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Keiji was sick.
He had been, for quite some time. It started with a headache, accompanied by a slight cough. Then, tiny specks of blood when he coughed. Shortly after, random, sporadic nosebleeds in the early hours of the morning, and late at night. He also endured sharp, aching pains in his chest whenever he exerted himself during practice. Not to mention the irritating vertigo whenever he stood up too fast, and sometimes even while he laid down. His head would spin so much it actually made him physically sick, stumbling his way to the toilet late at night.
He had continued visiting the clinic, of course, at his parents’ insistence. It was a newly-opened practice located in their suburban district. Nicely decorated, with pleasant classical music playing in the background. Keiji hated it.
Those mornings spent waiting for the receptionist to call his name, while he pondered the infinite possibilities of what was wrong with him had been the worst of his young life. Overthinking had always been one of his downfalls, and having access to the internet and WebMD had only worsened his growing anxieties.
While a very thorough diagnosis had been conducted, complete with blood tests, a urine sample, an ECG and x-ray of his chest, they hadn’t managed to pinpoint what was wrong with him.
Physically, he was fine. No signs of fatigue other than a throat slightly inflamed from coughing, completely normal blood cell counts and a completely regular heartbeat. This baffled him, along with his parents. The physician had advised him to document the exact times of day he began experiencing these symptoms, and recording his diet very specifically (which would no doubt, prove to be a troublesome task).
He didn't like the way the man spoke either, often dismissive whenever Keiji wanted an in-depth explanation about his test results. Like he couldn't wait to have him out of his office and move onto the next patient. It might have been better if his parents had accompanied him (his mother would have held her ground and squeezed every dollar's worth from the consultations).
Yet another appointment was made two weeks later, so they could re-examine Keiji’s diet and time-lapses between symptoms to further diagnose him. Though, he hardly saw the point. Every visit to that clinic left him feeling worse and worse. His list of prescriptions grew each time he went, and even more expensive. Wasn't medicine meant to make people feel better?
His parents told him that if they were still unable to diagnose him properly then, then his case would be referred to a private hospital in Komae, where more experienced professionals would be able to care for him (at a substantially higher cost). Another downside was that he would have to be excused from classes and hospitalised, should it come to that. Something Keiji definitely didn't want.
This was all very worrying, and Keiji felt like a burden for placing additional stress on his parents’ shoulders, both of whom were very busy lawyers, in high demand within Japan and overseas. He was assigned a temporary caretaker, an elderly friend of his parents, who moved to the house in order to cook, clean, and make sure he took his medication while they were away.
These new arrangements would have been manageable if it weren’t for the fact that Keiji had insisted on attending the joint training camp with Nekoma. It was his first year as the vice-captain of Fukurodani, and he had begged for permission, wanting to do his part alongside his captain.
His parents had finally relented, with a condition—that he be excused from the harsh physical penalties and long jogs (they had written a letter to Coach Yamiji) (and he had stubbornly disposed of it).
Keiji couldn’t stand to make his team worry.
Least of all, him.
As Keiji struggles for breath during their last match of the day, he begins to question the sanity of his own decision-making.
Of course, he would notice.
He was Keiji’s closest friend, and one of the nosiest (and annoyingly perceptive) people in Japan, he was sure.
“Why are you breathing so weird?” Bokuto Koutarou had wanted to know, giving Keiji a sharp nudge in the back. “You don’t usually tire this fast, ‘Kaashi.”
“I’m fine, Bokuto-san,” he so effortlessly lies through gritted teeth, not wanting to affect their ace’s mood and their winning streak. Fukurodani had been dominating matches all afternoon, with Bokuto in peak form and the rest of the team having perfected not one, but three new attack combinations.
The game against Nekoma lasts a very long time.
They’re right about to end the third set, 20-24 in Fukurodani’s favour, when Keiji, much to his horror, simply can’t lift his arms to set the pass Komi so painstakingly sends his way. His arms are numb and feel like lead as he watches the ball thud lifelessly onto the polished wooden floor, the cheers of Nekoma at his (uncharacteristic) flub ringing in his ears.
