their thing.”

“Should we go change them?” Even though he doesn’t want to, even though he felt far too attached to them despite how they droop.

“What a waste,” Bokuto says, as if reading his mind. “I wish we could have preserved it somehow.”

Akaashi stands up. “I’ll go take that bath.”

“The flowers?”

“Let’s...keep them for a bit.”

When he comes out, the leaking faucet stopped leaking but the flowers are still wilted.

“You have a fever,” Bokuto says, thermometer in hand and a look of disapproval on his face.

Their bedroom was unusually hot but only because Bokuto insists that he should ‘sweat the fever out’ which is not something he’s been made to do but since he doesn’t have much of a choice, he just allows the sticky and disgusting feeling to overcome him. Akaashi leans to the side, reaches for his tea and is not surprised that it’s hot. He drinks it anyway, allows the heat to soothe his throat. The only thing that comforts him is that Bokuto had to suffer in this makeshift sauna as well, obvious in the way the sweat drips from his chin and onto his chest.

“Tenma told me to take a few days off because I looked tired. I’m lucky I listened.”

This doesn’t make Bokuto’s expression loosen. “So you can listen, huh?”

“You have a strange way of expressing concern to someone who has a body temp of forty degrees.”

He expects a jab or a sneer but Bokuto only sighs. “When I told you to take care of me, I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t allow me to take care of you in return.”

“I’m fi—” He coughs. Any more of you and I’ll burn.

There are some things in their relationship that aren't reciprocated like just the sheer volume of how much effort Akaashi exerted in order to take care of his husband and, without the need to mention, the type of love they felt for each other or if there was any love on Bokuto’s end at all.

“Clearly.”

“What about training?”

“I took a day off.”

“No, you need to train. This is a waste of your time.”

Bokuto stares at him, reading him. “I know we’re in this marriage not for love but I at least can take care of a close friend...can’t I?”

Akaashi slumps back on the headboard. “Can’t you what?”

“Can’t I take care of my friend?”

He submits. “You can.”

Bokuto, he thinks, is unfair as he shoots him such a genuine smile. Akaashi had no choice but to sit there and be a spectator as Bokuto fumbled here and there, bringing him water and medicine while also cooking him meals that were easy to digest. He was not touched once during this whole process in any sort of way even if it was to feel his forehead or a simple brushing of hands, this both eases him and puts him on edge—untouched until nightfall.

“Keiji, you should sleep.” Bokuto is sitting next to him in bed and still there’s this space between them.

And if he can’t touch him and this is all the proximity he’ll ever receive— “Will you stay here when I sleep and be here when I wake up?”

Bokuto looks at him then with some sort of softness that also told him what he said was just borderline ridiculous. “The fever is making you say funny things. This is our bedroom, you know?”

He watches Bokuto pass the time on his phone, he seemed unable to handle the heat any better than Akaashi since his breathing was the ‘cooling breaths’ that he said he learned from yoga once when he was a teen. He doubted his memory was still accurate but if it helped him then it helped him. When Bokuto shifts again, there is a gap of space between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his shorts, Akaashi can clearly see the bandages.

“Maybe you’d feel cooler if you removed the bandages.”

Bokuto gives him a glance. “The material is light.”

It’s his gentle way of saying: You’re crossing a line.

“Sorry.” He knows he’s asking for too much of him, he’d already been told that Bokuto can give most but not all. He never used to wonder so much but now he can’t help but want to know. Is it because he loves him?

The silence can either be ‘It’s okay’ or ‘whatever’ but seeing as Bokuto only moves to readjust his pillows it seems that nothing between them is screaming ‘upset’. Akaashi takes this as he settles into his pillow once more, eyes now on the ceiling just to count the many bumps on its concrete texture.

Bokuto is humming a song so unfamiliar to Akaashi but it’s enough to lull his eyelids into fluttering shut. He didn’t have the skill of an opera singer per se but it’s enough to know that a pro volleyball player chose to stay in their hellish apartment to take care of him and hum him to sleep. It’s the thought, it’s always the thought that Akaashi holds onto. The last thing he remembers is his hair sticking to his forehead and the humming fading into choppy slow stops before he loses his fight with consciousness.

He hasn’t dreamt of anything in a long time

He hasn’t had a nightmare even longer than that.

However, dreams are nightmares but Akaashi finds that he didn’t care for the terminology.

He is at his childhood house, he knows this because of the color of the floorboards. In his dreams, the ground would always be clear but the ceiling would be a misshapen blur. He finds his mother in the living room, hands clasped in her lap and a boiling troubled look on her face as she stares at him. I’m sorry is what she says and Akaashi asks what she is sorry for but she doesn’t answer.

