Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's kind of like a roadmap for the story; a true north; a plan. 

An outline doesn't need details, it just needs direction. A beginning and end.

This story is about love.

That's the outline. 

But first! Here's a really important Bokuto fact:

A lot of people don’t really know this, maybe save for his sisters, and Akaashi, 

but Bokuto Koutarou is a voracious* reader.

*Voracious (adj): It’s like when you’re super hungry after a volleyball match, but it doesn’t have to always be for food.

Seven hundred chapters of Naruto; six hundred and fifty-eight chapters of Bleach; fifty-five volumes of Pokémon Adventures; nearly one thousand chapters of One Piece. (See? Voracious.)

You could call him a connoisseur* of sorts, because Bokuto definitely knows what that means, and he agrees that he is one.

*Connoisseur (n): French word for being a great person. 

He loves when the artists color manga covers with markers and paint; seeing paper peeking through big streaks of ink makes Bokuto think of the hands who made all these great stories. He loves two-page spreads that feel like BLAM! and WOW!, a surprise for his eyes, an exclamation point in his soul. He loves knowing that the protagonists will never give up in the end; they’ll do whatever it takes to win, or to be believed in, or to save their friends, or to laugh again, even if they mess up a million times along the way. 

Bokuto thinks it’s pretty inspirational, honestly; it’s one thing to be super strong, and have spiky hair, and say cool lines;

it’s something else entirely to never, ever give up. 

He’d like to be like that, too. 

Oh, and he also likes the gags. (One manga he read was so funny that it made milk shoot out his nose, and it burned for a whole two days afterward, and everything tasted like dairy. Akaashi didn’t laugh at him or anything, though; he asked if he could borrow the manga after Bokuto was done.) 

Okay, that’s the fact! You can keep reading now! 

Roughly 250 chapters of One Piece after Bokuto’s high school graduation, Akaashi calls him on the phone. He asks if—

“Wow! Akaashi, hi! Oh man! How’re you doing?” 

—he’s doing fine, he says, thank you for asking, and then he sort of clears his throat and asks if Bokuto would like to assist him with some research for an upcoming sport manga at—

“Like an interview, kinda?”

—kinda, yes, like an interview with Weekly Shonen Vie—

“WAIT. WHAT?”

—an interview, Bokuto-san, with Weekly—

“YES.”

—yes? Akaashi explains that it’s really alright if his schedule’s just too—

“NO, I MEAN, YES, DEFINITELY. Please, Akaashi! I’d love to help!” 

—and Akaashi’s quiet for a second, but then he says thank you, hopping off the call before Bokuto can ask how his mom is doing, and if the weather’s real nice in Tokyo.

Another important Bokuto fact: 

He's extremely normal*, and also, he's happy. 

*Normal (adj): The thing that Bokuto Koutarou is. Ask anyone. 

Okay, carry on! 

“So, er… congratulations on your victory today,” Akaashi says, looking very adult-like in his neat white sweater; “You looked like you were in top form out there,” which is totally true, Bokuto was on fire tonight, and it’s pretty cool that Akaashi noticed that. It was pretty cool that Akaashi was here at all, period! Just look at him! Working with a big-time manga company, and alongside such a promising mangaka, too! Bokuto marvels; Udai Tenma looks mysterious and artist-y, just like any mangaka should. Udai scribbles down notes and nods in earnest when Bokuto describes the feeling of nailing the winning spike, 

and Akaashi is smiling a whole lot, Bokuto notes, which feels especially good. 

“I’m sorry about Zom’bish getting cancelled, by the way,” Bokuto says when the interview is all wrapped up. He pops his head through the neck of his team hoodie; “This arc’s been so crazy, too! Dang! Talk about a cliffhanger!” (Bokuto laughs then, because he only just remembers that the last chapter of Zombie Knight Zom’bish ended with its protagonist hanging by a rapidly atrophying limb. He should tell Akaashi about that at dinner tonight, because Akaashi likes to roll his eyes and say things like, "How ironic.")

One of Udai’s sharp brows jumps. “You… read Zom’bish?” he asks cautiously. 

Bokuto nods keenly: “Never missed an update!” Akaashi looks up from packing his things across the room. Bokuto pouts a little, stuffing his hands into his big hoodie pocket. “Makes me kinda sad. You have to pour a lot of yourself into something like that, don’t you.”

Akaashi goes very still. 

Udai gives a tired half-grin. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” 

Bokuto hears his heart give a soft sigh for Udai Tenma. So he tells him, “Thank you for your great work, Udai-sensei,”, and then Bokuto brightens, thinking of all the amazing new things that Udai might make with his hands; “I’ll be cheering for you all the way!” 

Udai looks a little less tired after that; he gives Bokuto a toothy smile. “Thank you.” An idea lights up in his dark eyes, too; “Hey. Help us again with some more research soon, and I promise to tell you how Zom’bish was supposed to end.” 

Bokuto lets out a sort of high pitched wheeze, like he’s a silver kettle boiling hot. 

Akaashi sighs; “Bokuto-san is very busy, Udai—”

“Anytime at all, you name it!” Bokuto shivers with glee. 

Udai chuckles. “Great. Thank you again, Bokuto.” 

When Bokuto looks to shoot a big smile at Akaashi, he’s already throwing on his backpack and walking out the door. 

Another really, really important Bokuto fact: 

Akaashi Keiji is his best friend.

It might be the most important Bokuto fact, in fact, if you were making some sort of numbered list, 

because volleyball is something Bokuto plays, 

but being Akaashi’s best friend is something Bokuto is, 

and that just feels really… well. 

Important.  

Okay, that’s the fact. You can keep reading again. 

“So tell me everything!” Bokuto says as they walk to the train that’ll take them to yakiniku. 

“Everything,” Akaashi echoes softly. He quietly adjusts his glasses, which are new, or at least to Bokuto they are. They frame Akaashi’s eyes in a pretty way, like two very serious paintings. “That’s a little vague, Bokuto-san.” 

“Okay, alright,” Bokuto tosses his head back. The stars above him really twinkle, like they do in children’s songs. He feels like he has as many questions for Akaashi as there are stars in the sky, or maybe double that, or triple. “Where do you live now?” he asks, and he looks down to Akaashi, “Where did you get that sweater? It’s so nice! And what’s it like being an editor, but for manga, you know? Is it awesome? I bet it is. That’s really cool, Akaashi. And when did you change your hair? Did you notice mine at all? I’ve been keeping it pretty short.” Bokuto pats the gelled tips of his hair for emphasis. “The guys always joke that I’m more aerodynamic now, but secretly I think… well, let’s just say I’ve been jumping higher, that’s all. So?” He grins eagerly.

“So… everything,” Akaashi sums up, and Bokuto laughs. 

“I guess so!” He looks up and down Akaashi’s nice clothes, and at the dark bangs dusting his lashes. “I feel like it’s been a long time, Akaashi.” 

And maybe Akaashi doesn’t hear him, or he’s thinking up all the answers to Bokuto’s questions, because he just strides in steady silence, knuckles white against his backpack’s straps. 

Akaashi’s always been a thoughtful sort of guy, and his brain is super fast, too; in high school, Akaashi cracked his snark like a whip, like SNAP!, leaving Bokuto’s big ego sliced clean in two. But he was also very careful, no matter what task he faced. Akaashi would regard the bubble drinks in Fukurodani’s vending machines with the same kind of significance he regarded Bokuto with during a wicked point break. 

Akaashi’s just very thoughtful like that.  

That’s why Bokuto can’t really argue when Akaashi says with a quivery voice, “Bokuto-san, I wonder if it’s best if I head home, actually,” because he has to have a good reason to not stay for dinner like they’d planned. It just wouldn’t be very Akaashi-like otherwise, so Bokuto says, 

“Oh!”, and he also says, “Okay!”, but he adds, just in case, “Are you sure? It’s a long trip, Akaashi!” A very long one, actually. Bokuto’s brow furrows a bit. 

Akaashi looks for a long time at Bokuto, with his new glasses, and new hair, and that familiar, fair face, 

but even in his best friend’s face that night there is something decidedly... new. 

(Not even an hour before, Bokuto had proclaimed, “Never missed an update!” to Udai Tenma, proud;

now Bokuto’s gut twists a little bit with the nagging sense that—)

“I’m... sure, Bokuto-san. My apologies,” Akaashi says, “Goodnight,” and then he leaves.

(—Bokuto’s missing something, 

or worse, he's been missing something, 

and what’s even worst of all—)

“Okay, Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “Goodnight!” He waves to Akaashi's back as it walks further and further away.

(—he’s terribly behind.) 

Chapter Text

Design your characters, their clothes and expressions; 

draw them from every angle,

and give them really cool hair so that you can always recognize them, even from far away. 

Bokuto lies awake in bed post-game day, staring at his apartment’s ceiling. In high school, he and Akaashi would review game footage after tournaments, rewinding sets, and spikes, and serves, and then watching them through again, and again, and again. Akaashi got a lot out of it; he’d suddenly be struck by brilliant insight after reviewing some play, and write the insight down in a notebook labeled, simply, Strategy. Bokuto preferred to learn by playing. Watching tapes was cool and he always looked awesome in them, but he needed to feel the sting in his hands and the burn in his legs to commit something useful to memory. 

Now he wishes he had some more footage to review. Maybe if he rewound the years, or the expression on Akaashi’s face last night, and watched the footage again, and again, and again,

maybe he’d learn something useful. 

But he doesn’t have footage, he just has a stupid ceiling. 

Bokuto pouts. “Stupid ceiling.”

He gets up and makes cereal for breakfast. 

About two bites into his cereal, Bokuto decides that he has nothing to worry about, and that Akaashi probably had a stomach ache last night and was feeling shy about it. Probably, definitely. He’s so sure about it, in fact, that he calls Akaashi on the third bite of cereal. 

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi answers. 

“Are you feeling better, Akaashi?” Bokuto asks, mouth sloppy with milk and wheat thins. “Also, good morning!” 

Akaashi is silent for a bit while Bokuto chews, because he is thoughtful like that. “I’m… not sure what you mean, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s spoon clangs against his cereal bowl. “You weren’t feeling so great last night!” 

“Right,” comes Akaashi’s voice. “Right. Ah. I feel… fine, now. Yes.”

“Good!” Bokuto smiles, and gives himself a mental pat on the back, like pat pat. 

Akaashi goes quiet again. “Do you… need something, Bokuto-san?”

“The last chapter of Zombie Knight Zom’bish ends with Zom’bish hanging off a cliff, Akaashi!” 

Akaashi doesn’t respond, probably because his mind is being actively blown to bits. 

Bokuto gestures with his spoon. “It’s a real cliffhanger, Akaashi!” 

“Ah. How ironic,” Akaashi murmurs, and Bokuto preens a bit. “Well, if there isn’t anything else you’d like to—” 

“Wait wait wait, Akaashi,” Bokuto gets up from the kitchen bar, placing his cereal bowl and spoon in the sink, “how’s the new manga going? Did my interview help a lot?” 

“We just interviewed you last night, Bokuto-san. Udai-sensei hasn’t even touched his morning coffee.”

“I get it, I get it,” Bokuto nods up at his stupid ceiling, “this sort of stuff takes time. The creative process. You gotta think real hard, toss ideas around. Throw drawings in the trash. Things like that.” 

“Right,” Akaashi says. His voice sounds almost delayed. “Things like that. So—”

“I’m kind of a volleyball expert.”

“Pardon?”

Bokuto walks to his balcony window, and the sun shining in warms his bare feet. “I’m like a volleyball expert, Akaashi. So if you guys ever need help with research, I’m the one to call.” Like Batman, he thinks. “Like Batman,” he adds, for good measure. 

“I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. His voice feels really close, for a second, but then it’s far away again; “Alright. I have to go now.” 

Bokuto feels a little sad, but he nods, wiggling his toes in the sun. “That makes sense! You’re probably working really hard! Woah, do you work in a suit, Akaashi? With a tie? I kinda hope you—”

“Bokuto-san.”

“Right! Okay!” Bokuto waves to his balcony window. “Bye Akaashi! And remember!”

Akaashi waits. 

Bokuto grins. “Like Batman!”

Akaashi breathes out a little bit, and then he says, “Goodbye, Bokuto-san.”

The call ends. 

Bokuto places his hands on his hips, his reflection in the sliding glass door all heroic and bright. That went really, really well, he thinks. He gets dressed for practice with a little skip in his step.

Extremely awesome Bokuto fact: 

he plays on the best volleyball team in the entire world, the MSBY Black Jackals.

They play the best, and they look the best, and they just are the best, no question. 

The only thing Bokuto can think of that would make the team even better is if Akaashi played on it with him, and Akaashi can’t because he’s a really cool editor at Weekly Shonen Vie now, and besides, he probably wouldn’t want to play anyways; when Akaashi graduated from high school, he’d told Bokuto beneath their lunchtime tree, “There are some other things I’d like to do, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto thought that would make him sad—Akaashi doing other things—but then it didn’t, because Akaashi’s eyes were really big and certain that afternoon, like he was seeing straight into the future. So now he does other things, and Bokuto plays on the best team in the world.

That's the fact! 

“Wait, so like, One Piece, but volleyball?” Atsumu says. He tosses back a sip of energy drink, the corners of his lips twisted into a tiny frown. 

“Luffy would be super duper good at volleyball!” Hinata crows. He lifts a wiggly arm into the air. “Like, WABLAM!, he could just, WOOSH!, from wherever he’s standing, you know!” 

Bokuto grabs Hinata’s face with his hands. “This is why you’re my disciple, Hinata. You just get it!”

And Hinata nods very seriously. “I do, I get it, Bokuto-san!” 

Atsumu rolls up from his back on the gym floor. “Hold on, hold on! Let me get this straight, then;” his dark brows narrow as he points a lazy finger to Bokuto. “You’re the Luffy in this scenario?” 

“Hm?” Bokuto wipes a bead of sweat from his lip. “I’m Bokuto.” 

“No dummy, like, they interviewed you for…” Atsumu waves his hand all around. “Inspiration, or whatever, right? For the hero?” 

Bokuto nods. “Udai-sensei said he wants his readers to feel like they’re… wearing the main character’s shoes,” Bokuto explains, though that sort of sounds funny aloud. “It was something about shoes, at least.” 

Atsumu’s face gets all saggy with a frown as he whines, “Don’t I have nice shoes?” 

Sakusa comes back from the locker room then, dressed in his casual clothes. 

“Omi-Omi!” Atsumu calls. “You like my shoes!” 

“You should all shower,” Sakusa says lowly. His nose wrinkles beneath his mask.

Atsumu kicks a foot in the air. “Simple question, Omi-kun. Would you wear my—“

Sakusa quickly strides away, and the sound of Atsumu's foot falling limply to the floor makes Hinata laugh real loud. “I’d wear your shoes, Atsumu-san,” he says, giving his sad leg a little slap. “It helps that your feet are kinda small.”

“Rude, Shouyou,” Atsumu grumbles, standing up with a long, dramatic sigh. “Whatever. I’m goin’ home.” Before making his way to the locker room, he shoots a sour glance down to Bokuto, and further down to Bokuto's shoes. 

“Later Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto calls out, but Atsumu just keeps stomping, his blonde head hanging low. Bokuto pouts a little bit; “Did I say something bad?” He liked making people feel big, not small. Bokuto watches Atsumu disappear behind the swinging locker room doors. 

“I think Atsumu-san wants to be Luffy, too, Bokuto-san,” Hinata muses, hopping up easily to his feet.

Bokuto blinks. “But I’m not Luffy!” 

Hinata blinks, too. “You’re not?” 

“I’m—!” Bokuto stands, combing back his sweaty hair. He thinks of Udai scribbling away in his notebook the night before, with fire burning in his eyes; Bokuto gulps. “Am I Luffy? I don’t know!” He gestures to the locker room with a desperate hand. “We could both be Luffy, right?”

“I don’t know, Bokuto-san,” Hinata says with a shrug, grinning ear to ear; “There can only be one Pirate King!” 

Bokuto gasps; Hinata's right.

(He has the world's smartest disciple.)

"do you think I'm luffy?" Bokuto texts to Akaashi that night, padding around in his bunny slippers. 

He sits for a bit on the couch with some manga on his iPad, catching up on a sort of scary shonen that he hasn't been enjoying all that much. That's his problem though, Bokuto thinks, trembling as he swipes to another page full of inky blood and gore; whenever he starts something, he can't stop until it's done, even if it gives him bad dreams and night sweats. 

His phone buzzes from somewhere beneath his butt, and Bokuto eagerly fumbles for it, his shoulders drooping a bit when he sees it's just some dumb email promotion. He pouts. "Dumb emails." 

Bokuto pulls up Akaashi's contact again, and he types another text; "does that make you zoro?" 

(Akaashi would make a really good Zoro.)

He sends it. 

He stomachs about three more chapters of scary shonen before shuffling off to bed, already feeling the night sweats forming up and down his neck. 

Bokuto stares at the ceiling in the dark, and he doesn't want to think of bloody ghouls and demons, so he thinks of volleyballs, and cross shots, and big crowds, and medals, and then he starts to think about Akaashi, which helps the most. 

He thinks about Akaashi's new glasses, 

and the crisp folds in his fancy coat. 

He thinks about their old lunchtime tree, 

and how Akaashi used to bring extra towels for them to sit on so that their pants wouldn't stain on the grass.

If a mangaka had drawn Bokuto and Akaashi back then, they'd use a fine, thin pen to hatch the shadows along their faces, 

and an even finer pen, probably, for Akaashi's mouth, a perfect line. 

Bokuto sits in the quiet, his own mouth drawn terse and small.

The stupid ceiling looms darkly above. 

He attempts to review the footage in his head, rewinds it again and again:

one long look;

all the silence; 

Akaashi's back walking away—

And when the realization quietly dawns on him, it's so much worse than ghouls and demons.  

Bokuto pulls out his phone again, wincing at the screen's white light. He texts: 

"do we not talk anymore, akaashi?" 

It only takes a few minutes before the phone buzzes in his palm with Akaashi's reply: 

"No, Bokuto-san.

We don't." 

A two-page splash image in full, vibrant color, drawn in thick lines with a bold brush pen;

Zom'bish hangs precariously by their fragile, decaying fingers, dangling off a harrowing cliff's edge; 

their katana hurtles down the canyon end over end, along with any hope remaining in Zom'bish's cold, rotting heart; 

in the lone speech bubble, their stubborn cry:

"'I won't give up,'" Bokuto reads, eyes shining clear and golden. 

Chapter Text

Write down the words that each character says;

make them true to the character who says them. 

If your story is about love, make the words beautiful, too,

though that’s far easier said than done. 

One summer:

Their teammates split off after the fireworks show, but Bokuto and Akaashi lingered by the grassy hill. Bokuto still remembers the pinch of elastic on his fingers as he carefully slipped his Kitsune mask over Akaashi’s head. 

“Woah!” he’d whispered, taken aback, “You look awesome, Akaashi!” 

Akaashi looked around through the mask methodically, his head turning cleanly to the front, and left, and right. His dark hair curled over the plastic’s crisp, white edges. Bokuto wanted to reach over and tug one of the curls, just one, but Akaashi probably wouldn’t like that, so he didn’t. 

(The other second years called their new setter mysterious, and sure, he wasn’t some open book. But even with his face hidden by the sleek Kitsune mask, all Bokuto could see was Akaashi.)

“Do you wanna go home?” Bokuto had asked. He gripped a handful of grass with his fingers.

Akaashi stroked lightly at the mask’s elastic hugging to his temples, far quieter than all the night around them. Bokuto had to lean in to hear his soft answer: “We can take our time, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto sits on the bullet train with his hands cupped over his bouncing knees. He usually enjoys these kinds of trips out into the world, because wearing his trusty disguise (baseball cap, dark blue jeans, and his favorite Doraemon t-shirt) makes him feel like James Bond. (If anything, Bokuto realizes with a start, he should feel the MOST like James Bond today; he actually has a real mission that could end in disaster if he’s not careful.) 

In the three hour ride to Tokyo, he composes a very good plan:

Step One: Find Weekly Shonen Vie. (According to the pictures online, it’s like an office building but beautiful, with tons of windows that shine like diamonds.)

Step Two: Find Akaashi’s office. (In Bokuto’s mind, Akaashi’s office looks out through the shining windows, and it has a view of the mountains, or maybe the ocean. Or both!) 

Step Three: Talk to Akaashi. (This should be the easiest step, because it’s always been easy to talk to Akaashi. As easy as spiking, and Bokuto never forgets how to spike anymore, not like he used to.

There’s no way he’s forgotten how to talk to Akaashi.

It’s impossible.) 

Bokuto’s knees continue to bounce. 

Tokyo is brilliant and familiar. Though he’s so much bigger and stronger since moving to Osaka and joining the Jackals, Tokyo still fits on Bokuto like a glove. 

When he grins at the skyline like it’s his friend, he swears it’s grinning back. 

Weekly Shonen Vie is only a few short connections from the Shinkansen, and soon Bokuto is staring up at the beautiful building from his Google searches, his skin tingling with the same kind of adrenaline he feels the night before a match. He hops up and down, hop hop, before swinging the office’s big glass doors open with a whoosh. 

Remember the plan, he remembers. Bokuto eyes a receptionist across the open lobby and puffs up his chest. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he announces with a wave. 

The receptionist looks up with a start, then folds her hands neatly. “Good morning, sir! How may I help you?” Her eyes don’t search his the way that some do, where they’re trying to place his face. Bokuto always loves to do the placing for them, then, but he remembers to remember the plan. 

“I’m here to see Akaashi Keiji!” Bokuto explains. He points to his face. “I’m his best friend, Bokuto. He’s an editor here, with glasses. New ones!” 

“Alright then! I’ll call Akaashi-san and let him know you’re here.” The receptionist smiles and types something speedily on her keyboard. “Feel free to take a look around in the meantime, Bokuto-san. Would you like anything to drink?” 

“No, thank you!” Bokuto grins. He looks about the lobby; it’s simple, with nice looking furniture made up of clean straight lines. But then Bokuto spots the Luffy statue in the nearby corridor, and his yelp echoes all throughout the simple room. 

Bokuto darts to the statue and smiles so hard, his mouth might pop off of his face. He’s probably not allowed to touch Luffy’s sculpted hat, but Bokuto lets his fingers hover just over the brim with giddy reverence. Luffy’s right arm is stretched out straight, with its plastic hand curled into a heroic fist. Bokuto makes a fist to mirror it, squeezing tight. His lips curl into a wobbly smile, and it hits him then, like a powerful punch from Luffy:

He’s at Weekly Shonen Vie!

Bokuto looks down the corridor. 

Every color Bokuto can think of is painted on the walls, splashing together into a loud, fantastic mural filled with all the characters Bokuto grew up reading about in his beloved copies of Weekly Shonen Vie. His jaw drops at all the splendid detail; he laughs at the familiar faces. Panels that had struck his soul as a child were now superimposed on the wall, spanning several more meters than his own width and height. Bokuto spreads his arms from end to end of a speech bubble, one that reads “Yes!” in bold kanji. 

At that moment Bokuto decides that his best friend has the coolest job in the entire world, and that’s saying a lot, because Bokuto’s job is to play volleyball. 

“Bokuto?” 

Bokuto backs away from the wall out of instinct, like he might’ve broken a rule and breathed too hard on the paint, but it’s just Udai Tenma calling out to him with a wave. 

“Udai-sensei!” Bokuto laughs. “It’s me!”

“I know it’s you!” Udai chuckles, and he closes their distance in the corridor with a lazy jog. “It’s good to see you,  Bokuto! What’re you doing out here?” 

And although Bokuto remembers his very good plan, something sort of cold twists up in his gut. 

(He thinks of Akaashi in his office, looking out through the shining windows.

What is Bokuto doing out here?

What is he going to say?

Of course it’s easy to talk to Akaashi, 

but if Akaashi doesn’t want to talk back—?)

“I wanted to,” and it sounds a little strange now, like he should maybe be embarrassed, “visit Akaashi, that’s all. It’s been a little while!” Bokuto’s lips curl, the word while tasting sour in his mouth. 

Udai’s smile is very nice, Bokuto thinks; it makes the dark circles beneath his eyes seem a little lighter. “That’s great.” 

Bokuto nods, hopeful. He agrees, it is certainly great. 

“You know, your timing’s pretty perfect,” Udai says. He crosses his arms. “Mind if I pick your brain for a sec?” 

Bokuto’s brows shoot up. “Oh! About the manga, Udai-sensei?” 

“About volleyball,” Udai nods once, and then gives a cool, effortless shrug. “So yeah, about the manga.” 

It’s dizzying, this brilliant collision of everything Bokuto likes most in the world; volleyball, and manga, and Akaashi between the two. If a Weekly Shonen Vie employee suddenly appeared with a platter of barbecue, Bokuto’s certain he’d explode. 

“Sure thing, then! Pick away!” Bokuto laughs,

and something like mischief sparks in Udai’s dark eyes, fantastically familiar. 

“Next summer can’t come fast enough,” Bokuto had said, leaning his belly over the stone bridge’s handrail. 

Akaashi’s hand shot out instinctively, gripping a good handful of Bokuto’s cotton shirt. His voice was muffled through the Kitsune mask’s plastic; “That’s really dangerous, Bokuto-san. Please.” 

Bokuto obliged, pushing himself away from the railing, but Akaashi’s grip remained tightly knotted in the base of Bokuto’s back. They were just wandering now, over bridges and around corners. Bokuto doesn’t remember encountering anyone else that night; the only thing watching them was the moon, round and silver. 

“Next summer,” Akaashi repeated much later, and his voice was clearer now; the Kitsune mask hung about Akaashi’s neck, his face pink from the summer heat that still blanketed the night. “This summer has hardly begun.” 

“I know,” Bokuto admitted sheepishly. He kicked a small stone. “I’m just thinking about it, that’s all.” 

Akaashi slowly unfurled his hand from Bokuto’s shirt. “What about it?”  

Bokuto shrugged. “What we’ll be doing!” He looked up to the bright moon. “What we’ll look like.”

“You think we’ll look different next summer,” Akaashi said, and though his brows were knit, Bokuto could see the smile hiding in his mouth. 

“Well, yeah! I’m gonna be taller, for sure! And way stronger!” Bokuto made a show of flexing his arms for Akaashi, who was very busy studying his cuticles. “It’s just like a manga, Akaashi!”

Akaashi’s eyes flicked up from his fingers. “What is, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto leaned in to Akaashi eagerly; “You know, like a time-skip! They’re in all kinds of stories. You’re reading, and all the heroes are on their journey, and they finally beat the big bad guy after an amazing battle, and then BOOM, Akaashi!” Bokuto clapped his hands suddenly, making Akaashi jump a bit. “Time-skip! And now it’s five years later, and all the characters have cool new designs, and they’re, like, married, and the world’s all happy!” Bokuto smiled, picturing him and Akaashi with their brand-new outfits, taller and stronger, cooler than they even are now, and standing at the crest of a happy world with a big blue sky that stretches on forever and ever. He pictured this image often when his mind wandered in class, or while he watched the city blur past on the train. 

(That’s what life felt like in Bokuto’s second year of high school; like this all was the slogging prologue to a much bigger, better end. Bokuto wished he could blink and already be standing in the stadium, the pleasing weight of a gold medal hanging proudly from his neck.)

But Akaashi was very still now, a quiet concern floating around in his dark green eyes. 

“What?” Bokuto asked. He lifted a hand to his lips. “Is there something in my teeth again?”

“No,” Akaashi said, but then he paused; “Wait, let me check.”

Bokuto bared his teeth. 

Akaashi shook his head. “No, you’re fine.” And then his shoulders bounced while he gave a small chuckle, mostly to himself. He lifted the Kitsune mask up and over his head, looked into its empty eyes. Akaashi smiled at the mask with a rare, open fondness—fondness that could only exist here and now in the middle of the night, with the moon and Bokuto as its only witnesses. “I think you and I are very different, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmured, sort of like he’s sad.

