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1.
Akaashi Keiji never thought of their life as a love story.
Love stories are for protagonists, and they simply aren’t a protagonist, not even in their own story. Perhaps middle school is an early time to have this epiphany, but they’re not fooling anyone. The plot of their life is set out before them: they’ll graduate and go to college, find a nice career, maybe a spouse, and work their life away until retirement. They’re not unsatisfied with this lot, because it’s the life that someone has to live. If there weren’t supporting characters, there couldn’t be main characters whose lives differed from those around them.
It’s why their choice of high school doesn’t feel especially important to them. Their parents have reduced their potential schools down to two, the only ones they feel are rigorous enough academically. Akaashi couldn’t care less, really, and is only sort of interested in potentially playing volleyball. At this point, they’re not even certain they’ll continue with it.
Their friend is the one to suggest going and seeing the tournament where Fukurodani is playing. It’s one of Akaashi’s potential choices, so they tag along, uninvested.
Uninvested, that is, until they arrive courtside.
As they approach, the Fukurodani libero receives the ball and passes it to the setter which in itself is unremarkable. The setter tosses it up into the air.
From the left, a figure approaches the net. He wears the number twelve jersey on his back, which is broad and handsome. It seems like time slows down as he jumps; Akaashi can see every muscle in his calves tense and release, can see the arc of his hand as he draws back for a spike.
The boy flies through the air. Akaashi can practically see the wings attached to his back, supporting him, lifting him, and their jaw drops open.
That is what a protagonist looks like.
The ball slams down on the other side of the net, earning a point for Fukurodani, and number twelve turns and high fives his teammates, his smile brilliant as he does. Akaashi feels an odd spike of jealousy that they aren’t the setter who tossed that ball to him, and their decision is made for them almost instantly.
They have to go to Fukurodani. They have to set for number twelve.
They’re nearly numb as they watch the rest of the match, their eyes glued to his form the whole time. When they get home, they speak to their parents only long enough to inform them they’ve chosen Fukurodani and then head up to their room, back flat on the mattress. The glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling appear behind their eyelids when they try to sleep, illuminating the form of the spiker, still flying through their head.
If they could set for him...maybe it’s not too late to change their story arc. Maybe there’s more to their life than just being a side character in someone else’s plot.
Maybe, they suppose, they could be a protagonist, after all.
2.
Akaashi has never felt less like a protagonist.
Protagonists don’t go all the way to the finals only to lose in the last set. Protagonists don’t let down their best friends. Protagonists don’t curl up in a hotel bed waiting for the world to come crashing down around them.
Surely, Akaashi muses as they lay covered in scratchy, unfamiliar blankets, this is the end of their story. The real protagonist will move on, already scouted by a V League team, and will use this loss as a stepping stone in the grander plotline of his life. Akaashi will be forgotten, a secondary character in an early arc, not even around long enough to become a fan favorite. They had been fooling themself before, thinking of themself as anything more than that.
They allow themself permission to cry anyway, for at least as long as they are wrapped up in this bed. They cry for the silver medal still hanging around their neck that should be gold, if only they could have jumped a bit higher, reacted a bit faster, reached just a bit further, shooting for the moon and landing among the stars. They cry for Bokuto, who deserved better from them, who will get better than them once he’s gone pro and will probably never return to their side. They do not cry for themself, because they always knew they were not destined for greatness, and this has only proven that.
Behind them, the mattress dips with the weight of another, and Akaashi quickly stops the tears flowing from their eyes. Bokuto is the only one with a key to the room, so it must be him, and they won’t allow him to see them like this.
“Is everything alright, Bokuto-san?” they ask, their voice as steady as they can make it.
“You tell me, Akaashi.”
Bokuto is quieter than they’ve ever heard him, but he doesn’t sound like he’s been crying. They rub impatiently at their face, willing the last of the evidence of their breakdown away so they can turn to him.
