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Akaashi has always known not to meet his heroes.
It started when he was 7. He had taken up the chance to meet his favorite author, only to find out he was greedy and ignorant, turning his nose up at the starry-eyed children asking him for autographs.
Then, when he was 10, it’s reaffirmed. By then, he had learned how to mask the stars in his eyes, and had timidly asked an upperclassman for any feedback on his serving. Instead of giving advice, he had only sneered and walked away.
Akaashi didn’t ask for help for a long time. He kept playing volleyball for others, of course. He figured out the fundamentals of the game without proper guidance, and eventually taught himself the right amount of power to use to hit his serve over the net.
Akaashi eventually ended up on a junior high team with some amount of notoriety at the regional level.
For a long time, he refused to let himself look up to those older than him. Upperclassman, adults, it didn’t matter. He was fine on his own.
"Maybe," Akaashi had thought, 15 and ready to love again, “maybe Bokuto Koutarou would be different.”
He’d known of Bokuto for a couple months before sharing the court with him. In junior high, he’d never gone against him in an official game. In fact, he only took up the chance to attend a Fukurodani tournament game on a whim, thinking nothing of it.
There, at that early preliminary game, he met Bokuto. Gaping, he admired his form, eyes trailing from his legs, firm and bent as he prepared to jump for a successful triple block, to the way his lips quirked into a charming smile right before one of his incredible cross shots slammed against the court next to the opposing team’s libero. Akaashi shared dozens of chaste glances with Bokuto, to the point where he began searching for his eyes after every rally. He was 15 and dumb and he didn’t believe in love at first sight, never would and never will, so he pretended his heartbeat quickened only because of the resulting uproar. Bokuto was a year older than him, and he was Akaashi’s hero.
Therefore, in his third year of junior high, it was only due to the lingering thought of Bokuto’s immense talent that he impulsively filled out an application for Fukurodani Academy.
A few months too late, Akaashi learns that some people are hopeless. Whether it’s him or Bokuto doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter when there was never a chance for them in the first place.
Bokuto was too talented to have the word ‘moody’ slapped upon his back. Akaashi had heard the stories of the sulky ace of Fukurodani in his third year of junior high, he’d even seen him in action, and he still knew no one’s that hopeless.
(Perhaps Akaashi’s decision to go to Fukurodani was not made in an uncanny sense of longing, but in a deep want to save someone other than himself.)
Akaashi, on the other hand, was too untalented to share the court with a star. After all, he can’t meet his heroes, let alone work with one. What has he done to himself?
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
—
In the present day, Akaashi is in the Fukurodani gym. He stares blankly at the ball in his hands. It should be beaten after a long day of being slammed onto the court from spikes and blocks, but there’s barely a single scuff mark. Akaashi absentmindedly runs a calloused thumb over it.
“Hey, Akaashi?” a voice calls, breaking him from his drifting mind. The first year looks up, and meets the eyes of one of his multiple upperclassmen. He’s far enough into the year to attach a name to the face, and despite his admittedly suspicious grin, Akaashi still trusts Konoha enough to relax his shoulders.
“Yes, Konoha-san?” Akaashi responds, shifting his feet where he stands.
“Any way you could stop dozing off and help with cleanup?” he replies. He rests his hand on his hip, having showered and changed back into his school uniform previously. As Akaashi looks around the gymnasium, he notices everyone else has as well.
Akaashi bows his head in apology. “Of course. My apologies.” Then, he’s dashing towards a basket in the opposite direction. Once he stops,his gaze drifts to two volleyballs lying on the ground, and picks one of them up in his free arm.
“Sorry about that,” remarks a different upperclassman. Akaashi recognizes this one as Komi.
Komi speed-walks over to where Akaashi is struggling with the volleyballs. The upperclassman sets one in the basket, then accepts the other from Akaashi. He looks in Akaashi’s eyes after both balls have been put away, gaze apologetic. “You know how Bokuto gets when he’s excited.” Komi says in a hushed tone. Akaashi nods in understanding.
There’s a certain set of weaknesses Bokuto possesses, as Akaashi has come to learn. In an attempt to deter future, possibly graver, instances of disappointment, he’s begun keeping a list of them. Bokuto’s tendency to overcompensate for received rebounds and land his spikes way out of bounds rests at #21.