Bokuto’s head tilted a bit. “Is that… not a good thing?” He hated the idea of a sad Akaashi. 

Akaashi took his time to think. (This is one of those ways that they’re different, Bokuto thought, but he liked how thoughtful Akaashi was. He liked that if he leaned too far over the handrail, Akaashi’s hand was already in his shirt, and his voice was saying, “Please.”) 

Akaashi passed the Kitsune mask. He folded his hands behind his back. “It’s probably not a bad thing,” Akaashi said. “It’s just a true thing. We’re very different.” 

“Hm.” Bokuto strung the Kitsune mask about himself so that its face covered the back of his head. “Well, we both love volleyball, so there’s that,” Bokuto offered helpfully. 

Akaashi nodded. “Yes, there’s that.”

Before Bokuto finally climbed into bed that night, he hung the Kitsune mask on the wall. 

He thought again of standing at the crest of the world with Akaashi, despite being very different. 

That shouldn’t matter, Bokuto thought; it never really mattered in manga. 

Before Udai can pick Bokuto’s brain for all of its genius volleyball knowledge, he needs to grab his sketchbook, which is great, because he can show Bokuto around the office; they’ll probably run into Akaashi along the way, Udai says, so Bokuto follows him down the corridor, giving the Luffy statue a tiny wave goodbye. 

They don’t head to an elevator to launch them up to the highest floor; in fact, they just make a long left, and a short right, passing a bathroom and a water cooler that barely reaches Bokuto’s hip, and then Udai proclaims, “Okay, here we are!” in a kinda empty looking office. There’s three cubicles in the space, one messy, one neat, and one that’s totally featureless, with no office chair or personal belongings. The walls are mostly blank, save for a calendar marked all over with red ink. Bokuto eyes the room’s one window, its view a bumpy gray wall. 

“I work here,” Udai motions at the messy cubicle with a nervous laugh, then grabs the same black sketchbook from their interview two weeks prior. He takes two fingers and points to the neater cubicle; “This is where—“ 

“Akaashi sits here?” Bokuto chirps. He shuffles to the cubicle, bending in close to all of Akaashi’s belongings, though there are very few; a black binder, a stack of paper, two gold-colored pens. A yellow sticky-note that reads “Task Focus” in Akaashi’s impressively clean handwriting. 

It isn’t the office with shining windows that Bokuto had imagined, but then again, Akaashi wasn’t so flashy. 

Udai’s head pops over the cubicle’s low barrier. “Yeah. I hardly need him to tell me to work faster when he’s so close! I just sense his aura.” Udai shivers theatrically. “Akaashi can be pretty scary sometimes.” 

“Nah,” Bokuto smiles with his eyes, picturing an Akaashi drawn with scary, hallowed features. “‘Kaashi’s not scary. He’s like a spider.” 

Udai blinks. 

(Bokuto rewinds the footage of a dim memory, one summer;

Akaashi looking around in the Kitsune mask, his head turning cleanly to the front, and left, and right.) 

“He’s a lot more scared of you than you are of him!” Bokuto explains. 

Udai blinks again. And then after a moment he laughs, tossing his head back happily, which makes Bokuto happy, too. 

“That may be true,” Udai says, and then he pauses mid-chuckle, something inspired flashing over his eyes. He ducks back into his cubicle, and Bokuto hears items being pushed along the floor.

“Udai-sensei?” Bokuto peeks over the cubicle barrier. 

Udai scrambles out from beneath his desk, now armed with the black sketchbook and a dirty Mikasa volleyball. Udai tosses it up to Bokuto; Bokuto catches the ball with ease. 

“Alright!” Udai bounces to his feet, flipping his sketchbook open. “Research time!” 

Bokuto proudly preens. 

Like Akaashi might say, here’s a Bokuto fact that’s probably not a bad thing, or a good thing—it’s just a true thing:

He can get a little carried away sometimes. Or a lot. (But only sometimes.) 

Toss—

“I just don’t want the story to feel—” 

Receive—

“—regular. Or—” 

Receive—

“—predictable, you know. I want to keep the readers guessing—” 

Toss—

“—past winning and losing, really.” 

Bokuto catches the ball. They'd been tossing and talking for an hour like this in a park just around the corner. “Volleyball’s already unpredictable! No matter how much you practice, or how focused you are. Honestly, Udai-sensei,” Bokuto spins the ball in his hands, and tosses it to Udai, “I’m kinda biased, but—” 

Receive—

“—a manga about volleyball will be the most exciting story in the world!”

Bokuto spikes the ball into the grass. It bounces high up above the park swings, nearly as high as the yellow Ginkgos; Udai watches the long arc it makes with serious eyes. 

“It’s just not that easy,” Udai murmurs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets while Bokuto fetches the volleyball. “Caring for volleyball comes easily for you, Bokuto. For me, too. We already have that connection, but…” The dark circles under Udai’s eyes show starkly on his pale skin. “I can’t take that connection for granted. It’s not easy, to make someone care for something.” 

Bokuto rolls the volleyball in his palms.

(“It’s probably not a bad thing,” Akaashi had said. 

“It’s just a true thing.”) 

“Bokuto-san?” 

Akaashi crests the grassy hill. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto yelps; the volleyball slips from his hands. 

Remember the plan, Bokuto remembers—

but the steps go all fuzzy at the sight of Akaashi’s fogged up glasses, and the firm, downward twist to the corners of his lips. 

Akaashi huffs as he stomps to Bokuto and Udai; “I’ve been,” huff, “running around all of,” huff, “Tokyo,” huff, “looking for you,” Akaashi says, and then he corrects himself; “you two.” He clears his throat, voice high with disbelief; “What on earth are you doing here, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto watches Akaashi’s pink cheeks; watches how Akaashi looks everywhere but straight into Bokuto’s eyes. 

Remember the plan, Bokuto remembers;

Talk to Akaashi—but his mind’s totally blank, as empty as Udai and Akaashi’s plain office—

“Perfect timing!” Udai says with a clap. 

Akaashi sighs loudly. “For someone who likes to talk about perfect timing, you’d think you’d meet your deadlines more often, Udai-sensei.” 

Bokuto almost laughs, but he catches himself. (Maybe Akaashi will notice how totally mature he is now.) 

Udai scoops up the stray volleyball and shoves it to Akaashi. “Set to Bokuto for me, will you?” 

Akaashi goes pale. He takes the volleyball like it’s some mysterious thing; when he finally meets Bokuto’s eyes, Bokuto really hates it, 

because he’s never seen Akaashi look quite this sad. 

“That’s alright, Udai-sensei,” Bokuto tries, reaching for the ball in Akaashi’s hands, “I’m sure 'Kaashi has some super important work to do,” and Bokuto needed to talk with Akaashi, not spike his great sets, no matter how much he misses them.

“Just a few drawings!” Udai sing-songs, flipping pages in his sketchbook. He waggles a pen. “You’re the one pushing so hard for research and authenticity, Akaashi.”

“I,” Akaashi eyes Bokuto again weakly, and Bokuto knows what to tell him first—to not be scared. Not of him, ever. But Akaashi swipes for the ball; his voice is sharp: “One toss.” He raises a single finger to Bokuto, as if to say, only one. 

Bokuto feels something go CRACK in his heart; but he nods anyways; “Yeah, just one!” 

Udai’s already sketching quick lines, his eyes darting up and down from the black book like dark ping pong balls. 

Bokuto watches Akaashi spin the ball slowly in his hands. Their eyes meet, though it’s been years and years since they’ve met just like this. 

(“It’s just a true thing;

we’re very different.”) 

Akaashi’s inhale is quick; he tosses the ball; his blazer’s sleeves strain at their seams;

and Bokuto connects the toss made in the tiny Tokyo park. 

(In manga, time-skips always take you forward; but Bokuto realizes now, with his eyes all ablaze, 

time can also skip back.) 

The ball slams into a patch of grass, rebounding off the roots of a tree. It settles near the swing set with a quiet roll. 

Akaashi’s head twists to Udai settled in the grass. “Will that be enough for today, Udai-sensei.” 

Udai’s pen hesitates. His shoulders slump a bit; “Yeah, that’s fine.” 

“I’ll be returning to the office, then.” Akaashi gives a short bow, eyes off and away from Bokuto. 

Bokuto’s chest feels squeezed; he takes a step. “Akaashi! Wait! Ah,” he clenches his fists, like Luffy’s in the hall; don’t give up; “I had a plan!” 

Akaashi halts. He turns a bit on the heels of his smooth, professional shoes. “A plan, Bokuto-san." Akaashi's voice is cautious.

Bokuto jogs forward. He gulps; don’t give up, don’t give up; “For us to... talk more, Akaashi!” 

Akaashi’s eyes waver; his dark brows twitch. “You came all this way.” 

Bokuto shrugs. “It’s not that far!” He’d flown all kinds of places, now; a train ride to Tokyo, and to Akaashi, wasn’t hard. 

Akaashi looks like he thinks it was hard, though; he tugs at his ring finger, an old habit from their high school days. “Bokuto-san, I really…” Akaashi’s voice softens; “I don’t think this was a very good plan.” 

Don’t give up; “What about a lunch break later? Or,” Bokuto thinks of Akaashi raising the single finger, only one; don’t give up; “I don’t mind waiting up for dinner! There's really no rush! My mom’s place is nearby, I can kill some time—”

But nothing Bokuto says is really working; Akaashi twists at his finger, and it looks like it hurts. “I’m sorry, Bokuto-san, but I’m—”

“Dinner sounds great, Bokuto!” comes Udai’s clear voice. “But Akaashi’s right…” Udai picks up the forgotten volleyball and tucks it to his hip. “Today’s a bad day for us, that’s all; he’s waiting on an outline from me, and some character sketches I’ve been promising. I just don’t think we can swing it.” 

Bokuto deflates a bit. 

But that mischief sparks again in Udai’s eyes; “Does next weekend sound alright?” 

“Next weekend?” Bokuto repeats; “For… dinner?”

Udai shakes his head; “Not just that! Bokuto, I’ve got a request for you.”

“Udai-sensei,” Akaashi breathes in warning, but Udai blazes on;

Udai’s smile is very wide. “How would you like to be the official consultant on our manga, hm?” 

For a moment Bokuto wonders if all super-cool mangaka resemble the things they draw; when Bokuto looks to Udai, all he sees are Zom’bish’s fearsome, determined eyes reflecting back. 

“I… would love that!” Bokuto says; he turns to Akaashi, “If…” 

“Akaashi, you don’t mind, right?” Udai says. He pulls several pages from the black sketchbook and holds them out aloft; “Bokuto’s already helped me tons, see? Here’s those character sketches you asked for.” 

Akaashi’s brow furrows as he leans into the presented drawings, while Bokuto simply gawks; Udai had filled several pages worth of sketches all vaguely resembling Bokuto, but if Bokuto were a real protagonist. If he were a Luffy. “You did these…” Akaashi mumbles.

“With Bokuto!” Udai’s sketchbook snaps shut in his hand. “Running into him was the exact push I needed today." Udai winks. "Thanks for that." 

"These are amazing," Bokuto whispers. 

"I have notes," Akaashi sighs. But he straightens, then, expression determined, taking the pages one by one. "Your schedule is very demanding, Bokuto-san. We don't expect you to give us—”

"I accept!" Bokuto bows. He feels his muscles burn from the prior evening's workout, but he grins through it anyways. "I'd really, really love to help you, Udai-sensei!" He lifts his eyes to Akaashi's through the pretty new frames. "Thank you."

Akaashi swiftly turns away with the faintest hint of a nod; "We appreciate your assistance," he mutters. 

Bokuto finds himself waving to Akaashi's back once again. Akaashi disappears over the grassy hill, slipping back into Tokyo.

"I'm sorry about the... bad timing," Bokuto says to Udai, wincing just a little. He wonders if his mother can even get off work with such late notice. (Plans were never really his strong suit, Bokuto decides, unless the plan's to spike a ball.)

But Udai shakes his head. "Good timing." He follows the same path Akaashi took.

Bokuto perks, just by a little, tugging up at his cap. "Hm?"  

When Udai turns on the grassy hill, he's silhouetted against the skyline; if this view were a page in Udai's manga, Tokyo would be their frame. "It's good timing, Bokuto. Trust me." He smiles. "We'll talk soon."

And Udai is really good at telling stories and things, so yeah,

Bokuto trusts him. 

Chapter Text

Quick, rough sketches of your manga’s pages; like a pep talk before the big game.

Your thumbnails can and should be messy. Make the mistakes now, instead of later. 

Another Bokuto fact, one he’s especially proud of:

Bokuto Koutarou has style. 

He dresses “surprisingly not-awful” Omi-Omi said once, which is probably the nicest thing Omi-Omi’s ever said. When it comes to picking clothes, Bokuto just likes what he likes, and that’s really worked for him well so far; he even landed a Balenciaga campaign last year. (Atsumu declined to comment.) 

“What do you think a manga consultant wears?” Bokuto says into the phone trapped between his jaw and shoulder, fumbling through piles of tops and pants in his cavernous walk-in closet. 

“Hmmmm!” Hinata’s voice hums back through the speaker. “Well, what do Udai-sensei and Akaashi-san wear to work? They don’t dress too formally, right?”

“I guess not,” Bokuto mumbles. He runs his fingers over a linen blazer’s sleeve, thin and green. “Akaashi dresses pretty nice.” But that might just be who Akaashi is now, or always was, maybe. On the weekends in high school, Akaashi’s outfits were simple, but careful: color coordinated socks. A soft cardigan with tortoise shell buttons. The faded yellow t-shirt with neatly cuffed sleeves.

Bokuto huffs at the jumbled-up closet. “I just want to do a good job,” he says, sinking into his self-made mountain of clothes. He feels the nearly-forgotten pang of true, deep sorrow—the kind of sorrow that would totally paralyze him in the middle of high school volleyball games.

Hinata laughs on the other end of the phone, like Bokuto’s a puppy who took a tumble. “You’re gonna do great, Bokuto-san! You’ll give the manga more than your all, I know it! Here, how about this: what outfit do you feel your best in?”

“My team uniform,” Bokuto answers with a nod.

“Oh,” Hinata stutters over the phone, “That’s not—well, okay, yes! Sure! What’s the second outfit you feel your best in?” 

Bokuto lifts a thoughtful finger to his bottom lip. His eyes dart to the dresser on the closet’s back wall. He shuffles to it on his knees. Bokuto thinks aloud; “Maybe just…” His hands paw for a plain white t-shirt in the dresser, and then for some jeans, their denim a light blue. “Something comfortable, but kinda nice?”

“You know what that sounds like?” 

“What?” Bokuto hurriedly puts down the shirt and jeans, in case they actually sound like a horrible, no-good idea. 

Hinata’s voice is triumphant: “That sounds like a super cool manga consultant’s outfit!” 

Bokuto beams, clutching the white t-shirt to his chest. “Hinata, you’re a great consultant!” 

“Yeah?” Hinata gasps. 

Bokuto nods eagerly. “Yeah! You’re like—“

And the two of them announce it at the same time, voices bright: “A CONSULTANT-CONSULTANT!” 

Bokuto laughs super duper hard, falling back joyfully into the mountain of all his nice clothes. 

Atsumu’s fingers tangle into the volleyball net. “You’re really gonna make that trip again?” 

Bokuto hustles off the court and grabs his towel and water bottle, nodding through big gulps of energy drink. 

“You can’t spend every rest day we get in Tokyo, Bo,” Atsumu huffs through heavy breaths. “Kinda defeats the purpose of a rest day.” 

Bokuto shrugs a little. He chugs more of his drink. 

“Can’t you just, like, phone-in, or something?” Atsumu wipes at his chin with his practice jersey’s sleeve. “You’re not drawin' the damn thing, they don’t need you there.” 

“But I need to be there,” Bokuto says. He pops the water bottle’s mouthpiece closed with his palm. Maybe Udai-sensei and Akaashi would need his help with drawing at some point, who knows; all Bokuto knows is that he’ll be there to do it.

Before Atsumu can open his mouth to reply, Sakusa’s voice rings firm: “We’re not done with passing drills.” After a pause; “I’m talking to you, Miya.” 

Atsumu’s really good at rolling his eyes, Bokuto thinks; if there were a team just for professional eye-rolling, Miya Atsumu would be their ace. 

Bokuto rises early for the Shinkansen on Sunday. His apartment is always so quiet—the one space in his life that isn’t filled with the sound of his teammate’s voices, or his own voice. Bokuto plays music over the speakers in the kitchen while he slips on his shoes in the dark. Music helps him focus before big games, so it should help him focus for this, too. 

(Even during his favorite song that morning, Bokuto’s heart is a little restless.) 

He double-checks, triple-checks that he has all his things for his first day of consultant-ing, quadruple-checks for good measure, and then walks out the front door. 

They used to eat every meal together; quick breakfasts from 7-11, lunchtime by the courtyard tree, and post-practice dinners at the 7-11 again, or meals made by Akaashi’s sweet mother. (Akaashi didn’t smile much, but when he did, he looked just like her. Both of them closed their eyes when they laughed, like being blinded by joy.)  

Bokuto grabs a sandwich at McDonald’s; Bokuto wonders through each bite if Akaashi is up yet for work, and what he might be eating for breakfast. 

On the Shinkansen, Bokuto reads One Piece on his iPad. It sort of feels like studying, though Bokuto’s sure he’s never studied this hard. 

They were taking the bus home after a long volleyball camp, and Bokuto asked if he could come over to Akaashi’s. 

Akaashi nodded quietly; “I’ll let my mother know.” He pulled out his phone from the gym bag at his feet. 

Bokuto was wriggling in his seat, his limbs constantly bending and reaching for the comfiest position on the bus. “We should get some post-camp-barbecue to celebrate, Akaashi.” 

“You just had all that barbecue yesterday, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi chided under his breath, tapping away at his phone’s keyboard. But the tapping slowed. He turned to Bokuto all tangled up in his seat. “Bokuto-san,” he said, his low voice nearly lost beneath the rumble of the bus, “may I ask you a personal question.” 

“Sure, Akaashi!” Bokuto somehow wrangled his legs into a criss-cross. “Like a secret or something?” Bokuto didn’t really have secrets; if he did, Akaashi would’ve told him about them. 

“Ah,” Akaashi’s brow furrowed, “I’m not sure. I’m just… curious, about something. But,” and Akaashi straightened, “you really don’t owe me an answer if it makes you uncomfortable, Bokuto-san, or if you have any reason at all not to tell me, you don’t have to worry about my feelings—“

“You can ask me anything, Akaashi.” Bokuto smiled as big as he could. Bokuto was usually the one who needed lifting up, who needed all the help and praise and encouragement in the world; smiling for Akaashi seemed kinda small in comparison, but maybe it could help lift him, too.

Akaashi went still. He looked to the halfway typed text on his phone, and then to Bokuto. “Why,” he began, and then he shook his head, as if he’d made a mistake on a quiz; Akaashi started over: “Would you prefer for us to go to your house instead, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto’s nose wrinkled immediately. “Not really! No!”

Akaashi blinked, and the bus rumbled. He slowly spoke again; “Is there any… specific reason as to why that is?” 

Bokuto shrugged. “I love going to your house, Akaashi!” 

The bus driver stepped a bit too roughly on the brakes, then, and Akaashi went wobbling into the seat in front of his. He pushed back from it with a shove; Konoha’s blonde head poked over the top of the seat; “Easy, tiger!” 

Akaashi’s cheeks went a little pink; he cleared his throat. “That’s… I’m just asking, because… well,” but before Akaashi could finish his sentence, a powerful guilt-bomb blew up in Bokuto’s stomach. 

“Am I burdening you guys?!” Bokuto yelped, a very fresh horror dawning in his soul. He gripped at his armrests; “Is it too much? It’s too much, isn’t it! Does your mom hate me, Akaashi? Do you hate me, Akaashi?! I’m sorry, we don’t have to—I should’ve—gah! Geh!” Bokuto’s words clumped into nonsense, but Akaashi reached across the seat.

“No,” Akaashi said firmly; this time the bus’s rumblings couldn’t drown him out. “You’re never a burden, Bokuto-san.” He gave Bokuto’s hand a squeeze with his own, sort of like a small and secret hug on the bus.

“Oh.” Bokuto sank a bit in his seat. “Okay.”

Akaashi returned his hand to his lap, twisting at his ring finger. “I know my house isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a student at our school. I know it’s small, and maybe not as nice.” Though Akaashi’s voice was quiet now, it was also sure; “But I like it very much.” 

“I like it too, Akaashi!” Bokuto was the one reaching now, his hand gripping Akaashi’s forearm tight. “I like it tons!” And really, it wasn’t like Bokuto disliked his own house. It was big, and white, and the windows were tall; there was fancy art on the walls; the ceilings were high, and the floor was fun to slide on with just your socks. But nobody was ever inside Bokuto’s house; nobody but him. His sisters were in university; his parents were halfway around the world. Bokuto’s room was filled with every manga volume he could get his hands on, but still, 

something about it wasn’t full. 

Not like Akaashi’s house. 

“If you want to come over to my place, that’s, you know,” Bokuto’s forehead crumpled, deep in thought, “it’s not like my parents would mind or anything. Yeah,” Bokuto nodded just to himself, “yeah, they wouldn’t mind at all. I just—“

“Would you like to come over to my house today, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asked. 

Bokuto was still gripping Akaashi’s arm; “If that’s okay?” he replied. 

“Yes, it’s okay.” 

Though Akaashi’s smile was always light, it lifted Bokuto, effortless. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto announces with a wave.

The Weekly Shonen Vie receptionist’s head shoots up from her desktop computer, eyes wide. “Good morning sir! How may I help you?” But her eyes search his in that way that some do, trying to place his face.

“Bokuto Koutarou!” Bokuto jabs a thumb to his chest. “Remember me? I was here last week!” 

A beat; then, the receptionist’s eyebrows raise. “Bokuto-san, yes! It’s wonderful to see you again!” She claps her hands; “I actually have something for you, give me just one moment…” She pulls a name badge from the basket with his name in clean, black type. “Your badge! This will help you in and out of the building more easily. Welcome to the Weekly Shonen Vie family, Bokuto-san!” 

Something warm blooms in Bokuto’s chest. He takes the name badge with great care. “Thank you very much!” Bokuto says; he clips the badge to his sleeve, feeling exquisitely professional. 

He gives the Luffy a small wave, and the big mural a reverent sigh; then Bokuto makes the long left, and the short right, arriving at the empty-ish office—

empty-ish save for Akaashi sitting at his neatly kept cubicle. 

He was wearing headphones that pushed his long black curls all about, while hunched over a tall pile of papers. Bokuto watches as Akaashi’s hand makes notes in controlled, swift strokes, and then he flips the page; he writes more notes; he flips, and flips. He murmurs to himself.

Bokuto clenches his fist; he breathes in, and breathes out. 

He shuffles over to the cubicle, making sure to ease into Akaashi’s peripheral. “Good morning, Akaashi!” Bokuto says as evenly as he can manage, but Akaashi still slightly startles. 

He stares for a few seconds, then eyes the name badge on Bokuto’s sleeve. “Ah,” he says, and he slides the headphones down. “Good morning, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto smiles, as big as he can. “How are you!” 

Akaashi’s brow sets. “I’m... well. Bokuto-san.” 

“Good! I’m well, too!” Bokuto looks all around the office, and to the third, empty cubicle. He gestures to it, very professional. “May I?” he asks, also professional. He flashes a professional grin.

Akaashi nods, cautious. “You may.” He snaps the headphones over his ears again while Bokuto takes a seat. “Udai-sensei will be here soon,” Akaashi says. “He takes his time in the mornings.” 

“A man after my own heart!” Bokuto laughs, which at least earns him a quick, withering glance. 

Akaashi looks very hard at work, and like he’s been here for at least an hour. 

(Bokuto wishes he could reach across the desks, like on the bus that one summer; he wishes he could give Akaashi’s hand a squeeze, that small and secret hug.) 

“What music are you listening to?” Bokuto bursts (professionally).

Akaashi glances. 

Bokuto points to his own ears. “I have a playlist now, for before games. Helps me focus!” 

Akaashi’s head raises a bit in surprise; “Oh. That’s good.” His eyes dart around like they’re chasing little Akaashi-thoughts, and then he pulls the headphones up and away from his ears. “I don’t actually listen to music while I work. I find it distracting. But,” and he offers the headphones slowly, “these are noise-cancelling.” 

Bokuto looks at the headphones and Akaashi’s outstretched arm with awe. His voice comes out like a squeak; “Uh!” 

Akaashi answers the unasked question; “You may,” his head ducking away as he reaches further with the headphones. 

Bokuto takes them. It feels like a gift. 

He pushes the headphones over his gelled hair and ears, and WOOSH, the world goes all muted and fuzzy, blurred at its harsh edges. Bokuto’s mouth makes a little ‘o’. “Wow! It’s really quiet!” he tells Akaashi, 

and Akaashi laughs;

he laughs, and Bokuto can’t even hear it through the noise-cancelling headphones; he just watches the quiet image of Akaashi here, and now, and happy, of Akaashi’s eyes shutting, blinded by joy. 

It also feels like a gift. 

Bokuto offers the headphones back; “Sorry. Was that too loud?”

“I think all of Weekly Shonen Vie heard that,” and Akaashi hooks the headphones around his neck. 

Bokuto smirks. “I like grand entrances.”

“You like disturbing the peace,” Akaashi retorts, pointing accusingly to Bokuto’s face, and Bokuto wonders if Akaashi is noticing it. 

That they’re talking. 

That it’s easy, because it’s them. And wouldn’t it be so much harder, to keep not-talking? Once Bokuto was finally aware of it, the ugly, gaping chasm between him and Akaashi, it’s like his heart bruised over. 

Bokuto can’t live with a bruised heart. He’s sure Akaashi can’t either, even though he’s really strong. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says then. Twisting at his ring finger. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “May I ask you a question.” 

“You can ask me anything, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, instant. He thinks it’s the most truthful thing he’s ever said in his whole life. 

But Akaashi’s eyes look heavy. (Udai’s exhaustion is always displayed so easily beneath his eyes, in lines he could’ve drawn there by hand. Bokuto’s an open book, his face a loud billboard for all his emotions, big or small. But if Akaashi’s tired, or overwhelmed, or happy, or anything, he just tucks it away, into some hidden pocket. But still, Bokuto can see it: the secret, silent heaviness.) 

“Why,” Akaashi says, “are you here, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto has a sneaking suspicion that consulting for a shonen sport manga isn’t the answer Akaashi’s looking for. He rolls his chair forward, just by an inch. “You said we don’t talk anymore, Akaashi,” and Bokuto tries to look confident. He tries to look reliable. He tries to feel these things, too, “and I’m gonna fix it.”

“You’re going to fix it,” Akaashi repeats, something slack in his voice. 

“Yeah.” Confident. Reliable. “I’ll fix it,” Bokuto says, the way he thinks a hero would. 

Akaashi squints. “It, meaning…” 

“Our friendship, Akaashi!” Bokuto rolls his chair forward again, his knees nearly knocking into Akaashi’s. “It means a lot to me, and I… I’m really sorry, I am! I know I’ve been busy these past few years, but that’s no excuse. You’re my best friend, and,” Bokuto catches himself, because Akaashi winces at the phrase. Bokuto leans in. “You are! You’re my best friend, Akaashi!”

Akaashi looks down to his feet. “Bokuto-san, I’m very different now. You’re different.”

“Is this about your glasses? Because I really like them, Akaashi, I think they suit you.”

“It’s more than that, Bokuto-san,” and Akaashi’s voice is thin.

“Well, I don’t really care if it is!” Bokuto shrugs, “You’re still my best friend!”

