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Akaashi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, restless and confused.
He’s in an unfamiliar car, the layout of everything mixed up and in the wrong places. Buttons aren’t where they should be; the seat is pushed too close to the steering wheel; and the headrest is not adjusted high enough. Everything just feels wrong.
He takes a minute to process his surroundings. The passenger seat next to him is empty; the back row is vacant as well. The leather is cold to the touch, stiff and firm. The belt strapped around him won’t budge, not even a little bit.
Akaashi can’t see past the car windows and the door handle won’t work. It’s like he’s trapped inside an inescapable cage. A missing key to a missing lock.
Akaashi can sense the impending sense of panic taking hold, a tight grip constricting his limbs, holding him down like an uncontrollable wild animal. It rises like the burning sensation of boiling acid, popping and sizzling with rage.
But before the anxiety can crash like a tsunami washing over a city shoreline, it freezes mid-wave, looming over the beach, towering in all its glory. A sound echoes inside the hollow chamber, the car suddenly filling with warmth. It slaps Akaashi out of his panicked state, confusion and curiosity replaced with fear. The source of music isn’t coming from within, but instead from beyond the borders of his cage.
Akaashi rubs at the window, and for a moment, a clear spot reveals the outside. It freezes over again within seconds, but he already saw what he needed to see.
He’s outside. He’s there, on the other side of the door.
Akaashi keeps swiping at the glass, each time revealing more and more. It plays like a choppy stop-motion movie, moving frame by frame. The image is hard to make out; Akaashi’s arms are already starting to tire, but he’s sure, almost certain of who it is.
Bokuto is there in another car, directly next to Akaashi’s, and he seems happy. As happy as he always ever is. There’s a wide ear-to-ear smile plastered across his face, stretched enough that it’s nearly dividing his face in half. Arms flailing in an uncoordinated, chaotic mess. Like a human version of those floppy air things stationed outside a car dealership. Constantly smiling, captivating anyone driving by.
He’s singing along to the music without a care in the world. Singing without a care of his surroundings. Without a care for Akaashi’s pounding on the window in an attempt at catching his attention, to notice him.
No matter how loud he yells, Bokuto is unaware of his presence. It’s like he zoned out, totally enthralled with everything not straight in front of him. Too focused on singing the lyrics of a song that Akaashi can’t quite make out. It’s like the two panes of glass—one on Akaashi’s side and the other on Bokuto’s—is a one-way mirror. Akaashi can hear, see everything Bokuto does. But why won’t Bokuto notice Akaashi?
Why won’t he notice me?
And without a warning, Bokuto takes off.
Akaashi is taken aback by the sudden movement, flinching in his seat, distancing himself from the window. He collects himself, and does the most reasonable thing anyone would do. He twists the key, igniting the roar of the engine. Both hands wrap around the steering wheel, and he floors the gas pedal.
He can barely see outside past the frosted glass. His view is foggy at best, with vague details being blurred into mushed clumps of colours. Silhouettes of street signs rush past, backlit by the daisy-yellow warmth radiating off industrial lamp posts. And as if the wandering chill didn’t give it away, the crunchy compression noise lets Akaashi know he’s driving on a snow-covered road.
Akaashi catches up to Bokuto, following right behind him. He trails behind him as they weave through the tight, twisting streets of the late-night city. The roads are empty, not another car in sight, but the gusts of white make it difficult to see. Thick snow swirls in the air, like mystical whips dancing over the hood of the car. The windshield wipers struggle to push the pile-up of flakes forming layers over the front glass.
Akaashi’s foot is steady on the gas pedal; he’s confident that he’ll never lose sight of Bokuto even as they pass closed-off routes and dead-ends. He can see the figure of Bokuto’s head through the rear window, their destination—if there even is one—still unknown.
And despite that, Akaashi follows like a stray puppy sneaking behind a stranger. There’s no leash attaching him to Bokuto; Akaashi can leave, but he has no reason to.
But when they reach an intersection, the signal overhead, dangling like a fishing rod, switches from a jade green to an amber light. It’s fluorescence flickers at the taunting speed of a teasing, childish kid. Where Akaashi could barely see the light, only the faint glowing outline peeking past the crystalline structures, now, the burning red melts its way through.
Bokuto speeds ahead just in time, but it’s too late for Akaashi. He reacts too late and misses the chance, pressing hard on the brakes as Bokuto keeps driving. An obnoxious honk echoes behind him. The time displayed on the dashboard ticks by the second as Bokuto fades into the distance.
The rumble of his car is far too gone as he disappears and leaves Akaashi.
Tire tracks pressed into the snow are the only signs that he was ever there. An empty spot in the middle of the road, like the faint image of a ghost. A phantom blur gone in the blink of an eye; close them for too long and you’ll miss it. Quick enough and too silent that Bokuto would think he was never real, never existed.
A chill passes. Silence settles like dust.
***
Akaashi lies there, frozen, unwilling to move.
There’s a rush, a thick sound slithering past the thin windowsill. The glass shivers in a panic; it vibrates like the weak chattering of clacking teeth. A silent shrill fills the small space, dragging its pointed claws against every nook and cranny. Akaashi can feel the death chill seeping into the frosting frame, less than a meter away but distant, separated by the draped curtains running to the floor.
Akaashi’s gaze flickers across the room, wall to wall. It first catches the untucked bed sheets, crumpled but cozy over his exposed limbs. Then, the messy pile of tossed-aside clothes forming tiny little mountains scattered across the carpeted-floor.
His panicked state calms down when his surroundings begin to feel familiar again. Small details that declare the room home , start registering in the back of his head. The trinkets pinned to a crowded cork board. The unfiltered, unsorted sheets of homework laid across a wooden table. The striped volleyball rolled under the chair.