“I’m fine,” they say. Another breath and they throw the covers back and turn to face him. “Are you…”
There’s no redness in Bokuto’s face to indicate anger or sadness, no tear tracks staining his perfect cheeks. His gaze is clear and unwavering as he looks at Akaashi.
“It’s okay to not be okay,” Bokuto says. A faint smile plays over his lips. “How many times have you told me that?”
Akaashi huffs. “At least a few dozen, but. I am fine.”
Bokuto chews at his bottom lip before reaching out and wiping away a tear from Akaashi’s cheek. “It’s not like you to lie to me, Akaashi.”
Akaashi manages another ten seconds or so with a quivering bottom lip before the tears spill over onto their cheeks once again. They’re mumbling out an apology when Bokuto gathers them up in his arms and hushes them.
“It’s okay to not be okay,” he murmurs again.
He rubs Akaashi’s back and runs his fingers through their hair and doesn’t say anything at all to try to get them to stop crying. They leave huge wet marks on the uniform shirt Bokuto’s still wearing, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. By the time Akaashi’s cried all the tears they can cry, his arms rest loosely around their waist and their head is pillowed on his bicep. They meet his eyes for the first time.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asks, his head cocked slightly.
When they mumble “I’m afraid you’ll leave me behind,” it instantly feels wrong, because of course he won’t. It’s Bokuto and Akaashi; their stories are intertwined now, wherever their plots may lead them.
Bokuto grins. “Nah. You’re stuck with me now, ‘Kaashi. You’ll always be my favorite setter.”
Akaashi laughs once, a tinge of bitterness in it. “You don’t know that.”
Bokuto’s face gets very serious. He tilts Akaashi’s chin up to meet his eyes once again, and the look of certainty there knocks the breath out of Akaashi’s lungs.
“Just you wait,” he says. “There will never be anyone else who knows me the way you do.”
And for the moment, at least, Akaashi believes him.
3.
There’s a bouquet of flowers in Bokuto’s outstretched hand.
Akaashi feels their face flame as soon as they spot him, standing in front of the rest of the former third years who’d returned for their graduation. Their parents had skipped the ceremony, but the pain doesn’t sting quite so badly now, seeing them all there like a tiny parliament.
Bokuto bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits for Akaashi to approach; once a pathway clears between them, he takes two steps into a full run, then pauses and turns to Konoha. He thrusts the bouquet into Konoha’s hands. Akaashi stops where they stand and waits for the embrace they know is coming.
Bokuto’s arms wrap so tightly around them that they can hardly breathe, but they don’t mind, not at all, not even when he picks them up and spins them in a circle before setting them down again. He takes their face in both his hands, and Akaashi is already too warm and burns even further under his touch.
“I’m so proud of you, ‘Kaashi,” he half-shouts. He presses his forehead to Akaashi’s. “I’m so, so proud of you.”
“Graduating high school is barely a noteworthy achievement, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi protests.
“You graduated top five, captain of the volleyball team, and took us back to Nationals with only two returning starters,” Bokuto replies, listing off Akaashi’s accolades like he’s practiced this very speech. “And you got into the program you wanted at the university you wanted. So there.”
Akaashi opens their mouth to refute the validity of ending an argument that way when Konoha thrusts the flowers into Akaashi’s chest.
“I had nothing to do with these,” he assures them. “But we’re proud of you, too.”
Washio nods solemnly. Komi hops up and throws his arms around Konoha’s neck, and Sarukui slaps a hand to Akaashi’s shoulder.
“Let’s go get lunch, yeah? Bokuto said he’s buying.”
Bokuto frowns and looks up from Akaashi for the first time. “No I didn’t?”
He and the others argue about it all the way to their old favorite, a quiet diner that really only has enough seating for them. The owners know them by name and start making their favorites as soon as they walk in, and Bokuto buys after all, if only because they find out Akaashi has graduated and offer everyone’s meals half off.