Akaashi’s eyes meet his through the dark-framed glasses; “That’s not true.” 

“It,” Bokuto’s thoughts go shooting off in a thousand directions; Akaashi wouldn’t lie, but, “It is true. It is, don’t you…?” Bokuto feels like it’s high school again, the way the sorrow’s building up in his stomach, like an unavoidable tidal wave; the only difference is that Akaashi’s not trying to save him. He isn't reaching across the seat. Bokuto’s shoulders slump. “Don’t you want it to be?”

Something real flashes in Akaashi’s eyes before he can tuck it away into that hidden pocket in his heart; something that makes Bokuto believe that Akaashi doesn’t want to live with this big bruise. 

But Udai strides into the office before Akaashi can answer and prove Bokuto right; his chipper voice calls out, “Hey! Bokuto! Welcome!” 

Akaashi scoots away from Bokuto in his chair so fast, it’s like he’s been struck by lightning. “Good morning, Udai-sensei,” he mutters,

and Bokuto echoes him a few seconds later, “Good,” he clears his throat and tries again, tries to look confident, and happy, and feel those things, too, “Good morning, Udai-sensei!” 

“I’ll leave you two to your work,” Akaashi says, gathering his pens and notes, but Udai slaps his shoulder, giving it a little shake. 

“We need your refined eye, Akaashi-san! Stay for a while!” Udai says, 

and maybe it’s another sort of gift, because Akaashi sighs, and then he does stay. 

Udai presents a rough outline of the first arc of the series to Bokuto, and a more detailed outline of its debut chapter. Even in just the past week, Udai had drawn a big cast of new characters; there was the main character still, a wingspiker, with Bokuto’s white spiky hair and a wide smile; a libero with a serious gaze (“He’s the protagonist’s best friend, I’m pretty sure,” Udai details); a gentle third-year setter whose eyes have finely inked lashes; a female team manager who can lift all the boys off their feet with brute strength. (“She could break a clipboard when she gets too excited!” Bokuto laughs. “Sometimes I thought Yukippe might do that, she’d get so tense during our matches. Right Akaashi?” Akaashi only nods quietly, while Udai happily scribbles down Bokuto’s suggestion.)

Bokuto thinks the team is well-rounded and fun. He likes their special abilities, too; they were a little outside the realm of possibility (Bokuto’s pretty sure he’d never be able to catch a volleyball on fire just from how hard he spikes it, though nothing’s impossible, of course), but at the same time, the abilities were all linked to how playing volleyball feels. It feels like you’re on fire; it feels like you have wings. Bokuto’s actually jealous of the libero character most of all; with his blinks, he can stop time for a brief second, assess his positioning and the ball’s arc, and defend even the most vicious attacks. 

They sit at a long stone table just outside the office to discuss the different outlines. Akaashi offers to run and grab them coffees.

“I’ll take one, Akaashi, thanks,” Udai says, occupied with booting up a blocky-looking laptop.

“Bokuto-san, would you like something to snack on,” Akaashi asks, already a few paces away in the grass. His nice work shoes catch the morning light, like Akaashi’s stepping on stars. 

“Uh! Sure! Whatever’s… good?” Bokuto lamely offers, and then, “Thank you! Akaashi!” 

Though Akaashi’s facing away from them, Bokuto can see the slight nod. After he turns the corner of the office building, Bokuto can still make out his shoes and their steady step, step, step for a whole minute afterward. 

(In high school, Bokuto would turn and find Akaashi walking toward him. 

He doesn’t like this so much; the constant walking away.) 

When Bokuto returns his gaze to the table, Udai’s sitting there studying him, his chin resting in his palm. 

“Sorry,” Bokuto mutters, mostly out of habit. 

“Don’t be,” Udai replies easily. He slides his laptop to Bokuto. “So again, it’s still pretty rough. A lotta wet paint,” he explains while Bokuto’s eyes trace over the outline document. 

“And,” Bokuto looks from the laptop, to Udai, and to the laptop again, “you sort of just want my…” Bokuto waves his hand around in a circle, as if he’s searching for a word, when he’s totally not; he has no idea what Udai’s expectations are, but he'll say yes to them, regardless. 

“Anything! Notes, critiques!” Udai places his hands behind his head, fingers knit, and kicks his feet up onto the stone table’s edge. “Tear it apart! I don’t mind!”

“Tear it apart?!” Bokuto’s hands shoot back from the laptop, voice all high. “But! Udai-sensei, you’re an amazing mangaka! This is your job! I know I said I was a volleyball expert,” and Bokuto points a finger pragmatically, “which I am, definitely, but… you’re the story expert. I could never tear your work apart!” 

Udai's expression is gentle. “You’re probably more of a story expert than you think, Bokuto!” He winks. “Just tell me your gut reactions, right off the bat. If anything feels off. If you feel things at all, for that matter. Tearing it apart now will make it better in the end.”

Udai’s logic doesn’t quite connect in Bokuto’s head, but he nods anyways, and starts to read through the outline. 

The story sounds very exciting, just like he’d expected it would; Udai-sensei’s drawings will only make it bigger and better. Bokuto pictures volleyballs riddled with speed lines slicing through panels; he sees the expressions Udai-sensei will draw, how the eyes of each character will seemingly glow with fiery spirit; he laughs at the ongoing gags and how the main character can fall asleep anywhere at anytime, dropping like a rock in the middle of high school classrooms and hotel lobbies, or even in the middle of games. He likes the antagonist, and he also really, really hates him, the way he looks down on the heroes and relies only on his own strength. A frown forms in his lips when the gentle setter’s backstory is revealed, how he doesn’t believe in himself the way his teammates all fervently do. And then—

Bokuto raises his head slowly from the laptop. 

Udai cocks a thin eyebrow. “What’s up.”

“Udai-sensei,” Bokuto’s brow furrows; “they lose?” 

Udai nods. “Yeah. They lose.” 

Bokuto looks back to the laptop. “Oh.”

The autumn breeze tickles Bokuto’s skin. 

Udai leans over the table, hands clasped. “Was it disappointing, Bokuto?” 

Bokuto then hears the steady step, step, step. 

He turns, and Akaashi is placing a coffee cup on the stone table near Udai. Then he slides a banana and muffin to Bokuto; Bokuto says thanks. Akaashi sits on the far end of the table, his body angled slightly away from Bokuto’s own. He sips on his own coffee quietly and begins reading something on his phone. 

“Um,” Bokuto looks back down to the laptop again, and then returns his gaze to Udai’s. “No, it wasn’t disappointing! Just,” Bokuto taps a finger against the button of his nose, “surprising, I think.” And he realizes, too, “It makes me want to keep reading.” His eyes dart to Akaashi, still glued to his phone.

Udai’s smile curls. “That’s a start, then! What else?” 

They talk over the outline a while longer, until it’s too cold to keep sitting outside. 

Akaashi firmly declines the invite to drinks, despite all of Udai’s griping. 

“C’mon, Akaashi! Just for a little while,” Udai tries again, tugging on Akaashi’s backpack strap until it’s taut. “We made some great progress today!” 

“I’m very tired, Udai-sensei,” Akaashi says evenly. “I was up quite early this morning to make up for our decidedly not great progress during the week.” Udai flinches cartoonishly. 

Bokuto unclips the name badge from his shirt sleeve, tucking it away in his own backpack’s side pocket. “I should probably start heading back, too, Udai-sensei. Morning practice!” he explains; “I’m not much of a drinker anyways.”

“Really?” Udai says, 

and Akaashi looks surprised, too; his jaw softens just a bit. 

Bokuto makes a face. “Don’t like the taste.” He always gets picked on by the Jackals for this, his insistence on sodas and sports drinks and anything but beer. But Bokuto just likes what he likes, and the one time he’d tried drinking only made the party he was at less-fun for him and Hinata, who’d valiantly sat and patted Bokuto’s back while he sulked. 

Udai sighs, all dramatic. “Fine. I guess I’ll go home and be boring, too.” Bokuto laughs at that; Akaashi doesn’t. Udai gives Bokuto a slap on the shoulder. “Lemme walk ya to the train, big guy.”

“Thanks, Udai-sensei,” Bokuto says. He looks to Akaashi. “See you later, Akaashi. Get some good sleep!” 

Akaashi’s mouth forms a tight line when he nods. “Goodnight, everyone,” he says lowly, and then Akaashi readjusts his backpack, turns, and silently strides away. Bokuto hears the lobby doors swing open and closed out past the big mural of manga. 

“Udai-sensei,” Bokuto says.

He pictures Akaashi walking, away, and alone, in Tokyo.

Bokuto feels like his eyes might be glowing a little, burning, just like they would in Udai’s manga. He exhales, sharp. “I don’t like losing.” 

Udai cocks his head just a bit, his messy hair spilling off his shoulders like water. “Yeah. I don’t think anybody does.”

“So why not let them win in the end?” Bokuto says, voice trailing.

He doesn’t think he can keep watching Akaashi walk away like that anymore. The bruise on his heart gets deeper.

Udai’s mouth makes an easy curve, and he crosses his arms with a shrug. “But I do think they win in the end,” Udai says. 

Bokuto’s lips part just a little. “They do?” 

“Yeah, of course! I'm not some sadist. What you read was just the beginning!” Udai explains, and he starts to walk toward the big mural of manga. “I mean. Hopefully. We could always get cancelled." Udai laughs; "Maybe I am a sadist." 

Bokuto gasps. “No way!” He chases after Udai. “Your manga’s gonna be number one, Udai-sensei! It’ll be the best!”

Udai laughs. 

“Bigger than One Piece!”

Udai cackles. He covers up the ears of the Luffy statue. “So rude, Bokuto!” They laugh most of the way to the train.

But Bokuto means it; he's not joking. He wants Udai’s story to keep going, and for the team to keep fighting, 

and most of all he wants the heroes to be happy together in the very end. 

Chapter Text

Sketch out the pages, and find the right lines. 

(Why do pencil sketches always feel better than inks? 

There’s something so loose and alive in them, 

like first impressions from your heart.)

Someone squatted quietly beside Bokuto at the end of the practice. Bokuto didn’t look up from his spot in the corner, curled up tight like a ball, but he could tell it was Akaashi by the gentle silence. Bokuto’s voice came out all muffled and squished from behind his arms; “You should just go home, Akaashi. I’m all out of spikes.” 

“You’re all out of them?” Akaashi had said. He paused; then, “You’re sure, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto just nodded, curling up tighter. 

“There’s not even one spike left?” 

“Not even one,” Bokuto echoed. He felt like he’d swallowed a boulder, his body was so heavy. 

“I see.” There was the gentle silence again, and then, Bokuto heard the squeak of Akaashi’s shoes as he slid beside him in the corner. 

“You don’t have to wait with me, Akaashi,” Bokuto heard himself saying, even though a small part of him was whispering don’t leave. 

But when Bokuto lifted his head up some time later, Akaashi was still there. 

Hinata’s sort of like a bird, the way he flutters into view amidst the clusters of Osakans on their morning commutes. “Bokuto-sannnnnn!” he calls, hand waving up high. 

“Morning, Hinata,” Bokuto calls back, 

and Hinata’s eyes go wide, like two sunny-side eggs. “What’s wrong?” 

Bokuto frowns, slowing to a stop on the sidewalk. He looks around for whatever wrong thing Hinata’s talking about, but all Hinata’s looking at is him. Bokuto’s lips pucker: “What are you talking about?”

“Something’s wrong!” Hinata shoots up onto his tip-toes, peering into Bokuto’s eyes with a piercing resolve. “What happened? Are you feeling sick, Bokuto-san?” He grips Bokuto’s shoulders. “Did something happen in Tokyo? How’s the manga, is everything alright?”

It’s too early in the morning and Hinata’s questions sort of spin Bokuto’s brain all around, so he shakes his head a bit to un-spin it. “Hinata, what…? I’m fine!” He gently removes one of Hinata’s hands, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I feel totally,” normal, Bokuto thinks, certain; “normal!”, he says. “Really! What, do I look sad to you or something?”

Hinata’s shoulders droop a bit, the ferocity in his eyes softening to a quieter kind of concern. “I guess not,” he admits, but then his head tilts curiously to the side. “You just don’t look… happy.” 

“Oh,” Bokuto says. “Yeah, well,”

and he pictures Akaashi walking away, and tries to ignore the heaviness that’s weighing down his chest; “I’ve definitely been happier,” 

(“do we not talk anymore, akaashi?”)

Bokuto swallows; “I think.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hinata asks.

Even through the heavy feeling, Bokuto finds that he can nod. “We can talk about it. Maybe. Yeah.” 

Hinata chirps as he starts down the sidewalk again, “Okay!”, warmhearted as ever, the world’s greatest, most loving disciple. 

A Bokuto fact that’s integral (Akaashi taught him that word): 

he’s the reigning king of routine, 

though this has not always been the case. 

You see, Bokuto treats his daily schedule like one long workout, and workouts have the best results (case in point: Bokuto’s muscles) when they’re approached with intent and care. Stretch properly; exercise strategically; rest properly; fuel efficiently.

Likewise, Bokuto’s days have the best results (like big laughs, and steady focus, and no earth-shattering mood swings, for example) when he listens to his morning playlist, and washes his face with his favorite soap, and tidies up at least three things before leaving the apartment for practice. He eats lunch with Hinata every day, alternating between homemade bentos and local cafes. He jogs along the river every night, and waves hello to the couple who walk their frenchie there, little Kinaco, in her light blue sweater. He makes a simple dinner; he reads manga before bed. 

And if the routine falters; if he spikes out of bounds; if a stack of dirty dishes grows so tall that it starts to lean askew; 

even then, Bokuto pushes through. He doesn’t collapse; he doesn’t melt; he won’t curl up tight like a ball. 

He’ll rely on himself the same way others do.

He’ll wake up, and he’ll wash the dishes. 

(A semblance of routine from Bokuto’s first year of high school: 

Wake up too late, again; 

there’s a note on the fridge, in his sister’s curly kanji; 

“Good luck at your game, Koutarou! Play your best!”;  

and a text from their oldest sister;

“Kouuuuuuu!! Wish I could make it tonight; I’ll see u this weekend for yakiniku <3”; 

he only forgets how to serve twice, which is great;

he stays as late as he can at the gym, which isn’t long, because everyone has homework, which totally makes sense, he has homework, too, lots of it, but the homework can wait for just one more spike, right, just five more spikes,

but yeah, totally, everyone’s got to study, he gets it, it’s fine, 

and so he goes home, 

and the lights are all out once he’s there, 

and he doesn’t know how really, but his homework gets done eventually, 

somewhere between all the staring at his bedroom’s stupid ceiling.) 

As Bokuto recalls the events of his first weekend as a manga consultant, a small audience gathers in the Jackals training room; Atsumu half-listens and half-scrolls through his instagram while Sakusa quietly observes in the corner, stretching out his wrists and calves on a black yoga mat.

Bokuto tells them about how cool Weekly Shonen Vie is (the coolest place in the world maybe), and how Udai is going to change the world with his manga (it’ll be better than One Piece, and Bokuto loves One Piece), and how Akaashi is there (his best friend, Akaashi), and Akaashi’s got new clothes (they look great on him) and new hair (it really suits him), but Akaashi said they don’t talk anymore (which is awful), so Bokuto said yes to this consulting role to fix that (it should’ve been easy), but Akaashi maybe doesn’t want that to be fixed (and that’s hard; so hard; maybe harder than anything Bokuto’s faced before).

Bokuto picks at the heel of his right sneaker until his thumb feels a little raw. “Akaashi isn’t always right about everything.” His nose wrinkles. “But he mostly is. So maybe it’s true.”

“What’s true, Bokuto-san,” Hinata says.

Bokuto’s face pinches. “That we’re,” it feels awful, saying it aloud like this, like a slap, “that I’m not his best friend.” And with the admission, a new, awfuller thought grows dark roots in his chest; 

maybe the person he likes most in the world doesn’t really like him at all. Not anymore.  

Hinata goes very quiet, though his eyes remain fixed on Bokuto. Atsumu hardly lifts his head up from his phone when he says, “You guys haven’t seen each other in what, two, three years? What did you expect? OW.” Bokuto only catches the aftermath of Sakusa chucking a towel into Atsumu’s face, but it’s still a good question; he had fully expected the thing he’s always expected, since his high school graduation—that he and Akaashi would be together forever, even if they weren’t really together. 

He’d been so sure.

Bokuto knew what it was like to want to give up, but then he’d always lift his head up, 

and Akaashi would be there waiting. 

So what now?

Bokuto just shrugs. 

Atsumu scoffs; “I think you’re an idiot. OW.” 

This time Hinata had chucked the towel. “Please take the mood you’re in elsewhere, Atsumu-san,” he says with a pointed finger to the door. “It isn’t helpful.” 

Atsumu’s jaw drops, kid-like. His head swivels to Sakusa, who smiles: “See you tomorrow, Miya.” 

“Y’all are unbelievable,” Atsumu mutters, getting up with a little flick of his blonde bangs, but Bokuto agrees, kind of, sort of, with his setter; this is all a little unbelievable to him, too. 

Hinata’s eyes are still sharp. “Bokuto-san,” he says, and he turns to face Bokuto head-on, “I have to tell you something.” And when the door to the training room swings shut behind Atsumu, Hinata continues: “And I wanted to wait until that grump left to say it.” 

Bokuto gives a slow nod, pulling his knees a bit closer to his chest, braced. 

Hinata rubs his chin in thought; “This is maybe strange to mention, but… Udai-sensei had actually called me about his manga, too, a little bit before your interview.”

Bokuto’s gasp is tiny, the world’s smallest epiphany; “Really? Wait. Of course he did, he was your inspiration! Your first inspiration, I mean. Before me.”

Hinata grins. “Yeah, we’ve kept in touch these past few years! This was the first I’ve heard from him in a while, actually. We caught up and stuff, and he said he might want to ask me some questions for this thing he was working on,” and then Hinata holds a finger up, “but something changed.” Bokuto watches as the finger lowers; “He told me that his editor had strongly insisted that they interview you, Bokuto-san.” Hinata lays his hand atop Bokuto’s knee; “Udai-sensei said, ‘I’ve never seen him be so stubborn over something before, and he’s already really stubborn, Shouyou.’” And a smile breaks across Hinata’s mouth, like sunshine. “And I agreed! I told him I couldn’t think of a better person to talk to; Bokuto-san’s the perfect fit.” Hinata squeezes Bokuto’s knee; “And that’s when Udai-sensei said, ‘You sound just like Akaashi.’” 

Bokuto’s eyes go wide. 

(Fickle was a word Akaashi would always use; “You are so fickle, Bokuto-san.”

And it’s true; 

as easily as Bokuto might be overtaken by tidal waves of dread, 

joy came far easier; when joy came, it crashed, and swallowed Bokuto whole.)

“He said that?” Bokuto whispers, knees unfolding slowly. 

Hinata nods. “It sounds to me like Akaashi-san still knows you pretty well, don’t you think?” 

“He said that,” Bokuto says again. He insisted, Bokuto thinks, and something about Akaashi and insisting makes Bokuto feel like there's fire in his chest, a giddy burn. 

“And I think it’s safe to say that you still know Akaashi-san,” Hinata continues, getting up to his feet, “even if it’s not as well as you used to. I always thought Akaashi-san was sort of hard to understand, but for you it was easy, wasn’t it!” He grins down to Bokuto, cheeks shining from exercise. “I really like making new friends, Bokuto-san. I’m kind of jealous of you!”

Bokuto cocks his head slightly. “Jealous?” 

And Hinata extends a hand; “Getting to know your best friend all over again sounds pretty fun to me, that’s all!”

The doubt clears; his chest is light. Bokuto can’t help but smile, because yeah, he’s fickle.

“I think that sounds fun, too,” Bokuto says. He takes Hinata’s hand, and he’s lifted. 

(Bokuto knew what it was like to want to give up, but he's not giving up.

Not yet.)

There was a day in the spring of Bokuto’s second year of high school, and he can’t really remember what day exactly, or what they were doing, but that all doesn’t matter as much. He just remembers feeling great, and leaning over from his spot at the lunchtime tree to tell Akaashi, “I think you’re a pretty neat guy!”, which he’d never told anyone before—or at least, not without wanting something nice in return. 

Akaashi scrunched his dark brows, as if the rice he was munching on required absolute focus. Bokuto had almost forgotten he’d spoken up at all by the time Akaashi said, “I see,” and then, “I think you’re very interesting, Bokuto-san,” his gaze fixed on the plastic bento in his hands.  

It was a really great day, Bokuto remembers; maybe even one of the best. 

Bokuto’s on his evening jog when he gets the email notification on his phone; he’s fully expecting some promotion for a discount at such-and-such shop, so when it’s Akaashi’s name he’s reading instead, he nearly runs into a trash can. “Shoot,” he mutters, struggling through his passcode; his eager thumb jumbles the numbers. He holds his breath as the email fills up the phone’s screen, bathing his face in a white glow:

“Hello Bokuto-san,” it reads, and the typeface somehow sounds just like Akaashi,

“Are you available this upcoming Sunday evening (10/4) for a working dinner?

Udai-sensei and I would like to inform you of our upcoming publishing milestones and discuss some story issues. I would also like to propose a more solidified schedule for your visits to our offices to keep your travel efforts to a minimum.  Weekly Shonen Vie will reimburse you for your most recent trip to Tokyo.

Weekly Shonen Vie will also cover dinner expenses this Sunday. We are planning on barbecue.

Please notify me if this conflicts with your schedule, and we will work to find a better time to meet.

Thank you for your time. 

-Akaashi”

Bokuto paces in hurried circles on the sidewalk, still huffing and sniffling from his run. It's around eight-ish in Osaka, the moon reflecting off the river with an icy blue glow; Bokuto wonders if Akaashi's still sitting in his cubicle, and if he's eaten yet tonight. Bokuto jabs his reply as quickly as he can, hitting send just one minute later;

“Hey Akaashi! 

Yes!!!! I’m available! Working dinner sounds great! So does barbecue! Thank you so much! I’m really looking forward to it! I hope you’re having a good week, please don't overdo it!! Talk to you soon!  Thank you so much!!!!!!

-Bokuto!” 

He’s running again when he realizes that he’d written thank you so much twice, but if Bokuto’s being honest, really, truly honest, he’d type a million thank you so much-es for Akaashi, if that were possible.

Though, 

nothing is really, truly impossible.

(This is a Bokuto Koutarou fact.) 

Kinaco the frenchie barks a friendly greeting as she passes, and Bokuto grins from ear to ear. 

(It’s been forever since Bokuto had last wished this—to skip ahead to the good part. The part where Akaashi’s walking to him instead of away, and they’re together again, and they’re facing anything, and everything, big things and small things—especially the big things—or maybe especially the small things, together.

But Sunday's working dinner comes first, and then together with Akaashi can come later. That week Bokuto washes all of his dishes, and even cleans out the fridge for good measure.)

He’s in the middle of the newest One Piece update on the Shinkansen when his phone starts ringing, and maybe Bokuto’s dreaming (all the staring at the bedroom ceiling at night has really messed with his sleeping routine—stupid ceiling), because Akaashi’s the one making the call. 

“Akaashi!” he says, holding the phone like it’s something precious. “Hey! Hi! Good morning!” 

“Good morning Bokuto-san," Akaashi's voice comes out all rushed over the speaker, “have you left for Tokyo yet?” 

Bokuto really is dreaming if Akaashi’s this eager for him to arrive; “Yup! I’ll be in around lunchtime! Why, what’s up!” 

He hears a long sigh over the phone, and a curse. Possibly two. (To add onto Bokuto’s list titled New Facts About My Best Friend Akaashi: He curses.)

“Akaashi?” Bokuto says. “You okay?” 

“Yes, I’m,“ and there’s another muffled grumble, like Akaashi’s covering his mouth with a hand; “I apologize, Bokuto-san. I hate how far you have to come for this.” 

Bokuto straightens in his seat, placing his iPad aside. “I really do mean it, Akaashi, it’s no trouble.“ He wonders if Akaashi knows just how much he means these things, and if there’s better ways to prove it.

“No,” Akaashi’s voice is measured, but Bokuto can still sense the secret tension, “no, this time it is.” He takes a breath; “Udai-sensei isn’t feeling very well. He’s staying in for the night. I’m afraid we have to postpone the—“ 

“That’s awful!” Bokuto leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees; “Akaashi, what is it, is it a cold or something? Can we bring him anything? Any medicine? Some soup? Does he like soup? He’s been working so hard! You both have!” 

Akaashi pauses; and then, quietly, he answers, “It’s a cold, I think. But you don’t—” 

“Do you have his address, Akaashi?” Bokuto checks the time; forty-two minutes to Tokyo. “I can pick up some groceries near the station. Does he like tea, you think? Maybe some ginger and honey will help?” Bokuto had been really sick once, the summer of his second year. His parents were overseas. Akaashi and his mother let him sleep the day and night away at their house; he put extra honey in a mug of hot ginger tea for Bokuto, and even read a whole volume of Naruto aloud to him. The way the sound effects sounded in Akaashi’s deadpan made Bokuto wheeze weakly; he’d asked, throat raspy, “Say that again,” and Akaashi did.

Akaashi’s so quiet, Bokuto wonders if the call’s dropped.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto presses the phone close to his ear. “You there?” 

“Mm.” There’s another pause. “I will meet you at the station, Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi hangs up swiftly. 

The first thing Bokuto notices when he steps off the Shinkansen is Akaashi’s shoe tapping like a drill; the second thing is Akaashi’s outfit. It’s way more casual than the nice sweaters and blazers he’d seen so far: two layered long-sleeved tops in gray and black, a pair of jeans, all loose and bunchy. Akaashi is noticeably thinner, Bokuto realizes, a trait previously hidden by his more formal, fitted attire. He frowns a bit at that, and at the nervous, tapping shoe. (To add onto Bokuto’s list of New Facts About My Best Friend Akaashi: Needs more Onigiri.) 

But then Bokuto feels the frown twist into a grin anyways; “Hey hey, Akaashi!” he calls. 

When Akaashi looks up, the shoe quits tapping; he takes a steadying breath. “Good afternoon, Bokuto-san.” He gets up, brushing at the back of his jeans. “How was the trip.” 

“Great! I got some reading done!” Bokuto feels that fire in his chest again while he looks to Akaashi, like a hearth glowing soft; “How are you? How was work this week?” 

Akaashi nods, giving the bridge of his glasses a small nudge. “I’m fine. Work was fine.” 

“Great!” Bokuto says, but then he furrows his brow: “Fine, I mean. I’m. Glad it was fine. Yeah!” 

There’s a flash of something funny on Akaashi’s lips, a sort of wiggle, like he might sneeze. Then he turns away. “Shall we head to the store, then.” 

“Indeed we shall!” Bokuto says, and he has a feeling it might’ve been a little goofy,

like how he has a feeling that the something funny on Akaashi’s lips is actually a grin.

Despite Bokuto wanting to talk to Akaashi about anything, and everything, 

he does his very best to walk silently instead. 

It’s incredibly difficult, but he does it. He deserves an Olympic Gold for his quiet walking. The entire way to the general store, Bokuto doesn’t let out a peep, not once. He just hums with his hands buried in his pockets. He just offers Akaashi polite smiles when they accidentally share glances. He just watches how Akaashi stands with his fingers all intertwined whenever they stop at a crosswalk, the same way he did back in high school. 

Even while shopping, Bokuto’s restraint is unparalleled; he doesn’t get sidetracked by the magazines, or strike up a conversation with strangers (not even the one who whispers, “That’s that guy, right? From the billboard?”, because Bokuto absolutely could have told him yes, I’m that guy, from the Adidas billboard, it’s me!, but he doesn’t); he simply fills up his grocery basket with goods for Udai, teas and honey and tissues. A minty ointment to help clear sinuses. And—

“What is that?” Akaashi asks. 