She stands only to push him down. She says: It’s okay, darling, we’ll take care of this. the way she always did whenever something scary was about to happen like hospital visits. He watched her dig her hands into his chest and it doesn’t hurt because it’s not real but it looks like it should as his mother opens his chest with her bare hands, ripping flesh, nerves, sinew, and opening his ribs til they look like wings on his chest. Akaashi screams and screams and screams but his mother continues to rip.

He’s screaming not because it hurts but because he looked so ugly and defiled inside. There’s rot and mold in places that should have been apple red blood. The infestation looks like it had started way before this and Akaashi wonders how he could be so neglectful of himself. Was this what was on the inside? Was he not told that ‘it’s what’s on the inside’ that counts?

“We’ll make you beautiful.” His mother’s voice sounds warped. He doesn’t know where she managed to conjure flowers and soil but little by little she replaces his viscera with earth. She was brutal in ripping him open but gentle when she placed white flowers into him, humming a tune that was once unfamiliar but now familiar. Was this not the tune he fell asleep to?

“Why is this happening?” Akaashi chokes on the question as the soil comes up to block his throat. His mother doesn’t reply, simply slips stem and roots in between his lips. It’s an odd sensation to feel roots wrap around his throat in mindless torture.

“It’s time for you to wake.”

And when he wakes, he’s quick to cover his mouth. He gags and feels his whole body lurch forward. Bokuto is beside him, arm falling off of his chest as he sits up. How long had they been touching and why did it feel like something close to drinking gasoline? He tries to breathe through the tears forming in his eyes but the more he tries to breathe, the more he wants to retch. Why did he smell flowers at such a time like this?

“Ji? Are you okay?” Bokuto is sitting up with him, his hand trying to trace soothing lines on his back.

“I’m—” He bites on his hand, feeling something really coming up. It seemed to follow the up and down trail that Bokuto is doing on his back. He feels his whole body shiver and not in the way that he found to be enticing. “Sorry.”

He runs to the bathroom, locks the door. It felt like something he knew he didn’t want Bokuto to see.

He retches and he heaves.

The effort is enough to have him on his knees. When he manages to get something out, it comes out in a mix of bile, spit, and...flowers. The smell is horrific and the sight even moreso.

He blinks. Once. Twice. He tries to think if he was still dreaming but he’s not. There are flowers that are in the toilet, petals that are on the floor and yet more still threaten to come out and he lets them. The burn isn’t something he’s ever felt before and this is the type of suffocation that won’t kill him but he wished it did because he doesn’t know how to adjust his breathing when every inhale was enough to move the petals every which way.

“Keiji, you locked the door.” Bokuto's voice booms into his head, Akaashi feels his throat itch once again and he braces himself. “Let me in. Are you okay?”

“Go away.” He backtracks a little, regretting his choice of words. “I’ll be okay just let me handle this.”

“Keiji.”

“I’ll be fine.”

There’s a pause and he knows that Bokuto is contemplating whether or not to just slam their bathroom door open and he’s hoping it doesn’t come to that. “Come out when you’re ready, I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Akaashi looks at the flowers that float in his toilet bowl, grimaces at what he’s managed to do to himself. They were admittedly beautiful—too beautiful for the meaning they held. Is this what his mother felt? He leans on the bathroom wall, lets himself sit there to wallow in his own self-made despair.

Akaashi, in the middle of his bathroom floor completely covered in the odd scent of wilted flora and bile, blooms.

秋

The wind is beginning to get colder.

It’s almost autumn.

The doctor in front of him has read his final diagnosis and it didn’t seem too pretty. He had until the end of winter before he had to undergo surgery. It’s not a disease that has copious amounts of research to support it, it’s just one of the cases they treat with hurried time rather than actually knowing the set limit. It’s not an easy disease either because, like fingerprints, it’s different with each person. Akaashi takes solace in the fact that he’s not alone in this clinic, takes twisted comfort at the sight of the rose petals and stargazers that scatter in the waiting room lobby.

How terrifying it is to fall in love with someone that’s never meant to love you back. How ironic it is to marry someone in order to avoid this exact situation but still manage to get stuck in it anyway.

The operation is still not final and the effects even more spontaneous. The patient that undergoes the process would either never be able to fall in love or forget the person they fell in love with—or both. Akaashi thinks that he’d never want the latter to happen, Bokuto is much too precious to forget and even if he were to lose all feeling of love for him he’d never wish to forget all those moments of kindness that they shared.

Pathetic.

“Do you have any more questions for me?”

Akaashi thinks that the room allows his voice to echo back to him just so he can hear the ridiculousness when he asks, “What flowers are they?”

The doctor gives him a wry smile. “No one ever asks that.”

Akaashi gives him a dry expression of his own.

No one has ever loved like I have.

Hard.