Komi sighs, shrugging. “I guess there’s nothing we can do.” Akaashi knows that’s a lie, and he’s sure Komi does as well with the way his lips unnaturally twist into a grimace. Of course there’s something they can do, Bokuto’s their close friend, and they care about him. They just don’t know how to help.
Akaashi doesn’t comment on this. He simply bows his head, a noncommittal way to end the conversation, and walks across the gym to where a separate cluster of volleyballs rests upon the ground.
This time, a different upperclassman picks it up just as he grasps it.
“I got it, Akaashi-kun!” his surname slurs off his tongue. The pronunciation’s off.
Akaashi doesn’t have to look up. “Thanks, Bokuto-san.”
Akaashi doesn’t have to look up because he can feel Bokuto’s hand resting heavy on his shoulder, the other hand palming the snatched volleyball. He can feel Bokuto beaming down at him, and if he clears his mind, he can picture the way his grin doesn’t reach his eyes, the way his lips grotesquely stretch to accommodate a forced smile.
“Anytime, Akaashi-kun!” he lies. Bokuto walks off, and Akaashi lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
This sort of interaction is unfortunate, but not uncommon. Unclenching his jaw, Akaashi diverts his attention to the volleyballs waiting to be picked up, and he manages to hold one in each arm without assistance this time.
When he turns around to walk to the nearest basket, he pretends not to notice the team’s eyes on him. It takes too long to get to the basket when the air in the gym is this tense. Finally, under the watchful eye of the whole team, including the coaches and managers, he arrives at the basket.
The basket is full.
“For fucks’ sake.” Akaashi swears under his breath. He has a feeling of what’ll come next that he’d like to deny for just a moment more.
“Is it full?” Konoha asks as he strides over to the basket. His question is answered as he looks for himself. Akaashi bites his lip.
“Oh no! Really? What a shame!” Sarukui declares, diction clear. It’s very clearly been practiced. “Bokuto, can you help him put it away in the supply closet?” He adds, because that’s an action that requires two people. Out of habit and nothing more, Akaashi’s gaze meets Bokuto. There’s a hopeless part of Akaashi that knows Bokuto was looking at Akaashi long before he heard his name.
For now, he represses that revelation to the back of his mind. He can agonize over that later.
“Uh, okay?” Bokuto responds as he comes to rest at Akaashi’s side. Even Bokuto notices the tension. Akaashi doesn’t like this.
Konoha smirks. “Off you go!” With a push towards the supply closet, Bokuto drives the basket while Akaashi shuffles anxiously in tow.
Once both are in the supply closet, Bokuto keeps a safe distance away from Akaashi. “Sorry about today, Akaashi-kun. I’m a bit out of practice.” Akaashi recognizes that as a moderately well-disguised jab at him. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s picked up on many of Bokuto’s strange mannerisms and practices (see: the weakness list).
“Yeah.” Akaashi stiffly replies. He can’t deny today was a rough day for Bokuto even if he wanted to, and there’s no reason to try and sugarcoat his words.
With that, Bokuto shuts the door behind them. Another oddity. There should be no reason for them to need privacy.
“Okay.” Bokuto deadpans, and Akaashi can sense something in his voice that sends dread down his spine. “Can we stop?”
Akaashi tilts his head and says, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean, Bokuto-san.” even though it’s obvious what he’s referring to.
Bokuto gestures wildly between them, mostly unseen in the low light. “This.” he responds helpfully, before adding, “Y’know, the politeness, the fake smiles, pretending to like me when you really just wanna leave the room when I’m around.”
Akaashi was right, of course. “I’m sorry that you feel that way, Bokuto-san.” To be honest, he thought he was hiding it well. The last thing he wants is to negatively affect his moods.
Bokuto chuckles, a sickening sound. “Don’t be. The feeling’s mutual.”
What.
“Because, here’s my secret, Akaashi-kun.” The words come off of Bokuto’s tongue like poison. Even in the dark, Akaashi can feel as his eyes bore into him, the usual hue and saturation dropped from his gaze. “I’m not really that nice of a person.”
“Huh. Surprised I had that much faith in you.” Akaashi thinks.