Coach Yamiji calls for a timeout and the team retreats to their bench, Keiji ignoring the concerned glances thrown his way.
“What was that, Akaashi?” Bokuto demands. It was a straightforward and crudely worded question, completely expected given his enormous fumble, but it still sparks the beginnings of anxiety in Keiji’s already exhausted mind.
He bows his head apologetically, not daring to meet his captain’s eyes.
“I’m very sorry. I lost my concentration.”
“Akaashi-kun,” the coach says gently, gaze filled with concern behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “If you’re tired, there’s no shame in asking to be subbed out. You work very hard and I know you’re determined to win, but taking care of your health comes before all else.”
“Oh! That’s right, Akaashi!” Bokuto chirps, eyes taking in Keiji’s slumped figure, his shaky breaths and sweaty brow. “I have off days all the time! So I guess it’s normal for you to have them, too!”
Sarukui and Komi exchanged an amused glance.
“Well, at least he’s self-aware.”
“I’m shocked, really!”
Keiji opens his mouth to chuckle at their good-natured ribbing. He freezes when he tastes a familiar, metallic tang on his upper-lip, tongue unwittingly poking out to confirm his worst suspicions.
Oh, no. Not here. Not now.
Keiji had taken his medications, during the break they had just before this match. The nosebleeds never happened this early, nor did they happen so quickly after consuming the pills meant to prevent them from happening. Were they losing effect?
“Akaashi!” Yukie’s surprised gasp from behind the coach attracts the attention of everyone by their bench, as well as everyone else across the court. “You’re bleeding!”
Keiji’s hands fly up to cover his face to no avail, the blood smudging his fingers and spots of blood staining the floor beneath him. Bokuto curses softly under his breath, his thick brows pulled together in a worried frown. Washio and Yukie hover behind him, the manager already carrying the first-aid kit in hand.
“Let me see,” he says, in his best captain voice. The team is quiet, watching their exchange, and this makes Keiji feel even worse. He wishes he could disappear into the floorboards. “C’mon, Akaashi. Let’s see the damage.”
Bokuto grasps Keiji’s hands in his sweaty, calloused palms.
Immediately, the world starts to spin. Vertigo. It never felt so disorientating before, never lasted more than a few seconds at a time. Now, it felt like the world was tilting beneath his feet, and coupled with the blood coating his nose and lips, it makes him want to throw up.
Keiji was terrified. The faces before him blur into unrecognisable shapes and watery blobs as he struggles to reach for the tissue Yukie had offered, spreading his feet apart to keep his balance.
He has to go. Find a bench, and wait this out. He doesn’t want them to worry. To be a burden. Keiji wishes more than anything he had listened to his parents and stayed home—this whole mess could have very well been avoided.
What was happening to him?
“Go back to your game, I’m fine,” he croaks, holding the tissue below his bloody nose. The team looks far from convinced, and Bokuto sputters as Keiji pushes him away, looking torn between helping and leaving him be.
“I’ll go to the toilet to wash up,” he waves his hands dismissively in their faces. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“But Akaashi—”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes water as he turns, breathing hard as he puts one foot in front of the other to reach the gymnasium doors. Nekoma’s team chitter nervously as they watch him, Kuroo already heading over to talk to either him or Bokuto, he doesn’t know—
The last thing he sees is Kuroo’s panicked expression as he trips over his own feet and falls. He hears someone cry his name, head burning with pain, as he slowly loses consciousness.
Bokuto watches with horror as Akaashi collapses onto the gym floor, his head colliding with the floorboards with a sickening crack.
“AKAASHI!!!”
He sprints over, his shoes squeaking as he halts next to his friend’s motionless figure. He hears a broken, anguished wail and Bokuto almost wonders—who was it, making that awful noise—when he feels Yukie’s fingers digging into his arm. It had been him.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Bokuto’s fingers shakily trace Akaashi’s unconscious face, coming to rest on the spot where his hair meets the wood beneath. Urgent yells and footsteps approach, the managers taking action to halt the large herd of boys from moving too close.