It was the only word Akaashi can think of while being with Bokuto. What used to be mindless breathing was now a constant fight for oxygen. It’s been a while since he’s recovered from the fever caused by the flowery disease—what with his immune system not being able to handle the sudden and extreme change in his body—and Bokuto hasn’t taken his eyes off of him since then. He’s been far too caring and far too tactile for Akaashi’s comfort. He prides himself in his ability to swallow a cough until he gets out of earshot.

More than anything, he didn’t want Bokuto to know just yet.

Akaashi is now more familiar with the sounds in his office and Tenma’s occasional ‘tsk’ than he is with the sounds and the smells of the home he shared with Bokuto. He’s had longer eye contact with his computer screen than with anyone else. This all just seems to be a replacement for Bokuto and everything that contained the man like the convenience store near their house or the path they use for when they go out for a walk or even their bedroom—his bedside must have collected dust by now.

“Have you not made up yet?” Tenma asks.

Akaashi doesn’t answer.

He wants to turn back time and maybe not have agreed to this at all, maybe actually falling in love with someone that would be able to love him would have been nice but really what would life be then without Bokuto by his side? He just can’t imagine a life where it isn’t him. It’s impossible.

He decides to walk home that night, allowing the autumn air to brush against his cheeks. Whenever his mom had a problem, she’d invite Akaashi out for a walk to feel ‘refreshed’ and he finds that he’s still mimicking her pattern after all these years. The cold weather was always the weather to walk in because it numbs his feet just enough for the ache to be delayed until he gets home. It hits him that these streets would never have been familiar had he not moved here with Bokuto, he might not have discovered the great onigiri shop that he always goes to whenever he’s craving for it. How much has Bokuto changed his life and how much more will change for him?

He wonders what people usually do once they find out about the disease that they have. Do they tell the human cause of it or do they stay quiet in fear of outright rejection? If Bokuto could just love him back then maybe this would just disappear but falling in love—don’t you just fall? What then would be the meaning of it all if he asks for it? It’s never as satisfying as receiving it without having to say a word.

When he arrived home, his head wasn’t any more clear than when he left his office which is what he expected because, after all, what can you get from a meager walk?

Bokuto was cooking dinner, bath towel around his neck to catch the droplets from his hair. He looks towards where Akaashi is and flashes him a smile. “Welcome home.”

It did.

It did, in fact, feel like home—despite the pain and despite the burn, this was his home. He wanted to stay here forever.

The other man must’ve sensed this shift in mood because he then fully turns towards him. “Is everything alright?”

“Nothing. I’m home.”

“If nothing’s wrong then why do you look like that?” Akaashi hates how vague ‘like that’ is. What did he look like? “Did I do something?”

“No, it isn’t you,” Akaashi says, giving him a tired smile. He despises how he almost said: It’s not you, it’s me like some sort of character in a soap opera.

“But you’d never tell me if it was me anyway so it’s hard to believe you.”

“You don’t have much of a choice but to believe me.”

Bokuto opens his mouth to say something but then hisses, fingers retracting from the stove. He wags his hand to cool it while simultaneously turning the stove off. He mutters something before he puts his stinging finger in his mouth. He looks to Akaashi again, face morphing from exasperation to something unreadable. “You look like you’re the one that got burnt.”

Akaashi looks away.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” There’s no such hesitation or question in his statement.

Ah, so he’s caught.

Bokuto doesn’t even give him the space to talk and that’s fine because Akaashi could be given the space from here and Mars and he still wouldn’t know what to say. “I’m not going to force you to tell me I just hope you’d...trust me enough to say something. If it’s something I can help with then I want to help.”

“You’re too kind, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto steps back a little, confusion written on his face. It’s as if the usage of his last name was akin to a wall falling in between them and him stepping back was his futile attempt to avoid it. “You don’t usually call me that.”

Because calling your name hurts me.

Because calling your name would feel like you’re mine and I don’t want to be reminded that you’re not.

“Sorry, I guess I’m tired.”

This time, Bokuto allows him to evade the topic. “You don’t look any better than when you had the fever. You should’ve taken another week off.”

“I might’ve lost my job.”

He watches him purse his lips, furrowing his brows. The sight reminds him of the day they met. “Have you...found someone you love?”

“What?” Akaashi’s defensive attitude immediately goes up as he steps backwards. He can’t help but cover his look of panic with a scowl.

“If you found someone then I hope you know I’m okay with a divorce.”

How easy for him to say the word ‘divorce’ like it wasn’t metallic poison for Akaashi. Is this how shallow this marriage was for him? Was Akaashi the only one caring for it and nursing it into something that could possibly bloom? How? How can Bokuto suggest that with such a calm face? He doesn’t feel hatred nor anger but he feels every inch of resentment that his body can hold. He feels resentment not because of love but because of the now damaged trust he had in Bokuto and in this relationship.

“How could you say that?” Akaashi snaps. “Another person?” There’s only you.