“Hey, hey, hey! So you can talk back.” Bokuto says, because apparently Akaashi can’t keep his thoughts inside his head.
Too stunned to shoot back, Akaashi huffs and drops one of the volleyballs he’s holding into the basket. The dark obscures his vision, but in the soft light he can see Bokuto’s lips curl into his signature cocky smirk. If he squints (which he totally doesn’t), he can make out the way his cheeks dimple, or the way the light makes his jaw look impossibly sharper. God dammit, even when Bokuto’s a loathsome asshole, he still manages to look like a Greek god.
He throws the last volleyball into the basket with more force than needed.
Bokuto clicks his tongue. “Don’t be like that, Akaashi-kun!” He lifts a large hand to scuff up Akaashi’s already messy hair with faux-affection. Akaashi hates it. He knows Bokuto’s putting the facade back up to piss him off. “We are a team, after all! And teamwork is all about getting along!”
With that, the lock on the supply closet door clicks. Bokuto’s hand drops from Akaashi’s head.
The two turn silently towards the origin of the sound. They blink once, then twice, then dash towards the door in tandem.
While Akaashi works on trying to shove the door open with no avail, Bokuto bangs on the door and bellows, “Hey, wait! We’re still in here, y’know!”
(Weakness #22: Bokuto-san tends to yell in people’s ears without meaning to. This will deafen the victim temporarily.)
By principle, even if he doesn’t fully trust them, Akaashi tries to see the good in people. Therefore, he holds a certain amount of trust in his upperclassman, with one obvious exception. To quote Bokuto, teamwork is all about getting along, after all. That requires trust.
This trust is betrayed when he hears a body rest against the door. “The tension was bad enough.” Konoha snarls. “But, now you guys are bickering? I'm tired of it, we all are.” Akaashi feels his heart drop at that. He hears tennis shoes scuff the floor, and he knows there’s got to be 7, no, 8 other bodies out there.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Akaashi growls, still jiggling the door handle in a futile attempt to have the door magically open. It doesn’t work.
“It means you’re locked in there until you make up.” Komi pipes up. Though unsaid, the “or until you die” is still obviously implied.
Bokuto chortles, this time due to nerves. “Or until we die?” Akaashi sighs. He stops jerking the door handle, and instead rests his forehead against the wooden door.
“Think of it like a get along shirt.” This time, it’s Kaori’s voice. Even the managers are in on this. Akaashi feels like he should be surprised.
“We’ll be back at six o’clock.” Coach Yamiji informs them. Bokuto’s knees buckle, and Akaashi almost faints. The coach? This isn’t real life. “If you two don’t make up, we’ll have no choice but to force you both to resign.”
After a beat, a dozen pairs of tennis shoes begin to sound against the gymnasium floor. Then, with a slam, the door shuts. Bokuto and Akaashi are now indefinitely, hopelessly, alone.
A heavy silence sets upon the boys as their coach’s words set upon them.
Bokuto is the first to react. His back slides against the door until he silently lands on the ground, air leaving his mouth in silent puffs. Then, Akaashi realized he hadn't breathed in half a minute, and gasps for air.
Chest heaving, Akaashi joins him on the ground, and neither of them talk for a while. What is there to say?
Or, where do they start?
It's five minutes later when Akaashi realizes that, for the first time, he has to initiate a conversation with Bokuto. “I guess it was only a matter of time.”
Bokuto doesn’t respond for a couple seconds, and Akaashi almost repeats himself until Bokuto finally pipes up, his voice gravelly. “What?”
“Well, I don’t know how you feel, but as for me, it’s hard to perform well with the...” Akaashi pauses for a moment, unable to think of the correct word. Focusing has always been difficult whenever he feels Bokuto’s hard gaze on him. “Uh, tension, between us.”
“What tension? We’ve barely talked since...” This time, it’s Bokuto’s turn to trail off. “The first couple of months.”
Akaashi swallows. “This is tension,” he wants to tell Bokuto, but instead he says “Do you mean when I would set for you?”
Bokuto nods to the darkness. “Yeah.” Akaashi notices his throat is raspy. Practice today was strenuous on the whole team; Bokuto must feel dehydrated. “Things were easier back then.”
