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Akaashi Keiji fidgets in his seat, unaware anymore of his friends to either side, or the screaming volleyball idiots packed in the stadium. His eyes track the ball — a save by the Ubugawa libero, a shut out by the Fukurodani middle blockers, a dig, a toss, a spike. The volley seems like it goes on forever; Akaashi’s sweaty and twitchy just watching it. For a moment it looks like the set will end in Ubugawa’s favor, a particularly nasty spike smashing through Fukurodani’s attempts to block. Someone covers it, setting the ball left in a flash of hands almost too quickly to catch. It’s long, and a little high, and Akaashi doesn’t think the spiker will be able to connect. He’s glued to the trajectory of #4’s muscular arm as it arcs through the air. His form is beautiful, strong back straight and solid legs curling with the force of his jump. #4’s hand rockets toward the ball like a magnet, and he smashes it clear across the court with so much power the sound ripples through the stadium even above the chaos. His feet hit the floor with a satisfying slap, and #4 punches the air in victory.
It’s then that he turns, and Akaashi’s heart stutters in his chest.
A mouth full of bright teeth stretches over #4’s face, hot and blinding like staring full force into the sun. His face is shiny with sweat and red from exertion in a way Akaashi finds extremely attractive, pulling tight but not straining as he throws his head back in an easy, booming laugh. His broad forehead comes together in a widow’s peak, from which dark strands of hair swoop high like the spread wings of an owl, streaks of bleach gleaming in the harsh fluorescent stadium lighting into a silver crown.
Akaashi’s eyes rake over him, taking in the curious, slim line of his nose and the hard, chiseled cut of his jaw. His teammates swarm him, cheering and slapping their hands against the smooth expanse of his back and gorgeously broad shoulders. Beside them #4 stands out even more, a work of art composed of bulging muscles and clean lines. He looks carved in the image of a Greek god. Akaashi is struck by sudden, irrational jealousy towards the teammates who touch him so casually.
#4 is devastatingly handsome, and Akaashi can’t look away from him.
“That’s number four, Bokuto Koutarou, who clinches the set for Fukurodani!” the announcers cheer, and Akaashi memorizes the name, lets it burn through him like fireworks in the night. He can’t take his eyes off of Bokuto Koutarou for the rest of the match, and when Fukurodani leaves the court at 2-0 Akaashi finds himself wanting to follow, an urge so powerful that his friends beside him actually ask in alarm if he’s alright because he’s halfway out of his seat before he realizes what’s even happening.
Bokuto Koutarou and Fukurodani, Akaashi chants mentally, over and over, throughout the rest of the day. Bokuto Koutarou and Fukurodani, through matches he doesn’t process and a train ride home he doesn’t remember taking. Akaashi feels like a live wire, Bokuto Koutarou sizzling in his veins.
“I don’t want to go to Suzumeoka,” he tells his mother without preamble. It’s a good school, and he’d even gotten a recommendation. But another school wants him too, and that school is —
“Next year I’m going to Fukurodani.”
His mother smiles and nods, pleased her son’s finally come to a decision. Dinner tastes better than usual that night, as though sweetened by the promise of Fukurodani Academy and the boy with the sunshine smile, and when Akaashi at last falls asleep he dreams of Bokuto Koutarou among the stars.
*
Bokuto bounces almost impatiently on the balls of his feet. The first practice of the new school year is his very favorite. There’s something about the blending of new players and old, the anxiousness fading into an easy rhythm after only a few hours, that he’s always found particularly appealing. He’d been a nervous first year once, and he remembers how eager he’d been to get out on the court and show his stuff. Obviously he’d done well, because he’d made the starting lineup. He can’t wait to see what these new boys bring to the game.
Konoha stomps on his foot, hissing, “Calm down! Don’t scare them off before we even start!” and Bokuto laughs. It must be obvious how badly he already wants to be on the court. The cart of volleyballs across the room is calling his name, warring with his interest in these unknown players and his sense of vice captainly duty.
There aren’t as many first years this year, he notes, and wonders for a moment if Yukippe’s flyers are reaching as many students as they should. She and Suzumeda are doing it all alone this year, after all, and she’d been nervous about the design. Bokuto decides to check in with her after practice, see what she’s got. Maybe there’s a way to improve the posters.
Last year there’d been so many applicants that they’d spilled from the gym, and enough made the team that they didn’t have enough jerseys for them all.
One by one the first years introduce themselves. Bokuto tries his best to be patient, stands straight and tall and stoic like a vice captain should. He meets the eye of each boy as he speaks, commits each name and face — Mishima Yuuki, Manabe Kakeru, Shindou Kouichi — to memory. A wing spiker, a middle blocker, a setter, and Bokuto is ecstatic by the time they reach the final boy, because Fukurodani needs a new setter now with Sanada gone.
“My name is Akaashi Keiji from Mori Junior High. I’m a setter too.”
Bokuto’s golden eyes slip from Shindou Kouichi to Akaashi Keiji and oh.
Akaashi Keiji is tall, his frame slight but toned. The muscles flex quietly as he clasps his hands firmly in front of himself, long, slender fingers twining together. His dark hair is cropped short, wispy curls falling over his wide forehead in a way that makes Bokuto think of hazy tendrils of smoke.
The heart shape of his face, the sharp, high cheekbones and pale pointed chin, make Bokuto acutely aware of his own heart drumming staccato beneath his ribs. Tender, pale pink lips part around words formed with a precise elegance Bokuto’s never had, and his narrow eyes are so delicate as to be almost painted on, with dark sweeping lashes that brush the pale skin of his cheeks. Those eyes are now locked on his own, and Bokuto’s stomach swoops like the first drop of a roller coaster because oh, Akaashi Keiji is beautiful.