Bokuto seemed surprised and it’s understandable because not once has Akaashi lost his temper between the time they met ‘til just a few moments ago. “Sorry...I just thought it’s what you’d like.”

Then, perhaps, you don’t know me at all. He turns away, coughs into his hands, making sure that not one petal falls from his grasp. He sneers at the sight of white tinted with red. This was exacerbating his symptoms. “I’m going to use the other room to work tonight.”

“It’s all yours but dinner’s almost done.”

And even though he’s starving he says, “I’ll eat it later.”

There’s a pause, then a sound of creaking floorboards as if to signify Bokuto stepping towards him but stopping. “I understand.”

冬

On his busiest night at work, Bokuto calls him.

Akaashi almost snaps but there’s this edge in Bokuto’s tone that dithers him from any sort of impulsive reaction. He listens to the harsh grunt that he’s never heard before, a sort of sound that he’s only ever heard Bokuto use when he’s truly upset and this may have been it.

When you come home, we need to talk.

There’s no ‘If you come home’ or ‘When are you coming home’, it’s a straight expectation of ‘You’re coming home and we’ll talk then’ which terrifies him because Bokuto was never one to demand anything from him.

Okay.

He managed to distract himself with work but once he finished and he was on the way home, his mind would not stop thinking and overthinking about what their conversation could be about. Could it be that he’s grown tired of him? Could it be that he’s found someone else? Could it be that he too expected something but only ‘a little’ of it but he finds that Akaashi is just ‘too much’? There’s not one answer that fits so his brain tries to squeeze in multiple which hardly helps at all.

Even though it’s winter, he finds himself sweating uncontrollably at just the mere thought of everything going wrong and by the time he walks into their home the sweat has pierced through the fabric of his shirt.

He finds Bokuto sitting on the dining table, pitcher half empty and glass half full. Bokuto doesn’t greet him nor does he look at him and he doesn’t flinch when the chair screeches in protest to Akaashi’s pull. He feels like he’s suddenly a child that’s being scolded by his mother which is an odd sensation to have because not once has he ever been afraid to talk to Bokuto...until tonight that is.

He sits and fiddles with his hands.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Akaashi looks up. “You call on me for that question again?

Bokuto’s expression doesn’t change it, instead, hardens in a way that Akaashi has never seen before. He watches him fish something from his pocket, he places a ziploc bag filled with 9 white petals inside. “So, have you ever been in love?”

Akaashi feels a chill run down his spine as he stares at the bag, he clasps his hands together to keep them from trembling. He opens his mouth then closes it again. He’s been trying to imagine Bokuto’s expression upon finding out, who would have known that finally seeing it would make it hurt so much more. He would have accepted pity or disappointment so then why must it be sympathy?

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I planned to but it was never the right time.”

“Who do you love? Do they know?”

Akaashi laughs in a way that scares him. It sounded almost maniacal and so unlike him but god he’s so exhausted. The root system inside him always and only watered by the unrequited love that echoed in these four walls. What more can he lose? He’s lost his passage of air and he’s lost Bokuto’s touch. In a way, Akaashi now embodied the greed that he once feared. He did nothing but take and take and take, clinging onto his one chance of survival which he knew was futile—because Bokuto can give most of him but not all.

“You? Have you ever been in love?”

Bokuto clicks his tongue. “This is about you.”

Akaashi locks eyes with him. He ignores the tremble of his hands and the quiver of the roots within. “Why do you think I’m asking?

“You....” He nods, watching Bokuto slowly come undone in front of him. The expression melting from confusion to pained comprehension. “You love me.”

He doesn’t answer this, knows that everything is quite obvious.

Akaashi leans back on his chair, allowing the other man to fully digest this information. How are you able to accept that you’re killing someone just by doing nothing? He tries to recall if this is a dream but he knows that it’s not because the ceiling was solid and not the usual warped technicolor he’d see in sleep. The floorboards beneath him, instead, felt like it was crumbling down. This was definitely not a dream.

“So...when are you getting the surgery?”

He feels himself freeze, if he looks away from the ceiling now he knows that tears would flow downwards. “Just like that? You won’t even try to love me back?”

“Keiji...I can’t.”

He looks at him then, throws everything out the window. As expected, there are tears that run down his cheeks at the very moment their gaze reconnects. Who knew that this could happen when just yesterday he’s stumbling to reach him at the altar. “You can’t or you don’t want to?”

Bokuto looks pained. “I can’t.”

“I mean very little it seems.”

Bokuto drums on the table with his fingers, bouncing between decisions in his head. “You’ve wondered why I have bandages.”

“Are we on the same topic?”

There’s insecurity in his eyes. “We are.”

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying something he might not mean.

“I have.” Bokuto is slow and hesitant to remove his shirt. “I’ve fallen in love before.