After that moment of vulnerability, Bokuto seems to remember himself. He snickers dryly. “See how that worked out for us?”
Akaashi can’t help but join him with a laugh. He's right, this whole situation is pretty depressing.
“Our teammates had to lock us in a closet to get along. What’s wrong with us?” Akaashi remarks. Bokuto chortles, and Akaashi recognizes it as his real laugh because he’s heard it before, during those fateful prelims.
Before it all went to hell.
Despite his grim thoughts, Akaashi can’t help but laugh with Bokuto. Akaashi knows he’s infectious, he’s seen the way others light up at the mere mention of his name. Could he have been the same way?
“We could have been in their shoes,” Bokuto chokes out between wild cackles, “imagine locking Saru and Konoha in a storage closet!”
Akaashi snorts. “God, what are we doing?” He questions.
It's rhetorical, but Bokuto answers anyway. “Being dumbasses.”
Akaashi nods vigorously, and even though there’s barely any light casting upon the two boys, Bokuto understands anyway.
Then, he says, “It’s too bad we’re hopeless.”
“We’re not hopeless.” Akaashi expresses before he can remember himself. He's not laughing anymore, and if Bokuto is still laughing, he can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. He swallows a lump in his throat, before repeating himself in an acceptable voice for a tiny storage closet. “We’re not hopeless.”
It’s silent for a minute. Akaashi wants to die.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bokuto vocalizes through clenched teeth. The lilt in his voice is gone, as if it never existed. “There was never a ‘we’ to begin with.”
Akaashi stubbornly shakes his head back and forth in the oppressive darkness. He’s been trying to trick himself, make himself believe he’s not reading too much into things, but it’s true. Deep down, he knows he had imagined their tension at those preliminaries all those years ago. There’s no way his hero would care that much about him.
So why does it hurt so much?
Akaashi’s cheeks feel wet. What’s wrong with him? He’s so vulnerable in front of this guy he’s talked to probably four times in the past three months. He’s laughed more than he has in his life over the absurdity of their relationship, and now this?
“Are you crying?” Bokuto asks. There’s a certain amount of concern in his voice that Akaashi wants to box up and keep in his pocket forever.
“I’m not crying,” Akaashi thinks, but this time the words don’t escape his mouth. Instead, a loud sob wracks his chest. Distantly, he thinks the gods hate him.
Bokuto is known mainly around Fukurodani for his volume, his strength, and his endless rambling. These traits are associated with two thirds of his weaknesses. Akaashi did the math, he knows.
Today, instead of any weakness, Bokuto shows a strength. He wordlessly drapes his blazer on Akaashi’s shoulders. It’s warm, dry, comforting, and smells like Bokuto. Then, he wraps his arms around him, and doesn’t back away when Akaashi tucks his face into where his neck meets his shoulder and soaks the hand-wash only fabric of his dress shirt.
They stay there like that for a while, Akaashi shaking in Bokuto’s arms. He finds they’re still as strong as they were in middle school, probably even stronger.
If Akaashi notices the teardrops falling on his back, he doesn’t bring it up.
He realizes at some point that Bokuto’s happy go-lucky self was never a facade—rather, it was the sardonic personality that was a mask. He hasn’t actually known Bokuto for very long, but he can tell this is the real him. Sobbing, he smiles into his neck.
Eventually, the tears dry on Akaashi’s cheeks, and the rising and falling of his chest evens out. Even now, Akaashi doesn’t move from the embrace, and Bokuto doesn’t budge, even though Akaashi hasn’t showered and the room smells of sweat and tears and there’s snot drying on his face. It feels good to be held.
Comfortable silence hangs over them for the first time ever. There’s no need to break it, what they have is fine.
Akaashi takes a deep breath in through his nostrils, then out his mouth. He relishes the way the air fills his lungs like they never knew anything else.
There’s no need to be selfish. Akaashi knows that. But it’s only been an hour and a half at most and Akaashi’s taken words, laughter, and comfort from Bokuto. What’s taking a bit more?
So Akaashi takes. “Thank you, Bokuto-san.” he sighs. He inhales, then exhales. “I’m sorry for ruining your shirt.”
He feels Bokuto laugh at that. The noise reverberates through his chest, and Akaashi feels warm inside. “I don’t care about the shirt. Are you okay?”