Akaashi Keiji is so beautiful it’s hard to concentrate once they break off into groups. Bokuto knows he’s supposed to be observing, evaluating the first years like a good vice captain should, but he finds himself turning again and again to watch Akaashi Keiji. He’s riveted by the way Akaashi flexes his fingers after a serve, gently tugging one by one at each digit like a nervous habit. Is he nervous? Bokuto doesn’t want him to be nervous.
Shindou sets the ball to him, but Bokuto is looking at the graceful line of Akaashi’s arm as he does the same across the court, wishing with every ounce of himself to be in Konoha’s shoes as his friend leaps for it. The toss is flawless, and Konoha hits it easily.
“Bokuto!” someone calls, but Bokuto isn’t listening. He feels as though he’s moving in slow motion, slithering almost lazily through the air as he jumps. Shindou’s ball is good, he thinks dimly, but Akaashi Keiji’s looked better.
“Bokuto!” someone yells, as his feet hit the floor. Across the net Akaashi is watching him with wide eyes, watching him spike, and with a startled shock Bokuto realizes Akaashi’s eyes are not black as he’d first thought but a deep, entrancing blue. He can’t look away. He wants Akaashi to look at him forever.
“Bokuto-san!” Bokuto watches as Akaashi Keiji’s perfect mouth forms the three syllables of his name and feels as though he’s ascended straight to the heavens, warmth wrapping around his thundering heart like an old, comfortable sweater. The smile Bokuto gives in return feels like the sun bursting forth after a long rainstorm, blinding in its intensity.
At that moment the timestream speeds back to normal, and Akaashi Keiji is still looking at him when the ball smacks him in the face.
*
OUTGOING TEXT, BOKUTO’S PHONE
Bokuto: i wanna die
Cat Daddy: did you get food poisoning again?
Bokuto: worse. my life is over
Cat Daddy: why?
Bokuto: we have a new setter
Cat Daddy: okay? you need one, don’t you? i’m not really seeing the problem here
Bokuto: bro
Bokuto: we got a new setter and he’s SO PRETTY and i think i’m in love
Cat Daddy: god what a mood
Cat Daddy: still not seeing a problem though
Bokuto: I TOOK A VOLLEYBALL TO THE FACE BECAUSE I COULDN’T STOP STARING AT HIM
Cat Daddy: AHAHAHAHAHA
*
Akaashi Keiji is the last one left in the gym. Bokuto wonders if it’s on purpose, hopes that it is. Hopes that despite yesterday’s embarrassing incident, Akaashi Keiji wants to be here with him. It seems like he does, when he dismisses Sarukui’s concerned, “You’ll be here all night if you let Bokuto rope you into spiking practice.”
God, Bokuto hopes they’re here all night.
“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s voice is smooth like the first sip of good coffee, and like coffee it pools warmly in Bokuto’s stomach and sends a little jolt of electricity straight up his spine. His skin feels tingly all over. Say my name again, he thinks, and Akaashi does.
“Bokuto-san, you’re staring.”
Oh, he is. He hasn’t been able to stop staring at Akaashi since yesterday, and all night his dreams had been filled with the image of the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. The boy’s face flushes a beautiful rosy pink, and his eyebrows slant together, smooth coffee voice cracking only slightly as he asks, “What?”
Bokuto realizes then that he’s said all this aloud, and his feet take a step forward of their own accord. And then another. He wonders what would happen if he bridges that last little bit of space between them. Imagines reaching out and smoothing the confused frown from Akaashi’s face. Is his skin as soft as it looks?
“You’re pretty, Akaashi,” Bokuto says lowly. Akaashi’s eyes are like sapphires, cut here and there with flashes of storm grey and ocean green and mesmerizing in their intensity like the call of a siren. Bokuto will happily sail towards his own destruction before he’ll look away from them. Is this what it feels like to be caught in a riptide?
Akaashi blushes again, darker this time. The color reminds Bokuto of bubblegum. “Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Bokuto watches his mouth as he says it, and wonders if his lips taste sweet. Akaashi’s eyes track the movement.
“What are you thinking about, Akaashi?” Please say me.
He doesn’t realize he’s touching Akaashi until he hears the other boy inhale. Bokuto cups Akaashi’s hand in his own, runs his thumb along the knuckles in the same slow, methodical way he’s seen Akaashi do half a dozen times today. Slender, strong fingers twitch at the contact before settling, curling without resistance into Bokuto’s palm.
“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says his name in the exhale, the softest breath against Bokuto’s lips. They stand at the edge of a great cliff, but he’s not afraid of the fall. “Forgive my forwardness—”
“It’s alright,” Bokuto whispers.
“— but may I —?”
“Yes.”
Akaashi’s lips flutter warm and soft against Bokuto’s mouth. He’s nervous, Bokuto thinks. Maybe he’s never done this before. The thought makes Bokuto feel warm, that he might be Akaashi’s first. He tries to be gentle. He wants Akaashi to feel good. He wants Akaashi to want to come back, to run his tongue along the seam of Akaashi’s mouth and memorize its shape.
They’re breathing hard when they pull away, a delicious flush blooming in tandem over both their cheeks. Their hands are still clasped, fingers entwining easily like they were always meant to be, and there’s the most wonderful, pleasant buzz humming in Bokuto’s veins. Kissing Akaashi is intoxicating and Bokuto wonders if this is how it feels to be drunk. It makes him sort of giggly.
“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s pupils are blown wide, nostrils flaring a little in a way that’s stupidly endearing. Bokuto feels more than hears a soft sigh as he brings his free hand to cup Akaashi’s cheek. “Can we… do that again?”
Bokuto succumbs to Akaashi’s pull and brings their mouths together again. He wants to kiss Akaashi forever.
Maybe he will.