When everyone’s stuffed and Akaashi has said their goodbyes to everyone but Bokuto, the two of them ride the train back to Akaashi’s apartment, where their bags are already packed and ready to go. They’re spending a few days in Osaka with Bokuto, a much needed break after the stress of exams and preparing the volleyball team to move on without them. It had been Bokuto’s idea, but Akaashi had agreed to it without even a second thought.
They’ve missed him. More than they thought possible, and they thought it possible to miss him quite a lot.
They lean a little closer to him on the train north than they might normally, but if he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. He chats about how excited he is for Akaashi to meet the rest of his team, his new coach, the trainer who’s working with him on his jump height. Akaashi listens with a smile, but there’s nothing they’re looking forward to more than a few evenings curled up on his couch, a movie on the screen as they revel in their time together.
They get in late, and Akaashi crashes on the couch before Bokuto can even get the futon made up. When they wake in the morning, he’s there on the floor beside them, eyes already open as he plays on his phone.
“Bokuto-san?” they murmur, their voice a little hoarse. “What are you doing out here?”
“I didn’t want you to get lonely,” Bokuto replies. “And I—uh, hey, let’s get some breakfast started, yeah?”
He hops up before Akaashi can question his stumbled reply, so they wander into the bathroom and change out of their travel-worn jeans and into a pair of soft housepants. Bokuto stares at them a beat too long when they return, and Akaashi feels their cheeks burn under his attention. They bite their lip as they squeeze behind him to get to the coffee maker.
“I think it would be quite hard to get lonely with you around,” they say after a while. Bokuto has set two mugs out on the counter for when the coffee is finished. After a moment’s contemplation, they add, “It is unfortunate that Osaka is such a long way from Tokyo.”
Bokuto looks up with eyes too wide. “Akaashi...I’ve really missed you.”
Akaashi’s heart aches. “I’ve missed you too, Bokuto-san.”
The kitchen feels suddenly very large, like the space between them is too much. Akaashi steps forward as Bokuto does the same, and they meet in the middle, grasping each other in a firm embrace. Bokuto holds them for a minute that passes far too quickly, but when his grip loosens, it’s only because he tilts his head downward and brings a hand up to cup to Akaashi’s face.
Akaashi supposes that if this were a movie, this would be the moment where they confess the love they’ve long been hiding in their heart for the man so worried about the state of their heart that he’d slept on the floor rather than in his own bed. But their tongue is stuck, glued to the top of their mouth, and Bokuto has to be the brave one.
“Akaashi,” he murmurs, and when his eyes flicker down to Akaashi’s lips their heart jumps in their chest, “would it be okay if I kissed you? I—I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
And if Akaashi were a protagonist, they would say, me too, please, will you—only they’re not, and they still can’t get their mouth to open at all. They give a jerky nod, hoping Bokuto doesn’t take it as reluctance—
And then his lips are on theirs. Akaashi can only grasp at Bokuto’s shirt, clutching him as tight as they can, pulling him closer, closer, and it’s definitely not a perfect kiss (not that they’d have any way of knowing) but it’s theirs . Finally.
Bokuto pulls back, grinning wildly, and Akaashi thinks they could look at that beautiful sight for the rest of their life.
“Again,” he says, and Akaashi tugs him close once more.
4.
Keiji’s heart is still pounding.
They tug at the jersey bearing Koutarou’s name, the one they’d hastily purchased before the game. Koutarou had seen them just a few points into the first set and positively beamed . The crowd in the gymnasium had chanted his name as he slammed down spike after spike in his debut as the Jackals’ starting opposite hitter. Their ace. Keiji’s ace.
If there were tears in their eyes at any point during the game, they blame it on the dust in the air.
They’d cleared their schedule for the weekend to come up and spend time with him after the game. Truthfully, the wait between the end of the match and Koutarou’s return from the locker room has never felt longer. Keiji is usually better at controlling their emotions, but there’s something in the air tonight that’s settling beneath their skin, making them restless as they stand among the other players’ spouses and partners.