Bokuto holds the card up with a little wave. Embossed in white glitter, it reads Hope You’re Owlright!, with a cartoon owl tucked into a bed beneath it. “Think he’ll like it?” 

Akaashi’s squint is almost imperceptible; “Perhaps if he were a very young child.” 

“I think he’ll like it,” Bokuto says with a shrug, and the card goes into the basket.

They’re both quiet in check-out, too, but mostly because Bokuto’s watching Akaashi open the card, tracing glitter with slim fingers. 

“Fair warning,” the snotty voice mumbles through speaker phone, “I look terrible.” 

“You sound terrible,” Akaashi replies. 

Bokuto slips the elastic loops of his medical mask about his ears, chiming in, “You don’t sound so terrible!” 

Akaashi glances to Bokuto with that expression he sometimes makes—the one where he looks confused to the core. It makes Bokuto grin. 

Udai laughs over the phone, though it sounds more like a choke. “I’ll buzz you in.” 

The front door to the building unlocks with a loud CLICK, and after an adept jiggle of its handle, Akaashi opens it and steps in, holding it at bay for Bokuto. 

“Thanks ‘Kaashi,” he says softly, voice mostly hidden behind his mask.

Akaashi loops his own mask on nimbly. “The stairs are this way.” 

Udai’s apartment is small and skinny, like a four-panel comic strip, with one unit per floor. The third floor is home to Udai’s studio; its green door is unlocked. 

Akaashi sighs loudly once the door swings open; “You told me you’d tidied.” 

Udai scoffs. “That was like, two days ago, Akaashi.” 

But the mess is the most glorious Bokuto’s ever laid eyes on, because it’s exactly what he’d pictured a mangaka’s home to be like. There must be a hundred pieces of art on the wall, in all different shapes and frames and colors, all made by different hands; a very long, knee-height bookshelf borders the studio, spilling over with reference books and manga, and acting in part as a reading perch, judging by the nest of pillows atop it; Bokuto tip toes with great care about the drawings on the floor, studies of city skylines and cafe dwellers; the drawings pave the perfect trail to a wide drafting desk covered in loose paper, and coffee cup mountains, and paintbrushes, and sticky notes. 

There’s a photo on the wall there, just above Udai’s metal swing arm lamp; a high school volleyball team neatly lined up in a row, and Udai’s there with a messy mop of black hair, donning a bold number 10. 

The real Udai is lying beneath his kotatsu, dressed in pajamas and a black mask. 

“Oh,” Bokuto says sadly. “You do look terrible.”

Udai laughs again, and it’s all squeaky. “Good to see you, Bokuto. Akaashi, eh, not so much.”

Bokuto grins at the way Akaashi glowers to Udai, ignoring the tiny pang of jealousy he has for the familiarity it carries. “How does tea sound, Udai-sensei?” Bokuto asks, sliding his owl card across the kotatsu’s tabletop. “That’s for you!” 

Udai brings the card to his side on the floor. “Aw, Bokuto. This is really nice. Tea sounds good.” He lifts the card up high; “Do you get it, Akaashi? It says, Hope You’re Owl—”

“I get it, Udai-sensei,” comes Akaashi’s retort, but it isn’t sharp. He kneels beside Udai while Bokuto preps in the studio’s compact kitchen. “Are you feeling any better.” 

“Worse, mostly,” Udai sighs, but he’s still wearing that easy smile. 

Akaashi eyes the stacks of paper strewn across the kotatsu. His voice is gentle, but firm. “Please try to rest today.”

Udai snorts. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

And Akaashi nods. “Good.”

All of Udai’s cups look slightly stained with ink. Bokuto washes the cleanest looking mug of the bunch, which isn’t saying much, while the teapot warms on the stove. “Udai-sensei, do you want extra honey?” He holds the honey jar aloft, brows waggling. “For your tea! I recommend it, personally. You’ll get better super fast.”

“Can’t say no to that, can I?” Udai says. 

“No,” Akaashi murmurs. “You can’t.” 

Bokuto pours the tea carefully, cheeks warming from the billowing steam. He spoons the honey, once, twice, three times, exactly the way he’d seen Akaashi make it all those summers ago. His smile rubs against his mask’s thin fabric. “Order up!” Bokuto announces. Udai laughs again. 

They all sit at the kotatsu while Udai takes the warm mug and digs through the rest of his delivered goods. 

“That’s for under your nose,” Bokuto gestures as Udai pulls out the ointment, “and that’s for when you’re hungry,” he points to the rice porridge, “and that’s for your throat,” he says as Udai observes the small box of liquid pills. "They'll help you sleep, too."

“This was really kind of you, Bokuto, thank you,” Udai hums, gingerly uncapping the ointment. “I appreciate the care.”

“No problem at all, Udai-sensei. I wish there was more I could do.” Bokuto looks to the framed art on the walls. “If my drawings were better, I’d help you with those!” 

“Do you like to draw, Bokuto?” Udai asks, dotting the peppermint beneath his nose. Even with a cold, Udai Tenma is refreshing, his dark eyes alight with genuine curiosity. Something in Akaashi’s eyes soften at the question. 

Bokuto nods. “I do! I haven’t done it in a long time, not since high school. But yeah. It wasn’t real art, or anything,” he says with a quick shrug. “I’d just study cool panels, you know, from Weekly Shonen Vie.” 

“They were good,” Akaashi interjects. He looks away instantly, down to his own tangled fingers. 

Bokuto brow raises slowly, like he’d just witnessed a magic trick; like a rabbit had been pulled from a hat, like ta-da. 

Akaashi’s eyes dart up, just once, from his intertwined fingers, then corrects his posture, nice and straight. “I always thought your drawings were quite good, Bokuto-san. For.” He struggles through his words. He so rarely struggles. Or rather, he rarely shows it—the struggling. “For a hobby.” 

Bokuto could still be dreaming, he decides.

Udai rests his temple against his knuckles, his smile clear despite the black mask. “Very, very interesting,” he says, nose wrinkling. “I gotta see them sometime! Akaashi doesn’t even like my drawings, he says they’re—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, angling his body sharply away from Udai. “I want to sincerely apologize again for all the trouble today. We’ll reschedule our working dinner as soon as your schedule allows.”

“No apology necessary, Akaashi!” Bokuto bows his head, “I’m looking forward to it.” He would’ve loved barbecue (his stomach almost growls at the thought), but there’ll be time, he thinks; there will be time for barbecue, and for other things, too. For everything, hopefully.  

But Udai waves a hand, haphazard, like his arms are too heavy to actually lift; “Wait wait wait wait, hold on,” he slurs, pointing a wobbly finger to Akaashi; “you’re canceling dinner?”

Akaashi tenses. “You… can’t come with us, Udai-sensei.”

Udai flops his hand about. “Who cares? I don’t care!” 

Akaashi blinks, and Bokuto can see the expression again—the core-confusion. “This dinner was to discuss the manga belonging to,” Akaashi gestures, didactic, “you, the mangaka.” 

Udai’s hand flops; he slowly lowers to the floor; “No no no, you’re going to dinner. We like, made reservations and shit! Bokuto came all this way!” 

Akaashi’s shoulders slump. “I know he—” He looks to Bokuto helplessly, and then back to the artist curled up on the floor. “But I need you to—” 

“You, you basically planned this whole,” Udai flails his arms around, “thing, you worked really hard on the calendar with the,” Udai snaps his fingers, “you know, the colors, you were so proud of the colors. Please don’t cancel the dinner, Akaashi.” He reaches a hand out with a sloppy flourish; “It is my dying wish.” That absolutely doesn’t score Udai any points judging by the tweak in Akaashi’s brow, so then he adds, “And it’ll probably save us time, right?” 

And that’s why Bokuto’s now sitting elbow-to-elbow with Akaashi at a crowded barbecue joint looking through an incredibly detailed, color-coordinated binder, and why Bokuto is confirming the latest New Fact About My Best Friend Akaashi:

He can really hold his liquor, 

though the chattiness perhaps suggests otherwise. 

Akaashi’s cheeks are tinged like a happy rose as he blazes through a schedule of the manga’s impressive list of various milestones and goals; he sweeps a hand across the page labeled November. “This appears to be a slow ramp-up but do not let the dates fool you, Udai-sensei will be full-steam ahead,” is Akaashi lifting his arm like a train conductor’s, oh, yes, he is, “and knee-deep in production once winter’s at our door, and between you and me, Bokuto-san, I do not think the outline is there yet, not for a December publication; we need to hone in on our title soon, this week ideally, I am not at all a fan of what Udai-sensei’s come up with so far, praying for a real,” the next words are pronounced in crisp English, “Hail Mary on that one—Meteo Attack? Meteo Attack, it’s, it’s a mouthful. It needs spark. I digress. We submit our title, we pitch the outline, we get the official greenlight from Weekly Shonen Vie, and then we’re off to the races, so to speak, but that’s when the real work begins. Do you have any questions so far, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto sips gingerly at his Sprite. “I don’t think so.”

“Alright.” Akaashi pushes his bangs out from his gaze, and when that doesn’t quite bring him relief, he removes his glasses, rubbing at his eyes; “We should probably discuss some specifics regarding when we need you specifically, physically at the office. Most of your responsibilities can be carried out over the phone, or email, and again, I’d like to keep your travel as light as possible.” Akaashi slips his glasses into their holder with a SNAP. Without them on, Bokuto can see even more clearly how Akaashi’s changed; the lightness to him. The new angles. (His eyes are the only thing that remain totally unchanged, Bokuto thinks; still holding a thousand thoughts, and still that pretty, darkish blue.)

“Uh,” Bokuto flips a small strip of steak on the grill, “I know you’re worried about how busy I am, Akaashi, and that’s great, it’s so considerate! But I’m serious, I don’t mind taking the time to visit. Especially if it, y’know, helps and stuff.” 

Akaashi pinches his brow with one hand and lifts his beer with the other. “I know you don’t mind, Bokuto-san. I know.” He sips; he rubs at his brow. Fingers through his dark bangs. “I can’t really think of a realistic reason to stop you from coming. I can think of plenty of reasons, of course, just not realistic ones.” 

The admission nearly makes Bokuto’s knee bang the underside of the table, it comes so easily from Akaashi. “So I can—you wouldn’t mind me hanging out with you guys—”

Akaashi gestures with his mug of beer, “We will not be hanging out. If you are a distraction in any capacity, I will have to ask you to refrain from visiting, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto lifts his hands, sheepish, “You’re right! You’re right, Akaashi, I meant,” he almost laughs at how non-threatening Akaashi appears with his menacing half-empty mug, “working with you. Absolutely!” 

“Good,” Akaashi is very serious as he takes another swig of beer. “I’m glad we have an understanding.” He gestures to the leftovers burning up on the grill with his mug. “Have you had enough to eat.”

Bokuto nods, a half-truth. He could probably eat barbecue forever with no proper supervision. But there’d always be time later. “Have you had enough to…”

Akaashi gives his half-empty mug a withering glance. “Likely.” He takes another gulp, and then, smacking his lips a bit, “Definitely. Yes.” Akaashi slumps a bit at the table, like a version of himself that spills at the edges; he leans his chin on one hand. “I’m very surprised that you don’t drink, Bokuto-san.” He amends aloud, though it feels meant for himself: “Surprised-yet-not.” 

Bokuto appraises Akaashi with a slight smile; “Yeah, it’s not my favorite! What does that mean, surprised-but-not.”

Akaashi shrugs (and Bokuto wonders, does Akaashi do that? Does he shrug?); “I have some theories. You already have excessive amounts of fun while sober, so drinking can’t really help that. It’s healthier, and, well,” Akaashi flashes a look at Bokuto, and—is this… teasing? Does Akaashi tease?, “you’re clearly healthy;” Akaashi’s teasing! Bokuto’s jaw drops, grin agape; “And you’d mentioned this before, but you have always been very picky. You not liking the taste of beer isn’t really all that shocking, then.”

Bokuto is frankly dumbfounded by this unabashed, rosy openness. He laughs. “You think I’m picky, Akaashi?” 

Akaashi’s nods, loose and heavy, like a yo-yo. “You are very fickle, Bokuto-san.” 

The word sets the warmth in Bokuto’s chest ablaze. 

“Akaashi,” he breathes; he chases the fiery feeling; “can I get to know you again?” 

He wonders if the question is sobering, with the way Akaashi’s eyes snap into focus. “What?” 

Bokuto’s heartbeat begins to drum. He swallows; “Can I get to know you again. Please. I know that…” Bokuto chews on his words; on his lip; “I missed a lot. And I’m upset about it. I wanted things to be like they were, right away. And they can’t, right?” He looks to Akaashi. 

Akaashi just waits, hands gripped to the table’s edge, the world’s sleekest vise. But he doesn’t look away, or leave, 

so Bokuto doesn’t give up; “So… maybe it doesn’t have to be the way things were! Maybe it can be… new. Or something. I just… I want to know this Akaashi.” And when Akaashi still doesn’t respond, he says, “Uh. Yeah,” incredibly astute. 

You couldn’t pay Bokuto to guess what Akaashi is thinking now, sitting perfectly still in their restaurant booth. He’d pay everything to know, though. Everything, anything. 

So it’s more than a little bit surprising, then, when Akaashi’s mouth opens and says, “Alright,” free of charge. His cheeks are still flushed, a pure kind of pink. 

Bokuto probably masks his surprise well and appears every bit the opposite of stupefied, even when he nearly elbows his cup of Sprite clean over. He rearranges it gently, stilling its plastic straw. He keeps it very cool, very discerning. He smiles. “Alright! Awesome!” 

Akaashi folds his hands neatly atop the table. “How would you like to go about this, Bokuto-san.”

“Uh,” Bokuto thinks for a second, “eagerly.” 

Akaashi ducks his head, lifting a hand to curl his hair behind his ears. “I meant… what would you like for us to do, exactly.”

“Oh!” Bokuto shoots up in his seat, “Well! Right! Sure! I guess… I don’t know, we could start tonight! How about…” An idea strikes Bokuto, a lightning bolt of pure inspiration. “Let’s both share a fact. Like trivia, you know? Something new that we don’t know about each other yet. I can go first, if you want!”

Akaashi is very quiet, but he nods still, seeming certain. 

Bokuto preens, amazed this is all going so incredibly well. He scratches at his neck. “Okay, lemme think. Ah. Okay, okay! You ready, Akaashi?”

Akaashi nods once. 

Bokuto lifts a finger: “Here’s a brand new Bokuto Koutarou fact for you: Hinata’s been teaching me some Portuguese! We’re gonna take a trip to Brazil together, and my goal is to… ah,” Bokuto makes a face; “fal...ar, fluente... no. Fluentemente. Falar fluentemente, to speak fluently by next summer!” Bokuto claps his hands. “That’s the fact.”

Akaashi smiles with his eyes, mostly; it’s small, but genuine, and something else, too; “That’s a good fact, Bokuto-san.”

“Okay, you got a fact yet, Akaashi? No pressure, you know.” Bokuto smiles warmly. 

Akaashi sits back. “Yes, I’ve got it. Are you ready?”

Bokuto is. He’s ready for everything, and anything. 

Akaashi’s voice is matter-of-fact: “I am recently single.” 

Bokuto’s ready for—

the world comes to a screeching halt, like a Shinkansen’s brakes slamming in his soul. 

“Wow,” Bokuto feels like he’s not quite in his own body, “really? That’s. Wow! That’s!” He’s not sure what that is, actually—

“We were,” Akaashi exhales out, and then he finishes, “engaged.” 

He twists at his ring finger. 

This time Bokuto really does elbow the Sprite, a quick jerk sending clear soda spilling all across the table. After a few seconds, or maybe a million, his voice cuts through the softly humming fizz: 

“That’s quite the fact, Akaashi.”  

Akaashi nods in agreement. 

Chapter Text

With a steady hand, ink each page. Speed lines, faces, speech bubbles, places.

There’s no going back now; 

it’s all very permanent. 

It wasn’t just Akaashi’s great tosses, though really, they were the greatest. 

And it wasn’t how cool he was, either; always collected, always so smart, saying things that forced Bokuto to think a little harder, but then laugh way louder. No,

it was more than any of that. 

The thing that drew Bokuto to Akaashi, and Akaashi to Bokuto, was a mutual understanding. Yes, later Akaashi will say, “We are very different, Bokuto-san,” and Bokuto will agree. 

But then he’ll look back on those first few weeks of their friendship, 

review the footage—

and he’ll think, don’t you see, Akaashi? We were connected, even then; 

we were both by ourselves, 

but we were by ourselves, 

together. 

When Bokuto crashes into his apartment the night of Sunday’s working dinner, it’s actually one in the morning on Monday, and he feels tired enough to sleep through a hurricane, and he feels wired enough to run a marathon in the living room.

He peels his shoes off, nearly tripping over his feet. 

Engaged.

Bokuto throws his backpack to the floor; something from its pockets spills and clatters onto the hardwood.

Recently single. 

Bokuto palms along the wall for a light switch,

and Akaashi’s twisting at his ring finger,

recently engaged, 

and Bokuto can’t find the stupid light,

and Akaashi is recently, decidedly, very un-single—

“Akaashi,” Bokuto covers his face as he flops onto the living room couch, like he might be able to squeeze some sense out of his head with his own hands. 

(“It’s very late, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi had mumbled at the restaurant, suddenly. “You still have to get home.” He put away the binder; he pulled out his glasses. It felt very like him; just as quickly as Akaashi had presented the bomb, he’d very nimbly diffused it.

“No!” Bokuto said, as calm as he could muster, “It’s not too late! It’s not too late,” reaching across the table, and he didn’t touch Akaashi, but he was close to it, to holding his slender wrist. “I wanna hear about,” the engagement, Bokuto thinks, but he can’t say it, the word gets stuck in his throat. “Do you wanna talk about it? Or we can talk about, y’know, other things, or—” 

But Bokuto stopped. There was a shimmer in Akaashi’s eyes. A tremble, maybe, in the corner of his mouth.

He’d missed so much;

Bokuto backed away an inch. “Akaashi.”

Akaashi said nothing; he silently put on his glasses. 

Bokuto looked to the messy plates at their table; the empty mug of beer; their faces reflected in the tabletop’s surface. And then he looked back to Akaashi; “Can you text me? When you get home? Please?” 

Akaashi’s eyes widened just a little bit, red at their edges, all misty. He pressed the back of his hand to his cheeks, the movement clean and controlled. He sniffed quietly. He straightened. And then Akaashi nodded,

and he left, even though everything inside Bokuto was begging don’t leave.) 

Akaashi still hadn’t texted, nearly four hours later. 

Bokuto sighs loud into his hands. The living room is dark, like a weighted sort of shadow, and he’s so tired from the Shinkansen, having sat with his body tensed up like marble all the way home, replaying their conversation forward and back, picturing the shimmer in Akaashi’s eyes over and over and over,

and what a ring might look like on the finger he always twists. 

He tries to imagine the face of them—this someone from Akaashi’s life. But it’s too dark in the room; it’s too late at night. And Bokuto’s too angry to think about someone who would let Akaashi go. 

He has morning practice in a handful of hours; Bokuto sends a text.

"if u need anything, i’m here akaashi"

Bokuto’s eyes can’t keep themselves open any longer, but he sees Akaashi’s read receipt the moment the text is delivered, then falls dead asleep on the couch. 

It was springtime, and there was no chance in hell Bokuto was passing his exams, or at least that’s what Konoha kept crowing. That’s why he was biking with a heavy backpack full of textbooks to Akaashi’s house on a Saturday, but Bokuto couldn’t complain. Akaashi was so smart, and the sky was a pretty kind of blue. 

Akaashi’s mother was tending to her potted plants when Bokuto arrived; he gripped his brakes. “Okaa-san!” he called.

Akaashi’s mother was as pretty as the blue in the sky that day. Her hair had waves just like her son’s, and was nearly as tall as him, too. Her eyes looked very happy when they met Bokuto’s, shaded beneath her hat’s floppy brim. “Bokuto-kun! How was your bike ride?”

“It was really good!” Bokuto chirped back, incredibly pleased by her interest. He closed the tiny black gate to their garden behind him and rested his bike against it. “How’re your plants, okaa-san!” 

Akaashi’s mother leaned back and appraised the three pots of purplish flowers. Her brows pointed in the same way Akaashi’s did when he contemplated something; “How are you doing, little garden,” she asked, sounding very deadpan. She waited like she was listening, lifting one flower’s tiny leaf with her finger. And then her lips formed a small smile. “They’re well, I think.”

Bokuto smiled wide. “I think that, too!”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi’s voice called.

Bokuto looked to Akaashi in the doorway, dressed in breezy weekend clothes. A crisp white tee; linen shorts.

Bokuto smiled even wider.

Akaashi’s house was all dark wood and packed bookshelves and plants tucked in corners. The kitchen was always busy, full of snacks and baked things, or a meal in progress. It was very unlike the clean, silver shine to the kitchen in Bokuto’s house. Bokuto’s kitchen smelled clean, like dish soap. Akaashi’s kitchen smelled like dinner.

Framed photos of Akaashi and his mother dotted the walls. Akaashi looked like a fussy baby; Bokuto loved telling him so, repeatedly. Bokuto’s favorite photo was of Akaashi’s mother in front of their house’s tiny black gate, holding a little Akaashi like a sideways plank of wood. Both of them were smiling with their mouths wide open; Akaashi had a missing tooth. 

When they had study days like this, Akaashi and Bokuto would sit side by side on the floor, squeezed between a writing desk and Akaashi’s bed with the dark green sheets. This room had some plants as well, the kinds that curl and climb around things. 

It was easy to study at Akaashi’s house; it was hard, too, because Bokuto would rather sit and talk about volleyball, and ask about whatever novel Akaashi was currently reading, and help Akaashi’s mother with chopping vegetables in the busy kitchen downstairs. But it was so much harder to study at home, alone. He’d get distracted by the tiniest things, and just end up reading manga for hours, or staring up at his stupid ceiling. 

An idea popped into Bokuto’s head that Saturday afternoon, and he felt it might be a really good one. 

“We should live together, Akaashi!” Bokuto crossed his legs. “After high school, you know?”

Akaashi kept scribbling away in a notebook, decidedly unmoved by Bokuto’s genius. “That would be disastrous.” 

Bokuto made a face. “Are you being serious or are you pulling my leg, Akaashi. You know I can’t tell when you’re pulling my leg.”

“I don’t know how I’d get anything done with you as my roommate, Bokuto-san. It’s hard enough now,” Akaashi gestured to his notebook with his mechanical pencil. 

“I don’t know, you’re pretty driven, Akaashi!” Bokuto leaned over, stretching his calves. “And you’ll probably need me around to get you to take breaks and drink water and stuff. You work too hard.” 

“You’re also quite loud,” Akaashi focused hard on his note taking, “and rather untidy.” 

“Yeah,” Bokuto nodded, “yeah, I’m both of those, for sure. But I would be not-loud if you asked me, Akaashi. And you could help me with keeping tidy, right?”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from having friends over, either,” Akaashi looked up from his notebook then, and Bokuto could tell by the pinch in his brow that he was getting tangled up in big thoughts, because that happened a lot to Akaashi—the tangling. “I like to keep to myself. I’d be hindering you.”

Bokuto shrugged; he didn’t know what hindering meant, so he said, proudly, “I don’t know what that means!” His head swayed to the side. “Isn’t that that the whole point of us living together anyways?” 

Akaashi looked suspicious. “Isn’t what the point.”

Bokuto laughed. “Getting to hang out with my best friend all the time! Anytime I get bored or sad I can just,” Bokuto mimed knocking on a door and poking his head through it, “be with you already, Akaashi! Who else do I even need!” 

Akaashi looked away, like the sun was too bright in his eyes or something, even though they were sitting in his shady room. 

“Oh! We could have plants, too!” Bokuto scooted a little closer to Akaashi, his socks just barely brushing against his friend’s bare knees. “Would that make you happy?” 

Akaashi blinked a few times, like Bokuto had said something in gibberish. 

Bokuto tensed a bit. “No plants?”

“No, no,” Akaashi’s face scrunched up; he must’ve gotten tangled again. “It’s not. That would be.” His fingers squeezed his notebook, just a quiet press. He exhaled through his nose. “Let’s get through high school first, Bokuto-san. Your exams, in particular. Then we can think about… plants. And such.” 

“Great!” Bokuto rolled back into a serious studying posture, his back flat against Akaashi’s bedroom wall. He doesn’t think he’s ever smiled so much while reading a geography textbook.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said then. 

Bokuto brightened. “Yeah, Akaashi!” 

“That would make you happy,” Akaashi didn’t lift his eyes from his notebook; dust glimmered in the light around his lashes. “Living with me.” 

Bokuto laughed, shaking his head; “Are you pulling my leg again, Akaashi?”

“Damn. You look like you were hit by a truck,” Atsumu says. “And then backed over by the same truck a couple times after.”

“I know, right!” Bokuto laughs, throwing his gym bag weakly onto a bench in their locker room. “I got in pretty late from Tokyo. Had a,” his mouth twists into a snarly yawn, “hard time sleeping!” 

Hinata and Sakusa look at him kind of funny, and he sort of gets why; Bokuto never had a hard time sleeping. He was the reigning MSBY Jackals Nap Champion. Bokuto could sleep anywhere, anytime, anyplace, so this was very new. 

Lots of things felt new since last night.

Bokuto checks his phone; 

Read 1:47am.

No reply.

Atsumu slips a kneepad up his leg. “You shouldn’t party too hard with your fancy Shonen Vie friends, Bokkun!” The kneepad snaps against his thigh, like SNAP. “No shit-faced aces allowed!” 

“Miya,” Sakusa seethes, but Bokuto waves an arm. 

“Tsum-Tsum’s right! It won’t happen again, guys.” Bokuto buries the phone in his gym bag. He pulls off his shirt and reaches for the practice jersey hanging in his locker; the big, embellished 12 feels smooth under his fingers. When he pulls the jersey over his head, its neck musses his already excessively mussed hair; he hadn’t had the patience to fix it just right that morning, especially not after seeing the big mess he’d made of his apartment’s entryway. (He’d knocked over a few more things in the night than he’d remembered, but it was better to clean it now than put it off ’til later, so he ended up a little late out the door for morning practice—nothing a little running wouldn’t fix, but then it was on the run when Bokuto thought again of the shimmer in Akaashi’s eyes, and how Akaashi had been engaged; how Akaashi was gonna get married to someone, someone Bokuto didn’t know, but they knew Akaashi, they knew his—)

Hinata’s hand pats Bokuto’s back very gently. “Bokuto-san? You coming?”

The locker room had emptied; Bokuto’s ears pick up the sound of volleyballs bouncing in the gym. He nods quickly, pulling his knee pads from his locker, one-two. “Yeah! Yeah, I’ll be right there!” 

“Are you sure you don’t need rest?” Hinata’s expression is kind, intensely so. “You’ve been working hard.” 

“I’m sure, yeah,” Bokuto just says it without thinking, just like how his body gets up from the bench without Bokuto thinking to move it, but then his shoulders hitch. “Oh.” 

Hinata flits to his side. “What’s wrong, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto’s hand balls into a soft fist; 

he hadn’t listened to his morning playlist, 

and Akaashi never replied to his text, 

and the world, for one moment, feels like it’ll swallow Bokuto. 

But only for a moment. He can’t give up. 

Bokuto relaxes the fist. “It’s nothing! Let’s head out!” He jogs out to practice, and decides it’s better to keep doing things without thinking too hard, just for this one morning. 