Akaashi nods into his neck. He knows what to say. “This might be a bad time to bring this up.”
Bokuto knows as well. “Go ahead.”
Akaashi sighs, and buries his face a bit deeper into Bokuto’s neck. This is a long time coming. “I'm sorry I stopped setting for you after practice.” he begins. “I think I was scared, to be honest. To tell you the truth, Bokuto-san, I think you might be my hero.”
Bokuto gulps, and Akaashi, thinking nothing of it, continues. “I didn’t want to tell you that, at first because I thought your head would get too big, then because...” Akaashi trails off, the unsaid words hanging in the air.
“I didn’t want to get too close to you. I thought just sharing this space would be enough, but it got suffocating. Bokuto-san, I felt like I didn’t deserve to share the court with you.” Akaashi’s tongue feels thick, and tears prick his eyes once more.
“I came here because of you, Bokuto-san. I don’t know what spurred me to—maybe it was the way you played, maybe it was love, I don’t know, maybe I just wanted to feel like I could save someone—“
“I’ve forgiven you a while ago, Akaashi.” Bokuto finally responds in a low voice. “I’m happy you’re ready to forgive yourself.”
Akaashi sheds a few more tears into Bokuto’s neck, even though he isn’t sad anymore.
He finally brings his head up, and wipes his nose. “Thank you. Bokuto-san, thank you.” A tear trails down Akaashi’s face, and Bokuto wipes it away with his free hand.
In the soft light filtering through the room, Akaashi notices for the first time how gentle the slopes of Bokuto’s face can be when he’s at rest. “Um, actually,” Bokuto starts, “I really, really need to apologize too.”
Akaashi tilts his head, then remembers. Right, he had said all that shit earlier. It was a bit easy to forget with all the violent sobbing, but Akaashi does feel hurt at recalling exactly what Bokuto had said to him.
“Um, I just, it doesn’t really excuse what I said at all, and—and I don’t want it to seem like i’m trying to excuse any of it, because it was terrible—but,” Bokuto rambles, clearly struggling a bit. Akaashi waits. “Well, I guess I was just hurt because of how you kinda ghosted me, to tell the truth.”
Akaashi swallows, and Bokuto brings up his free hand to gesture deeper into the dark closet before them. “But! I understand now. and if I could go back to a couple hours ago, I would take it all back. I think,” Bokuto’s voice begins to shake. Akaashi wonders if he’s as emotionally wrecked as him. “Akaashi, of course I love you back. I don’t know what's wrong with me. I think i was just saying things to— to hurt you, i—“
“It’s alright, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi forgives, and he’s crying again but it’ll be alright. “Hey, look at me.”
Bokuto meets Akaashi’s gaze, his golden eyes sparkling with unshed tears. If he could, he would do anything if it would mean Bokuto would never look so broken again. Akaashi knows they never really hated eachother, they were just young, stupid, and in love.
To tell the truth, Akaashi has never been good at making people feel better. After all, he can barely make himself feel better.
“I love you, Bokuto-san.” That’s a start.
They’re still staring into each other’s eyes, equally puffy but still glowing. This time, though, Akaashi recognizes a new glint in Bokuto’s eyes. Once again, he notices the soft shadows cast upon Bokuto’s face. He’s allowed to look now, and he knows immediately it’s a million times better than the stolen glances he was pretending to be okay with. Bokuto looks like a completely different person now—the crease in his brow is gone, his smile curves gently at both edges, and the low light makes him look almost delicate.
Akaashi can’t seem to keep his eyes in one place. Bokuto’s eyes are golden and hold interest, but his lips are tempting, and he can’t help but flicker his gaze downwards. Bokuto licks his lips, wetting them an almost imperceptible amount. without realizing, Akaashi runs his own tongue over his red lips, bitten from crying.
The silence is thick. they could stay there all day, if they wanted to. In a quiet, serious voice, Bokuto speaks first. “This is a bit forward, but—“
“There’s no need to finish that sentence,” Akaashi thinks, and this time it stays in his mind because he’s grasping Bokuto’s tie and pulling him in for a soft, gentle kiss.
Of course, Akaashi’s thought about this before, but the Bokuto in his mind had chapped lips, and moved too fast.
