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The first time Keiji saw him, he was fourteen, nearly fifteen, and Bokuto Koutarou was already a star.
He soared higher than all of the other players that day; he was barely a starter, but in Keiji’s mind, he was the only one on the court, the only one who mattered.
The moment Bokuto’s feet left the hardwood, Keiji knew he was destined to set for him. Even though he’d received several offers, to other schools where he wouldn’t have to fight so hard to be a starter, Keiji knew that Fukurodani and Bokuto Koutarou were an irreplaceable part of his future.
After practice, Keiji stepped down from the stands; he wanted, more than anything, to call out to Bokuto, to tell him that he was impressed, that Bokuto could really play, and that, come March, Keiji was committed to being the best setter for him that he could be.
He opened his mouth; he tried to call Bokuto’s name, but the words got stuck in his throat. He rasped, and coughed, and choked, and the other visiting students looked at him like he was insane.
That night, Keiji went home and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He reached out, touched the glass, and tried to say the name, tried to breathe it out, easy as air, but it got stuck, all over again.
“Bo—Bokuto-san,” he gasped, and leaned heavily into the mirror, all the breath sucked from his lungs.
Bokuto-san.
That name was easier to say than the one Keiji wanted to call him.
It was safe; it was distant; it held none of the feeling, none of the meaning, that the other name did.
And yet…
Every time Keiji said that name, the one that was supposed to hide it all, Bokuto looked at him, stars in his golden eyes, as though the name meant everything.
It made his heart stutter and swell and his fingers slip on the volleyball. It made him retreat behind a wall of sarcasm and sass, all wit and no compassion.
It made him hard, because on the inside, he was so soft.
When his teammates told him to ignore Bokuto, that they would help him if Bokuto got too annoying, Keiji was confused. Who wouldn’t want to stay all hours of the night, all for the chance of practicing one-on-one with the team’s star player? Who wouldn’t want the chance to watch Bokuto fly, to watch his legs lift and his back arch and his arm whip? Who wouldn’t want to watch those eyes—those sparkling, calculating eyes!—that saw everything on the court and conveyed that information to Bokuto’s brain in milliseconds?
Every night, hours after hour, his fingers practically numb from setting the ball, Keiji watched Bokuto fly, and knew he was in the presence of greatness.
But still, he could not say the name he wanted to say. Not to him; not to anyone.
So he wrote it down: on scraps of paper, which he promptly burned and then flushed the ashes; on his arms in the bath with soap, which he promptly washed away; on his lips, which he then rinsed with warm, salty water.
And every night, he tried to call Bokuto by that name, but every night, his throat burned and clenched and would not let him say what he wanted to say.
And so, it continued…
Bokuto-san. Bokuto-san. Bokuto-san.
It was not the name he wanted to call him, but from the way Bokuto vibrated with excitement when Keiji called him that, sometimes…
It felt like it could be enough.
Months turned into years, and still, Keiji could not call Bokuto the name he wanted. He could not say the words; he could not get them out, could not make his vocal cords hum in just the right away.
And so, he found other ways to say Bokuto’s name. He wrote it on the tags of his clothing, in kanji that would hide the actual meaning. When his parents took him to the beach one summer, he wrote it in the sand at high tide, and watched the water slowly wash it away. He traced it in the condensation on the mirrors in the changing room after practice, when no one was left and no one could see, but he wiped it away, quickly, his fingers leaving dripping prints on the glass.
He wrote it on his palm before a test. He wrote it over his heart before a game. He wrote it on his pillow before he went to bed.
Keiji wrote Bokuto’s name so often, he knew it better than his own.
But yet…it was a name that no one had ever heard him say, had never even seen him write.
It was a name that Keiji kept close—to himself, to his soul. A name he would carry with him forever in silence, probably until the end of time.
Bokuto, though…
He could say so many names for Keiji:
There was the standard Akaashi! that he uttered during games, or during school, when Bokuto would come to find him for lunch or between classes. That was the one Keiji was most used to hearing, was most used to acknowledging.
Then, there was Akaash, the name that Bokuto might call him during practice, when Keiji was particularly salty, when he gently ribbed Bokuto, or when he offered his (critical, but constructive) feedback to their teammates. Konoha in particular was sensitive to Keiji’s comments, but always seemed to take the advice to heart.