Pillowy clouds and spikeless fuzziness sticks to the inside of his mind. Akaashi’s eyelids can barely stay open. Too exhausted to process everything with full clarity, but they catch the fluorescent glow of his digital alarm clock. 3:47am.
An uncomfortable log underneath Akaashi’s back shifts. He notices the sore spot slowly growing, spreading with tension. He doesn’t even need to turn around to realize what it is, who it is. It’s a warmth he knows all too well.
And without warning, the log wraps itself around Akaashi. It pulls him close, closer to Bokuto’s chest. Hands curled naturally around Akaashi’s torso, arms crossing over his stomach. Pulled towards his bare chest, skin to skin. A seamless back-hug that lights a tender, subtle flame inside him.
A missing puzzle piece falling perfectly into its place.
The unconscious action of reaching out for Akaashi like a child clutching their stuffed teddy bear. Like he’s afraid of being too far away, always needing Akaashi to be directly next to him.
Akaashi can feel his cheeks warming up, a tinted rose blooming. He distracts himself by whispering Bokuto’s name. A quiet mumble that barely escapes Akaashi’s throat. When there’s no response, he repeats it again, this time with a little more force.
All that echoes back is Bokuto’s steady breathing, rhythmic and soothing.
Unsure of what to do with this information—knowing that Bokuto hugged him without intention, natural as the rise and fall of his chest—Akaashi lies there in a muddied headspace. He doesn’t dare to move, afraid of waking Bokuto from his peace. Afraid of tearing whatever serene veil is draped over them.
And even after an unknown amount of time passes in seconds, Akaashi continues lying there. From behind the curtain, two headlights shine through, briefly illuminating the room in pure white. Sharp shadows stretch and compress in an instant; Akaashi can’t help but stare, mesmerized by the silhouettes dancing across the wall.
When he feels Bokuto’s arms loosen, Akaashi twists around so they’re face to face. He shifts forward, pressing infinitely closer to Bokuto's chest. Forehead leaning against him, Akaashi wonders if he wills it, wishes hard enough, Bokuto will understand.
If he squeezes away the space between them, then maybe he’ll hear his plea. His plea for him to never leave, whether that be now, in the future, or in his dreams.
His plea to stay forever.
***
In the distance, a neon white stick figure, mid-pose walking, is replaced by a blinking hand. Bold and bright and red. Flashing on and off. Then it stops, stuck on the palm. Overhead, the light switches back to green.
Akaashi doesn’t even notice.
The path ahead is cleared, cheering with a silent chant. But he can’t be bothered to move. What’s the point in chasing after something, someone, long gone?
Why even try? He’s too far ahead and I’m too far behind.
But he trudges. He keeps going, clinging onto the residuals lingering at the bottom of Akaashi’s jar of hope. The lid is missing, rim shattered into crumbs. He rests his foot on the gas pedal, and nudges it. Pushes down with any wisp of energy left. He’s beyond defeated at this point, most feasible drops of effort drained away.
With no idea where Bokuto could be, he rolls forward. The engine lets out a pathetic cough, a sad little exhale; even it seems to have given up.
But Bokuto is already there waiting for him.
Parked along the edge of the street, head out the window, not too far from where they started. The tips of his ears dipped in a flushed red. Bokuto stares back at the intersection where Akaashi was. Concern plastered on every inch of his face, too enthralled and focused on the empty spot Akaashi had moved from.
A wave of relief visibly washes over Bokuto when he notices Akaashi stalling next to him. Tangible calmness, a release of an audible sigh.
He knows it’s audible because he can see the rise and fall of his chest. Deep breathing like he’s been stressing for too long. He knows the sound of it, can almost hear it like it’s right beside him. But he can’t because the ringing echoing in his head is deafening. It drowns out the rush of words pouring out of Bokuto’s mouth.
All Akaashi can hear is his own heartbeat drumming, beating too loudly.
It’s there when Akaashi understands that Bokuto never really left him in the first place. Bokuto would never leave him. Akaashi knows him. He knows Bokuto like the blood in his heart, the stream flowing through his veins. He knows him like the back of his hand. Like the creases across his palm that let fortune tellers predict his life story.
Akaashi was stupid for thinking otherwise. For ever doubting him.
But Bokuto can see the internal anguish in him. Bokuto always notices it, even if he doesn't realize it himself. Akaashi can read Bokuto like an open book, and Bokuto does the same for him. Even if he tries to hide it, Bokuto can see right through his feigned guise. Like a crowd seeing through a magic trick, all illusions are revealed. Uncloaked and bare for the crowd to view.
Akaashi feels seen, but it’s a seen that he doesn’t mind when Bokuto's eyes are on him.
He’d never mind it.
***
It’s the faint glow peeking through the blinds that causes Akaashi to awake.
He squints his eyes and cranes his neck over his shoulder. The clock says 8:13am, and brightness pours in from outside the window. Dust specs are suspended in the air, floating in the calm air. A chatter of chirps chime like whistles in the wind.
Akaashi turns his head back around, facing the sleeping body radiating warmth. He tilts up, and admires the sleeping Bokuto. Peaceful and serene. And to avoid waking him up—because he knows Bokuto’s guilty pleasure for sleeping in on a cold winter night—Akaashi returns to their cuddling state.
But since he can’t help himself, he snuggles a little closer. The tiniest bit closer that makes everything feel just right.
No longer haunted by the lurking cold of the nightchill, Akaashi basks in the light that wraps him in the warmest hug. The daylight beaming down on his bare shoulders. The invisible light shining from Bokuto.
The silent light that says I’ll never leave.
The comforting light that says I’ll stay.
The reassuring light that says I’m always here.