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“Bokuto, please. Leave it open, or close it. One or the other. I’m losing my patience over here.”
Bokuto flinches, removing his fingers from the small airplane window. There’s nothing to see outside—just a dark sky and lights on the wing. He’d been pushing the shade up and down only to give himself something to do.
He glances down at Komori next to him, seat reclined and a blanket pulled up to his chin, looking like a human-sized burrito. He’s wearing a sparkly Sailor Moon sleep mask over his eyes.
“Sorry,” Bokuto mutters, slowly closing the shade one last time. He grips the front of his joggers instead, picking at that one loose thread that’s been bothering him for days. “I’m just really nervous! What if… what if I'm wrong about everything?”
Komori sighs deeply, then slowly reaches out from his covers to pat Bokuto’s arm consolingly. “I know you’re worried, buddy.” His voice turns gentle. “But you guys talked it out, right? Sounds to me like Akaashi and you are on the same page again.”
Shrugging, Bokuto bites his lip. “Y-yeah. I mean, that’s what it seemed like to me. But I don’t know when I'll be able to see him again, and I…”
Another sigh. “Stop overthinking. Just try to get some sleep, okay? We still have at least six hours before we land in Tokyo. I promise it’ll be okay.”
Bokuto nods and takes a deep breath. Komori is right—he needs to stop worrying. Plus, he’ll have time once he’s back home to think about what he’ll say to Akaashi when they finally meet up.
He grabs his blanket, pulling it closely around him, leans back and shuts his eyes.
He dreams of black curls and gunmetal blue.
*
Tokyo. One year and one month earlier.
“It’s for the best, K-Koutarou. We’re going in completely different directions. Literally and figuratively. We d-don’t know what the f-future holds. We can’t just…”
Bokuto tries to even his breathing. The vision of Akaashi before him is strangely out of focus, and he realizes it’s because his own eyes have filled with tears.
Part of him can’t believe this is happening. Him and Akaashi, breaking up? It’s unfathomable. Ridiculous. Unrealistic.
But he has known Akaashi for too long, and knows him too well, to not have seen this coming. Akaashi has always been overly logical, and so uncertain of himself—always second guessing his own decisions. He has always had this bad habit of thinking he is unworthy of happiness.
There was bound to be a time when he’d second guess their relationship, too.
Bokuto clenches his fists, which have been hanging limply at his sides for the past five minutes since his boyfriend—or now, he realizes solemnly, ex-boyfriend—had started talking. It’s not like Bokuto can argue with him. If he knows anything about relationships, romantic or otherwise, it’s that they have to be fifty-fifty. They can’t last if one person isn’t all-in.
And so, he stays silent and allows Akaashi to make his case.
“… l-love you, B-Bokuto, so much. I really do,” Akaashi says, and Bokuto feels his heart clench when he hears the other man’s voice break. “It’s just not the right time for this. I’m not… I mean, w-we need some space.”
When he’s done, they both just stare at each other. The electricity that had always sizzled hot between them now seems muted, on a lower setting, and Bokuto absolutely hates it.
“Okay,” he finally breathes out. “I love you too, Keiji.”
*
Barcelona, Spain. One month since the breakup.
Bokuto gazes in wonder at the sprawling city before him, full of brightly colored towers and spires.
None of his photos have done justice to the amazing view from atop Park Güell. It’s truly an architectural wonder, one like he’s never seen before. It looks like something out of a storybook.
Bokuto is glad he’s had some time to see a bit of the country he’ll be calling home for the next year. It’s their last full day off. They’re heading to Madrid tomorrow, and training starts the day after. So he’s happy to get out and take in the sights.
However, he can’t help but wish that someone—a specific someone who has a deep love and appreciation for art, culture, and history—was here to see it with him.
“Hey, there you are.” Komori plods up a nearby tiled staircase and joins him. He’s got a small bag of croquettes in one hand. “I thought I’d lost you again. Stop running off, man.” He pops one of the breaded rolls into his mouth.
“Sorry! Just wanted to see this.”