Kaashi was the nickname Bokuto used when he was especially happy. Aaaghhaaseee was what Bokuto called him when he was frustrated. The deep, quiet Akaashi was for when Bokuto went into emo mode.
But when they were alone, the name that Bokuto called, more and more frequently, was Keiji.
“Keiji, one more!” Bokuto would call, and Keiji’s fingers would nearly slip on the damp leather of the ball.
“Keiji, your sets are the best for me!” Bokuto would shout, and Keiji’s heart would hammer, nearly out of his chest.
“Keiiijjjiii, why are you going home?”
“Keiiijjjiii, can you help me with my calculus homework?”
“Keiiijjjiii, can we walk home together?”
(This last one was often punctuated with an arm slung about Keiji’s shoulders, which was both the most welcome and the most terrifying physical contact he’d ever had.)
How was it so easy for his name to slip from Bokuto’s lips? How was Bokuto so free with his affections, both verbally and physically? How was it all so easy for him, and so hard for Keiji?
At night, Keiji would stare at himself in the bathroom mirror, willing the words to come out, but they always got stuck—they always froze, halfway to his mouth, the syllables dying on his tongue.
And when they did, he always thought back to Bokuto’s shining eyes, to his brilliant smile, to the way his hand would squeeze Keiji’s shoulder as he dragged out the syllables in Keiji’s name—so different from how Keiji said his name, so different from how Keiji expressed any kind of emotion.
“Bokuto-san, please do not touch me until after you’ve showered,” Keiji would say, shrugging off Bokuto’s arm around his shoulder, his hand clutching at Keiji’s bicep. “You’re quite sweaty and do you know how you smell?”
“Sure do!” Bokuto would puff out his chest. “Like I just practiced volleyball with the best setter for hours!” Then he’d grin, and wink, and dart off to the showers, leaving Keiji sweaty, and cold, and longing for the contact again.
And he’d follow Bokuto into the locker room, where he would draw Bokuto’s name on his locker before opening and stripping down to a towel, unable to bring himself to go to the showers until Bokuto was done, because hearing his name drop from Bokuto’s lips in such close quarters was more than he could bear.
He flew higher than the moon, the sun, the stars. The world gravitated towards him; Keiji could see it, even though they were still in high school, even though Bokuto had a few more years before he would try to go pro.
The spotlight was always on him: on his ferocious spikes, on his brilliant laugh, on his brash and boisterous confidence that radiated out of every pore of his very being.
It was cliche, Keiji knew, but he couldn’t help but feel that Bokuto was his shining star, that Keiji was his shadow, and that there was no place he’d rather be.
And maybe that was why it was so hard to call Bokuto by the name Keiji wanted. Because he was larger than life: a ‘Bokuto-san,’ first and foremost, and never anything else.
Those nights, Keiji would go home and write Bokuto’s name, over and over, on the inside wall of his closet. He’d let the name fester there, for a few days, before he became compelled to paint over it.
How many times he’d done that, he couldn’t be sure anymore.
“Keiji.”
Keiji looked up from his textbook; Bokuto was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, books scattered, but none looked as though they’d been read in much detail. Their study sessions in high school had flowed nicely into study sessions in college; it had made sense (in Bokuto’s mind, and in Keiji’s, although he would never admit it) for them to move in together and share an apartment once Keiji started university. They went to different schools, but both were in Tokyo, and while they needed to find something in the middle, Keiji had been willing to sacrifice a bit of distance to allow Bokuto to travel back and forth to classes and to practice with more ease.
Three years of being Bokuto’s roommate—three years of admiring him, loving him, helping him with his academics, watching mindless television, eating even more mindless food—weighed on Keiji, more than anything else. Since he was fourteen years old, he craved to be in Bokuto’s presence, to bask in the glory of his brilliance, his prowess. And, since he was fifteen years old, he’d been lucky enough to do this.
But now Bokuto would be graduating in a few short months. He was actively being scouted by several teams in the V-League; Keiji suspected he’d end up with the MSBY Black Jackals; over the years, they’d developed an odd sort of friendship with the Miya twins, and Atsumu had, on more than one occasion, said that it would be amazing to set for Bokuto. Keiji knew that he said this to get a rise out of him—Bokuto’s former setter, the one who knew him best—but Keiji was so caught up in his own drama that it was hard for him to get jealous. Especially since it meant that Bokuto would have the opportunity to make it big, with some of the most famous players in professional volleyball on his team.