Meian’s wife smiles at them. “Your Bokuto-kun played an exceptional game tonight, didn’t he?”
“He did,” Keiji agrees, although the simple wording doesn’t put enough weight behind their conviction. “I’m so proud of him.”
“Shuugo is, too,” she replies. “He won’t stop talking about how he’s already got him picked for the next captain after his retirement. Not that that will happen any time soon, if I know my husband.”
Keiji has, unfortunately, swallowed their tongue, so it’s a good thing that Koutarou chooses that moment to burst from the locker room. His eyes lock on Keiji, and Keiji can’t help meeting him halfway for their customary greeting. For once, they don’t mind the eyes on them as they embrace.
“Didja see me, Keiji?” Koutarou murmurs.
He sets Keiji down, and they wrap their arms around his neck.
“I didn’t see anyone but you,” they reply honestly.
They make their way from the gym back to his apartment and order take out. Koutarou does a play-by-play recap of the whole match as though Keiji hadn’t been watching at all, but Keiji doesn’t mind. They sit with their chin pillowed on their hand, watching his enthusiastic gestures and contagious smile with a dreamy one on their own lips. Bedtime is early, but Koutarou holds them close all night, and Keiji sleeps better than they have in months.
Koutarou’s alarm goes off too early, and Keiji rolls over to tell him to shut it off and is met with bright golden eyes.
“Why aren’t we sleeping in?” Keiji mumbles, knowing already they’ll give in to whatever Koutarou asks of them.
“I was thinking we could go grab a copy of the paper,” he says hopefully. “Maybe check the sports section?”
Keiji leans in to brush their nose against his. “Buy me coffee and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He does buy them coffee, and they lean over the paper together outside the konbini. Koutarou’s hands are shaking as he flips open the paper.
On the front page of the sports section there’s a huge, glossy photograph of Koutarou in mid-air, a smile on his face as he prepares to spike.
“Oh,” Keiji says, feeling tears prick their eyes.
Koutarou is speechless for the first time in Keiji’s memory. He stares at the paper, then up at them, then down at the paper again.
“That’s me,” he says.
And it is him. This could never be a part of Keiji’s story, being splashed on the front page like a star, but Koutarou steps into the role like he was made for it. Keiji thinks of Meian’s wife’s words the night before and is certain she—and Meian himself—are right about Koutarou’s eventual captaincy. He is, and always has been, destined for greatness, and Keiji’s just lucky to be along for the ride.
Keiji runs their fingers over the photo again. Koutarou’s in full color, a fully fledged protagonist, and now the world will see him shine the way Keiji has always seen him.
“Are you proud of me?” Koutarou whispers.
Keiji feels a lump rise into their throat. “More than I can possibly say.”
5.
Keiji is grateful the Olympics are in Tokyo this year. It means the hell that is their daily commute to work at least pays off with getting to see Koutarou play in front of the entire world with their own two eyes.
The Bokuto emblazoned across the jersey on their back brings Keiji back to the first time they ever saw Koutarou play. As if life has brought them full circle, the star they first saw shining in that high school gymnasium all those years ago now shines brighter than ever, and they get to witness that glow for themself every single day.
Of course, they’re hardly the only person in the crowd with a Bokuto jersey. Given his popularity among fans, it’s unsurprisingly one of the most commonly worn jerseys. Keiji doesn’t mind sharing this little bit of light with the world, though, because at the end of the day, it’s their apartment that Koutarou will return to, their ear that will hear the whispered recalls of the match, their lips that will be captured by his just before they both fall asleep.
Koutarou’s in rare form today, stealing the show from even Hinata and Kageyama. Being in front of a home crowd has always treated Koutarou well, and it shows as he slams the ball down just a centimeter inside the line. The stadium erupts in cheers as it’s called in.