Komi crouches by his side.
“Call an ambulance!” Konoha yells, hand gripping Bokuto’s shoulder so tight, it might bruise.
“On it,” Komi grunts, phone already pressed to his cheek. Bless his quick reflexes, both on and off the court. There’s a brief fifteen seconds of tense silence as the Fukurodani team waits anxiously around their setter’s unconscious figure, before Komi’s finally speaking to someone on the other end of the line, listing off details like the nature of the emergency, their location and so on.
Bokuto doesn’t quite hear the rest because he spots a trickle of red seeping into the wood beneath Akaashi’s head.
In that moment, he feels himself falling apart.
With trembling fingers, he touches the blood (warm), whimpering when he sees his fingertips dyed red with sticky fluid. The smell of metal hits him hard as he dips his head to observe Akaashi’s chest (moving) and his eyelids twitching slightly underneath the skin.
It’s getting hard to breathe. Bokuto wants to poke Akaashi, wants to see him move, do anything other than lie there, motionless. His hands come to gently rest on the front of Akaashi’s jersey, intending to give his setter a gentle shake, when a strong pair of arms wrap firmly around his shoulders, attempting to drag him away.
Away from Akaashi.
Bokuto begins to struggle, enraged at the thought of being separated from Akaashi when he was in such a state. Jerky movements turn into a full-out wrestling match as the person doesn’t relent, and seeing Akaashi’s body slowly get inches, further and further away from him, sends him into a panic.
“Fucking— let go of me!” His voice, booming and filled with rage, makes the team flinch. Bokuto catches a glimpse of red on the long arms of his aggressor and realizes who it was who dared to separate him from his setter. “Kuroo, I’ll fucking kill you—”
“You can’t touch him, Bokuto,” Kenma’s voice is shaking, but he stands firm beside Kuroo and Bokuto as they struggle. “The paramedics told us not to move him until they arrived. You could make things worse.”
It’s a special kind of hell, having to stare at your friend’s unconscious body and not do anything about it for the eternity it takes for emergency services to arrive.
(Later on, Yukie would remind him that the ambulance came within fifteen minutes after their call.)
He crumbles when he slides into the backseat of the ambulance, accompanied by Coach Yamiji. The paramedics had tried to insist on there only being one extra passenger, but Bokuto hadn’t budged.
Seeing his devastated expression, they had made an exception.
“It’ll be alright, son,” the coach gently rubs his back as he sobs, head bowed low and leaning onto the stretcher they had laid Akaashi on. “Akaashi will be alright.”
Keiji whines as he’s assaulted by a harsh glow of light. There’s a throbbing pain in his head as his eyes slowly adjust, taking in the plain white ceiling, the continuous, monotone beeping of a machine on his right and the needle stuck in his arm hinting to where he’d ended up.
Obviously a hospital, from the looks of it.
He tilts his head to the two figures by his beside, sighing in relief as he recognizes their faces. They’re both asleep, his father’s arm around his mother’s shoulder as they lean against each other, both sporting eye-bags and still in their courtroom attire.
He wonders if he should wake them, but his need to be comforted wins over, still shaken up from the ordeal. Keiji remembered everything. Oh god, he’d fucked up.
“Okaa-san… Otou-san...” he croaks, watching as they slowly rose from slumber, his mother’s eyes, smudged with eyeliner and mascara, slowly focusing on his face.
His parents cry his name in simultaneous relief, his mother leaping out of her seat and gripping the front of the scratchy hospital gown they’d put him in. She sobs into his chest while his father leans over them both, placing a cold hand on his cheek.
“Keiji… we’re so glad you’re okay,” his father says, and Keiji only realises he’s crying when his father’s fingers wipe his tears away, his mother cooing softly as she wraps him gently in her arms.
The familiar scent of her perfume makes him cry more, terrified from the experience of losing consciousness on his two feet, a complete loss of control. He remembers the terrified scream he’d heard before he blacked out, someone crying his name as he fell.