It wasn’t the time for the thought to register but Akaashi thinks he’s never seen Bokuto’s collarbones before and it amazes how he is still so pained yet he finds the man before him so beautiful. It’s agonizingly slow as Bokuto unwraps, as the cloth slowly loosens and drops around his hips and drapes to touch the floor. Akaashi never looks away not even as he sees the trauma hidden underneath.

The scars looked like a network of roots starting at the center point of Bokuto’s chest slowly branching out towards his ribs but there was a deeper mark of an incision right at the center starting from his navel to just below his collarbones. The mark of the root system was pink and the skin there was raised, something akin to a burn mark from a cigarette but this must have been more excruciating. He raises his hand and reaches to touch but Bokuto flinches so he stops himself.

For the scar to be that immense then that would mean that Bokuto held onto the feeling for quite a long time. The antibiotics can only do so much but it seemed Bokuto not only kept flowers but a whole garden within him.

“What flowers did you have?”

Bokuto gave him a smile and a look that said: you’re ridiculous and maybe he was. “No one ever asked me that.”

“The flowers are beautiful. I don’t know why people don’t ask.”

Akaashi tries to process what he was feeling now that he knows what Bokuto has been hiding. He realizes that he’s not angry nor was he disappointed. He’s not upset nor was he sorrowful. He had imagined that he would cry or scream when Bokuto would finally reject him but he feels the residue of resentment within him slowly fade away and now all he’s left with is jealousy and awe.

It was only now that it occurred to him that once Bokuto deems that there is something or someone he loves, he truly loves it with all of his being. It doesn’t matter the scar that it leaves, only matters that he tried—and he tried very hard. But Akaashi finds that he’s jealous of a person he doesn’t even know, jealous of the fact that they even had the choice to fall in love with Bokuto too and yet they chose wrong. How cruel of that person to rob Bokuto of future vulnerability and yet...

How lucky for that person to be loved like that.

Bokuto laughs a little covering his face. “Why did I even hide this from you? Maybe this wouldn’t have happened....this is all my fault.”

“I think it would have happened regardless, Koutarou.”

“You think so?”

“What do you think of me?” Akaashi asked, his hands have finally stopped trembling. “I don’t regret it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. How could you love me?”

“Did you think that just because they didn’t love you then that no one else would?”

Silence is his reply.

Bullseye.

“Sorry to disappoint but I do truly love—” He coughs, bends down to watch the petals fall slowly—strung along by his saliva. He didn’t bother to run to the bathroom now that Bokuto knows, he just allows the flowers to coat the floor and, partially, his feet. He’d have to clean this up later. The burn along his esophagus was not something he’s gotten used to. It hurts more than ever.

“I’ll clean that up later,” Bokuto says. “It’s the least I can do for you.”

Akaashi smiles at him a little. “Thanks...I suppose.”

“When’s the surgery?”

“End of January.”

“Good.”

“I’m actually really scared of it.”

Bokuto’s fingers graze over the scar in what would be a weird air of nostalgia. Who did he remember whenever he looked at that scar in the mirror? Whose name was forever in his mind? “The pain is forgettable but the scars are a little bit of a shame.”

Akaashi didn’t even think of the pain at all. He was more reluctant about the fact that he would have to lose what he felt for Bokuto and, if the love ran deep enough, he might even lose memories of him and the ability to love anyone else just as he did. He can hardly summarize all that he felt and loved about him and their home so how can one surgery just erase it in just a few measly hours with a few knives made to cut and uproot him.

Still, Bokuto must have loved this other person so much. He loved them so much that they’re unable to love any other that comes after—not even me. Would it have still turned out like this if they had met each other a little earlier? If, maybe, Akaashi was born one year earlier? If, there was any chance at all, they could have met each other some other time some other place in some other way—all of it is just summarized by: maybe.

He can’t imagine any other way than that one warm winter day where they met and ate pasta and hamburger steak, he would never dare replace that memory. However, a ‘maybe’ wouldn’t hurt.

“Sorry, Koutarou, for being too late.”

Bokuto places his hand on the table, palm upward. Akaashi knows what he means so he places his own hand just a few centimeters away from his, palm downward. “I’m sorry.”

Which is, again, vague. He’s been nothing but vague since the start of their relationship. Akaashi doesn't know whether it would have been worse or better if he had not been like that in the first place. What is he apologizing for? For not knowing? For knowing but denying? For loving someone? For loving someone that wasn’t him? For everything? For just one thing? And was this apology for Akaashi or for Bokuto?

“Okay.” He can’t accept an apology to which he doesn't know the purpose of. There was nothing about this that was Bokuto’s fault.

“Please let me support you through it all.”

“You make it sound like we suddenly have an ending.”

Bokuto doesn’t answer.

Akaashi doesn’t ask for one.