And that’s actually kind of easy, because Bokuto’s super duper good at it. Not thinking, that is. He’s good at running, and diving, and spiking, and cheering on his teammates, while everything else in his peripheral fades. He practices, hard. It feels good to push himself to his limit, and then past it; to chase the burn, and height, and power; Bokuto used to be an outsider—forever top five, and never top three—but now there was no question that he was number one; his spikes show it; his smile shows it; Bokuto’s exhaustion melts away. “Pour all your soul into each ball,” read Fukurodani’s team banner; it’s all Bokuto really knows. He pours his everything into volleyball, and into his team; into the jokes he tells on the bus to Hinata, and into the strangers he smiles at on the street; into the fans who shout “Bokuto Beam”; into every breath he takes; into Akaashi—

Bokuto trips up his approach; the timing’s all off; he whiffs his spike. Meian stuffs it. 

Atsumu scoffs loudly; “That toss was perfect.”

And Bokuto nods, and he huffs; he sort of feels it all the sudden, his lungs screaming for air. The lead in his legs. Had he properly stretched? “Yeah, I’m,” he wipes his lip; the sweat there feels icy; “That was on me, for sure,” he echoes softly, “for sure”; each time he exhales, he feels empty. Maybe he’s a little tired. Kinda dizzy. It’s not that bad, though. Even without his morning playlist, it’s really not that bad. No giving up, no giving up—

“Hey, hey,” Meian ducks beneath the net; Bokuto watches between slow blinks as his captain’s shoes step close to his own. “I think that’s enough for today, Bokuto.” 

Bokuto wipes at the sweat pooling beneath his eyes; “I’m alright, Shugo-san, I promise,” and he nods to himself, like the promise is for his own sake, no giving up, he’s not giving up. 

But Meian’s guiding him with a steady hand to the benches. “Take a breather for me, ‘kay?” There’s a water bottle in Bokuto’s hands now. Bokuto watches his captain’s shoes jog away, step, step, step. The bottle hangs heavy from his fingers. He just sits and breathes for a while; he’s not sure for how long. 

Then it’s Sakusa’s black shoes that step into view. Bokuto cranes his neck up to the towering wing spiker; he’s got a mask on already, and a hoodie, too, even though practice is only halfway over. “Where are you going, Omi-Omi?” Bokuto lilts, struggling to keep his head high. 

Sakusa lifts up a small ring of keys. “C'mon.” 

“Bokuto-san,” Hinata had chirped, “are you looking for a roommate?” 

Bokuto’s mouth was full of salty fries. “A wha?” 

They’d met up at McDonalds the week Hinata returned from Brazil. Bokuto remembers the way Hinata’s new tan glowed beneath the golden arches. 

“You mentioned you’re looking for a place!” Hinata slurped on his drink. “I’m kind of crashing at Atsumu-san’s right now. But if I make the team—“

Bokuto yelped through fries: “You will!” 

“IF I make it,” Hinata said again, smiling wide, and Bokuto gripped his hand from across the table. 

“You will, you will—“ Bokuto finally swallowed his food. “You will, Hinata!” Hinata trying out for the MSBY Black Jackals was the best news Bokuto had heard since ever, maybe. Every day since he’d learned it, he’d felt bouncier, like there were balloons in his shoes, or something.

Hinata laughed, clapping another hand atop Bokuto’s. “Okay, I will, I’ll make the team! But then I’ll need to move to Osaka for real. And it’s super okay if you’re not interested, but I’d be happy to room with you, Bokuto-san!” 

“Oh! Right!” Bokuto lifted Hinata’s hands, and he nodded; Hinata would be an amazing roommate. He would. They were so alike; maybe too alike, but even then, all of the condos he’d checked out so far were big enough for two ridiculously awesome and good-looking athletes like them. It made perfect sense. And yet; “I’m sorry Hinata. I’m just looking for a place for myself, actually!” 

Hinata smiled, endlessly bright. “That’s okay, Bokuto-san! I figured it’d be good to ask!” 

“Yeah,” Bokuto grinned back, “I’m glad you did! Heck, I’d be proud to live with my number one disciple!”

Hinata gleamed. Bokuto did, too; it felt very good to be reunited with someone he loved and missed. It felt the way he imagined the sun felt to Hinata in Brazil. Hinata leaned back, fiercely determined. “I can’t wait to play volleyball with you again, Bokuto-san! I’ll make the team!” 

And Hinata did; he signed with the MSBY Black Jackals, and Bokuto moved into a condo big enough for one ridiculously awesome, good-looking athlete. His mother had disapproved; it was too cramped, too tiny, too plain for you, Koutarou.

Bokuto wondered if he should frame some photos, or buy a plant, or two. 

Sakusa was famously the only baby Jackal with a car; it was a clean, black Prius, and all the Jackals loved watching the near nightly routine of Atsumu begging for rides to dinner. Sakusa never gave rides; it was part of the joke. 

But Bokuto was half-asleep in the Prius’s passenger seat now, which is turning a fuzzy Bokuto feeling he’d been having into a certified Bokuto fact: he’d somehow gotten on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s good side, though he’s not sure when, or how. 

“You can sleep,” Sakusa says. He tips his chin toward the radio. “Or hook up your music, or something.” 

Bokuto shakes his head. “It’s a short drive, Omi-Omi. I’ll keep you company.” His reflection in the side view mirror is all droopy, but he tries to smile back at Sakusa anyways. It had probably been Meian’s idea, for Sakusa to give Bokuto a ride home. It seemed like a strange thing for Sakusa to offer outright. A waste of time, really, and Sakusa hated wasting. Bokuto’s reflection gets droopier still. He rubs hard at his brow; “Sorry to put you out like this, Omi-Omi. It won’t happen again. Really.” 

He checks his phone again, probably the fifth time since plopping into the passenger's seat.

No reply. 

Sakusa keeps his eyes on the road, and silently flicks the turn signal. They sit in the silence for some time, shifting and jostling at the Prius’s slight stops and turns. But then Sakusa speaks, his gaze still fixed on traffic: “I think you’re strange.” 

Sakusa’s bluntness never stung Bokuto; it always made him laugh. Now though, it just made him wonder. “Hm.” 

Sakusa’s dark eyes darted to Bokuto’s in the rearview mirror, their own secret sort of “hm”. 

Bokuto watches Osaka slip past the window; “I kinda feel strange.” He catches himself right as Sakusa’s grip tightens on the steering wheel: “Not like! Sick or anything! Don’t worry! I’m,” Bokuto wants to say fine, but that feels like lying. But he knows he’s not ill; that’s a different kind of hurting. 

“I wasn’t worried,” Sakusa says, but his grip remains white-knuckled. They sit in the silence again, but then Sakusa huffs beneath his mask, and he asks, “Why do you feel strange.” 

Some other version of Bokuto—the younger, wilder him—would’ve spilled his guts outright to Sakusa Kiyoomi in his black Prius, from the train slamming in his heart, to the way he’d spilled soda all across their table and bags the night before, to the shimmer in Akaashi’s eyes. That young Bokuto would’ve really liked the relief of explaining it all to a captive Sakusa, because he wasn’t good at holding things inside himself. When his Fukurodani teammates had told him his moods were too much, or when they’d try to ignore him until the tantrums washed away, even then Bokuto couldn’t keep it all in. He’d spent too many nights alone in that big, empty house, missing his sisters desperately, waking up minutes, seconds too late to say hello! good morning! I love you! to his parents before they drove off to some flight somewhere. No, pushing bad stuff down and locking it all away felt worse than losing volleyball games, worse than anything; pushing his feelings down would be the bitter proof—the truth—that Bokuto was on his own. 

Of course, that all changed when he’d met Akaashi. 

He flicks his phone's screen on again.

Read 1:47am.

Bokuto rubs at the sleep in his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” 

That at least feels halfway true. 

Sakusa’s expression pinches. But it always does that. 

They pull up in front of Bokuto’s apartment, parallel to the blue river. Sakusa leans over the wheel, craning his neck up to the tall, plain building. “This is your place,” he says, and Bokuto thinks it’s a question, so he answers,

“Yup!” Bokuto gathers up his gym bag onto his lap. “Thanks again for the ride, Omi-Omi. I owe you big time.” He pictures baking Sakusa a cake, or buying him lots of hand sanitizer.

“You really don’t,” Sakusa says, quiet, leaning back into his seat. 

He’s saying that because he can’t see the cake in Bokuto’s head. “We’ll see about that!” Bokuto swings his car door open and drags one heavy leg outside, 

but Sakusa leans over, stretching his seatbelt taut. “Are you sure you’re okay.” 

Bokuto laughs. He doesn’t know why. “I told you, I’ll be okay! It’s nothing,” that’s a lie, it’s definitely something, but it’s not something Sakusa cares to know about, probably. But Bokuto’s strong. Stronger than he’s ever been in his life. He’s not giving up—

“You can,” Sakusa’s brow is extra-furrowed; he struggles to say something, and then unfurls some fingers, “talk to us. Or. To Hinata, if that’s who you’re most comfortable with. I don’t know.”

“I,” Bokuto shakes his head, and he’s still smiling, though it’s lesser now, “I do talk to Hinata.” 

Sakusa sighs; his eyes squeeze shut. “I know you do.” They open again. Sakusa’s eyes are really dark, but Bokuto’s always thought there was something soft about them. “Just let us know if you need anything, Bokuto.”

Bokuto waves. “I told you, Omi-Omi—” 

“I know what you told me,” Sakusa cuts in, and Bokuto almost startles. This is the most eye contact he’s ever held with Sakusa before; Bokuto feels like he can’t move. Sakusa speaks again, but slowly, like he’s trying to make sure Bokuto hears each word very clearly; “You’re allowed to need things, okay? Everyone does. You’re not an exception to the rule. Now get some sleep.” Sakusa leans back into his seat and rests his hands on the wheel again. 

Bokuto blinks himself out of whatever spell Sakusa's eyes can cast; he gives a timid nod. “Okay,” he says. “See you later.”

Sakusa offers a small hand gesture in return. He doesn’t pull away until Bokuto’s entered his apartment’s lobby. 

Bokuto still feels a cake would be fitting; tea flavored, maybe. Nothing too sweet. 

He passes out the moment his head hits his pillows, one kneepad off, and the second crumpled about his ankle. 

Akaashi had never seemed to like sweets either, or at least not as much as Bokuto did; Akaashi preferred hearty lunches. He loved balance. Moderation. 

Bokuto dreams of stray grains of rice. 

Akaashi passed him the Kitsune mask. "I think you and I are very different, Bokuto-san." 

Once, Konoha called Akaashi Jiminy Cricket during practice. The team had laughed and nodded. But Akaashi didn't; neither did Bokuto. 

Bokuto dreams of wishing; 

"There are some other things I'd like to do, Bokuto-san," Akaashi had said beneath the lunchtime tree, and it was alright, 

it didn't make Bokuto sad, 

but it didn't make Bokuto happy either, 

and it did make Bokuto wish for something, 

and he dreams of wishing;

"I am recently single," Akaashi said, 

and that made Bokuto very sad;

deeply sad, 

like his heart was a cave, and the cave had empty echoes. 

Akaashi reached across the seat on the bus; he'd squeezed Bokuto's hand. 

And on that day beneath the lunchtime tree, 

Bokuto's very last day of high school, 

Bokuto wished he'd reached over and taken Akaashi's hand, too. Held it for as long as he could. Forever, maybe. 

He'd imagined its sweetness;

a deep kind of sweet, 

the way Akaashi's hand would fit just right in his. 

The way Akaashi made him feel balanced. 

Dust glimmering in the light around Akaashi's lashes; 

he made Bokuto happy. 

He wished he'd reached. 

Bokuto dreams of reaching; 

It's a slow rumble in his pocket that gently pulls him from his sleep, awaking to a bedroom bathed in late evening light. 

Bokuto lamely tries to slide the rest of his kneepad off his ankle. It takes several tries, and a slow yawn. 

The rumble rumbles; 

Bokuto pries the phone from his shorts; the ringtone begins to blare. He reads the caller ID. 

("do we not talk anymore akaashi?" Bokuto had texted; 

"No, Bokuto-san, 

We don't.") 

Bokuto nearly falls out of bed from sitting up so fast. "Akaashi!" he blurts, but his fingers fumble on the screen; he presses answer; "Akaashi." 

And even though it's quiet on the other end, Bokuto knows Akaashi's there, and that he's thinking before he speaks. So he lets him think. 

"Hello, Bokuto-san," Akaashi finally says. "I was calling to," and then there's quiet again. "Maybe we could," more quiet. 

"Do you want to talk, Akaashi?" Bokuto maybe grips his phone too tight. 

Akaashi’s answer is soft. "Yes." 

Chapter Text

Be patient as your ink is drying;

it could smear all over, 

and stain you. 

“Chitose,” Akaashi says. “Her name was,” 

and then he’s quiet; 

“…is, Chitose.” 

“Chitose,” Bokuto echoes back into the phone. He knew a Chitose in elementary school. But it probably wasn’t Akaashi’s Chitose. 

Akaashi’s fiancé, 

Chitose. 

The sky washes Bokuto’s bedroom with a faded gray sort of light. 

He tucks in his knees and digs his toes into his blankets; “When did you meet her?” 

Bokuto met Akaashi during his second year of high school at the Fukurodani gym. Bokuto was looking at Akaashi for several moments before Akaashi turned to look to him. Bokuto had already been smiling; he remembers the echo of it in his cheeks and nose. 

“My second year of university,” Akaashi answers; his voice sounds like it’s further than Tokyo. Like Akaashi’s halfway around the world. 

Akaashi’s second year of university was Bokuto’s first year of V-League. 

“She asked me on a date,” Akaashi continues, and Bokuto can picture the scene; a library; a pretty girl; Akaashi studying with peaceful focus. “And I said yes, because,” Akaashi works through his thoughts like they’re something buried; like he’s prying them free; like they’re hiding; “I thought that’s what you would’ve done, you would’ve said yes, and been... spontaneous,” Bokuto wonders if that’s true; it probably is; though he isn’t quite certain; “so I said yes. We went to an aquarium.” 

Bokuto’s never once been to an aquarium with Akaashi. 

But Chitose has. 

The shadows and light in his bedroom are all mixed now, and even. He can barely make out the lines of his doorframe, or the photos hung up on the wall. 

“We,” Akaashi sighs then, and Bokuto’s chest feels tight; he wonders if Akaashi misses her; misses Chitose; if Akaashi’s reaching, too, just like Bokuto has been; “She and I were very similar. It was. Easy. In that way.” 

Similar, Bokuto thinks. 

Maybe Chitose also likes plants that curl and climb, then. Yeah,

and also, she must smile while she eats her onigiri. Maybe she frowns at the very last bite, too. Every time. 

And Bokuto supposes she’s smart like Akaashi, and then double that in kindness—no, triple that, and then some. Because that’d be just like him.

Easy, Bokuto thinks; easy.

That makes sense to him.

Akaashi is very easy to be with. 

Bokuto and Akaashi weren’t very alike. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, gentle. 

Bokuto blinks slowly in the dimness; he hugs his knees. “I’m here, Akaashi,” he says back, even though he doesn’t feel here. He’s glad that they’re talking, he assures himself. It’s a good thing. It really is. Even if it’s wrecking him, sort of, secretly. Even though he’s never felt further from Akaashi than in this moment on the phone in the dark gray room. Even then, he’s glad that they’re talking. 

He just wishes he had more to say. 

“I know it must all be,” Akaashi really doesn’t sound like himself; he swallows, and starts again. “I understand if you’re upset with me, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto blinks; his toes bury themselves deeper in the blankets. “I’m not, Akaashi,” and he isn’t, “I’m not upset with you,” he isn’t upset with Akaashi at all, not even a little, “I mean, I’m a little upset,” oh, “with you,” oh, “but this isn’t, you know. About me.” Bokuto pushes the tidal wave churning inside him down, down, down, with a tightly made fist; don’t give up. “It’s not about me.” 

Akaashi is quiet again, for the longest time yet.

Bokuto pulls the blankets over his knees, and around his arms. He tucks it beneath his chin. “I’m glad you’re telling me now, Akaashi. That's all that—” 

“It is about you.”

Bokuto can’t see anything in the dark. “Hm?” 

Akaashi takes a breath. “It is about you, Bokuto-san.” 

“Oh,” Bokuto whispers. He pulls at the blanket. 

He pushes the wave in him, down, down, down.

“I,” Akaashi’s voice is low; “I wanted very badly to forget you.” 

And it’s very slow, 

and then it’s fast—

Bokuto’s heart breaking, 

like CRACK. 

Like, 

“Oh,” Bokuto rests his chin on his knees, swallowed whole by the dark.  

Like that. 

Chapter Text

Screentones add texture; depth; a new dimension.

Before, your drawing was just that—a drawing.

Now, it’s something else; something slightly more.

“What are you doing, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto scrunched his knees up instinctively, squishing the open notebook flat against his chest. “Akaashi, look away! It’s not ready!”

Akaashi blinked twice from his spot beneath the lunchtime tree. His skin almost appeared a pretty blue color in the shade, as if he were a very quiet flower. “I won’t look. Though I’m quite curious.”

“Well, you have to be super patient, Akaashi, ‘cuz I’m not done,” Bokuto waved his mechanical pencil around, and then unfolded his knees very cautiously. Heck, he’d probably have to start over; the drawing hardly looked anything like Akaashi (the expression wasn’t right, and bodies are hard to draw when they’re sitting), and the perspective was all off. He’d read about 3-point perspective in Weekly Shonen Vie recently, and it fascinated him. “Akaashi, everything is in perspective, did you know that?”

Akaashi blinked again. “I don’t think I follow.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto sketched in a horizon line with his clumsy square hand; “it confused me too.”

“Forget me,” Bokuto says, and the words feel paper thin in his mouth.

He thinks he hears Akaashi’s breathing through the speaker, or maybe it’s just his own. It’s hard to tell.

Forget me, Bokuto thinks. The thought feels heavier.

He used to forget how to spike volleyballs in high school. It always made Konoha scoff, but Bokuto really meant it; the forgetting would happen so easily, and dramatically. Like he’d never even held a volleyball before, or ever played in a volleyball game.

But Bokuto doesn’t think he could ever forget Akaashi. Not even if he gave his all.

“Bokuto-san, I apologize,” Bokuto can almost feel the way Akaashi must be clutching his phone, “That was… inappropriate of me, I shouldn’t have said—“

“I’m sorry, Akaashi,” Bokuto says.

“What?” Akaashi pauses, then says his name again; “Bokuto-san.”

“I’ve been,” the tears fall very easily, like Bokuto’s sixteen again, “really selfish, haven’t I.”

He doesn’t get an answer right away, but he doesn’t really need one; he thinks he understands, now.

(No, heroes should never give up;

but they should also do the right thing. That’s kind of the whole point, right?)

“I’m really, really sorry, Akaashi,” he repeats, and he means it, he wants Akaashi to know it, “I mean it, I—I’ve been trying to forget it all too, you know? I’ve been trying hard, for a while now,” all of the careful strategies he uses to keep himself from unraveling, the stringent, unfailing routine, “I know that I was, I was too much. It’s okay,” he roughly palms at the tears on his cheeks, and a smile nearly forms, “you don’t have to pretend or anything, Akaashi.”

“Bokuto-san, please stop,” Akaashi says.

“And I kinda wanted to show you,” Bokuto nods to himself, “show everyone, that I’m,” normal, and reliable; a deserving ace; he wanted to show Akaashi the money plant in his kitchen that hadn’t died yet, its leaves spilling over the cabinets; he wanted Akaashi to come sit in the reading chair that Bokuto never uses because he prefers stretching out on the couch, he’d just always known Akaashi would like that reading chair; that was the reason he bought it. “I’m better now, I think,” Akaashi made him better, he thinks, but he has to do the right thing; “but I really get it, I was—“

“You have never been a burden to me, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi’s words rush through the speaker, “never in all the time I’ve known you—“

“It’s okay, Akaashi,” it’d been such a long, long time since Bokuto cried like this, but at least it doesn’t hurt all that much. It’s weirdly satisfying, like dropping a weight to the gym floor. “It’s okay. I’m fine now, and I really want you to be happy. I’m sorry for just, bursting in like this, you know? You have an amazing life! You were right—“

“Bokuto-san,” his name sounds like a warning that time. “You’re very mistaken, about all of this. Please,” Akaashi takes a short breath, “just let me explain myself. This wasn’t my intention—“

“Akaashi,” Bokuto swallows hard. It’s not a bad thing; just a true thing. “We’re different now.” They’d always been different. “I’m sorry about Chitose.” More sorry than he could ever say. He needed to fix this.

“No,” Akaashi sounds strange. “That’s not. Bokuto-san, I’m not—“

“I’m gonna go,” Bokuto eyes feel so tired and sting with tears. “I’m gonna go.”

He hangs up the phone and hides it, tossing it in a cluttered drawer.

He curls back up in bed.

And even though his ears are readily perked for the sound of an incoming call,

Akaashi doesn’t call back.

(It’s alright;

he’s better now;

they both are.)

Bokuto tries his hardest to sleep, but ends up staring at his oldest friend, the stupid ceiling, instead.

The following weeks are very quiet, but not in a way that makes Bokuto itch too much.

He falls easily into the routine again; that one day at practice was just a blip, really. A one-off. Exhaustion from a poorly planned trip; he hadn’t rested properly, that’s all.

He gets stronger.

He’s idly aware of Sakusa’s eyes during practice; following him, measuring something, though Bokuto isn’t sure what that something could be. One day Sakusa even joins Hinata and Bokuto for lunch (although he refuses the fries Hinata buys for the table). It’s still decidedly fun; at one point Sakusa rolls his eyes at one of Bokuto’s jokes, which feels like some kind of victory.

Bokuto listens to his playlists;

he whistles softly while washing dishes.

He jogs along the river, buys new running shoes.

He gets faster.

He doesn’t try to forget Akaashi, ‘cuz that would be a silly thing to do,

but maybe he understands the logic a little more, now;

onigiri makes his heart ache.

“You quit the gig?” Atsumu’s head pops out from his towel, blonde hair splayed like a sea urchin’s needles.

Bokuto nods. “Yup.” He brings his foot up to the bench to tie his laces.

“Huh?” Atsumu looks all around the locker room, from Bokuto, to Hinata, to Sakusa. “Wha? How did I not know this?”

Sakusa shuts his locker’s metal door, shaking his head softly. “He told us all a month ago.”

Hinata confirms with a little nod, not quite smiling, not quite frowning, like he’s not sure who in the room to appease.

Atsumu double takes, like he’s been slapped by the news. “I don’t know what to say—“

“Okay, how about you just don’t say anything, then?” Sakusa neatly folds his practice wear, but the creases are sharp, cutting lines.

Atsumu gestures a hand out towards Bokuto’s bench. “Well, did something happen?” He flits his head towards Hinata and whispers; “Is it Akaashi?”

“Miya,” Sakusa snaps.

But Bokuto tugs his laces taut; he says, a little too loudly, “Yes.”

The locker room goes quiet then. Atsumu’s jaw clamps tight.

Bokuto stands, slinging his gym bag carefully around his shoulder. The smile he gives Atsumu is small, but it’s a real one. “I’d really rather not talk about it, Tsum-Tsum, if that’s okay with you. Udai-sensei’s manga is going really well, and I want to give my best to the team.” He makes his way to the exit.

“I’ll walk with you, Bokuto-san,” Hinata says, hopping over quickly to Bokuto’s side.

“Bokuto,” Atsumu says, and then he stands, “hey, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bokuto calls over his shoulder. He means it, but something burns in his throat with the words. 

They leave; Sakusa follows immediately after.

Like a puppy whimpering softly after their owner once the door’s been shut; that’d been Bokuto all throughout high school. For long, boring days and really quiet nights and entire sticky summers, he’d wait for his family to show.

And they did!

His sisters came to a handful of games, and cheered his name gleefully in the stands. They always kissed his cheek, the same way they did when he still looked the part of adorable baby brother. It made Bokuto blush fiercely, and he loved it.

His mother bought him that watch he never uses (always opting for his phone or Akaashi to tell him the time), but he kept that watch on his windowsill, and the sun would sparkle on its face.

His father called him the day after his high school graduation to congratulate him, and wish him luck at his future team try-outs.

His family loved him; he was their pride.

That was a Bokuto Koutarou fact.

He missed his family, often. Always.

That was a fact, too.

He’d never actually told Akaashi these particular feelings, which was funny, because he told Akaashi everything. But not this. Complaining about sore muscles and bad weather and boring movies and lackluster crowds at games all rolled easily off Bokuto’s tongue.

But not this; not missing his oldest sister’s hearty laugh, or the way his father would always announce in the wide entryway, a smile in his golden eyes, “Hey, hey, hey! Is anybody home?”, back when they were all home together more often, and the house was always full.

He never told Akaashi any of that.

But Akaashi knew it; Bokuto’s sure of that now.

He reviews the footage; plays it back in his mind;

that quiet, constant presence behind his shoulder;

the persistent kindness veiled behind that even, immovable face;

every lunch by the lunchtime tree,

every dinner made lovingly by Akaashi’s mother’s hands,

every one last toss in the gym, turning into a never-ending night of one-last-tosses.

Bokuto missed his family, often. Always.

But he’d never known to miss Akaashi;

Akaashi would always be there.

December sneaks up on Bokuto from behind, tapping him on his shoulder and reminding him to hurry up and buy gifts for all his great friends.

Hinata was historically easy to shop for; they both shared the same impeccable taste in graphic tees, and a mutual fondness for manga. He grabs a shirt from the mall that reads AIM HIGH! NOW, AIM HIGHER!, and hides it in his closet for eventual fancy gift-wrapping.

“You really are the sweetest, Bokuto,” Udai laughs over the phone one night, “but I’m more of a quality time guy. You don’t need to buy me anything for Christmas.”

“Are you sure? Not even a sketchbook, Udai-sensei?” Bokuto drums his fingers along his coffee table. A very genius idea strikes: “Oh! Or markers?”

He can hear Udai’s grin. “Knowing you’s the real gift, Bokuto!”

“Ha!” Bokuto rubs the back of his neck. “That’s clever!”

“It’s just the truth.” There’s a pause. “We really miss you down here, buddy. How’ve you been?”

Bokuto winces at the “we”. But he nods. “I’m good. Real good,” he says, super convincing. He doesn’t have much more to add. “Excited for the manga.”

He hears Udai huff. “Yeah, me too, mostly. It’s been crazy. But Shonen Vie’s honestly marketing us this time, y’know, in a real way. I think they’re excited for it.” He laughs darkly. “People might actually read this thing.”

Bokuto straightens up from his seat on the couch. He jabs his chest with his thumb. “Hey hey! I’m Zombie Knight Zom’bish’s eternal number one fan! Every chapter, every week! You’re an amazing mangaka, Udai-sensei.”

Udai wheezes. “You’re a real riot, you know that?”

Bokuto smiles. “It’s just the truth, like you said!”

“Maybe so—“ Udai’s voice cuts off then, and Bokuto hears a soft murmur. Udai answers the murmur, his voice far from the speaker; he says, “I know,” and “I will, I promise. Yeah. Yes. Goodnight.” Bokuto’s gut turns a little bit sideways; Udai must still be at the office.

“I don’t want to keep ya, Udai-sensei!” Bokuto says, all chipper, but Udai returns his focus quickly.

“No no, wait,” Udai’s voice is loud and clear again, “Bokuto, there uh… there is a gift, actually. That you can get me.”

“Oh!” Bokuto perks. “Of course! Just name it!” He pictures whipping out colorful markers for Udai with great flair.

“There’s gonna be a party,” Udai says, “for Meteo Attack’s debut. The weekend before Christmas Eve. And I’d really, really love for you to come, Bokuto. You’d basically be the guest of honor!”