“Bokuto-san… is Bokuto-san okay?”
“Oh, Keiji,” his mother’s watery laugh chokes him up. “Even in this state, you’re worried about others. Can you believe our boy, Kenzo?”
“That’s our Keiji, alright,” he leans over them to reach a red button attached to the wall, giving it a firm press. “Kaede, the doctor is going to want to examine him now. Give him some breathing room.”
His mother sighs, reluctantly drawing back from Keiji as a few nurses and a doctor dressed in a pristine white coat burst into the room, looking hurried.
“Akaashi-sama,” they bow to his father. “Please, allow me to examine your son.”
“Go ahead,” his father says, voice cold and distrusting. His mother is no different, arms crossed and her manicured fingers tapping impatiently against her arm as she keeps her eyes on the doctor about to examine their son.
“Be gentle with him, Watanabe-san. He’s had a stressful day.”
“Of course.”
Yukie gives Bokuto a literal kick in the ass.
“Ow!” The ace squawks indignantly as he stumbles forwards, dropping the ball he’d been about to serve. “Yukie-chan, what the hell!”
She points a finger so close to his face, he goes cross-eyed.
“Bokuto-kun,” she growls. “Why haven’t you gone to see Akaashi?”
He pouts, looking off to the side. The team observes their tense exchange with mixed reactions. Konoha snickers somewhere behind him and he makes a mental note to steal his fried chicken for the rest of the week.
“It’s been two weeks!” Yukie snaps when he doesn’t answer. “And we’ve all been to Akaashi’s house to visit. He asked about you and he’s been texting me non-stop since you won’t answer his calls or texts.”
Bokuto huffs, continuing to pout. The normally calm and composed Yukie Shirofuku sees red.
“I can’t believe you, Bokuto Koutarou!” She yells, throwing a punch. It lands on his arm and it hurts. Had she been lifting weights? “Akaashi’s sick and worried out of his mind, and you don’t even care! I thought you were best friends!”
“Kuroo’s my best friend,” he mumbles under his breath defensively, though he was sure if Kuroo were here right now, he’d be scolding Bokuto as well. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Oi, Bokuto,” Komi yells from across the court. “Stop pretending! Just go see him already!”
“Dude, you nearly pissed yourself when he passed out. Don’t you want to—”
“Guys, shut up,” he snaps, teeth bared defensively. “Akaashi’s fine! He’s okay, and he’s resting! Why are you all being so nosy?”
His team regards him with dirty looks and icy silence. Konoha scowls and looks like he’s ready to go over there and knock some sense into him. Onaga and Kaori are anxiously hovering near the gym doors. Sarukui’s arms are crossed.
Finally, Washio speaks up.
“You feel guilty, don’t you?”
Bokuto sputters, losing his angry disposition.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re upset that he was hurt, and that you couldn’t do a thing,” Washio continues, coming to stand beside his captain. He places a firm hand on Bokuto’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “But you really needn’t worry. You did the best you could in that situation. You couldn’t control the way you reacted, because you care. About him. And Akaashi deserves to know that.”
Washio’s words of wisdom cause Bokuto to sigh brokenly at the floor. The middle-blocker had hit the nail on the head.
“You should go, Bokuto.”
“I don’t deserve to see him.”
“Well, he wants to see you, so tough luck,” Yukie says, her tone a lot more gentle than before. She gives him an encouraging pat on the back. “Go now, Bokuto-kun. We’ll cover for you.”
He sniffs, looking up with watery eyes as he regards his team with a thankful expression. They relax as they finally understand why Bokuto had been avoiding Akaashi all this time. Washio nods in approval as Bokuto straightens, wiping his face and rushing out of the gym.
Keiji looks up when he hears someone knock on his door.
He had been reading a book and enjoying a cup of soothing Chinese tea, excused from both school and club activities for two weeks. It was a welcome reprieve while his parents worked on their case against the clinic Keiji had visited before camp. His homework was being emailed to him daily, so he had no worries about missing out too much in the curriculum. His parents were taking the month off to take care of him personally, and they were more than qualified to answer any questions he had about Japanese History, or English, two of his weaker subjects.