Keiji wanted the best for the man who held his heart, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t miss him.
Or, as pain-in-the-ass Kuroo would say, “You’ve gone soft on him, Kaash. Who knew that beneath that cold exterior there beat the heart of a teddy bear?”
Yeah, he had gone soft. He could no longer tease Bokuto with the same dry wit that had defined their friendship for so many years. He tried, and sometimes he could still manage a snide remark or a sniping retort, but usually, he just smiled, and did whatever Bokuto asked him to do.
Love did funny things to a person. It did even funnier things to Akaashi Keiji. Especially when it went unrequited for so long.
“Keiji?”
The sound of Keiji’s name brought him back to the moment. Bokuto was sitting across from him, hands folded under his chin, looking at Keiji with thoughtful golden eyes. He was frowning a little; there were furrows of concern between his expressive eyebrows. Keiji couldn’t help but smile.
“Yes, Bokuto-san?” Keiji replied, marking his place in his marketing textbook and closing it. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Bokuto’s frown deepened, and was that a blush Keiji saw creeping over his cheeks? He dropped his hands to the table, and began playing nervously with his fingers.
When was Bokuto ever nervous?
“I—I just wondered,” he began quietly, “why—why you never—”
“Why I never what, Bokuto-san?” Keiji replied gently, but unable to keep the confusion out of his voice. What could he…
“Why you never call me by my name!” Bokuto blurted out, then slapped his hands over his mouth, horrified. Keiji stared at him: in shock, in denial, in complete and total and utter surprise.
And fear. There was a lot of fear there, too.
“It’s—it’s just…” Bokuto began. “I’ve always been ‘Bokuto-san’ to you, and while that’s great, and I love it—I love when you say my name, anytime, any way!—but at the same time, you don’t object to me calling you Keiji, and I thought that…I thought that if I did that…”
“You thought what, exactly?” Keiji dropped his hands and took Bokuto’s in his own. His entire body shivered; he’d never really initiated contact with Bokuto, unless they were celebrating on the volleyball court. His hands were warm, and rough, and a little bit clammy, but they latched onto Keiji’s and held him tightly, as though he were afraid Keiji would run away.
“I thought that…” Bokuto shook his head, but didn’t let go of Keiji. “It’s stupid. I’m stupid. Just…just let it go, Akaashi.”
The shift in name was enough to make Keiji jolt. When they were alone, he was always Keiji. Always. Had been since the end of Bokuto’s final year of high school. So why the change? Why here, and now? Why…
“I—I want to say your name, Bokuto-san,” whispered Keiji, surprising even himself. “I want to say your name so badly, but…”
Bokuto’s eyes were glassy. His hands still held Keiji’s. “But what, Keiji?” he asked softly.
Keiji took a deep breath. He looked deep into Bokuto’s eyes; they were still glassy, but sincere, and honest. Bokuto offered him a tentative smile, and it gave Keiji the strength that he needed.
“But it’s hard!” he burst out, squeezing Bokuto’s hands. “I have wanted to call you by your name almost since we first met, but the words…the syllables…I stand in front of the mirror; I write your name everywhere I can; I try to get it out. Believe me, I have tried, Koutarou, but something is holding me back, and I don’t know what it is, or why, or…”
“Keiji.” Bokuto was grinning at him now. “Keiji, Keiji, Keiji.”
Keiji blinked. “What?”
“You. Said. My. Name.” Bokuto’s smile was bigger than Keiji had ever seen it. “You finally said it.”
“Said…what?” Keiji asked, confused. His mind circled back to the last few words that he had said, and his eyes grew wide as he recalled his words. “You—your name.”
“You said it.”
“I did.” And now it was Keiji’s turn to smile.
Bokuto leaned forward excitedly. “Say it again, Keiji. Please. Please say it again.”
Keiji took a deep breath. Could he do this?
He breathed in, slowly, grounding himself. And then…
“Kou—Koutar—Koutarou.” His eyes grew wide; Koutarou’s face settled into a smirk.
“Keiji,” he breathed out. “Again, please.”