The rejection made the disease malignant which was a separate circle of hell that Dante’s Inferno might have failed to mention. Everyday he’d have to listen to himself wheeze as he struggled to fill his body with the air it needed. The root system was quick to fight whatever vitamins he took and the antibiotic was close to ineffective. He can feel the heaviness in his lungs, the roots having started to gather water from his body there. Falling asleep was proven even more difficult because he wakes up two hours after losing consciousness just coughing and trying to catch his breath. The only thing gentle was the flutter of flower petals with every sharp inhale.

Bokuto, through it all, remained by his side. It could be his presence that made things more erratic but Akaashi could hardly care, not when he’s in pain with him but suffering without him. He can’t hold him anymore, even the slightest touch will send him into a coughing fit but he knew that Bokuto was there. He hears his voice calling out to him before he can even open his eyes, feels his warmth even if he’s only hovering. He wanted to hold onto it for a little longer but every time he coughs out these precious flowers, he’d see Bokuto’s pained and guilt ridden expression from the corner of his eyes.

“Are you...okay?” There’s a dribble of spit and blood at the corner of his mouth but he seems to only want to know about Bokuto’s wellbeing.

“I care for you and I worry and I want to see you happy so, Keiji, can’t you tell me how this isn’t the love you need to live? Why isn’t that enough?” And he’s not angry at Akaashi nor does he seem to blame himself but he does curse the gods that he used to worship. Akaashi thinks that man must really be the devil if they’re enough to fracture the relationship between human and deity.

He’s been selfish, he realizes. In his hope to stay with him a little while longer, they both started to deteriorate. He hated the Bokuto that hesitated and through everything he had been walking on eggshells around Akaashi as if a simple breath in his same direction would cause him to fall ill with a forty degree fever. What use was staying by his side if it only caused pain and guilt?

“I’ll call the hospital tomorrow and reschedule the surgery to an earlier date.” The words feel cold in his mouth when he says it, his side even colder when Bokuto stands with his hands going through his hair. “Are you leaving?”

Bokuto closes his eyes as if to contemplate before turning to Akaashi with an out of place smile. “I’m getting us some ginger tea, it’ll help your throat.”

When Bokuto stretches as he yawns, he sees the skin of his hip and Akaashi wonders why he hasn’t noticed that Bokuto has already stopped wearing his bandages around him. They were both so open and bare for each other now.

Akaashi showing that he’s fallen in love.

Bokuto showing that he’s fallen before.

He finds himself going on his knees as he follows Bokuto’s disappearing silhouette, the bed creaks underneath him as he moves back. What can he do? Reach him? And if he reaches...what then? There’s nothing to hold onto, nothing that won’t cause them both pain. He holds his hand, pins it on his chest to stop him from reaching any more than he already has.

Mom, love hurts. You should’ve told me.

The days go by in a fast haze.

Bokuto had to make calls for a leave of absence and when Akaashi asks why he’s taking a leave, he simply answers with: Do you think I won’t grieve when you leave? and that silences him. It never occurred to him that this was as much as Bokuto’s loss as it is for him. He may not have loved him the same but it was love in the way Bokuto was capable of, Akaashi shouldn’t have been doubting the depth or the meaning of it.

Tenma already saw it coming, says that the washroom always smelled like how his grandma used to and Akaashi reminds him that it’s a disease and not potpourri. They laugh at this and it hurts to laugh but it feels nice at the same time. He’s never once smiled in a real way since the day he fully confessed and that’s odd to him because he never really realized how happy he was with Bokuto until it wasn’t happy anymore.

A week before he gets admitted, Bokuto packs him some clothes in a small suitcase he bought from Don Quijote on the way back from training. Akaashi feels a little bad that he’s unable to help but Bokuto shushes him with a smile and then the silence falls over them. It’s been nothing but silence lately whereas before Akaashi would often get annoyed with the way Bokuto paced all around their home after drinking too much soda. He thinks he’ll miss the silence too despite it not being them.

He tries to relish the passage of days, keeps on staring at the clock hoping that that would help time slow down but it doesn’t do much of anything. He tries to make more memories with Bokuto even though it’s small, even though they might disappear. He wants to rewrite and overwrite moments with him. They can’t touch but it’s enough to coexist like this. Bokuto laughs, loud and unashamed, at the show they were watching and Akaashi watches him laugh. He hopes he doesn’t forget his smile and his laugh, if there’s anything he wished to remember then it would be that.

He hoped that if he forgets everything else, the laugh would still echo in the chambers of his mind as a reminder that it wasn’t painful to be with him. It was easy and it was spring in the middle of winter whenever they were together. He wanted to remember the way his upper lip would lift to show his left canine first before showing a full blown toothy smile that would then blossom into a laugh, he wanted to remember that Bokuto was the type to know what he’s smiling about.

He doesn’t want to forget him, he doesn’t want to stop loving him.

