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Bokuto doesn’t remember when seeing Akaashi’s smile starts reminding him of a slow, sleepy sunrise, of pigment seeping into muted grey like watercolors onto a blank canvas, doesn’t remember ever thinking something so poetic before in his life and it’s all a little startling, especially when he’s caught red-handed with his eyes on Akaashi’s profile during their last few minutes of practice.
There’s a dangerous mixture of adrenaline running through him. He’s hopped-up on saccharine musings and the twist of want veiled for too long deep in his gut and he’s shifting himself closer to Akaashi on the steps of the gymnasium before he can really, truly mull over whether or not he would like to stop himself. Laughter and playful banter echo on the edges of his mind from the ruckus they leave behind for some fresh air and it’s mid-evening in the beginning of spring, their limbs sweat-slicked and tingling. Akaashi holds his breath.
He’s usually not very accepting. Bokuto knows this, knows Akaashi’s displays of affection are often half-disgusted by quick motions, chaste kisses and fingers twined together out of plain sight. This is different. There’s a scorching edge to this kiss; Bokuto’s sun-chapped lips and that fogging thing that kissing Akaashi does to Bokuto’s mind threatening to dismantle him entirely, piece by piece. Akaashi, too, unravels, and Bokuto plucks pieces of Akaashi to fit against his own perplexing puzzle.
“Bokuto-san,” He thinks he’s hearing things, presses a kiss to the corner of Akaashi’s mouth while he speaks again, breathless and flushed and Bokuto feels like he’s truly floating even just centimeters off of the ground.