Bokuto is grateful that Komori was also chosen to play on the team. They don’t know each other very well, but having another Japanese player to live and work with is comforting. Their contract with the team is for a year. Neither have plans after that—they just knew they couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
Even if it had thoroughly messed up Bokuto’s life back home.
Together, Bokuto and Komori take in the view, observing the other tourists wandering the streets below, which are turning golden from the sinking sun.
“It’s really pretty,” Komori says, crumbs flying from his mouth.
“Yeah.” Bokuto nods. “It is.”
Hands shaking, he reaches back into his pocket, brings up Akaashi’s number, and texts him his mediocre photos.
Late that night he gets a short, polite reply:
Keiji: Looks amazing, Bokuto-san. I’m glad you’re having fun.
*
Milan, Italy. Two months later.
Shiny silver catches Bokuto’s eye as he passes by the shop window, and he grinds to a halt.
He, Komori and two of their Spanish teammates are touring around one of Milan’s most popular shopping districts with their Italian teammate, Mateo. Most of the stores they pass are for upscale clothing, so the kitchen store is a surprise.
Also a surprise is the punch to Bokuto’s gut when he notices the stainless steel moka pot espresso maker on prominent display.
He’s seen one like it before, perched methodically on a marble countertop in a fancy house in Tokyo. Akaashi’s parents had always made their morning coffee in an electronic coffee maker, so for them, the simple stovetop device was more of a decorative piece than anything, adding to their home’s faux-Western aesthetic.
But Akaashi had loved it. He’d claimed it was a more “traditional and straightforward” way of brewing, whatever the hell that meant.
(Bokuto had always blamed the contraption for his friend’s premature caffeine addiction; the boy was making his own espresso long before graduating Fukurodani.)
Bokuto suddenly feels compelled to enter the kitchen store and purchase his first souvenir.
“Hey!” Komori pokes his side. “C’mon, dude, Mateo says he’s gonna treat us to a fancy lunch!”
But Bokuto is already hurrying inside. He ignores Komori calling after him and beelines to the moka pot, picking it up carefully by its handle. He turns it in his hands, pondering his next move. Should he get it?
Bokuto hates coffee. He doesn’t understand its appeal, especially when the much healthier and tastier option of tea exists. But maybe Komori will appreciate a piping hot brew in the morning? They’ll be roommates for a while. He can at least learn how to use it before brining it back to Japan.
Akaashi might already have one, his brain supplies.
But maybe he doesn’t, his heart refutes.
He heads to the checkout and whips out his credit card.
*
Lisbon, Portugal. Five months after leaving Japan.
Belem Tower is menacing and beautiful at the same time.
It looms high over the crowds below, who wander around the structure, lining up for their chance to explore inside. Atlantic waves strike its base as the tide starts to rise. The dusk sky is mottled with cirrocumulus clouds, giving everything an otherworldly look.
The fortress is the closest thing to a Western fantasy castle Bokuto has ever seen (not counting Tokyo Disneyland, of course), and he can’t help but gape in awe.
A loud cheer suddenly rings out, interrupting Bokuto’s moment of reflection. He turns to see a group of people gathered nearby. A man is stooped down on one knee, grasping a woman’s hand reverently. The fingers of her other hand are pressed against her mouth in surprise.
Oh.
A proposal.
Bokuto struggles to quash the annoyance that surges up from his stomach, through his heart and into his throat. He knows he shouldn’t be feeling this way, knows it’s not fair to the happy couple, knows he’s just jealous in some respect.
Still…
He recalls walking around Yokohama once with Akaashi. They had just arrived at Ōsanbashi Pier, ready to settle down on a bench to enjoy their hot chocolate and watch the sunset together, when they’d witnessed a similar proposal.
Bokuto had looked over to see Akaashi’s nose scrunched in distaste. When he asked what was wrong, Akaashi had just shrugged. “I hate public proposals,” he had said sharply. “What if she’d rejected him, or she’d felt pressured to say yes just because they’re in public? Or what if they’d done this in front of someone who’d just lost their own partner?”