When the day of admission comes, Bokuto is the first to step outside their home. It was probably to give Akaashi time to have one last look of what they had managed to build together within two winters. Akaashi realizes that he’d never be able to make Bokuto coffee again fifteen minutes before he arrives from his jog and he’d never be able to add salt to the eggs that he cooks. Would he forget how he parts his hair in the morning? Would he show his scars to someone else?

Love was built here, he realizes.

Love was not built when they first locked eyes, love was built within these four walls and in between the first day they made breakfast together and the times they’ve moaned each other’s names. How could he have missed that this place was the womb where their love grew—where Akaashi’s love grew. However, this was no longer their home. It’s not theirs because once he steps out he’d never be able to say ‘I’m home’ with Bokuto’s answer of ‘Welcome home!’

He’s homeless.

“Are you ready?”

Akaashi inhales, letting the chill refresh the sting behind his eyes. “Not at all.”

Bokuto was right, the warm yellow lights he preferred were much more pleasing than the dead white ones that Akaashi likes. He can’t take it back now though now that the hospital lights glare at him and increased the chill of the white walls. The bed was much too small and cruel for Akaashi’s liking, he much preferred the one that had worn sheets with space to accommodate Bokuto beside him.

Time was a merciless thing as it lets minutes continue to pass despite the surgery being tomorrow. It doesn’t cater to the needs of anyone and it doesn’t favor anyone which is probably why no one is on its side. He wonders about the hypocrisy of time—it is the one to heal all wounds and yet it is the one causing them too.

“You told me not to fall in love with you, I didn’t listen.”

“When I told you not to do laundry, you’d do it anyway.” Bokuto laughs, breathy. “What makes this any different?”

Akaashi smiles, still a little sad. “I only follow what makes sense...stopping myself from falling for you did not...”

“Which one of us is more sorry,” he jokes.

He rolled his eyes, starts to fiddle with his hands. “Me for falling for you and you for being you.”

A snort. “I never expected you, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I first met you...” He pauses, looking like he’s seeing memories in his head that Akaashi isn’t aware of but he seemed fond of what he sees. “...I really didn’t know what to make of you, I was wondering what sort of person you were when someone gets to know you.”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, afraid that he’ll break whatever moment of the past was running in the other man’s head.

“And now that I know, I wish that I love you and if I could love again then it’d be you for sure.” He looks down at his hands, hair casting a shadow on his face. “Surely it would have been you.”

He stares at him, feels pin pricks and needles. He must have been silent for a long time because Bokuto looks up.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I have been for a long time. I’m really sorry about it...for the way you fell for me.”

“Don’t be sorry for something that makes me happy.”

“Makes. Present tense.”

He’s about to say ‘yes’ but was made to look away sharply at the re-emergence of a gasp followed by an onslaught of flora. He’s lucky he had a gift of foresight and was able to have plastic bags near him. Bokuto moves to hover over him, one hand on the space beside Akaashi’s thigh and the other drifting towards the emergency button. He shakes his head ('no, don’t call') and Bokuto nods but his fingers remained inches away from the button.

When he calms down, the other man hands him tissue and takes the soiled plastic bag from him. He doesn’t flinch as he ties the handles into a knot before throwing it in the bin. “Do you know what flowers they are?”

“I don’t,” Bokuto says, carefully dabs his forehead with a thick bunch of tissue. He’s always careful that their skin doesn’t touch. “But I’m guessing you do and you’ll tell me?”

Akaashi smiles at the intact familiarity between them. “Asters.”

“They’re beautiful. What do they mean?”

“They have two meanings for me.”

“Yeah?”

“The first, stars. It’s named after the Greek word for stars.”

“And the second?”

Akaashi only gives him a secretive smile and Bokuto shakes his head fondly but doesn’t ask. “Koutarou.”

He looks at him, all humor fading. “What do you need?”

“Hold me.”

“It’ll hurt you.”

“Everything already does, a few seconds more won’t change anything.”

There’s a look of intense conflict on his face but he still stands and slowly nears him. “How do you want it?”

“Tight like there’s no reason to let go even if it’s just 10 seconds.”

“You know...” Was that fondness? “I really like the way you talk,” Bokuto says, slowly wrapping his arms around him.

Akaashi almost sighs at the gentle movement, the familiar motion, and how it doesn’t lack the feeling it once held before all of this.

He was right, it does hurt.

But it was warm.

Akaashi, with all his strength, clamps his mouth shut and breathes through his nose. He holds onto Bokuto’s waist, buries his face in his chest. He knows his body is trembling with the effort to stop a cough but he quickly ignores it. He feels the arms around him loosening with hesitation but Bokuto seems to have come to a quick decision because they tighten around him once more. He tries to focus on how it feels to have strong arms surround him, it was like nothing could ever hurt him. It felt safe there in his hold. There is a kiss pressed against his forehead, he didn’t ask for it but he’s glad to receive it nevertheless.