Now, normally Bokuto’s heart would be fluttering at the sound of pure praise like that. He’d be loopy with it. Normally. But Bokuto’s laugh came out all tight and strained. “Hey! Wow. Udai-sensei. That… that honestly sounds amazing!” An invitation to a party for a debut manga by the company that basically raised him—amazing wasn’t a worthy enough word for it at all; “I’m really flattered! I am! But maybe… I dunno! I’d hate to be a distraction, and you and, ah,” Bokuto blinks, “you and the team deserve—“

“You’d be that party’s saving grace, Bokuto,” Udai was using his no-bullshit voice (the one where his mouth is smiling but his eyes aren’t), “trust me; aside from myself, Akaashi’s the only one in our department who actually knows how to have fun, and that’s saying something.”

And Bokuto can’t help but snort at that. He rests his hand in his cheek, letting his head hang heavy. He just sits there for a moment, thoughtful, humming softly.

(They hadn’t texted, or spoken, or anything since that phone call in the dark.

They just don’t talk anymore.

It’s fine.

He’s fine.)

“Just… just think about it,” Udai says, popping Bokuto out from that little, solemn bubble. “I know you’re ridiculously busy, and there’s no pressure at all. But,” and Udai takes a deep breath, and then he exhales it all out, “no, yeah, I just… I really think it’d be a good thing, y’know? I think it’d be good. For you to come. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Bokuto wrings his wrist a bit, twisting at his compression sleeve; it’s pretty hard to say no when Udai puts it that way. (Udai was a good person. Bokuto had decided that the first second he ever met him, but he was reminded of that now, too.) Still, Bokuto swallows back a quiet anxiety; it churns and rumbles in his chest, like an ocean far away. “I can maybe come, then. Sure! Or—“

“Think about it,” Udai gently suggests again. “You really don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Bokuto.”

“Right,” Bokuto nods, “yes! Thank you, Udai-sensei. I’ll definitely think about it.”

Udai brightens so obviously, it’s like sunshine beams out from Bokuto’s phone; “You’re the best!”

Normally, Bokuto would agree very loudly, and in earnest. But nothing’s very normal, lately.

Least of all him.

There’s a knock at Bokuto’s apartment door one snowy night and two thoughts cross his mind:

1. It’s a spy sent from another V-League team in an attempt to study Bokuto’s life and write down all his secrets to becoming a world renowned volleyball ace. (He’d watched some movie the other night about a spy and it was extremely cool and very fresh in his mind. Being a spy would be great fun.)
2. It’s Akaashi.

He isn’t really sure which thought was least likely.

But the answer was actually more surprising than both, because when Bokuto squints through the door viewer, it’s Miya Atsumu’s image that he sees.

“Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto crows, and he fumbles for the door handle. When the door swings open, Atsumu doesn’t move to enter just yet, standing brusquely with his hands stuffed down his sweatpants’ pockets. There’s bits of snow caught in his bangs, his cheeks pinched pink from the cold. His eyes peek over Bokuto’s shoulder once and towards the living room area, but they just as quickly dart back to Bokuto, dark brows set like stones.

“Uh,” Atsumu finally cocks his chin once, too intentionally cool to ever come across as genuinely cool (though Bokuto thought Atsumu was cool, genuinely). “Hey Bokuto. I. Uh.” His mouth forms a very blunt line.

Bokuto just stares dumbly back, his mouth mirroring the same line.

Suddenly, Atsumu slaps a bag slung round his back, smack. “I brought my Switch,” he says, and when Bokuto doesn’t reply right away, he adds, “there’s a new Zelda game. I thought. We could.” Atsumu nods, like he’s just now agreeing to the idea himself: “Hang out.”

Bokuto blinks several times. “Oh! Okay! Oh,” Bokuto looks to the not-yet-scrubbed pile of dishes by his sink, and the small mountain of loose paper decorating his couch, “oh…”

“Damn,” Atsumu breaks from his stance, shuffling past Bokuto to deposit his shoes in the hall. “This place is real nice, Bokkun! I kinda always pictured…” He waves a hand around in expressive circles.

Bokuto locks the front door, waiting patiently for Atsumu to describe whatever he kinda always pictured.

But Atsumu doesn’t, just shrugs and looks into the circular mirror hung up on the wall, fingering at the snow in his hair. “Y’know what, I lied. This is just like when I figured out you dress nice, too. You have stupidly good taste.”

Bokuto thinks that was meant to be a compliment. “Thanks, Tsum-Tsum! I just—“

“Like what ya like,” Atsumu finishes, admiring a tiny folded paper owl on a shelf.

“Mm,” Bokuto nods. “Well, make yourself at home! Are you hungry at all? I could cook us up something!” Bokuto pads his way into the kitchen and starts for the dirty dishes, feeling oddly formal. He was plenty close with Atsumu, or as close as Atsumu allowed, but this felt like a strange new territory, watching the fox meander freely round his bird’s nest.

“Nah, I’m not too hungry. Later.” Atsumu plops onto the couch, its cushions loudly huffing beneath his weight. Bokuto hears the piles of paper that rested there slip and slide to the floor.

“Sorry about those,” Bokuto quickly drops the plate in his hand and rushes to Atsumu’s seat, grabbing for the mess.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Atsumu reaches for a page or two, brows knit as sheepishly as his proud face could manage; “Made myself a little too at home.” His eyes squint at the contents of the pages in his hand then, and his nose wrinkles. “Bokkun,” he says, “did you draw these?”

Bokuto’s cheeks go hot. “Ah, no. I mean. Sorry, that was a lie! Yes,” Bokuto pulls the page from Atsumu’s fingers, “but it’s just, like,” he quickly stuffs the papers into the coffee table’s sleek cedar drawer, “it’s not serious! Or anything. It’s just for fun.” When the drawings are sufficiently tucked away, he makes towards the sink again, but he hears Atsumu shift loudly on the couch.

“Oi! Bokuto!”

Bokuto goes stiff, like a criminal caught red-handed.

“I didn’t come here to watch you play Cinderella,” Atsumu jerks his head roughly to beckon him.

Bokuto gulps, shrinking back over to the empty spot on his couch. “Sorry, Tsum-Tsum.”

And Atsumu sighs, though it sounds more like a growl. “And I didn’t come to listen to you sorry me left n’ right, you dope.” Atsumu flinches. “Agh. Well. Now I’m sorry. That wasn’t proper.”

They sit, then, in a silence that feels ill-fitting for them both.

Bokuto feels his shoulders bunch up. “Tsum-Tsum, why are you here?”

Atsumu gestures like it’s obvious. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Bokuto nods, because he’s pretty sure the answer is yes.

Unzipping his backpack with a big shrug, Atsumu announces, “Friends hang out!”. He brandishes the Nintendo Switch, like ta-daaa, but Bokuto still feels like something else remains unspoken. Though Atsumu goes through the motions of setting up his games, a thought works through his face: it gnaws at his brow, and makes his eyes dart in small motions, until finally he gives in: “I guess I kinda wanted to… talk, too. About something.”

That relaxes Bokuto a bit, and he lets himself get comfy, folding his legs all criss-cross on the couch. “Okay, sure! What’s up!”

Waves pass through Atsumu’s expression, like he’s fighting between fifty things to say all at once. Finally, he crosses his arms, settling on just one, decided thing: “You drive me crazy,” he says, like it’s some big reveal,

but Bokuto just laughs. “You tell me that every day, Tsum-Tsum, I know!”

“No,” Atsumu shakes his head, “more than usual. More than ever. And I’m tired of it, honest. I’m just done.”

“Done with…” Bokuto’s throat feels scraggly, “me?”

“I’m done with all this,” and he spits the next word, “perfection bullshit. It’s making you unhappy, Bokuto. It’s not like you.”

Perfection . The word rings in Bokuto’s ears, bounces off the white walls. “I really don’t know,” Bokuto starts, and then he starts again, blinking hard, “I’m confused.”

“I’m confused, too,” Atsumu runs a hand through his bleached hair, “and I have been, for a while, because I’ve never met someone so aggravatingly transparent. I remember those games in high school, Bokuto. I remember your face goin’ all dark n’ gloomy without warning, dragging your feet across the court like dead weights. And I used to hate it, too. You pissed me off. Fukurodani’s ace, switching on and off, on and off, whenever he liked. That team saved your ass so many times, Bokuto. You got them across a lot of finish lines, but your team had to drag you tooth n’ nail to those finish lines first.”

I know, Bokuto’s heart bleeds, I know, I know, I know. It’s like Atsumu’s jabbing his thumb into a purple bruise; Bokuto winces at the pain blooming there.

But Atsumu must see it, because his hard edges go soft. He lets a long breath through his nose, and then speaks again. “It’s not like that mattered much, right?” Atsumu’s eyes are really clear, like water. “‘Cuz they loved you. It’s not hard to, even when you’re a pain in the ass, which is every day. In fact, that’s the easy work.” Atsumu makes to move his hand—to reach out, maybe—but he keeps it in his lap, forming a small fist. “Bokuto, I’ve always known you to be an honest, deeply good person. You just… you give it all, to everything, and then some. You dress good. Your apartment looks like a fuckin’ magazine cover. I mean, look at this fuckin’ couch, I shouldn’t be sitting on this thing, it looks like some couch from a movie set or something.”

Bokuto laughs.

“And I’ve been an asshole, I know,” Atsumu rolls on, looking off to the grain in the hardwood floor, “giving you all this shit for the manga consulting stuff. But I’ve just,” Atsumu flinches at some memory, shakes his head with a furrowed brow; he starts again, “I get away with so much crap, Bokuto. I’m such a jerk. I get impatient in fan meets. I push Omi’s buttons ‘cuz I know I can. I forget to call Samu back. I get mad, all the time. I’m always mad.”

Bokuto thinks of all the times Atsumu’s smiled at Hinata like he’s the sun. “That’s not true.”

Atsumu gives a tired half-smile. “It’s at least a little true. And it’s alright, ‘cuz it’s me. But you,” Atsumu’s fist uncurls, “you’re playing the best you’ve ever played, and you make sure every kid in line gets your signature. You say all their names aloud, and you ask again if you didn’t hear it right the first time. You’re never late to practice, you don’t complain, you don’t drink. You diffuse tensions. You remember all our birthdays. You say thank you. You always say thank you, Bokuto, to Meian, to waitresses, to me, even when I’m shittier than shitty to you in the locker room, you say thank you to me. And even then, you’re not allowed to have a bad day? You’re not allowed to… let some damn dishes pile up? Just this once?” His brows scrunch, like he’s in pain. “Why can’t you be mad when someone hurts you?”

(Bokuto doesn’t know it then, but something is snipped within him. A string keeping all his scaffolding together; Atsumu just took scissors to it, like snip.)

“I’m,” Bokuto grasps for the automatic phrase, for the safe shield, I’m good, I’m fine, I won’t give up, but Atsumu beats him to it.

“You’re a terrible liar, Bokuto. Don’t try it.” It isn’t a jab. It might actually be the nicest thing Atsumu’s ever said to him. His grin is lop-sided. “Listen, do what you want. I don’t care. But if there’s just one person in all of Japan you can be not-okay with, it’s me.” He shrugs too, like he’s trying to brush off the all the earnestness in his words and let it fall to the floor where it’s harder to see.

Bokuto feels a little like he’s moving at half-speed. He nods, finally, maybe a few beats too late, and reaches quietly for the game controller on the coffee table. “Thanks,” he says, like an echo in a cave.

Atsumu doesn’t move for his own controller. “You okay?”

Bokuto shakes his head. Liberation. He says, “No.”

(He could’ve guessed this from any number of observations over the past few years in V-League, but it’s crystalized now as Atsumu slides down the couch and wraps Bokuto in a hug, burying him tight in his shoulder:

Miya Atsumu is a good brother, through and through.)

Chapter Text

This is every mangaka’s most formidable enemy: time.

Yes, with five more minutes you could give that cityscape an even finer level of lovingly observed, finely inked detail; sure, with an extra day, you could have made that double-page spread truly shine. That’s a splendid thought.

But a deadline is a deadline;

you can’t finesse forever.

“You’re still awake, Bokuto-san?”

Akaashi’s head was peeking over his bedside in the dark, blocking Bokuto’s view of the low, angled ceiling.

Bokuto blinked, which felt like nothing in the night. “No.” He swallowed, throat all groggy. He amended, a little guilty: “Yes.”

Akaashi loomed for a bit, like a friendly shadow. Then the shadow shifted, the bed squeaking quietly in response. The shadow spoke: “Is something troubling you.”

“No, no,” Bokuto waved a hand in the air. “I’m okay, Akaashi! I have trouble falling asleep sometimes, that’s all,” and in his mind, he echoed, reassuring: that’s all.

But Akaashi’s head rose an inch in the dark. “I’ve watched you fall asleep while walking.”

“It was a lot of barbecue, Akaashi.”

“We couldn’t find you during training when you fell asleep in the stairwell at Nekoma.”

“Comfiest stairwell I’ve ever slept in! No contest!”

Bokuto could just make out the silhouette of Akaashi’s hand in the dark; it rested on the edge of the bed, blocking Akaashi’s mouth from view. The fingers slightly relaxed, sinking into cream sheets. “You’re certain nothing is troubling you, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto wouldn’t have known how to answer him; not then. He was glad to be sleeping over at Akaashi’s house, with all its muffled creaking and the rumbly fan and the sound of cars stopping and going at the traffic signal just outside. He was glad to have Akaashi lying in the bed above the futon, like some kind of quiet, beautiful guardian. No, Bokuto couldn’t sleep, and his heart felt kind of sick, but he could reach out if he wanted, and Akaashi’s hand would be there.

“Go to sleep, Akaashi,” Bokuto whispered. “We’ve got practice in the morning.”

Akaashi didn’t reply; his eyes, blue and dark, but somehow light in the night, were the last thing Bokuto saw before finally drifting off to sleep.

Bokuto wakes with a heavy bob of his head. His arms are crossed, muscles all prickly with sleep. The coffee table is clean of the delivery sushi he and Atsumu had ordered, and only two Nintendo Switch controllers remained. Bokuto’s television glows, an image of Link mid-air, sword raised, mouth agape paused on the screen. Snow floats in smooth waves outside the apartment’s windows. Running water rings against dishes in the kitchen, and Bokuto twists around to see Atsumu returning plates and bowls to their cupboards.

“Oh, hey hey hey,” Bokuto gestures out with both hands, “I got it, you can just leave those in the sink, Tsum-Tsum!”

Atsumu lifts a pink bowl and shakes it lightly with his wrist. “Almost done. It’s cool. Also, Bokkun, can I crash here tonight? It’s late, and snowin’ pretty damn hard, and I’m,” Atsumu laughs, wiping around the pink bowl with a dish towel, “pretty damn lazy.”

Bokuto sinks into the couch again, feeling like a kid staying up way past their bedtime. “Of course! Yeah, of course. I’ll grab,” he actually didn’t have an extra futon; he’d never hosted anyone before in his apartment, not even his sisters, “uh, blankets! I’ll get you some blankets, and stuff! Is the couch okay?”

Atsumu nods; he stores the last of the dishes and twists the sink’s faucets, once, twice, until the water stops flowing. He yawns; “Works for me.”

The night feels sort of suspended, like life in a TIME OUT!, as Bokuto scrounges for the weighted MSBY blanket in his bedroom closet; just a few hours before, he’d told Atsumu…

everything, pretty much.

Everything he could think of, at least; the interview with Udai and Akaashi; his startling epiphany that he didn’t speak with Akaashi anymore. The unhappy tension Bokuto could feel himself bringing to Weekly Shonen Vie that made him feel like he was sixteen again, down-pouring on his team’s parade. Akaashi walking away, over and over and over again, and how every time it was awful, because Akaashi was walking away from him, specifically, something much deeper than that trademark neutrality coloring his eyes with each goodbye. There was something like pain there, and Bokuto could see it plainly; he’s not that stupid—

“Don’t say that,” Atsumu had said firmly, tapping Bokuto’s knee with his foot. “We don’t think that, nobody does. And I know you don’t either,” Atsumu’s brow was very serious, “so don’t say it.”

And Bokuto nodded, squeezing the pillow in his lap real tight.

He told Atsumu that the second he knew Akaashi was hurting, he’d wanted to do anything to fix it, everything and anything, and then some; he’d move five mountains, or give up barbecue and manga and hair gel, literally anything, because being Akaashi’s friend means so much more than lots of things in his life; maybe it was the most important thing; no, it was definitely the most important thing, because it made Bokuto’s heart feel kind of fiery, like how volleyball makes him feel,

and he told Atsumu about the engagement; it spilled out of him a little bit, and then Bokuto couldn’t damn it up, because it had been bubbling in him for weeks on end. He told him how he’d been totally blind, and selfish, and stupid, and Atsumu said, “Bo. Hey,” but Bokuto doubled down: “I was though, I really blew it, you should’ve seen him, I should’ve,” and Bokuto doesn’t know what he should’ve done. He doesn’t like how he feels so angry, thinking of her; it’d be different if the girl was his opponent on the volleyball court, a little bit of passion there never hurts, but she’s not some fated rival battling for a coveted title or prize. She’s just a girl who loved Akaashi, and treated him nicely, and probably made him laugh, like people do when they’re in love—they laugh, and go to aquariums, and they’re right for each other; they’re a happy ending to a great story, and everyone should want that, and Bokuto should want that for Akaashi, too; he shouldn’t feel all this ickiness in his chest at the thought of the quiet fish floating by in those big, blue displays. He really shouldn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t. And he told Atsumu about the terrible phone call that ruined things for good,

and Atsumu was quiet for a bit after that. His hand cupped his chin and mouth, and he wasn’t quite looking at Bokuto; he might’ve been looking at all of Bokuto’s ridiculous words instead.

“Sorry,” Bokuto muttered then, which Atsumu looked immediately and frankly offended by, so Bokuto had said again, “sorry,” which earned him a pretty significant and impressive pillow slap to the head.

“You’re literally never allowed to say that word again unless you botch the world’s cleanest fuckin’ toss from me, Bokuto, I’m talkin’ heaven sent,” Atsumu looked ready to punch a hole through a wall; “I mean it.”

Bokuto bit his tongue to keep from apologizing again.

Atsumu still had the far-off look, like he was adding numbers up in his head. He clawed a hand through his blonde hair. “You really are a strange one,” he mumbled.

Bokuto’d known that for a pretty long while now. But it’d also been a while since he’d really let it bother him. “I try not to be,” he admitted, and it sort of gutted him to say it aloud, “I try… really hard, actually. To be, you know.”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes.

Bokuto shrugged: “Normal.”

Then Atsumu was doing the math again, though this time it looked like the answers pissed him off. “Wait. Is this? This isn’t where all that normal ace talk is comin’ from, right?” he said, pointing a finger at Bokuto’s heart.

Bokuto knew not to say sorry, but it felt like the only correct answer again; he smiled sheepishly instead. The incoming pillow slap was at least a little less violent this time; it smooshed some of Bokuto’s hair to the side, the spikes all lopsided and slanty.

Atsumu let his pillow weapon slide off the couch. “Bokuto, I hate to break it to you, and I mean this with a whole lot of love,” he leaned in, placing a hand gently round Bokuto’s left ankle, and stated pretty gravely, “you will never be normal.” Bokuto winced a little; it both stung and didn’t sting, and after a second of letting the idea hang in the air, it also felt like the nicest thing Atsumu had ever said to him. A conspiratorial smile split across Atsumu’s face. “Take it from a resident weirdo. Hell, our team should get a fuckin’ award for how totally grade-A weird we all are.”

Bokuto couldn’t help but laugh at that, and Atsumu laughed, too; he continued, smiling wide, bright: “I’m dead serious! I was freakin’ worried at first, thinkin’, ‘This isn’t a team. This is an actual circus! Who the hell agreed to me, Omi-kun, Shouyou, and the big loud owl all playing on the same side of a court? They’re either an actual idiot,’” and Atsumu leaned in a little closer, something twinkly in his eye, “‘or a genius.’” Then, with a sigh: “Bokuto, I’d cry legitimate, ugly tears the day you walk into the gym normal. You’d be less of a pain in the ass, I guess, but you’d also be a worse player, and be boring, and not this,” Atsumu’s brow knitted, quizzical, “I don’t know. Just. Good. I think you’re weird because you’re really, really good, Bokuto. And it’s for real, it’s not for show.”

Bokuto sincerely wondered if that was true. The look on Atsumu’s face told him it might be. A look he’d remembered seeing on Akaashi’s face a long time ago told him it might be, too. He’d like to be good—the for real kind.

“And look,” Atsumu tossed his eyes up towards the ceiling, head resting on the couch, hair flopping all around, “‘Samu says I’m not a very good listener. He says I’m a shitty listener, more specifically. And I’m kinda tryin’ to work on that lately, with everyone, and you, so I’m tryin’ to listen, Bokkun. I am. But I dunno if I’m hearin’ you… correctly, with all this Akaashi stuff.” Atsumu’s eyes squeezed shut. “I’m really tryin’ to make sense of it. And I don’t wanna say somethin’ out of line, ‘cuz I’ve been known to do that, too.”

Bokuto felt torn again, some tense conflict in his core; he desperately wanted Atsumu to say what he was thinking, and he also wanted Atsumu to keep quiet if it had anything to do with Akaashi, anything at all.

But Bokuto waited.

Atsumu’s head rolled to the side, lazy, almost avoidant; he looked all over Bokuto’s face. And then he said, “One, I’m angry for you. If you don’t wanna be angry,” and he grinned, the corners of his mouth all twisty and playful, “because you are, again, extremely weird, then let me be. Because I am, I’m pretty angry about all of this. I think you deserve better, from him, and yourself. And two,”

the twisty grin receded.

He straightened in his seat then, looking to his feet and picking at a thread sticking out from his sock. “Nevermind. Not my place.”

Bokuto frowned; “What is it.”

“It really isn’t. Just,” Atsumu pressed his fingers to his brow again, pushing and pulling at the skin there. “I’m serious, I respect whatever his situation is, because if you’re weird, Akaashi’s the crowned king of weirdos, but… he needs to do better. Way better. You’re not the bad guy here, Bokuto, and I honestly fuckin’ hate that you think that.”

“Neither is he,” Bokuto sat taller at the thought.

Atsumu raised his hands. “I believe you,” he said, but Bokuto had heard that kind of tone before, like he was being placated.

Bokuto’s face warmed; “He isn’t, Tsum-Tsum. Akaashi’s the best person I know. He was always,” Bokuto leaned as hard as he could into his pillow; he knew what to say, because it was simple, but also, it was very big.

Late night spiking practice, and quiet conversations in gym corners; the shady lunchtime spot that no one else knew about, a secret that smelled like grass, and blossoms; a hand in his shirt, pulling him back from every edge; every text read on the dot, the moment Bokuto sent them, and they didn’t always get immediate responses, but Akaashi always read them, and that alone made the boulder in Bokuto’s chest feel a little less heavy; every toss on the court like a constellation, rooted in light, unshakable; that friendly shadow looming, their hand faintly outlined on the bed.

These were all the impressions in Bokuto’s heart when he said, “there.” His jaw clenched. “Akaashi was there for me.” He shook his head softly, the words like little ghosts off his lips, “I should’ve been there for him, too.”

They sat quietly for a while after that, Bokuto weakly clutching his pillow, Atsumu looking halfway ready to punch through a couple walls again. Bokuto thought it might be the same look he got during tight games, when the rival team isn’t so much beating them, but daring them to make the first false step. Atsumu was trying very hard to play smart here on the couch in Bokuto’s apartment, for whatever reason. And after a few more moments of mulling, he looked away to the television and said, “It wasn’t my idea to come here.” He ran a hand through his hair again, shook out the ends. Looked back to Bokuto’s eyes. “Omi-kun’s out of town visiting family, I guess, but he, ah. He called me, which,” Atsumu laughed, half-hearted, cheeks tinging a slight pink, “I thought would take someone holding him at gunpoint, y’know. But it didn’t; he was just worried about you.” Mischief flashed in Atsumu’s eyes. “He’d actually kill me for telling you that. But honest to god, he said, ‘Miya, I’m worried about Bokuto. You need to check on him.’ He gave me your address n’ everything. I said I’d bring Shouyou along, too, wouldn’t that be great, but uh, Omi-kun also said it was time for me to… hm. Grow up and show up, more or less. Like you do. All the time.” Atsumu’s face softened. “Even now, when things are so shitty. And I’m pissed. I hate when he’s right.”

Bokuto gave a slight smirk, something bitter holding it back. “I don’t want you guys to worry,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he meant to say it aloud.

“Like you worry about Akaashi,” Atsumu replied.

Bokuto blinked.

And Atsumu sighed, a breathy little laugh. “I know it’s not the same. And I’ll get off my high horse, I promise; I shouldn’t be preaching any of this stuff at you. I really shouldn’t. I know Akaashi’s,” there’s something careful in Atsumu’s words, “special. What you have is special. But there are a lot of folks out here who,” Atsumu pressed his forehead to his fist, and cursed a little under his breath. “Shit. Sorry, this stuff is hard, I’m no good at it.”

Bokuto finally placed his pillow aside, lifting a friendly hand to Atsumu’s shoulder, “Tsum-Tsum, you don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” Atsumu pushed Bokuto’s hand away, but didn’t let it go; he squeezed Bokuto’s wrist, voice almost disbelieving; “We all want to, Bokuto. You are working really damn hard to be worth the trouble and be this, I dunno, this omnipotent, perfect, normal ace and friend and hero or whatever, but it’s honestly no trouble. Seriously. You know that, right? Beating yourself up for being a person is just gonna leave you bruised. I need you to believe that. Otherwise, fuck. Yes. I’m worried, alright? We all are. You’re our friend, too.”

Bokuto let out a shaky breath. Atsumu had him pinned—a very well intentioned, bleach-blonde dagger—and Bokuto had no reasonable excuse to not say Yes, and You’re right; I’m too hard on myself; I should lean on you all; I should trust in my friends.

He knew it was all true. That there was maybe nothing truer.

But Akaashi, he would also say.

Would Akaashi still be gone?

A comically loud and colorful grumble sounded off in the room, and it took more than a second for Bokuto to realize that the culprit was actually his own stomach.

“Wow.” Bokuto patted his belly a little stupidly. “I guess I’m hungry.”

Atsumu snorted. “Yeah, I guess so.” And he eyed the time on his Apple watch, and shoved Bokuto’s discarded pillow back into his lap. “Let’s order something, yeah?”

They did. They ate and played Zelda with mouths full of rice and yellowtail, and they talked some more, some of it silly, and some of it stirring something tender in Bokuto’s soul.

And then Bokuto closed his eyes and dozed off for a bit.

He finds the weighted blanket in the closet, twists it up like pasta round a fork on his arm, and grabs a pillow in the shape of their mascot from a high shelf.

When Bokuto returns to the living room, Atsumu’s peeking into the coffee table’s single, sleek drawer. “I’d lie and say I’m looking for the remote,” Atsumu’s eyes squint, “but… I guess that’d make me a liar.”

“Ha!” Bokuto falls back onto the couch, tossing the blanket and pillow behind Atsumu’s crouched back. “It’s alright, you can take them out. I don’t mind.”

Atsumu’s brows waggle; he pulls the drawer open wider, revealing Bokuto’s messy stack of sketches on loose paper. A mechanical pencil rolls in the drawer too, along with a handful of colored pencils. Atsumu removes the pile of drawings carefully, spreading them like a rainbow across the coffee table.

Bokuto blushes quite a bit. They were all relatively unfinished in one way or another; faces with grids and wonky eyes; a specific volleyball pose drawn over and over (he was getting better with anatomy, or at least it didn’t frustrate him as much anymore); a funny chibi of an owl perched on a volleyball, wings spread, “Hoot Hoot Hoot!” boldly written in a speech bubble above him.

Atsumu laughs; “Ha! Is that you?” He points to the owl.

“Yeah,” Bokuto smiles, toothy, embarrassed and proud.