His voice was strained as he continued: “Or… in front of a couple w-who can’t even get married, even though they might want to?”
Bokuto watches, now, as the couple engages in a heated make-out session in the shadow of one of Lisbon’s most iconic landmarks, with onlookers clapping and whistling their encouragement.
And he thinks he finally understands what Akaashi had meant.
He sighs, taking one last photo of the tower before shoving his hands into his pockets and trudging away.
*
Seville, Spain. Two months later.
“Hi!”
Blinking, Bokuto glances down to see a pair of bright blue eyes looking up at him. He can’t see much in the club’s dim lighting, but he notices the outline of their slim build and shoulder-length hair. “Oh, hello there,” he replies in stilted Spanish.
The person laughs and leans closer. They say something else, tapping Bokuto’s drink glass, probably asking about its contents. They’re obviously flirting with him.
Bokuto feels weird.
Every other time he’d been at a club back in Japan, he’d been with Akaashi. He remembers the excitement and joy he’d felt, walking into a LGBT-friendly establishment for the first time. They had danced, held each other close and even kissed publicly without fear.
Akaashi had looked incredible, the multi-colored lights of the club accentuating his sharp cheekbones. His halter top had revealed an abundance of smooth skin, glistening with sweat and covered in glitter as he moved like a dream on the dance floor.…
Bokuto shakes his head.
He’s not here, he chides himself. And he’s not yours anymore.
A finger is suddenly on Bokuto’s bicep. He shivers as the club-goer looks up coyly through their lashes. Their pink lips shine with remnants of their fruity cocktail.
Bokuto blinks. He’s consumed a few strong drinks so far, with another halfway depleted in his grip. He is definitely starting to feel the effects.
The figure in front of him leans up to say something in his ear. He only understands every other word, but he thinks he comprehends what they want.
He nods, shoots back the rest of his drink, and follows them out of the chaos.
The next morning, Bokuto wakes up in a soft bed, thankfully with only a mild hangover. His body feels warm and sated. He yawns, stretching his limbs, which are sore in the most delicious way.
Then he turns over to see the back of a total stranger, with their unfamiliar brown hair fanning over a gaudy silk pillowcase.
And his heart aches.
*
Madrid, Spain. Nine months after leaving Japan.
The call comes in when Bokuto is at afternoon practice.
He doesn’t see it until he’s in the locker room heading for the showers. When he checks his phone and sees Akaashi’s name, he yelps and almost drops the device.
“Woah, be careful!” Komori laughs, ruffling Bokuto’s sweat-drenched hair as he passes by. Bokuto grabs his arm and pulls him down to the bench. He points at the screen.
The other man’s eyes widen. “Woah,” he breathes. “He called you?”
Bokuto waits until he gets back to the apartment to call Akaashi back.
“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi answers by pretty much yelling into his phone, causing Bokuto to flinch. “Hi, Bokuto-san!”
Bokuto’s heart pounds at hearing the other man’s voice for the first time in so long. He’s obviously drunk, words slurred and slow. There are sounds of bottles clanking and distant music. Bokuto listens attentively as Akaashi gives him some amazing news.
He’s been published.
It’s only one poem, in a small quarterly with a limited readership, but it’s something. And Akaashi is so young, still in university. It’s impressive.
“Congratulations, Akaashi! But why’d you call me? What time is it there, anyway?”
The other man giggles, and then snorts—a signature Akaashi combo that Bokuto has always cherished. “It’s… it’s, umm…” He whines. “Kyo-san, what time is it?”
Bokuto can’t help but frown when he hears a low, gravely voice respond close to the receiver. “It’s almost two a.m., Akaashi-kun.”
“Almost two!” Akaashi yells again, and hiccups. A few moment of silence go by before he continues: “Sorry. I… I guess I just… wanted you to know, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto bites his lip, trying to ignore his jealously towards Kyo-san, whoever the hell they were. He takes a deep breath. “I’m really proud of you, Akaashi. You deserve it.”
