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He and Bokuto are stood beneath the wilting trees. He can feel Bokuto’s eyes tracing his expression. A small smile playing on his lips.
“You love autumn don’t you Keiji?”
Bokuto’s voice is soft, careful, almost like he’s afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment, like a harsh whisper will disrupt the crisp, burning leaves above them.
Akaashi hums softly in agreement,
“There’s something so beautiful in the collapse of nature. The breath it takes as it turns to sleep. There is beaut in endings really.”
As long as Akaashi can remember he’s enjoyed Autumn. That moment in between, the instance when the light must give way to the dark, when the wheel of life continues to turn.
The growing chill against his hands vanish as Bokuto intertwines their fingers.
“I’m sorry I’ll never be able to give you one.” Bokuto replies.
Akaashi cocks his head. He’s usually fluent in Bokuto. He knows every quiver of Bokuto’s heart, ever pregnant silence. He knows every half mummer and every quaking shout. Though now, he questions.
Bokuto continues,
“We’ve never reached an ending Keiji, And we never will. I’ll never give you an Autumn. Because we will never have one.”
And Akaashi’s heart stutters in his chest. The words are so unbelievably Bokuto. So absolute, straight to the core, cutting through to his heart.
He drops his eyes to their intertwined fingers and strokes a thumb across the back of Bokuto’s hand.
Akaashi knows that Bokuto is eternal Spring. The essence of life anew. He’s the hot days of May, the cooling pleasant wind of March, the promise of new possibilities, the comfort of coming light.
Of course, all things will end. Old age will eventually take them. But maybe Akaashi thinks he’s wrong there. When Bokuto wraps him in this love, when he looks at the ferocity and belief in Bokuto’s eyes, glowing in the remnants of the setting autumn sun.
He believes in love. But Bokuto makes him believe in a love that will stretch for eons. That will remain long after every one they know and love is gone. A love that will remain when their bodies have turned to dust.
He’s read countless poets and the greatest of all literature, but nothing makes him believe in eternity the way Bokuto’s soft gaze does, the way this man promises forever and means it.
Akaashi turns to Bokuto again,
”You’re my eternal Spring,Koutarou.”
And a grin so wide breaks across Bokuto’s face it squeezes his eyes shut.
Their lips reach for each other at the same time.
Akaashi knows that when ever the Autumn and Winter of their lives finally finds them, when their faces are weatherd and lined with a life time of happiness, where ever their souls will rest after; he knows they will rest together.
And even though he enjoys the breathe of air that Autumn brings, his body, heart and soul belongs to the promise of an endless Spring.