“It actually looks like you, like, in his face and stuff,” Atsumu lifts the drawing to observe it more closely, like he’s really studying the craftsmanship in the crappy pencil sketch; “it’s like when mangaka draw their little self portraits, right? They’re always kinda weird, or cartoony, I guess.”

And Bokuto nods eagerly then; “Yes! Yes! I love when they do that, so I was trying to come up with mine. An owl felt right.” Bokuto picks up the mechanical pencil and drags a blank piece of paper towards his side of the table. “A big loud one.”

“Ha,” Atsumu says, filing through the other drawings, giving each one very sincere scrutiny. “These are all really good.” Atsumu pressed a finger to another sketch; “This is. Uh. What’s-his-face. I’ve seen this guy before.”

“Zom’bish!” Bokuto chimes happily. “I love that series. It was Udai-sensei’s debut!” Bokuto makes a face, his lips and nose all scrunched. “I’ll never be that good, probably. But I like studying his drawings most. It looks like he has fun while making them. I get that; my drawings are pretty crappy most of the time, but I still really like doing it.” Bokuto finishes a little rough of an owl in a nest. Maybe the eggs—

“You could like,” Atsumu bobs his chin towards Bokuto’s sketch, “draw volleyballs instead of. Uh. Eggs? Or something. Maybe that’s dumb.”

Bokuto points his mechanical pencil to Atsumu’s nose. “Weird minds think alike!”

Atsumu laughs, falling back onto the couch while Bokuto finishes the sketch of their incredibly hilarious idea. He flashes the drawing at Atsumu, who was now cozily wrapped in the weighted blanket. Atsumu nods, approving. “Genius. We’re onto something.”

And Bokuto laughs, smiling fondly at the drawing. He slides the sketches into a semi-organized pile, returns the pencil to the coffee table drawer. He eyes the window; the snow was drifting still, maybe a little lighter than before. And he turns to Atsumu up on the couch.

“Thank you for coming,” Bokuto says.

Atsumu watches Bokuto for a moment, eyes clearly heavy with sleep, and other things. He grins. “Thanks for having me,” and then he closes his eyes, mumbling, “good loud owl.”

Bokuto grins.

It’s a lot easier to sleep with someone else in the apartment.

It was Atsumu’s idea to, in his exact words, “bring the party to Udai’s party”, which receives a pretty classic eyeroll-grimace combo from Sakusa.

“Like a field trip!” Hinata chirps in response, hopping in place on the court.

“Yeah, with our very own Omi-Omi playing responsible chaperone,” Atsumu says with a wink to Sakusa.

Sakusa was only looking to Bokuto, leaving Atsumu’s wink decidedly stuffed at the net. “So you actually want to go to the party,” he says lowly, tugging the black fabric of his mask above his nose. It sounds about as close to curiosity as Sakusa could ever express, if you knew him well enough.

Bokuto spins a volleyball in his palms, once, twice. Three spins, four. On the fifth spin, he knows: “I want to go. Yeah.” And he does; he loves parties (that’s a Bokuto fact). He loves eating too many free snacks, and making lots of new friends, and not always being the only loud, laughing person in a room.

And Bokuto wants to go to the party more than he is afraid to go; even he can understand math like that.

“And Udai-sensei said the more the merrier, so,” Bokuto shrugs, grinning to Hinata. Hinata whoops, very merry. Hardly anything could go wrong with the world’s greatest disciple along for the ride, Bokuto muses.

”But the second you want to leave,” Atsumu chimes in eerily, like he was reading Bokuto’s thoughts off a teleprompter, “we leave.” He loops an arm around Bokuto’s shoulders. “And we bring the party… I dunno. Somewhere else.” He shakes Bokuto’s shoulder softly. “Somewhere way better. Sound like a plan?”

And it does; Bokuto smiles. “Yup.”

Even beneath the mask, Bokuto can see Sakusa’s expression ease.

It’s the quickest Shinkansen trip in the world; Atsumu and Sakusa elbow each other to death for most of the ride, shooting death glares and snippy jokes; Hinata leans over and chirps observations into Sakusa’s and Atsumu’s ears, pointing out the window, his orange hair mussed from the earmuffs he’d worn to the train; Bokuto listens to his favorite playlist, eyes closed, imagining the calming violin and piano like drawn lines moving with a melody; he clutches two gift bags to his chest, but is careful not to bend their contents beneath the weight.

And then they’re there, in Tokyo, standing before Weekly Shonen Vie’s shining windows, sparkling still despite all the winter gloom.

“Bokuto-san!” The receptionist at Weekly Shonen Vie’s front desk stands, the tail end of her santa hat jingling in her wake. She bows, her pretty face all shimmery like a Christmas tree. “It’s so good to see you again, I’m glad you came to the event!”

“Aiko-san!” Bokuto waves, and then gestures at the Jackals. “Guys, this is Aiko-san, she’s the best!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Aiko-san! Happy Holidays!” Hinata announces, smiling wide, but his head immediately whips to the long hallway with a mural out the lobby. “BOKUTO-SAN!” Hinata points with a mittened finger; “IT’S LUFFY!”

Hinata dashes off to the Luffy statue and ogles, while Sakusa and Atsumu greet Aiko politely.

“The party is back in the Meteo Attack pod, Bokuto-san!” Aiko says, and points down the hallway where Hinata is copying the Luffy statue’s pose. She reaches for her desk’s telephone; “I’ll go ahead and let Akaashi-san know you’ve arrived!”

“Ah,” Bokuto feels all the useful, coherent thoughts from his brain pour out of his ears like marbles, “hm! Hm.”

“You know what—” Atsumu leans onto the desk and tugs off his black beanie, dusting the air with little bits of frost; “We would actually love for this to be sort of a surprise entrance, Aiko-san! Would that be alright?”

Bokuto’s eyes dart from Atsumu’s slick grin to Aiko’s finger hovering over the phone’s keypad to Sakusa, totally expressionless behind his black mask and black scarf and black wool overcoat. Sakusa nods imperceptibly, voice very cool and even: “We really love surprises, that’s all.”

Aiko hugs the phone to her chest, shoulders slumping in a gracious defeat. “Well, that sounds like it’ll be fun. Go right on in.” She side-steps in pace with Bokuto; “Just make sure to find Akaashi-san! He’s very eager to see you.”

“That’s,” Bokuto gives a short bow, and nope, nothing, not a single marble left in the bowl, “Merry Christmas, Aiko-san!”

“Be sure to join us, Aiko-san!” Atsumu says, looping his arm through Bokuto’s. “The party’s only just starting! Come on, Shouyou.”

They regroup in the big manga mural hall, Bokuto’s courage draining through him like a sieve. Sakusa tugs his mask aside; “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“The sound of what?” Hinata grips Sakusa’s elbow poorly with his green mitten. “Omi-san, did you see my Luffy pose? I looked really cool! Bokuto-san, did you see?”

“Again,” Atsumu was peeling off a few of his layers now, revealing a very trim red sweater, “we can leave the second things get weird.”

Sakusa lowers his voice: “Things are weird.”

“Are things weird?” Hinata searches all their faces. “I feel like I missed some pretty important context.”

Bokuto grips his gift bags a little too tightly, creasing their green and red foiled surfaces.

Atsumu shakes his phone once in the air; “We can definitely dip. The hotel’s literally down the street. I kinda wanna at least bag some free booze before we leave, though.”

Sakusa’s eye roll nearly creates its own echo in the long hallway.

Hinata shrinks into all his puffy jacket. “And I want to say hi to Udai-sensei. Real quick, I’ll be super duper fast—”

“Hold on,” Bokuto says, “no, we’re not leaving. I’ve gotta give Udai-sensei his gift, and,” and Bokuto ignores the hammering in his chest; he glances at the second gift bag in his grip; “it’ll be fine. I’ll be great, I swear. And yes, I did see your Luffy pose, Hinata. It was perfect.”

Hinata glows. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Arm still looped in Sakusa’s, he peels further down the big manga mural hall and towards all the party noises, Sakusa noiselessly dragging behind him like a curly-haired brick.

Atsumu sighs once they’ve rounded the corner. “Yeah. Definitely gonna need that booze,” he breathes, gaze dropping to the floor.

Bokuto’s heart quiets then, just by a hair. “You okay, Tsum-Tsum,” he says. He nudges Atsumu’s elbow with his own.

Atsumu chews on the question; gives a languid shrug. “Eh. I’m fine. Borderline good.” He winks at Bokuto. “Borderline, though. You okay? Be honest. I’ll walk you back right now, stone cold sober.”

Laughter and music bubbles down the hall; Bokuto’s heart is like a drum. “I’m good,” he says softly. He loosens the thick scarf round his neck. “Let’s go bring the party.”

He really hates lying. He hates it a lot. But Bokuto makes his way down the hallway still, leaving the lie behind him step by step, the idea of a drink sounding a thousand times more appealing than it usually would.

The office space where Udai and Akaashi had been holed up in during the fall is nearly unrecognizable now, the Christmas party transforming what felt like two college kids scraping a manga together in a sparse bedroom into a really big deal company shindig kind of thing; Bokuto mouths a long woooow at the long tables full of catered treats, all volleyball themed (volleyball cookies, volleyball cupcakes, a platter of fish and barbecue divided by a tiny volleyball net), and the decor lining the walls, big posters featuring Meteo Attack’s protagonist spiking a fiery red comet, and a massive banner of every Weekly Shonen Vie character crowded in a volleyball court, propping the same hero from Meteo Attack up into the air. Bokuto’s stomach flips with nervous glee at the main protagonist’s hair—gelled white spikes with a gray lightning bolt streak, and even though he hardly felt he got to be a helpful manga consultant, that iconic hair design alone would be plenty to brag about to his sisters.

There was no sign of Akaashi in the sea of giggly employees, though that wasn’t necessarily relieving. Bokuto grips the handles of his gift bags, his fingers almost raw against their twine.

Atsumu floats directly to the buckets of ice and bottled Sapporo, pocketing three in the impressive pockets of his puffy jacket, and uncapping one. Bokuto follows, and after a pause, experimentally digs his hand into the ice bucket, brandishing a bottle of his own.

Atsumu raises a single dark brow.

Bokuto turns the bottle in his hands. “‘Tis the season,” he says, and then with a shrug, to Atsumu, “just one can’t hurt.” He knows how ridiculous that sounds, like a bad line from a cheesy drama, but Bokuto can’t help the feeling that he’s just watching himself move through the world from a distance, rather than moving through it himself.

Atsumu’s brow furrows then; he shakes his head, pressing firmly down onto Bokuto’s hand holding the bottle, “I don’t think—”

“Bokuto!”

Udai emerges from a knot of rosy-faced men in blazers, already looking a bit rosy himself, with an overjoyed Hinata attached to his hip. Bokuto slips the bottle of beer into his coat’s pocket, out of sight.

“Udai-sensei!” Bokuto lifts his gift bags into the air in greeting, then wraps his arms around both Udai and Hinata. “Congratulations on the debut!” He pulls back from the hug and smiles his biggest, most honest smile in a million years. “All your hard work has paid off!” And Bokuto blinks; “Wow, Udai-sensei! You look so cool!”

Hinata beams; “That’s what I said!”

Apparently the Meteo Attack office space wasn’t the only thing transformed; Udai’s classic black nest of hair was washed and pulled back into a loose, airy bun, and his clothes looked like they were freshly plucked off a billboard in the city—a crisp black blazer and mock neck sweater, slim trousers that made him look a foot taller, shiny dress shoes with a classy heel.

“Don’t make me blush you guys,” Udai’s happy face glows with his smile, and it fills up Bokuto’s heart in the best way to see it. “Thank you for coming.” Udai ruffles a friendly hand through Hinata’s hair. He looks to Bokuto, “I mean it, I am so glad you came. We couldn’t have gotten here without you, Bokuto.”

Bokuto feels oddly shy, his mouth curling into a bashful grin.

“And he couldn’t have come and help me make this thing without the team’s full support,” Udai bows to Hinata and Atsumu just past Bokuto’s shoulder: “so thank you very much. I’m incredibly grateful.”

Atsumu offers a bow back, then drags a sip of his beer. “No problem, Udai-sensei. But listen, here’s a tip—the next time you debut a volleyball epic,” Atsumu motions his beer back and forth between himself and Udai, “I’m clearly your guy, alright?”

Udai laughs, “Alright, duly noted!”

“Atsumu-san is dying to be Pirate King, Udai-sensei!” Hinata pushes playfully at Atsumu’s arm.

Atsumu sticks his tongue out in mock protest, cheeks flaring. “Am not.”

Bokuto nods, slapping a hand onto Atsumu’s shoulder; “He’d make a really good one, Udai-sensei! And as your current resident volleyball expert and expert volleyball manga consultant, it’s my professional opinion that you take advantage of Tsum-Tsum’s expertise in the future.”

Udai’s face is all alight; “The consultant hath spoken! You can count on it, then!”

Atsumu knocks back a swig of Sapporo, avoiding their gazes. “Yeah, yeah.” He pats Bokuto’s back, pat pat, and wanders further into the party. “I’ll be around, Bo.”

Udai glances to Hinata; “Hinata, you mind if I chat with Bokuto alone for a sec?”

“Not at all!” Hinata gives Udai a quick side-squeeze and squeaks “Merry Christmas Udai-sensei!” into his blazer’s shoulder.

Udai laughs after Hinata’s bouncy exit, flanked by awed whispers, “Is that Ninja Shouyou?”, “Number 21!”, “He’s taller than I thought he’d be!” simmering in the crowd.

“He’s really excited,” Bokuto happily comments, leaning toward Udai’s ear.

“I can tell,” Udai replies. His dark eyes fix curiously, gently onto Bokuto’s own. “How are you, Bokuto.”

Bokuto raises one of his shiny gift bags. “I got you something!”

Udai’s eyes go wide. “What!” He combs a hand through his hair, mussing it, scoffing. “You’re an angel person, Bokuto, I swear, I told you not to—”

“It’s not that crazy or anything,” Bokuto concedes, though he still places Udai’s bag into his hands with great care, “but I had to do it, Udai-sensei, to thank you, and congratulate you, and, you know, thank you even more. This is one of the coolest things I’ve ever been a part of in my whole life. So.” Bokuto smiles. “Merry Christmas!”

Udai’s expression bursts with delight as he clutches the bag to his chest. He nearly opens the gift, but a thought passes over his face; “Wait. No, you know what,” Udai snaps his fingers, “I’ve got an idea. Yeah. Yeah! Bokuto, follow me.”

Udai nimbly grabs another drink, tossing the first sip back like a graceful black brush stroke, then signals Bokuto to tail him through the mass of Weekly Shonen Vie partygoers. Bokuto spots Sakusa in a corner observing a framed illustration on the wall, no drinks or snacks in hand. They walk (Udai nearly skipping) to a blank, unassuming door at the far back of the party space, and with his beer-hand, Udai twists the door’s metal handle and swings it open wide, revealing a stairwell…

“Wow!” Bokuto has to crane his neck to take in all of the graffiti on the walls, which isn’t graffiti at all—it’s hundreds upon hundreds of doodled signatures, drawn by, “Udai-sensei, are these…?”

Udai winks, rapping his knuckles on one decorated wall. “Pretty cool, right?” Udai skips a stair with each bound up the steps; “These go as far back as,” Udai whistles, “I dunno, at least the 80’s. Could be earlier.”

Bokuto nearly squishes his nose against the cool  painted brick; “I could cry right now I’m so happy,” he whispers, the breath bouncing back onto his chin. A Naruto head in three-quarter view catches his eye; “Kishimoto-sensei! No way!”

“Oda-sensei is around the corner,” Udai points up a flight. Bokuto eagerly follows.

Udai’s finger points to the iconic, curly O in Oda, topped by a sketchy straw hat. A literal chill flies up Bokuto’s spine to the tips of his hair. “This is the greatest day of my life,” Bokuto whispers, and Udai’s laugh echoes loudly in the stairwell. “Wait!” Bokuto whips back from the wall; “Where’s yours?”

Udai cocks his head towards the next door up the flight, on floor 2. “It’s closer to where I’m taking you.”

“You mean this wasn’t where you were taking me?!” Bokuto balks, eyes darting all around the walls crowded with priceless signatures. There were even inside jokes scribbled in empty spaces, gag drawings of mangaka, notes written to coworkers nested against beautifully rendered busts of shonen heroes.

Udai opens the second floor door; “This is admittedly a thousand times cooler than where you’re going, sorry to disappoint.” He waggles his brow when Bokuto joins him; “Can you spot me?”

Bokuto’s like a sniper, instantly zoning on the iconic chubby brush pen that Udai favors when he draws; his signature is paired with a bold sketch of Zom’bish, sword drawn, inky hair flowing. “Got it!“ Bokuto announces, palming the bit of wall just below Udai’s name, but his breath catches in his throat at the letters peaking out beneath his skin.

Bokuto’s hand slides from the wall, by just an inch.

Akaashi Keiji reads the kanji, drawn in thin, careful strokes.

Bokuto clears his throat and clutches the remaining gift bag close. “I should get you to sign one of my jerseys, Udai-sensei. The Little Giant’s signature and my favorite mangaka’s, all in one.”

“You’re full of it,” Udai chuckles, and he runs a friendly hand up Bokuto’s back. “C’mon.”

He ushers Bokuto through the door to a far simpler, quieter corridor, lined with simple, quiet offices on both sides of the hall. They shuffle down the hall to the right, past one, two, three of the offices, their doors all shut, then arrive at one who’s nameplate reads, “Udai Tenma - Meteo Attack”.

Bokuto cups his hands to his mouth. “This is your…!”

“Hell yeah.” Udai elbows the handle and opens the door, and light floods the space automatically. The office is decorated head to toe with a vibrant mish-mash of art and memorabilia; landscape studies and signed ink originals and V-League profiles and photos of friends from college, and manga, and high school, all pinned carelessly, but lovingly, to the walls. A leaning tower of paper coffee cups curve over Udai’s drafting table, and the window just above it is pale with frost, street lights and cafes backlighting the ice with an warm and easy yellow glow. “We moved out of the cubicles at the beginning of the month. It’s really nice, much more private. You should see Akaashi’s, it’s cool. Very editor-like.”

Bokuto idly thumbs at a pad of sticky-notes on Udai’s desk. “Mm. Is he next door?”

“Two doors down,” Udai says, “on the corner, big windows. My assistant is next door! Yui. She’s great, draws circles around me. I’ll introduce you.”

Bokuto nods, picturing the big windows framing Akaashi and his noise-canceling headphones in his very cool, very editor-like office.

“Alright, I actually have a gift for you, too, but first,” Udai hops onto the corner of his drafting table, kicking a foot onto the black roller chair nearby. He carefully plucks the tissue paper from his gift bag, then tosses it to the floor. Udai brandishes the first gift, a fistful of copic markers gathered with a thin ribbon, all various yellow hues, which Bokuto felt nearly looked like a bouquet of flowers with a little help from his imagination.

Bokuto points to the markers; “I kind of assumed you might be drawing a lot of volleyballs over the next few years, so it might not hurt to have some yellow handy,” and he leans forward on one leg to peak into Udai’s bag, “I snuck a few blues in there, too, somewhere.”

“Bokuto, this is,” a long strand of black falls loose from Udai’s bun, and he tucks it behind his ear, admiring the ink bouquet, “so, so thoughtful. Thank you. And this…?” Udai reaches for the second gift in the bag:

“That’s a book on stretches I found, for artists!” Bokuto walks forward then, taking the book from Udai’s hands and flipping to a few key pages, pointing to the illustrations; “Each chapter targets a different muscle group, and they’re all pretty simple. It walks you through routines and things, stuff like that. And I know this can all be kinda boring sometimes, or a chore, but you’re an athlete just like me, Udai-sensei,” Bokuto returns the book to Udai, and flexes an arm for show, “gotta stay healthy for the long haul!”

Udai admires the book, something funny in his expression. “This is really kind.” He looks to Bokuto. “You’re a really kind person.”

Bokuto smiles. “I’m glad you like ‘em!”

“I love them,” Udai places the book and yellow markers back in their gift bag, and slides the bag to the far end of his drafting table. “Okay, your turn, buddy. Do me a favor and close your eyes.”

Bokuto almost shivers with glee. He shuts his eyes and clamps his free hand over them too.

Bokuto hears hinges creaking, and something thin sliding on a surface. Then, Udai taps something on a desk, tap tap; “Hold your hands out for me,” Udai says, and Bokuto places his remaining gift bag carefully on the floor. He holds his hands out cautiously, and then—paper, the feeling of paper in his palms, rectangular; Udai slides the stack of sheets into Bokuto’s hands and guides his fingers and thumbs to grip it. “Okay, open.”

Bokuto opens his eyes.

He looks at the gift for a moment, then two, and then it registers; Bokuto’s jaw goes slack.

In his hands he holds the first chapter of Zombie Knight Zom’bish. The actual, real, authentic, awesome original pages, with the ink bleeding out past the trim marks, and white out carefully applied over stray marks and lines; Bokuto hardly wants to flip the pages, it’s all so absurdly precious. He looks to Udai, head shaking. “I can’t take this,” Bokuto says, but Udai is grinning like a dragon, proud, otherworldly.

“They’re going in the shredder if I keep ‘em. All I see are mistakes!” Udai says, and Bokuto gasps at that.

“SHRED them?! You can’t shred them!” he cries. “Gah! Udai-sensei! I can’t even!” Bokuto glances down to the top facing page of Zom’bish wandering through a grassy field. “That’s just crazy talk! It’s your debut! It’s, it’s perfect!”

“Now THAT is crazy talk,” Udai laughs, head tilting lazily. “And it’s exactly why I think you should take it home. Who better to guard over these pages than Zom’bish’s most loyal, brilliant reader?”

Tears really do prick Bokuto’s eyes, and he quickly hides them with his coat’s sleeve.

“Aw, Bokuto.” Udai hops off his drafting table and squeezes Bokuto’s arm. “I mean that. You have a forever fan in me, ‘til the very end,” Udai says gently. “I feel very lucky that I got to spend more time with you this year.”

Bokuto tries to manage more than a whisper when he says, “Thank you, Udai-sensei. Me too.” And then a thought presents itself, and the curiosity it brings helps Bokuto hold back some of his tears. “Udai-sensei, can I ask you a question.”

“Anything.”

Bokuto looks at the panels on the top facing page; Zom’bish forging a path to adventure. “You said you might tell me how Zom’bish was supposed to end,” Bokuto sniffs, “you know, if I helped you with the new manga.”

Surprise paints Udai’s face at the question, and Bokuto immediately backtracks: “And you don’t have to tell me or anything! This is such a great gift, and I—”

“No, no, no,” Udai’s smile is wry, and he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, “you’re right, I definitely told you that. I guess I owe you a bit of a confession, then.”

Bokuto’s eyes go wide, owlish.

Udai rubs hard at his neck; “Zom’bish… it…” He huffs, a strand of his hair flying up with the breath. “I didn’t have an ending. Truthfully. Still don’t.”

Bokuto has the greatest self control in the world, because he keeps himself from collapsing at the very idea. “Really?” he replies.

Udai nods. “Really. In fact,” he laughs, a little bitter, “the cancellation was sort of a relief, in a weird and… kinda terrible way, ‘cuz I was just. I dunno, I was overwhelmed at the idea of having to wrap it all up, and do it well, and for it to be the incredible victory lap for that strange underdog mangaka at Weekly Shonen Vie. It was,” Udai looks somewhere far off and away in the office, “scary. Genuinely scary. But it was also my first project, with no resources. I was living with my grandpa, and pretty much never slept. I learned so much. I learned SO much, in such a short amount of time, and then I met Akaashi, and he pushed me further. Everyone here did. They gave me a real gift, you know. That permission to just kind of…fall on my face, and try again.”

Udai gives a sadder smile to Bokuto, then; “I’m sorry. That’s not a very fun answer.”

“No, no! It’s,” Bokuto gestures with the chapter of Zom’bish in his hands, “that… makes sense to me. A lot of sense. And I’m glad that you sleep more now.”

“Ha! Me too,” Udai nabs his drink from the drafting table, “though I’ve still got a ways to go in that regard. Here,” Udai helps Bokuto store the chapter in a protective sleeve, and Bokuto slides the sleeve into his backpack. He picks up the second gift bag, and Udai locks the office door behind them, adding, “Alright, I’ve got a question for you now.”

Bokuto smiles. “Anything!”

Udai crosses his arms; “How would you have ended Zombie Knight Zom’bish.”

The final panel instantly flashes in Bokuto’s mind— Zom'bish hangs precariously by their fragile, decaying fingers, dangling off a harrowing cliff's edge— the ultimate cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers in the history of cliffhangers, definitely.

Bokuto’s gaze searches the cieling; “How would I have…”

A door shuts somewhere down the hallway, and both Udai and Bokuto turn to the source;

Akaashi looks back, corner office keys in hand, noise-cancelling headphones looped around his neck.

“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi calls, voice carrying impressively down the hall. “You’re—I thought—I told Aiko-san to notify me when you’d arrived.” He remains frozen in place for a few moments more, keys hovering over their lock,

and then he locks the door and walks,

to Bokuto,

not away,

and Bokuto wonders if this tiny, dreadful, whispery thing in a far off corner of his heart might be that feeling Akaashi had felt on the night of their first interview,

because Bokuto’s not at all sure that he’s strong enough to stay.

Akaashi closes the distance.

And Bokuto offers his final gift bag: “Merry Christmas, Akaashi,” he says, his voice somewhere far away and empty, and he nods, just once; “It was nice to see you both.”

Akaashi takes the bag like it might break, brows knit; “Ah,” Akaashi’s mouth hangs open, “yes, merry—wait, you can’t already be—”

But Bokuto’s already down the two flights of stairs by the time the door closes to Weekly Shonen Vie’s second floor.

The party downstairs is far rowdier now, which isn’t saying too much judging the company—laughter bursts, a champagne bottle pops; someone drops a glass in the corner. Bokuto scans the room for the Jackals, and when he can’t immediately spot them, he muscles through the crowd, one hand reaching into his coat’s pocket for his phone, surprised by the beads of moisture they meet instead along the surface of a bottle of Sapporo. Bokuto stills in the crowd.

He assesses both the bottle of beer and the thrumming anxiety in his chest, then twists the top off with a pop! and knocks back a long swig of alcohol.

Bokuto feels like an all-powerful god for having the fortitude to keep the drink down and not spit it all out onto the pretty woman dancing to his right; “Gross, gross,” he mutters, pressing the back of his hand to his lips.

“Time to go?”

Bokuto looks up from his terrible bottle of regret and into Sakusa’s face, clearly strained while standing in the midst of a whole lot of drunken strangers.

Bokuto grimaces; “Yeah, time to go,” he says, and Sakusa wordlessly takes the beer from his hands, holding it gingerly by the bottleneck. “I wanted to maybe text the guys—”

“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi’s voice calls from behind the throng. Bokuto instinctively searches for him, trying to pinpoint the pretty glasses, but Sakusa tugs on Bokuto’s sleeve.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, barely audible through the Christmas din, and Bokuto lets himself be pulled through the crowd. They scoop up a very, very drunk Hinata along the way (who’d gained a pretty incredible amount of Christmas gear in a short amount of time—light-up antlers, a jingle-bell necklace, and a conspicuous lipstick kiss on the cheek, presumably received beneath mistletoe) and emerge on the room’s opposite side.

“Seen Miya?” Sakusa asks.

Bokuto shakes his head. He tries very hard not to look back where they came from.

“I’ll text him. He can meet us,” Sakusa says, and then softly, to Hinata, “ready to go?”

“Kiyoooomi, readyyyyy,” Hinata hums, cheek pressed into Sakusa’s shoulder.

“You had two drinks. Two.” Sakusa slings a supportive arm around Hinata’s waist. “Bokuto, can you lead the way out of here.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, and he jogs a few steps ahead, navigating the short left and long right to the manga mural with ease, with Luffy looming in the lobby ahead.