Keiji closed his eyes, then opened them; he felt warm, light, free. “Koutarou,” he said again, and Bokuto’s entire body jolted from the word. “Koutarou, Koutarou, Koutarou.”
In a flash, Bokuto was scrambling up and over the table. He was kneeling on it, on all fours, his face practically up against Keiji’s, his eyes searching Keiji’s frantically, looking for a sign of…of what, Keiji wasn’t sure. Maybe of weakness, of insincerity, of fear?
Keiji sighed; finally, the name was here; the name was past his lips; the name was out there, in the world, and naming Bokuto meant naming so, so much more.
Keiji could see that now: could see that being trapped by his words had meant that other things—other thoughts, other feelings—had remained trapped, too. And now, Keiji wanted to take those other things and toss them into the sky. He wanted to break the shackles of his own fears and insecurities; he wanted to shout Bokuto’s name, over and over and over; he wanted to…
Close. Bokuto was close. Still searching his face; still looking for some sign of what to do, how to act, how to proceed.
Keiji took this moment to gaze back. To search Bokuto’s face: to really see him, wholly and completely, not just as Bokuto-san, as he had been for seven years, but as Koutarou.
And Koutarou was the most beautiful man Keiji had ever laid eyes on.
Commissioned Artwork by nartista
Golden eyes, shining just for him. Expressive brows, full and piqued and wondering. His strong nose and jawline—Keiji almost reached out to touch it, to trace its line, but he decided against it (for the moment).
When his eyes dropped to Bokuto’s lips, he heard his friend give a soft whine, and Keiji realized, in that moment, what he had to do.
“Koutarou,” he whispered, and covered Bokuto’s lips with his own.
The kiss was soft, and tentative, both of them afraid to break the tension of the moment with words, or heavy breaths, or deeper kisses. But then, Bokuto let out a soft moan anyway, and Keiji pressed forward, deepening the kiss, Bokuto reaching out and grabbing Keiji and hauling him onto the table, too.
It was like the world cracked and came undone, all at once.
“Koutarou,” Keiji breathed.
“Keiiijjjiii,” Koutarou sighed.
And Keiji’s hands cupped Koutarou’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over those defined cheekbones, and he stared, deeply into Koutarou’s eyes.
“Why did it take you so long?” Koutarou whispered. “Why couldn’t you do it?”
Keiji wasn’t sure if he could answer the question, but he was going to try.
“I’ve been saying your name,” he murmured, his thumb now tracing Koutarou’s lips, “for so many years. To my bathroom mirror. To my pillow. To my closet. To pieces of paper. To my hand. To my heart.”
“But not to me,” Koutarou sighed.
“It wouldn’t come,” Keiji admitted, “until I think I knew, in my soul, that the time was right.”
“And it’s right now?”
He looked…hopeful, eager, nervous. His entire body shook, and Keiji bit back a smile.
“It’s been right,” Keiji said, “since the day I first saw you.” He kissed Koutarou. “And it’s been right,” he said, “since the day I first set for you.” He kissed him again. “And it’s been right,” he said, “since the day you first called me ‘Keiji.’” Another kiss.
“And it’s been right,” he whispered, “since the day that I knew that I loved you.”
The tears fell, fast and hot and furious, between their cheeks, their lips. They dripped down their chins, and onto the kitchen table. And Keiji and Koutarou looked at each other, and smiled, and Koutarou finally found the words he needed to say.
“You love me?” he whispered.
Keiji nodded, no longer afraid, his throat no longer stuck, refusing to keep the words pushed down and hidden. “With all that I am,” he replied, kissing Koutarou again, “and all that I could ever be.”
It was like a wind rippled through Koutarou’s body: all the tension seeped out, leaving him sagging and relaxed. “Oh, god, Keiji,” he murmured, pressing their foreheads together, “I have loved you, so much, for so long, and forever.”
That was the day that Akaashi Keiji learned that words—that the art of naming—was not something to be feared, nor denied. It was not something to be hidden, late at night, under the guise of darkness, nor under the guise of politeness or wit or sarcasm.
Naming something did not make it break; no.
Instead, naming Koutarou—naming Keiji—naming what they had, what they were—
Well?
It made everything clearer; it made everything firmer…
It made everything they had, and everything they were…
Stronger.