“Come in.”
The door swings open and he is pleasantly surprised to see Bokuto hovering nervously in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder and still dressed in his exercise gear. Even his knee pads are still on. He must have run all the way here from practice, judging from his sweaty shirt and brow.
“Akaashi,” the captain clears his throat, lowing his voice a pitch in an attempt to sound serious. “Can I come in?”
Keiji smiles slightly and nods, placing his book on the nightstand, the page number already etched into his mind.
“Bokuto-san. I’m so glad to see you,” his own honesty surprises even himself.
And his ace, who had been trying so hard to put up a cool front, immediately wails and thunders his way across Keiji’s carpeted floor, flinging himself onto the empty spot on the large bed. His calloused hands grasp Keiji’s blankets, ruining the neatly steamed linens. While this would normally have irked him, seeing Bokuto in such a familiar, silly state just makes him smile.
“Akaaaaashi! I’m sorry!” Bokuto whines. He looks up, watery golden orbs making Keiji’s heart skip a beat. “I missed you! I missed you so much!”
Keiji laughs. “I missed you too, Bokuto-san.”
They spend the next hour catching up, Bokuto regaling Akaashi with the exciting events he’d missed being stuck in bed the past two weeks.
“You should have seen it, Akaashi! Sarukui snorted that strand of spaghetti right out his nose! It was so gross! But kinda cool, too.”
“I’m sorry I missed out on that,” he remarks sarcastically, making Bokuto laugh.
Akaashi reaches for his teacup just as Bokuto manages to muster the courage to ask:
“What are you sick with, Akaashi?”
He’s repeated this exact scenario countless times since the day he had left the hospital, driving himself mad with the thought that Akaashi was dying, that he was going to die, and he wouldn’t ever get to be with Akaashi again. It had been so quiet with him away from school, there hadn’t been anyone to sass him when he made outlandish statements, nobody to eat lunch with and share yakisoba bread, nobody to chat with after practice as they got snacks from the convenience store.
But he knows he has to be strong no matter what. What kind of captain would he be to make his kouhai worry in such a state?
Though the thought of a life without Akaashi makes him die a little inside.
Akaashi smiles.
“Don’t worry, Bokuto-san. I’m going to be completely fine. I'm only recovering from a mild concussion since I fell so hard.”
Bokuto’s heart soars at those words, feeling his eyes rebelliously tearing up (again).
“Really…?” He pinches himself not-so-subtly. “But… damnit, Akaashi, there was blood! A lot of blood.” I should have caught you goes unsaid, but Bokuto's face must be telling because his setter gives him a knowing, admonishing look.
Akaashi’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, pulling Bokuto into a hug. It is stiff and really awkward at first, but as they adjust into a more comfortable position—Bokuto’s arm propped against the wooden headboard with Akaashi’s head against his chest, they relax into it. Akaashi smells like medical ointments and tea. It’s not a bad mix. Just different. Normally he just smelled like fabric softener and just a hint of apples (his favourite shampoo).
“Don't worry so much. I'm fine now. And I’m sorry I scared you, Bokuto-san.”
The spiker scowls.
“Akaashi! Don’t apologise for that! I’m just so glad you’re okay now,” he says, leaning forward. “But the doctors, they’re sure you’re okay?”
Akaashi nods. “Yes, they're sure. The doctors at the hospital managed to pinpoint what went wrong that day, thankfully. It was anaphylaxis. Can you believe that?”
Bokuto gasps.
Then pauses, tilting his head curiously.
“What does that mean, Akaashi?”
“It's a type of severe allergic reaction, Bokuto-san," Akaashi explains patiently. Casually, like he was discussing the weather. "Apparently I had a mild allergy to at least two of the medications the clinic had prescribed me on my first visit, and they were slowly poisoning me. My body finally went into shock and I collapsed. It's a good thing I was sent to the hospital so quickly—they injected me with epinephrine, which ultimately saved my life. My stomach had to be pumped, too.”