They’re just past the speech bubble that’s two Bokutos wide, the one that says “Yes!” in bold kanji, when Akaashi’s voice rings out again: “Bokuto-san. Please.”

Bokuto’s steps falter; he turns, and Akaashi’s there again.

Sakusa keeps walking. “C’mon.”

“I’d like to speak with you,” Akaashi says, walking briskly, intent. “It’s important.”

“Last time you spoke with Bokuto things were,” Sakusa’s sneer was bold beneath his mask, “let’s say messy, at best. Not sure it’s wise to try again.”

Akaashi seems startled by that, nearly halting in his tracks. Bokuto had never once imagined someone snapping at Akaashi, had never thought that’d be possible, but if one person out there in the world could do it, Sakusa wasn’t all that surprising.

“Yes,” Akaashi finally says, twisting at the fingers of the hand holding Bokuto’s gift. “You’re… correct in your assessment. But I want to apologize for how I left things,” Akaashi gestures to Bokuto gently, “to Bokuto-san. This is a,” Akaashi takes a breath, speaking lowly, “a private matter, Sakusa-san—”

“Bokuto’s my teammate,” Sakusa squares up to Akaashi, Hinata tucked into his side, “and effecting him the way you do is unfortunately my business now, so unless Bokuto’s ready to talk, I’m afraid we all have a hotel to go find.”

Only Bokuto could possibly perceive it now—the way thoughts were swarming behind Akaashi’s dark eyes, threatening to burst. The secret frown, too acutely sharp to detect, resting on Akaashi’s lips. He was certainly furious.

But the sharpness dulls when Akaashi’s eyes meet Bokuto’s once more. “Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, measured; “Would you feel comfortable speaking with me.” Something shaky in his voice, until he steels it: “It won’t take long.”

Bokuto had folded the moment he heard that “please”.

But Atsumu’s voice sounds off down the hall: “I would actually love to speak with you, Akaashi.”

A knot instantly curls in Bokuto’s stomach, and he sees the surprise flash again in Akaashi’s dark eyes; Atsumu, a drink dangling from his fingers, has that same stony look in his face before a jump serve in a game.

“Atsumu-san,” Akaashi murmurs, eyeing the dangling drink, and Atsumu is already far too close, leering over Akaashi’s chest.

Bokuto remembers the stories of Atsumu’s scraps in locker rooms, all with Osamu.

Sakusa, sharply; “Miya, dont.”

“It’ll be quick, don’t worry,” Atsumu waves a heavy hand, and with the same hand, pushes Akaashi. “Hey there friend—”

But Bokuto steps in; “Tsum-Tsum. Hey. Easy.” He squeezes between the two men; “I can do this, okay? It’s okay. I’ll meet you all at the hotel after.” Bokuto sees the anger in Atsumu’s eyes, and so he adds, gently, “I know.”

Atsumu’s lips purse, cheeks burning with booze.

Bokuto feels Akaashi just behind him, a barely-there brush of his blazer against Bokuto’s coat.

And Atsumu finally steps aside, gaze fallen to the floor; he looks to the drink in his hands, full of spite. “I don’t like you, Akaashi,” Atsumu says, picking at the label of his Sapporo. His voice is like gravel: “I think you’re a coward.”

Bokuto winces.

But he feels the blazer behind him shift, a quiet laugh escaping through Akaashi’s nose. “Yes, well,” Akaashi adjusts his glasses. “That makes two of us.”

Some edge leaves Atsumu’s glare and jaw and shoulders, then. He glances once more to Bokuto, sips his Sapporo. “Alright. Merry Christmas.”

Atsumu walks all the way to the lobby and out it’s glass entryway, brandishing his phone while he waits in the snow.

Sakusa lingers; then readjusts Hinata in his arm. “Call if you want,” he says, and Hinata waves weakly.

“Goodnight Akaashi-sannn,” he garbles.

Akaashi lifts a gentle hand. “Goodnight Hinata.”

They leave out the lobby, too.

Bokuto looks down to Akaashi, hardly a hand’s width from his side, while Akaashi watches Sakusa and Atsumu call their cab. “I’m sorry about that,” Bokuto murmurs, but Akaashi shakes his head, eyes light.

“Don’t be.” Akaashi’s brow creases. “It’s probably too cold for a walk, I’m guessing.”

“Hm.” Bokuto shrugs. “We can try.”

“Yes,” Akaashi whispers, fingers gripping softly at the collar of his coat. “We can try.”

Side by side, silent, they walk, lonely flecks of snow drifting onto Bokuto’s nose, his lip, with every handful of steps down the sidewalk.

Bokuto’s gift sits cradled in Akaashi’s arms.

The first time Akaashi speaks, he says, “I didn’t say thank you,” and he pauses, clarifying, “for your gift.”

Bokuto stares ahead. “I’m sort of embarrassed about it.”

He feels Akaashi’s gaze carving into his peripheral.

Bokuto’s breath puffs in clouds. “It just… it might be slightly. Silly.” He breathes several puffs more. “That’s all.”

More quiet;

then Akaashi’s voice, the only warmth in the air: “I’m sure it will be perfect.”

Fire in Bokuto’s heart; he tucks his chin into his scarf. “Mm.”

In stride, there’s much more quiet;

Bokuto, quieter still: “Have you been sad, too, Akaashi.”

Akaashi’s response in an instant: “Yes, Bokuto-san. For a long while.”

They cross several streets, pass through long shadows on bright snow. Turn corners. Cross one bridge. The air grows colder, and Akaashi shivers. Most of the cafes have turned their lights out and locked their doors.

Bokuto eyes the street signs, and then Akaashi, as slender as he’d ever appeared, almost swallowed whole in his chunky knits, blazer bunching at the folds.

“My house is nearby,” Bokuto thinks aloud, pointing south.

Akaashi hardly blinks. “I’ve never been to your house before, I don’t think.” His cheeks tinge pink; “Your family…”

“Everybody’s halfway cross the world. Except me, obviously,” Bokuto says, and he almost doesn’t feel sad about it. Almost. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. Take some manga back home. We could talk there.”

Akaashi chews the inside of his cheek, bouncing lightly on his heels, clearly cold. After a moment’s worth of thought, he simply nods, bounding off in the direction Bokuto had pointed, Bokuto following Akaashi’s shadow in turn.

Chapter Text

Time’s up.

Bokuto punches lots of numbers into lots of keypads, and Akaashi silently observes for each; they cross a long, thin driveway and into the front entryway’s shadowy corridor. Akaashi peers into the dark porthole window adjacent to the front door while Bokuto scavenges his backpack for keys.

After another string of keypad punching, and a twist of the wrist in the main lock, Bokuto slowly pushes the door open wide, and motions for Akaashi to make his way inside.

It’s pitch black until Bokuto flips on a central chandelier, and Akaashi probably doesn’t mean to gasp, but he does, and it echoes.

Everything white. Glossy. Traditional. Crisp edges, clean lines, perfection. A genkan wider than Akaashi’s kitchen had ever been; Bokuto stores his shoes, and Akaashi, too. They hang their coats side by side.

“It’s,” Akaashi stands very still, holding Bokuto’s gift like it’ll ground him, “beautiful.”

“It’s freezing,” Bokuto laughs, eyeing Akaashi’s pink nose. “Thermostat would be helpful!”

While Bokuto hunts for the thermostat, Akaashi approaches another window; a long, vertical, stretching one, as tall as the house, framing a leaning camellia outside, coated in its own little sweater of snow.

Bokuto clicks the heater on high and pats his hair, all damp and icy. “That’s better.” He spots Akaashi at the window; it looks more like he’s admiring art in a stuffy old museum than staring out of windows in Bokuto’s childhood home, but either way, Bokuto liked this view.

“My sisters and I shattered that window once,” Bokuto says, the memory playing back whimsically in his mind.

Akaashi whips his head over, eyes wide. “This window?”

Bokuto skips over, three steps with a slide, his white socks slick along the marble floor. “We were playing baseball inside. And I know what you’re thinking, but I wasn’t batting, my sister was!”

Akaashi’s brow arches.

Bokuto goes sheepish; “I was outfielder. Anyways. It was a mess. I still have a scar on my foot, from a big chunk of glass.”

Akaashi flinches at that; “That sounds very painful.”

“Not as painful as being banned from indoor baseball,” Bokuto says, cracking a grin.

Akaashi grins, too. “What other trouble is to be had in the Bokuto home,” he asks, arms finally relaxing at his sides. “I’d like a tour from the expert.”

Bokuto’s ears perk at that, chest puffing proudly. “Oh, plenty! That’s only the first of several banned sports, by the way. Archery is banned, too. And handball. Anyways, lemme show you the kitchen, Akaashi!”

They tour the downstairs kitchen, Bokuto stretching out on the big central island and still not touching its outer edges; he’d learned to cook in that kitchen out of boredom, he explains, but it was a hell of a kitchen to learn in (and there’s another scar, one on Bokuto’s thumb, from the first time he’d attempted chopping veggies alone); Akaashi sits at one end of the island and Bokuto sits at the other, and Bokuto cups his hands around his mouth: “Can you still hear me Akaashi?” Akaashi laughs and cups his hands around his own mouth, simply answering, “Yes.”

The living room is sparse, punctuated with tasteful statement furniture. “The couch isn’t comfy,” Bokuto warns, “so don’t sit there,” and Akaashi doesn’t.

The living room is separate from the music room around the bend, which Akaashi is immediately intrigued by; he scrutinizes Bokuto like he might an opponent on the court: “Bokuto-san, you… play music,” he gauges, and Bokuto’s totally charmed by the surprise laid in his words.

“Guess the instrument,” Bokuto teases, and Akaashi’s thoughts are clearly racing, gathering all the data in the room and stacking it up against Bokuto. He circles the area, slowly unwrapping the scarf around his neck as he calculates.

“Guitar,” Akaashi eventually answers, clipped and certain, like it’s an entrance exam, stepping towards the acoustic Yamaha displayed on the wall.

“Correct,” Bokuto beams, with a small amend: “Mostly correct.”

“Mostly,” Akaashi repeats, still hawkish, curious. “You play multiple instruments.”

“I learned on piano,” Bokuto strides to the grand piano in the corner, giving the bench before it a quick once-over before settling onto it. It was like sitting on a tissue box, he’d grown three times as tall since his last lesson. “But I can’t remember a thing, really. Piano’s just how I learned to read music, and that made teaching myself guitar a lot easier.”

Akaashi sits down primly in a chair beside a cello, about as far from Bokuto as a concert goer might sit. His gift bag and hands rest in his lap, fingers rounded on the knees of his slacks. “I also learned piano,” Akaashi says, “and also forgot it.” His head tilts; he reiterates: “You play guitar.”

“Yup!” Bokuto replies. He eyes the Yamaha on the wall. “I can play the New Horizons theme. Wanna see?”

Akaashi says he does, so Bokuto plays it, and Akaashi listens from his seat by the cello, eyes shut, clapping politely when the song has finished.

All the bathrooms are cavernous; Akaashi nearly gets lost in one.

The backyard has cafe lights and a wooden sauna. A line of camellias. Roses, too.

Bokuto describes sittings for the painted family portrait: “The most boring week of my life.”

Akaashi takes a few steps back; adjusts his glasses; “You’re the spitting image of your father.”

Bokuto nods; “I’m more handsome, I think.”

Akaashi, exacting: “It’s the eyes.”

The staircase spirals, black iron and cedar, and it’s like they’re completely weightless—not a single step creaks as they climb.

“And this is,” Bokuto drags a finger in sine waves up and down the wall, past a common area and several rooms, doors all shut, “my old room.” They reach a door plastered with magazine covers, all volleyball legends with nice teeth and great hair. Foam letters dot the door, spelling KOUTAROU, all shining with stickers of stars and owls.

The bedroom is probably twice the size of Akaashi’s when they were teens, and easily half as cozy in Bokuto’s eyes, while maintaining all of the big house’s trademark cleanliness and shine. There’s shelves upon shelves upon shelves of manga, and Bokuto’s old reading nook—a well-worn beanbag in the far corner, with green leaves cut from paper taped on the walls all around it. Akaashi takes a paper leaf in his hand, shoots Bokuto an inquiring look.

“Owl nest,” Bokuto says. “Because. Well.”

Akaashi thumbs the leaf. “Owls.”

“Yeah, exactly. My sister’s idea.”

Akaashi moves then to the old trophy wall, which  had probably half as many medals as Bokuto had actually ever won in kiddie leagues and onward. Lots of that stuff was all in storage, and another half was in Osaka with him; but a Fukurodani team photo still sat framed on the dresser. Akaashi studies it closely. “Your first year?” he asks.

“Yup, first year.” Bokuto tests sitting on his old, low bed, and it struggles beneath a much older and muscular Bokuto. He smooths a wrinkle in the gray sheets until it fades; “Worst year.”

Akaashi straightens, a furrow in his brow. “Fukurodani won Spring Tournament your first year.” he says.

Bokuto tucks a knee to his chest. “Yeah, but you came the year after that.”

Backlit by the window, Akaashi stands very still, like the camellia in Bokuto’s backyard.

And Bokuto watches him; rests his chin to his knee; “I know I was supposed to be ready to talk, Akaashi. But secretly,” Bokuto presses a sleeve to his cheek; he feels tired, and too warm; “I don’t know. I don’t know why. I’m just. Not.” It makes his heart feel all bruised again, seeing Akaashi in his childhood room, knowing they’d still never bridge the chasm growing vast between them. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

Akaashi, guarded: “Is that what you think this will be,” he says. “A goodbye.”

“I,” Bokuto raises his hands, “no? Maybe? I just,” Bokuto presses his hands to his forehead, presses hard, “if you need that, then yeah, I’d,” and the tears well at the possibility, and how real it feels in the room—that Akaashi might leave and never come back, and Bokuto will be left alone in this big, beautiful, empty house for good. He rubs hard at the tears with the back of his wrist, head shaking; he can’t speak.

He hears Akaashi place the gift bag onto the floor; footsteps; then Akaashi kneels before Bokuto, his face unreadable through all the glassy tears. Bokuto hides his face further, shame burning in his cheeks; his shoulders shudder with a sob. “I’m sorry I can’t fix it,” Bokuto whispers, heartbroken, “I tried, Akaashi; I’m sorry,” I’m sorry I can’t fix me, after all this time and practice.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and then, with a hand on the bed’s edge, lightly creasing the sheets, voice as delicate as the touch, “Bokuto-san, will you please look at me.”

Bokuto looks.

Akaashi’s eyes were wet, and alive; thoughtful, piercing. He takes a breath. “I would like to tell you something. Right now. And you,” Akaashi swallows, “don’t need to respond to it. Especially if you don’t feel ready to. Or you can. You can kick me out of your house and into the snow if you’d like. But I,” Akaashi’s eyes shine; he leans forward, looking right up to Bokuto, “I’ve been waiting a really long time to be ready, too. And I am now, and I don’t want to waste that.”

Bokuto wipes a tear trailing down his chin. “I would never kick you out, Akaashi.”

“I know,” Akaashi replies. His lips part, some thought waiting impatiently at the tip of his tongue, but Akaashi holds it at bay, wrestles with the words. Bokuto knew that look as well as his own reflection in a mirror. Akaashi wouldn’t ever stop thinking, not even if you asked him to.

Then Akaashi’s mouth closes, and opens again. “I’ve been foolish,” he finally says, his hand now gripping the bed’s gray sheets like they’ll keep him from running away. “You are so good to me. And forgiving. And endlessly impressive in my eyes. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Bokuto-san. I truly can’t. The last thing I’d want in the world is to hurt you, and I have, very badly.” A tear runs down Akaashi’s cheek and catches in his dark frames. He removes the glasses, and as he folds them he says, “I’d say Atsumu-san was… incredibly generous in his judgement of me.”

“No,” Bokuto feels the corners of his eyes welling hot, “no.”

“It’s the truth,” Akaashi places the glasses aside. He wipes the tears from his eyes with an efficient swipe of his sleeve. “I am a coward. And you,” Akaashi struggles, “you have too much faith in me, Bokuto-san,” his jaw goes taut, a knife‘s sharp edge, and his voice begins to tremble, all of Akaashi’s fine veneer breaking, cracked; “you always have, and I am terrified by that, that I can’t be who you deserve, but I,” Akaashi takes a shaky breath, something fierce in his eyes, “I’ll hate myself for the rest of my life if I can’t be the person you think I am, just this once. I want so badly to believe you.”

In the same breath, Akaashi says these words;

he doesn’t give up: 

“I love you, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s never blushed so fiercely, it must flood from the tips of his ears to his toes; and there’s a flicker of recognition in his core, a spark in his soul, reaching deep, deep, deep into a far off summer, back to the beginning; like a rusty muscle memory; a whisper in his ear—

Bokuto reviews the footage;

“Since high school,” Akaashi confesses;

Bokuto plays the memories back, and forth;

“Since always,” Akaashi amends;

And Bokuto finds something distinctly new there—

“And I have tried and tried not to love you,” Akaashi almost laughs, “but it’s impossible; you’re everything.”

—the connection in a bright, new light;

everything;

And all Bokuto can see is Akaashi.

Snow drifts past the window; the moon glows.

“You love me,” Bokuto echoes.

Akaashi, unwavering: “I love you too much.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto feels a tear roll to the corner of his lips, and he finds the words; “you’re the best part.”

Akaashi is very still; braced; brow knit.

Bokuto’s eyes well up again; “In the story, Akaashi. The best part. It’s you.”

Thoughts again, waiting, in Akaashi’s eyes, on his lips;

Bokuto says, “Please believe me.”

When Akaashi leans up from his spot on the floor, they kiss.

(And the epiphany strikes so quietly:

Volleyball is something Bokuto plays,

and Akaashi is the person Bokuto loves,

more than any medal, or manga.

That’s the fact.)

Chapter Text

Your fingers are smudged with streaks of ink; wash them clean. The pages lay complete before you. Let them go,

and rest easy.

Lying together in his childhood bed, nose to nose, with warm hands clasped to chests that softly rise and fall in harmony, Bokuto listens to Akaashi tell a story about all the things he’s missed.

He tells Bokuto everything.

“There was a girl,” he whispers, as if afraid of someone overhearing the words in another room, “in my classes. She was taking nearly all the courses I was taking. We crossed paths every day. Shared polite nods. I’d provided her with notes for some… who knows. A statistics course, I think. And you weren’t yet a Jackal, but it was on the horizon. You were destined for something incredible, and I was destined for a,” Akaashi groans, “degree in literature.”

“I think that’s incredible,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi laughs a short breath that tickles Bokuto’s lips. “Well. It’s something. And I certainly enjoyed the schooling. And I missed you.” He squeezes Bokuto’s thumb pad gently. “I missed you.”

Bokuto squeezes back as tenderly as he can; he’s never had to hold something this soft in his hands. “I missed you, Akaashi.”

Akaashi almost rests in this moment, like he can feel how badly Bokuto wants to cradle him with a look, with his hands, with everything. Eventually, he murmurs, “I would only read our group chats if you were active in them, to hear about your progress. I kept up with your social media posts,” Akaashi’s cheeks are very red now, “closely. You were rocketing so quickly into… everything that you are. And I have always been proud of you. I’ve always known this would be your path. I just felt...” There isn’t an end to the sentence. Akaashi curls deeper into Bokuto’s chest.

Bokuto lifts his knuckles to Akaashi’s cheekbone. He traces a single, soft line. His thumb rests on Akaashi’s chin. (He wishes he’d had more practice with this—with loving someone. It feels far too cosmic to perfect in one night.)

Akaashi sighs. “I felt like my life was a movie, or… something you observe behind glass. I kept watching myself fall further and further behind you. I was working two terrible cafe jobs and writing terrible novels, earning rejections from agents and agencies like it was a sport, and you were on the covers of magazines that the customers read over tea.”

“I can’t really imagine you as a waiter, Akaashi,” Bokuto thinks aloud. “Did you wear an apron?”

“I sometimes wore an apron, yes,” Akaashi answers.

“I bet you look cute in an apron,” Bokuto adds, because he means it, and because it feels like a gentle tap over their relationship’s volleyball net—to call Akaashi cute, and lovely, and all the other sweet things he deserves to hear and feel.

Akaashi reels like Bokuto confessed to murder. “That’s irrelevant, Bokuto-san,” he mutters.

(To be added onto Bokuto’s list of New Facts About My Best Friend, No, Wait, Boyfriend? Are We Boyfriends? We Might Be Boyfriends, Akaashi: he loves compliments. Though truthfully, Bokuto already knew that.)

Akaashi takes one of Bokuto’s hands and aligns it with his own; his fingers were always more slender than Bokuto’s blocky ones. Elegant, Bokuto thinks, inspired. “You were always a star,” Akaashi breathes, “and I’m… not sure I know what I am, but I didn’t feel like someone a star belonged with.”

Akaashi’s fingers slip between the gaps in Bokuto’s.

“But Chitose was like me,” Akaashi says. “Is like me,” he corrects. “Diligent, stoic. Hard-working. Practical. She asked me on a date.” Something comes loose in Akaashi’s careful mask. He chews his lip in thought. “And I said no, because I was waiting for you. I had this story in my head that,” and Akaashi’s eyes water, “it was you. I wanted so badly for it to be you, Bokuto-san.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto leans in, snaking an arm through Akaashi’s and across his back, “it is me.”

Akaashi’s expression melts into a smile, tears breaking at the wrinkled outer corners of his eyes. “I know that now. But I didn’t always. I thought if I didn’t,” he shakes his head, “break out of my, my systems, and rules, if I didn’t let go of this image of you and me belonging together, then I’d just be…” Akaashi breaks again in Bokuto’s arms.

Bokuto knows now that he’s never hated anything more than the idea of Akaashi alone.

“I went back to Chitose, and we began dating, and it was,” Akaashi laughs, a rough, scratchy sound, “unobjectionable. That’s all it was. I didn’t mind the company, or the occasional hand holding. Or our knowing glances when somebody said something we both found foolish. She’s a good person. I respect her, and wish her nothing but success and happiness. But our relationship didn’t fix the feelings I had. I wasn’t miraculously the protagonist of my own story again, or fulfilled with newfound purpose at our engagement, or,” Akaashi clutches Bokuto’s hand, “happy, the way I know I can be. I think the only thing I missed as much as you was that—being very happy.”

Bokuto echoes, voice watery, “You make me happy, Akaashi.”

Akaashi smiles. “That’s precisely what I want.”

Be brave, Bokuto thinks, imagining the kiss Akaashi had given him at the edge of the bed. Be brave, be brave, be brave. But he wavers. “When did,” he begins to say, but shakes his head soon after, “well, you don’t have to—“

“I wanted to confess,” Akaashi’s voice is even, measured, “when Udai-sensei and I first interviewed you. I had a silly speech planned and everything. Watching the game, watching you,” Bokuto’s skin warms while chills prickle up his neck, “hearing your voice on the phone. It was like being in high school all over again. I felt irrational. And I imagined, for a short while, this irrational, impulsive, brave version of myself who would sweep you off your feet and convince you to love me,” Bokuto thrilled at the thought; he didn’t need convincing, “who’d do something you would do, totally fearless, no second-guessing.” Akaashi looks somewhere past Bokuto’s shoulder. “But that is what I do best. I second-guess. And the guilt set in, with a good amount of self-loathing, and I proved once again that I am nothing like you, Bokuto-san. I ended things with Chitose. She was painfully gracious to me. She told me,” Akaashi gulped, and now his voice was completely wrecked, “I deserved kindness, and love.”

“Akaashi, I love you,” Bokuto whispers, and it’s the first time he’s said it, but not the first time he’s felt it, so he says it again, “I love you.”

“But I’m,” and Bokuto doesn’t let Akaashi finish the sentence, taking all the perfect angles and edges of his pretty face into his own strong hands.

“We’re more alike than you think, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, the words curling into sweet laughter. “I think we might’ve always been. I know you think I’m a star,” and he feels his blush come on again, all the way up to his ears, “and I like that and all, like, a lot,” and this time Akaashi is the one who blushes, “but I’ve spent a long time now being so afraid of… getting caught,” he searches Akaashi’s eyes, “like, if anyone could actually see me the way you’ve seen me,” Akaashi looks to him fiercely, “then maybe they… maybe they wouldn’t want to stick around.” It’s a hurt in Bokuto’s chest. A hurt shaped like an empty house. But the house isn’t empty;

he and Akaashi are lying in it now.

“But all I see is you, Akaashi,” Bokuto whispers. “I just see you. I see your new hair.” He fingers at the wisps of bangs that billow over Akaashi’s lashes. “I see your eyes. I always see those. Your eyes are really beautiful, Akaashi, like someone painted them.”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi chides.

Bokuto laughs. “I see that funny line between your brows when you’re annoyed with me, even though I secretly think you’re not annoyed. It’s more like you’re satisfied, because you know me so well. I see…”

Bokuto drifts his finger just below Akaashi’s lower eyelids, at the soft darkness that lies in his skin there.

“How hard you work, for everyone, but least of all yourself. I think you need to eat more, Akaashi. I can cook now, you know, so I’ll cook for you whenever you want.” His voice grows softer now. “I see how you’re carrying things that are too heavy for one person, like I do, even though we’re both really strong. One person just isn’t enough for some things, I think.”

Akaashi cries.

“And I think I know what you’re afraid of me seeing, because I feel that way sometimes, Akaashi. I still mess up, all the time. I’m still… you know. Me. And I go, maybe this time will be the time that you decide it’s not worth the trouble.”

Bokuto thinks he might be crying, too, but it’s weird, because he feels good on the inside.

He imagines Sakusa driving him back to the apartment, and Hinata sharing a basket of fries, and Atsumu’s righteous, fiery anger. He thinks of every outstretched hand and each smile given, despite it all, despite everything.

He thinks of Akaashi, who did all these things first.

Bokuto smiles, and says, “But I know you don’t think things like that, because neither do I. I don’t see the bad things the way you do. I just really, really love you.”

Akaashi glows.

And this time Bokuto is brave. (He didn’t give up.) “I really wanna kiss you, Akaashi,” he says.

Akaashi covers his smile with his hand, it’s so freely joyful. He replies, quietly, “You may.”

Bokuto thinks for a moment. Approach. Velocity. Height? No, that’s a jumping thing. There’s no jumping in kissing. If there’s any rules to kissing at all, Bokuto doesn’t know them. But then Bokuto scoots even closer to Akaashi on the bed, and he adjusts his head so that they’re just aligned—Bokuto’s nose overlapping with Akaashi’s, their lips a moment apart. And then they’re not apart anymore, because the thinking was making Bokuto nervous, so why think about it at all. It’s Akaashi, and he’s safe here, and loved, and wow, Akaashi’s lips are so, so soft, like he uses chapstick for angels, no, softer than that; like they’re feathers.

When Bokuto pulls away, mainly to ask what he’s supposed to do next, Akaashi pulls him back, fingers curled into Bokuto’s collar and carding through his hair, and yes, his lips are soft, but they press hard. Their breath is all mixed up in a way that makes Bokuto want to laugh and sigh. Kissing is fun, he thinks idly. An extremely happy thing. And Akaashi is good at this; Bokuto’s never taken notes in his life, but maybe now he might.

When the kiss is through, Bokuto’s face burns; Akaashi stares through him with an athlete’s unshakable focus.

“What was the speech, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, pitched high and breathless. “You said you had a,” Bokuto exhales, “silly speech.”

“Something, something,” Akaashi breathes, leaning in to Bokuto’s ear, “you’re my greatest weakness, et cetera.” When he meets Bokuto’s eyes again, Akaashi’s are fiery and sure.

“Wow. That’s a good speech,” Bokuto sighs, and his smile splits wide open. “Okay, fine—you can kiss me again.”

He feels at home.