It burns. His everything was on fire, the roots tightening their grip and the water in his lungs seemingly getting heavier the longer he holds onto him. He wonders how long before it kills him and if he can really die peacefully in Bokuto’s arms. It would be the best way to go if only guilt had not interrupted. He pulls away, heaves into the plastic almost immediately. It’s good that he has eight more plastic bags ready for him.

“That was very stupid,” Bokuto says. “And you rarely do stupid things.”

Akaashi attempts a shrug but decides to concentrate on not staining himself with bile instead. In between breaths he says, “You do enough for the both of us.”

“Thanks...I think.”

Bokuto does the same thing, hands him tissue and ties the plastic bag shut. When Akaashi sees that his back was towards him it’s when he says, “Thank you for doing my stupid request.”

There’s a pause in the other man’s movement, as if he’s trying to collect himself but not willing to show his face as he does so. When he turned, the exhaustion seemed to be magnified. It seems Bokuto has always been hiding the exhaustion every time he’s about to turn towards Akaashi but, this time, he can’t seem to find a reason to smile anymore.

They keep talking all through day and night, stopping only for when the nurses do their rounds and when Bokuto goes out to buy them some food. Akaashi has never felt more connected to him than the passing moment of now. He likes that Bokuto doesn’t stop talking about how chest receives are fun but painful to do and how he failed his math exam one time. In return, Akaashi talks about his mom and the book he’s been planning to write.

He learns more about him, things he’s never known before. There’s so much more to him than what he accumulated within the two winters, he feels as if he’s wasted all the time he’s had with him. If he could have had a re-do, he would want to learn about his collection of funny shirts. Akaashi is just so thirsty for more of what he doesn’t know

His hands itch to hold Bokuto’s hands but he can’t upset the both of them anymore so he just fiddles with his hands instead, it’s not the same but it sates him. He holds onto even the feeling of yearning, knows that it’s part of just how much love he had.

The morning comes in a slow crawl, it starts with the soft tinting of blue of the sky then warm light follows. A beam of sundrop, holds onto Bokuto’s shoulder in a way that Akaashi will never be able to. It’s a bit sad to be jealous of the same sunlight that used to treat them fairly. Akaashi unconsciously talks faster, doesn’t let silence prolong. He doesn’t want to waste time. He doesn’t notice just how fluidly Bokuto follows this, how red his arm was caused by pinching himself awake. If it was not the time to let go then they won’t.

His last breakfast was sad, consisting of flavorless beef with hot rice, soup that doesn’t look quite right, and fruits that looked pale. He’s not quite sure if it’s because it’s hospital food or it’s because it isn’t the breakfast he and Bokuto cooked together. He missed the eggs that needed more salt and the mug that burned his hands.

Bokuto looks at his food, opens his mouth then closes it.

“They’re lychees, Kou.”

A snort. “How did you know that that was my question?”

“I think I know you quite well.”

“Because you know me.” Bokuto smiles, more to himself than to anyone or anything else. “Just a few minutes more and we’ll never see each other again.”

Akaashi frowns a little. “You really think that?”

“Think what?”

“That we’ll never meet again?”

Bokuto stares at him, open and quite afraid. “We’ve already met.”

He thinks that he understands so he changes the topic again, mustn't let the silence linger.

The only silence that falls on them is when, finally, the hospital staff come to transfer Akaashi to the operating room. They both watch each other, Akaashi being taken away and Bokuto remaining there being ripped apart for the second time but, this time, a love that he can’t return.

What do you say in a situation such as this?

When I love you has already been said and I don’t want to leave you means just the same.

Their whole life together flashes before his eyes despite knowing that death wasn’t the one coming for him, it was the numb. In his mind, he remembers everything in stitched films and pink filters. He can clearly see the man waiting for him at the altar, can see the man underneath the streetlight with snowflakes on his eyelashes, can see the man he sleeps next to, can see the man in front of him—I thought I’d wake up to having you for longer than this.

When he sleeps and then wakes, he will no longer feel the joy that he does when he thinks of and sees Bokuto Koutarou, his heart would be numb to the one thing he thought was finally his. What then was the use of their 3AM nights where Akaashi was naked but not in the sense where his clothes are stripped? How come his soul was stripped bare but only once in his life and to only one man—but it’s not as if he wishes to share it with another. Once more, if only he could come back home to him once more.

What of Bokuto after this? What of the ‘love’ he has for Akaashi? Where will it go? Who else will see his scar? Will he think of him? When he goes to lie down on a picnic blanket that only he owns will he look up at the clouds and see a rabbit and be reminded of him? Will he stay in their home and think ‘ah, Keiji’ in a sort of general way like Akaashi was just in the other room and he remembered that he could come to bother him anytime through the open door.

“Koutarou.”

Bokuto continues to stare at him.

”The second meaning, take care of yourself for me.”