A wet sniffle. “Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Another pause. “I…. um. I really miss you…”
Bokuto sighs, powerless to be anything but honest.
“I really miss you too, Akaashi.”
*
Paris, France. Two months later.
Bokuto curses his shaking hands. He’s doing his best to keep them steady as he holds up his phone, panning its camera over the street in front of him.
He’s sitting alone at a small table outside of a cafe, enjoying a cup of lemon verbena tea and a piece of shortbread. The sun is shining, and there is a cool breeze. People chatter as they pass. A pair of older women are seated next to Bokuto, speaking in low voices. The delicate peal of a wind chime in a nearby shop’s window occasionally sounds.
Everything is calm and comfortable and perfect, but Bokuto is barely breathing.
Because Akaashi is on the other end of the call.
“Isn’t this amazing, Akaashi? It’s called ‘Quartier Latin,’ or Latin Quarter. It’s so neat! You’d love it! There are bookshops everywhere! And cafes! And the buildings are so pretty!”
A soft chuckle. “It’s lovely, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto turns the camera back around. It must be late in Tokyo, in fact Bokuto knows it is, but Akaashi had answered his call immediately. He looks tired and his hair is a mess. But he’s just as beautiful as ever.
“I think this is my favorite place in Paris so far!” Bokuto props his phone up against his water glass.
Akaashi arches his brow skeptically. “Not the Eiffel Tower?”
Shrugging, Bokuto shifts slightly in his seat and picks at the last crumbs of shortbread. “I mean, that was cool. But it’s just a big structure. This place feels alive! And also… it reminds me of you.”
Akaashi is silent for a few beats. Bokuto watches as his face shifts, gradually losing its restraint and tumbling into tenderness. “Oh?” He bites his lip shyly.
“Yeah!” Bokuto grins. “I can see you fitting in, you know? I can just… envision you sitting right here, wearing one of your oversized sweaters and your glasses, sipping coffee, your nose in a book…”
Akaashi nods. “That does sound nice.”
“Next time, you’re coming here with me,” Bokuto resolves, keeping his gaze trained on Akaashi as the man’s eyes widen. “I don’t care if it’s… you know, just as f-friends, or whatever. I want to be the one to show you this city.”
Akaashi’s surprised expression shifts again, softening into a delicate smile.
“That sounds wonderful, Bokuto-san.”
*
[One year since the breakup; one month before flying home]
Me: Hey hey hey Akaashi! So, we’ll be flying back on the 17th i nto Narita on a red eye flight!
Keiji: Thank you for updating me, Bokuto-san.
Me: No problem! I’m going to start packing next week. I’ll have to buy another suitcase for all the gifts I got everyone! 😂
Keiji: You’re going to have to pay so much in baggage fees...
Me: Oh shush! Be nice, or I won’t give you your present!
Keiji: You're... bringing me a present?
Me: Uh, yeah! Duh! Actually your gift is probably the best out of them all. It’s definitely the heaviest hahaha
Keiji: Oh. Well, that’s very kind. Thank you.
Me:: Of course!!!!!
Me: I’m still the best senpai, aren’t I?!
Keiji: Sure, Bokuto.
Me: 😀‼️🙏😁☺️🦉🦉
Me: Hey Akaashi?
Keiji: Yes?
Me: I think I want to play on Japanese teams from now on.
Keiji: Oh. Really?
Me:: Yeah... is that weird?
Me: Like, Europe has been amazing. The team was great and I made lots of memories! And I do want to come back here someday, for games and tourist stuff…
Me: But I really miss my home, and my family and friends. I think I want to go back and try out for the V.League again.
Keiji: Okay.
Me: Okay?
Me: That's it?!
Keiji: Yes. I am completely supportive of what you decide to do, Bokuto-san, as long as it will make you happy.
Me: I know, but like… do you think people will say I’m not being ambitious enough? What if everyone thinks I'm playing it too safe?
Keiji: That does not matter. Not at all.