Real Bokuto, the Bokuto who’s face he’s resting a calloused palm against, has impossibly soft lips, as he now realizes. They’re warm, so warm, and Akaashi swears he can taste a bit of vanilla chapstick on his lips (weakness #14: Bokuto-san is incredibly weak to sweets).
Real Bokuto also has more sense then a lot of people give him credit for, Akaashi included. He knows not to go fast; after all, they did just cry their hearts out. Tentatively, Bokuto brings one calloused hand to Akaashi’s cheek, and tangles the other in the mess of curls atop his head.
It’s almost too good to believe, and that’s why they have to pull apart to breathe. Bokuto rests his forehead against Akaashi’s and shallowly, breathlessly whispers “Do you get it now?”
Akaashi responds by pressing his lips against his once more.
This time, it’s Akaashi’s turn to take. He tangles his fingers into Bokuto’s ridiculous hair—something he’s wanted to do for as long as he’s known him—and pulls.
A noise strangles its way out of Bokuto’s throat as he begins to kiss more insistently. It’s imperfect, of course. It’s Akaashi’s first kiss, and he can only hope it’s Bokuto’s as well. Their noses bump when they pull back for air, and at one point, Bokuto falls backwards onto the dusty ground and Akaashi topples on top of him.
He wouldn’t change a damn thing.
One positive about this new angle, Akaashi finds, is that he can rest his forearms on each side of Bokuto’s head, effectively caging him in.
(Not like Bokuto would want to get away.)
At this angle, Akaashi can run his tongue across Bokuto’s bottom lip and part Bokuto’s mouth. At this point, they’ve both found the perfect rhythm. A hungry noise escapes Bokuto’s mouth between kisses, and Akaashi boldly runs his tongue over the ridges of the roof of his mouth. He wants to remember this moment. If he could, he’d stay in this supply closet forever, their own little space away from the world.
Akaashi pulls back for just a second, lips still touching Bokuto’s, to savor the moment. He takes another breath before diving back in.
This time, Bokuto doesn’t seem to be kissing back. That’s strange. They have all the time in the world, they’re locked in a supply closet after all.
Akaashi realizes a bit too late that it’s six pm. The door’s unlocked, and Konoha Akinori and Shirofuku Yukie are standing in the doorway gaping at the pair.
With their lips still pressed together, they both open their eyes and slowly, unbelievingly turn their eyes towards their teammates.
A beat passes, and Yukie is the first to say anything. “So you’re getting along now?”
Bokuto and Akaashi nod in tandem.
Then, Bokuto’s head snaps to face Konoha, who has a deep flush adorning his face.
“Are you blushing?!”
“Y-you— I—“ Konoha starts, but is interrupted by Akaashi.
“This is all your fault, Konoha-san.” He says. He gets up on unsteady legs, feeling boneless. He holds a hand out for Bokuto, and Bokuto takes it with a real, toothy grin, his eyes scrunching up into bright half moons.
The rational side of Akaashi knows it’ll take a while for them to get into that easy rhythm most pairs have, whether they’re a setter-spiker pair, best friends, or even a couple.
After all, it took them almost 7 months to get here. Realistically, it takes a bit more than a couple hours to build that relationship of trust.
But, Akaashi’s heart skips a beat as Bokuto keeps a steady hand in his as they walk to a nearby convenience store. The day ends in a brilliant sunset, and Akaashi finds that Bokuto looks radiant painted in pink and orange hues. When he and Bokuto get matching popsicles—cherry and blue raspberry respectively—they kiss the melting popsicle off each other’s lips, and end up with purple tongues. They laugh over it the next day, with Bokuto lamenting about how he had to brush his tongue an extra four times to get the hue back to normal.
Whenever Bokuto spikes Akaashi’s sets, it hurtles onto the opposite side of the court in a straight line before resounding against the floor. The smile he gives him after each spike, stuffed or not, is enough to make Akaashi want to dash five feet into his arms and smash his lips into his.
And yeah, maybe it’s just the honeymoon period. Maybe he’s young and stupid, maybe they’re both just hopelessly in love.
But Akaashi knows it this time. Bokuto Koutarou is different.
He’ll never need to have another hero again, because he’s staying in his arms.