Koutarou turns to the stands, meeting Keiji’s eyes directly as he points at them. They expect one of his signature Bokuto Beams, because Koutarou does try to send them one directly at least once per match. But Keiji’s heart stops in their chest as Koutarou smiles and blows them a kiss and then places one hand over his heart.
I love you , he’s saying. This is for you.
The fans around Keiji are screaming as Koutarou goes back to his spot on the court. Kageyama and Hinata both offer him high fives, and then the game continues, but the roar of the crowd and the next several plays are just noise in Keiji’s ears as they sit and clutch their hand to their chest.
This will mean something, they know. They think of the headlines that will pop up, that perhaps are already being written. Bokuto Koutarou in love? Player sends kiss to member of Olympic crowd! To the journalists, the media, the fans who gobble up these types of stories, Keiji is a nameless entity, just a stand-in for the sensationalism of trying to figure out who Koutarou could possibly love.
None of that matters, though, and how Koutarou chooses to respond doesn’t matter, either. Keiji knows without a doubt that Koutarou is theirs , through and through. The world may not know Keiji’s name, but they will never love him more than Keiji loves him, which somehow, impossibly, grows every day even after all this time.
They stand back up just in time to watch Koutarou perform another flawless play, and they smile at him just as brightly as he smiles at them.
(plus one)
Keiji never feels more at home than when Koutarou’s head is in their lap.
They’re sitting on the couch in the apartment they’ve shared these past few years. Koutarou keeps hinting it’s time to move on, perhaps buy a house now that he’s considering retirement, but Keiji likes the homey feel of the smaller space, likes seeing the memories they’ve made play out in their mind when they step into a room. The cat they rescued last year is asleep on Koutarou’s chest. Keiji’s tablet is in their hands, but the document in front of them is frustratingly empty. Koutarou had been the one to encourage them to quit their job at Jump and chase their dream of writing a novel. Their two weeks isn’t quite up, but the anxiety is already settling in, the question of what to write tumbling over and over in their mind.
Keiji sighs and sets the tablet aside to run their fingers through Koutarou’s hair. “Maybe I should just stay at Jump,” they muse.
Koutarou huffs. “You’ve said that thirteen times in the last four days, and yes, I’ve been counting.”
Keiji laughs as they look down at Koutarou. “I’m sorry, love. I’m just having a hard time figuring out what to write.”
Koutarou frowns. “You’ve had tons of ideas in the past.”
“Mm, and now that I finally have a chance to act on them, none of them feel right.” Keiji sighs again.
Koutarou reaches up and cups their cheek. “The perfect idea will come to you. I believe in you.”
Even after all this time, simple words like that make Keiji’s heart race. They fight down the instinct to blush and look at their tablet. “If you were going to write a novel, what would you write about?”
“I don’t know that you really want me to answer that question,” Koutarou says with a grin. “Because I’m gonna say either myself or pirates. Oh, me as a pirate!”
“You do look the part,” Keiji muses.
“If you’re gonna write about me, though, you have to include yourself,” Koutarou says. He meets their eyes. “I’m not me without you.”
Keiji swallows. “I’m hardly a protagonist, Koutarou.”
“You’re a protagonist to me,” he replies. “I wouldn’t have been able to do half the things I’ve done without you by my side, Keiji. This is your story just as much as it is mine.”
Keiji opens their mouth to retort, but finds there’s no words to say. They have never thought of their life as a love story, except it is, and every little moment they’ve ever shared with Koutarou has led to this moment, the two of them on the couch in their apartment and looking forward to the next stage in their lives.
“I’m no good at love stories,” they manage finally. “I’m afraid it would be quite boring.”
“Not if I know you at all,” Koutarou says confidently. “It’ll be the best love story ever written.”
Keiji leans down to press their lips to Koutarou’s forehead. When they sit up again, they pick up the tablet. They’ll have to change the name of their protagonist later, they know, but for now they know the perfect line to begin with.
Akaashi Keiji never thought of their life as a love story.