Keiji: Listen, Koutarou. I’ve learned, especially this past year, that the most important thing is to do what makes you happy.
Keiji: Not what’s expected of you, or what might make he most sense, to you or to other people...
Keiji: As cheesy as it sounds… you should just follow your heart.
Me: Yeah.
Me: Yeah! I think I will do that, Keiji!!!
Me: I think I will... 🥰 ❤️
*
Tokyo, Japan. One year since leaving for Europe.
They land at Narita Airport just after 6 a.m.
Thankfully, Bokuto had managed to get a good amount of sleep. Not great by any means, but at least it was something. He follows Komori through and off the plane, up the walkway and into the warmth of the terminal.
“So,” Komori nudges him playfully. “It’s been fun.”
Bokuto turns to his former teammate-turned friend. Komori’s expression is bright and open despite his obvious jet lag. “Oh, yeah!” Bokuto smiles.
“What’s next? V.League?”
Bokuto nods. They meander by a line of people at a coffee cart. Security is just ahead.
“Any team you’re interested in?”
“I want to play with the Black Jackals, but they’re not holding tryouts. I might stay in Tokyo for now...”
Now Komori nods. "I'm thinking of going back to school, but if EJP Raijin offers a spot, that could change things..."
They pick up the pace, navigating around throngs of travelers as they finally pass through the other side of security.
And as soon as they do, Bokuto's eyes land on a devastatingly familiar face.
He freezes.
His body, his speech, his heart—they all come to a screeching halt.
Akaashi stands just a few meters away, already looking in his direction. His eyes are wide behind his glasses and his mouth open slightly. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers.
“K-Keiji?!” Bokuto can only sputter and stare. It is him. Akaashi Keiji, in the flesh, obviously here to meet him. It is completely unexpected; his mind is reeling.
One of Komori’s hands jab into his side. “Get over there, loverboy,” he chuckles, and Bokuto nods, recovering enough to start closing the distance to his favorite person in the whole world.
Bokuto thinks his knees might buckle under him as he approaches. He marvels at just how beautiful the other man looks: A year older, with slightly longer locks, yet so familiar… his eyes, his jawline, that perfect mouth.
His Keiji.
He stops a few paces away. Akaashi holds out the bouquet, hand shaking slightly, and Bokuto accepts. He feels a jolt of electric energy when their fingers brush. They lock eyes, and Bokuto feels like his life is shifting back into focus.
“Welcome home, Bokuto-san.”
*
Akaashi’s apartment. 1 hour later.
“I can’t believe you got up at like 5 a.m. to meet me. I'm impressed. You hate mornings.”
Akaashi huffs, head lolling to the side and landing on Bokuto’s shoulder. They’re cuddled up on the couch, having arrived ten minutes ago after a long train ride from the airport.
“Well, I sort of owed it to you,” Akaashi says in a small voice. “It was the least I could do, after I was the one who…you know…broke up wi—”
Bokuto frowns, pulling the other man closer. “Don’t,” he grumbles. “Don’t start blaming yourself, Keiji. Please.”
Akaashi tries to retort, but Bokuto just squeezes him tighter, planting a light kiss into his curls. “We can talk about it later. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, yeah?”
They will have time to discuss everything. He’ll give Akaashi plenty of opportunities to explain himself, even though there is no need to explain anything.
It’s simple, really: Akaashi had needed to focus on university. Bokuto had needed to experience training abroad.
And now they both know that neither of those things are worth anything, if they don’t also have each other.
See? Simple.
“Want to watch something?” Bokuto grabs the TV remote in hopes of distracting his companion. He feels Akaashi shift, tension bleeding out of his frame as he sinks into Bokuto’s warmth.
“Sure.”
They stay inside the entire day. Akaashi skips his classes, and Bokuto texts his family to let them know he’ll be arriving a day late. They order takeout and laugh over silly movies.
Bokuto presents Akaashi with his gift, and Akaashi returns the favor in espresso-flavored kisses.
He’s home.
And they’re going to be okay.