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He’d been drawn to photography since childhood. The ability to capture a moment of bliss with the click of a shutter and the winding of film, to watch memories bloom on paper as they bathed in chemicals. A photograph didn’t need to be perfect; the ISO and the shutter speed didn’t need to be correct in order to capture the essence of someone in the moment, the imperfections only ever seeming to add an extra layer of character.
Every photo Akaashi had taken during his tenure as setter at Fukurodani was evidence of this. Pages of albums filled with countless flawed images of sentiment of a different time that he often found himself flicking through during moments of fond nostalgia. The way Bokuto was rarely clear, often distorted by motion blur or the lens failing to focus on him, as if his energy was too much for it to bare. The way Konoha’s incredulous face would always steal the show in photos, the camera always making him the focal point during a misadventure. A rare but ever so brilliant grin from Washio, the even rarer image of Sarukui fuming and the personal favourite of Komi trying to bring down Onaga as the first year held something out of his reach.
He thought he’d found the perfect subject matter in them, a ramshackle group of teenagers with an energy so chaotic yet contained, that fit the flaws easily found in beginner photography so perfectly that it didn’t matter his albums contained image after image of images most would consider not worth the save file never mind the print.
But then Ennoshita happened.
Ennoshita had simply captivated him. Withdrawn and hidden in a team of bold personalities, he was by no means outstanding and yet Akaashi wanted to know more, an introduction between them as the likely next captains of their respective teams igniting an interest both social and artistic in nature that took him completely by surprise. Photography came naturally to Akaashi but it did not to Ennoshita, a steadfast refusal to be photographed that made his artistic sides cravings class against the need to be respectful to his subject’s boundaries.
He starts with mental photography, memorising every moment that mattered in his mind so they’d be as clear as any photograph. Their first kiss during their third year, the look on Ennoshita’s face when he’d acted on impulse and grabbed him, gentle and firm by the stadium vending machines, still pumped up on the adrenaline of a match well played and the relief of a corvid victory. Flushed cheeks in the dim light of the machines, a look of utter shock that melted away seemingly into relief that cut off his rapid apologies for his actions.
Ennoshita had laughed, a little nervously, clutching the bottle in his hands perhaps too tightly, as he spoke barely above a whisper of his feelings for him. He’d avoided eye contact, choosing instead to look to the floor somewhere behind Akaashi, a perfect demonstration of shyness and uncertainty as if the Karasuno captain was nervous he’d simply fade away. It was perfect and picturesque, something worth capturing on film and memory card but he never would, be that for better or for worse, leading to the promise he made himself and kept to this day.
Ennoshita was the king of candid, stiff and rigid when in the know but expressive and natural when oblivious, the perfect subject matter when the camera was unknown to him. It had started with a Ferris wheel, a pop-up fair in Tokyo and an impromptu date in the autumn months. Cheeks and nose stained pink from a mix of cold and fluster, staring out of the window with a laugh on his lips as he teased his former teammates, asking Akaashi with a little bit too much glee if the near by tall building was the sky tree. The first image of his homage to Ennoshita, to them and their relationship.
More followed, all taken with a degree of subtlety that he found sometimes didn’t exist. His lover hunched over his desk, still chasing his dreams of director hood, hand in his hair and slight frown as he all but chewed his pen, stuck in his usual rut of if he should be pursuing directing or writing. Eyes always glanced sideways, a firm and annoyed look captured in his lens before a deep sigh and the sound of a chair scraping against wooden floorboards.
Convenience store lighting and the lingering look given whenever he spots something he wants but has rationalised he can’t buy. A snack, a higher quality ingredient, the odd small owl toy he finds long since having given up on attempting to find anything crow like. Aksashi’s collection is lacking in these, a rare addition due to a mixture of misaligned schedules and his own personal shame at being caught by not only Ennoshita but also strangers. These photos always partner well with the flushed spluttering of Akaashi buying the object of his wants, something he’s only photographed once as his love had buried his face into the large owl in embarrassment, his feelings muffled by fabric and stuffing.
His favourite however is the only time he believes Ennoshita does not mind his need to photograph, early in the mornings when the sun has barely risen, the smell of cooking filtering through their apartment along with fresh brewed tea and humming. His love would make breakfast, make lunches for both himself, Akaashi and for Udai, still appalled over the artists diet when working, Akaashi leaning against the door frame as he watched Ennoshita work.
Rhythmic sounds of a knife against a shopping board, the low rumbling of a boiling pan as Ennoshita hummed along with the radio, the kitchen basked in the orange light of the sunrise. He catches this sight most mornings and yet, it’s still capable of taking his breath away, still giving him the fluttering feelings in his stomach not too unlike their first kiss, hidden by a vending machine when they were still teens.
“Keiji.” He doesn’t stop his work, he never does, draining the pot of boiling water with only minimal wincing from the steam against his skin, shaking the pan to check the contents before returning to the stove to add more seasoning to it. “Could you pass me my tea? I’m convinced I’ll over cook the squid if I stop paying attention.” Doubtful but he does as he’s told anyway, moving the cup to be within arms reach before returning to his place in the doorframe, all to aware of how much the shorter man hates company within the kitchen as he cooks.
The idea forms perhaps too quickly, waiting until the other had finished cooking, hands forming rice ball after rice ball, Ennoshita seeming to have completely blocked him out when he finally speaks. “Hey, Chikara.” His response is a hum, bento assembly a more pressing concern to the physio therapist than turning to face Akaashi, the editor preparing his phone camera for the latest shot of his collection. “I love you.”
A pause. A flush. A surprised turn and the bumbling, as if Akaashi had never told the other this before despite having told him at least once a day for the past six years. The shutter closing at the flushed annoyance of noticing the phone directed at him, capturing the inner struggle of wanting to say he loves him back and the annoyance of being caught off guard by a camera once more.
“Why must you do that?” Ennoshita sighs, not with annoyance but fondly, the slightest of smiles on his lips as if to hide that he’s not truly annoyed by the trick. But how does Akaashi even begin to answer that question? Six years of relationship still feels too soon to express the full way he loves the other, the way he’s keeping alive his passion for photography and the perfection of the imperfections of both the human body and the camera. The other doesn’t know the weight of that loaded question and Akaashi can’t fully blame him, whilst Ennoshita was honest with his love for film making, Akaashi had always been more withdrawn, more secretive.
He’ll tell him but not today, offering a small smile as the other continued to half heartedly glare at him.
“You’re my favourite subject.”