It takes Bokuto awhile to digest this information.
Akaashi waits patiently, pretty gunmetal grey eyes fixed on Bokuto, waiting for his reaction.
“You mean you could have died? ” Bokuto explodes.
“Hm… it is a rather terrifying thought,” Akaashi sighs. “Honestly, I’m just thankful I’m alive.”
"And the clinic?" His blood boils at the thought of their careless mistake.
"Don't worry about that either," Akaashi shrugs. "My parents are taking this to court. I'm sure a settlement will be reached within the month. My mother was furious."
"Good!" Bokuto huffs, arms crossed. "I'd sue them too! Y'know, if I were a lawyer or something, or had the money to hire one..." He grins sheepishly at Akaashi, who snorts.
His smile quickly fades when he remembers what the clinic's negligence had nearly cost him, cost them. Akaashi was precious to so many people. And seeing him in such a state... It was awful. He notices Akaashi fidgeting nervously and tearing at a loose hangnail.
“Akaashi…” Bokuto lowers his head, taking his setter’s hands gently in his so Akaashi would stop hurting his fingers. His hands were so pretty, his fingers long and skilled in setting, it would be a shame for them to be abused like this.
“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi tilts his head at Bokuto’s uncharacteristic stillness. “What’s on your mind?”
Bokuto tries to speak, but no words come out. His throat is dry as the desert, and his heart feels heavy like someone had filled it with lead.
The thought of Akaashi not being here right now, talking to him, makes him ill.
What if they had been too slow in reacting?
What if the ambulance had never arrived?
What if only Bokuto himself had been around, and he continued to panic?
Useless.
Overthinking things was more Akaashi’s thing, he knew, but the possibilities are endless, and he can’t help but wonder if there was a version of himself in an alternate dimension where they had been too late, where instead of a living breathing Akaashi he was beside now, there remained only an empty space.
It terrifies him.
“Akaashi,” he breathes through his mouth, eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears from leaking out. He fails. “I’m… I’m just… so glad you’re safe.”
There’s a pause as Akaashi slowly takes in his expression, how badly his shoulders were shaking. The setter smiles soberly as he reaches for Bokuto’s hands, enveloping them gently in his own. They’re warm and dry, unlike Bokuto’s sweaty ones.
They feel nice.
“Me too, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto looks up. “Can I have another hug?”
Akaashi blinks. Then laughs softly, his voice like wind chimes, airy and pleasant to the ears. “Of course.”
They bask in each other’s warmth, Bokuto marvelling at the fluttering heartbeat against his own, his chest pressed tight against the younger’s.
They’re so close.
Sure, they’ve shared hugs before, but this time was different.
Because this time, Bokuto didn’t take what he had for granted.
“I like you, Akaashi.” The words slip out of his mouth completely by accident, but Bokuto doesn’t flinch. How could he call it a ‘slip’?. How could it be, when it was nothing but the truth? Bokuto wondered if his team had already known the extent of his feelings, and therefore pushed him to go see Akaashi.
Seeing Akaashi fall had felt like his world falling to pieces. He never wanted to see Akaashi in such a state again. And even if Akaashi turned down his confession, what did it matter? Bokuto would protect him. He treasured Akaashi too much to let him get hurt and would do everything it took to ensure his setter remained safe and sound.
“Bokuto-san…”
Ah, here it came.
The inevitable rejection.
The words which would be of some variation of how he didn’t like boys, didn’t see Bokuto that way—
“I like you too.”
They’re both crying now.
Keiji allows himself to be embraced by strong arms and revels in the feeling of happiness, breathing in the scent of familiar deodorant (Bokuto’s favourite brand).
Somehow, this one moment made the weeks of uncertainty and dread worth it, in its own twisted way.
“I’m so happy,” his ace sobs, face already a mess of tears and snot. Keiji would have been grossed out had it been anyone else, but this was Bokuto, and it was endearing.
“Me too,” he replies, laughing softly as Bokuto’s fingers tangle with his.
Everything would be fine.
FIN.