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Night after night, Bokuto Kōtarō sits at his desk in his apartment at the MSBY complex, staring at his phone: willing it to buzz, to ring, to do something…anything…that will tell him he’s not the only one who feels alone.
He knows it’s foolish to sit here, to stare at the phone, to wait like this, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know what to say, how to act…
He doesn’t know how to express everything in his heart: not now, not when it’s been building up inside him for so long, not when every ounce of his being is ready to burst from those feelings.
He had his chance once. He should have taken it.
That day when he left for Osaka, when his apartment was packed up and ready to go, when Kuroo and Kenma were downstairs with the moving van, when he and the person he loved most in the world were alone.
Akaashi.
Beautiful, sad, perfect Akaashi.
Six years of friendship, of dancing around fraught moments when a hand, a shoulder, a thigh, would brush against another, and Kōtarō would shiver, and it seemed like Akaashi would shiver, too.
Six years of longing looks, of mapping Akaashi’s face, his eyes, his nose, his jawline. Of tracing the lines of Akaashi’s biceps, his torso, his thighs.
Six years of trying to figure out how to find the words to say more than, “Your sets were meant for me!”
To say: “You were meant for me.”
And, oh, it had looked like Akaashi wanted him to say something, anything, more than what he had actually been able to say at that moment.
(Which was nothing. Literally…nothing. He was a fucking idiot.)
How Akaashi’s mouth had opened, how his eyes had sparkled behind his rectangular glasses, how he had taken them off and rubbed at those gorgeous, ocean-blue eyes, as if wiping away tears.
How Akaashi’s hand had reached out, as if to grab Kōtarō’s sleeve, to stop him from going, or at least, to get him to stay, for one minute, one second more.
But Kōtarō had been afraid. He’d been afraid of ruining what they had, which was so stable, so secure. And Kōtarō’s future was already uncertain; he had a contract, sure, but he was leaving Tokyo—the city he knew, the city he’d lived in his entire life—for Osaka, a city he’d visited exactly three times. And even though he’d have his teammates there, he wouldn’t have the people who mattered most to him.
He wouldn’t have his parents, or his sisters.
He wouldn’t have Kenma, or Kuroo.
He wouldn’t have Akaashi.
And that hurt. More than anything else, the fact that he would be a full day’s travel away from Akaashi?
But Akaashi smiled and said, “This is your chance, Bokuto-san. Let the world see you for the star that you are,” and who was Kōtarō to deny Akaashi anything when he smiled?
So that last day, he grinned, and said…
What had he said?
Something stupid, no doubt.
Fuck, he couldn’t even remember.
Whatever. It wasn’t what had been in his heart.
It wasn’t “I love you.”
It wasn’t “I’ll miss you.”
It wasn’t “I wish you could come with me, because I don’t think I’ll make it a day without you.”
It wasn’t the right words. It was only all the wrong ones.
Words that brought him back to his phone, night after night, missing Akaashi, loving Akaashi, trying to get up the nerve to call Akaashi and just confess everything.
From that first day they’d met—when Kōtarō had seen the lovely young man with the strange name introduce himself at practice, and when he’d set for Kōtarō for the very first time—
Kōtarō has been hopelessly in love.
How could he not be?
Like, has the world even seen Akaashi Keiji?
Talked with him?
Played with him?
Akaashi is gorgeous. Smart. The best setter. The best friend. The best person.
The brightest star in Kōtarō’s sky.
But now…the one that has faded the most, and the one that Kōtarō needs to see the most.
He sighs, and buries his face in his arms.
He’s so stupid.
He should just call.
He should just call.
He should just…
The phone’s screen lights up, and it buzzes on the desktop. Kōtarō jolts so hard he nearly falls off his chair. He grabs his phone, and almost bursts into tears, the phone burning in his hand.
Akaashi Keiji.
Kōtarō takes a breath. He needs to sound cool, calm, like he’s having the best time in Osaka, like this is the best decision he’d ever made, like he isn’t desperately homesick and needs Akaashi as more than a friend.
As more than everything.
As his everything.
“H—hey, hey, Kaashi! What’s up?” Kōtarō puts on his best “Bokuto-san” voice, the one that he sometimes uses when he is down and doesn't want Akaashi to notice.
The one he uses when he’s overwhelmed with love that he can’t ever express.
A deep, shaky sigh comes over the speaker, and instantly, Kōtarō’s instincts flare.
“Kaashi?” he asks, his own nervousness flying out the window in the face of whatever is going on with Akaashi. “You okay?”
Another deep shaky sigh, and Kōtarō wonders if Akaashi is crying. “Kaashi?”
There’s a deep breath in, then a shuddering breath out. “Bo—Bokuto-san.” It is Akaashi, and he definitely sounds like he’s been crying.
“Akaashi?” Kōtarō is on his feet. “What’s up? What’s the matter? Where are you? Did something happen? What are you—”
“I—I’m—I’m okay.” Akaashi does not sound okay. Kōtarō is already in his closet, looking for his duffel bag. “I just—I just needed—fuck.” Oh, this is bad. Akaashi is swearing? Akaashi is using the f-word? Kōtarō finds his duffel bag and begins flying about the room, grabbing shirts and pants and boxers and whatever else he might need for a trip back to Tokyo.
“Kaashi,” Kōtarō says impatiently, holding up two cords and trying to decide which one is his phone charger, “you’re not okay. You’re crying on the phone and it’s…” He checks the time. “Almost midnight! Why are you crying at almost midnight?” Kōtarō knows he’s starting to sound hysterical, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Akaashi is somewhere alone, and crying.
He shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed. He shouldn’t have let Akaashi go.
He should have told him everything.
“Kaashi?” Kōtarō says, finally choosing what he hopes is the right cord and throwing it in his duffel. “Akaashi, talk to me. Where are you? Why are you crying? I’m packing my bag; I’ll come get you wherever you are…it might be five am before I can get there, but just wait and I’ll be there…”
“I’m here, Bokuto-san!” Akaashi shouts, and wait, did Kōtarō just hear something outside his apartment? Is it Tsum-Tsum doing a knock and run again? Oh, Kōtarō’s gonna knock some sense into that Miya…he might be a good setter, but Kōtarō doesn’t appreciate him knocking on all the doors in the complex at all hours of the night…
“Sorry, Kaashi,” Kōtarō says, rolling up his sleeves and heading for the door, phone still in hand, “I gotta check the door. Sounds like Tsum-Tsum is…”
“It’s not Tsum-Tsu—I mean, Miya-san,” Akaashi says, and there it is again! What is going on outside his door at nearly midnight?
“Hold on, Kaashi,” Kōtarō says, setting the phone on the small table by the door. “I gotta…”
He unlocks the door and wrenches it open, ready to catch Miya Atsumu sneaking around the complex, but at the door instead he sees…
“Kaashi,” he whispers, dropping his hand.
Akaashi is there, outside his apartment in Osaka, at nearly midnight, when he should be in his apartment in Tokyo, studying for exams and getting ready to finish up his final semester of college.
Akaashi is there, with only his phone in his hands, and his eyes are red-rimmed behind his glasses. His cheeks are puffy, and his hair is a mess.
“Keiji!” Kōtarō shouts, forgetting all sense of decorum when he takes in Akaashi’s disheveled form. He reaches out, grabs Akaashi by the wrist, and tugs him inside the apartment. “What are you doing here? Why are you here so late?” Kōtarō’s eyes narrow. What if Akaashi is injured? What if something happened to him? “You’re not hurt, are you?” Kōtarō asks then. He takes Akaashi by the other wrist, and begins inspecting him. “Did something happen? Are you okay? Why are you—”
“I—I’m okay, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi breathes, but he’s shaking, and only in a t-shirt when it’s December. Kōtarō puts his hands on Akaashi’s arms and starts to rub vigorously; Akaashi’s frigid to the touch.
“You’re not okay, Akaashi!” Kōtarō insists. “You’re cold! Why are you here? Why are you here without a jacket?” He can feel his panic rising. What has happened? Why isn’t Akaashi telling him anything?
“I—I am—fuck.” Another swear, and Akaashi sags.
Akaashi never sags.
“I just—” Akaashi looks like he’s fighting an internal battle, trying to get himself to say something. Kōtarō searches his face, looking for a sign of hurt, of pain, of anything that would signal why he’s there.
A sigh, and then Akaashi blinks.
“I’m here,” Akaashi says at last, “to see you.”
Kōtarō’s mouth drops open.
“You—you’re here to—” He can’t get the words out. He can’t say it. Because to say it means more than he can process, more than he can handle.
“I—I was sitting in my apartment,” Akaashi explains, his voice trembling. “I was supposed to be studying for my Shakespeare exam, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. That—” A breath. “I missed you.” Another breath. “A lot.” Another breath. “That you are here.” One more breath. “And I’m stuck in Tokyo, without you.”
One final breath, and Akaashi looks up at Kōtarō, deep blue eyes shining with tears again. “I was sitting by my phone,” he continues, “thinking about calling you, about telling you everything—”
“Everything?” Kōtarō repeats.
“And I just thought, hey, why not, let me see if I can catch a shinkansen to Osaka.” Akaashi’s rambling. Akaashi never rambles.
Akaashi swearing. Akaashi rambling.
What the fuck is the world coming to?
“Akaashi.” Kōtarō can’t believe he’s being the serious one, the responsible one here. “You just traveled four hours by train in the middle of the night—”
“Not the middle of the night,” Akaashi replies placidly. “It’s not even midnight yet.”
“—almost the middle of the night—” Kōtarō’s not going to give that one up so easily, “to do what? To see me?”
Akaashi blinks owlishly. “Well, yes,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“But why?!” Kōtarō’s so confused. Why is Akaashi here? What is he doing? Why—
“Because I—I’m in love with you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies, his voice shaking a little, “and forgive me if love made me do something stupid, if it brought me here so late. But I just couldn’t sit by the phone anymore and pretend like I didn’t miss you, like I didn’t want to see you, like I didn’t want to—”
Kōtarō can’t let Akaashi finish that sentence. Not now. Not that Akaashi just said “I’m in love with you” and Kōtarō’s brain has short-circuited.
Kōtarō can’t let Akaashi finish that sentence.
So Kōtarō kisses him, instead.
It’s rough, bruising, their first kiss. Too much gusto; too much emotion, too much of everything. But it’s Akaashi’s mouth on his; it’s Akaashi’s groan, ripping from his throat; it’s Akaashi’s hands, wrapping around his body.
It’s Akaashi’s tongue, sliding between his lips and lapping at him.
It’s Akaashi.
It’s all Akaashi.
It’s always been Akaashi.
And, Kōtarō’s fairly sure, it always will be.
A first kiss shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be all teeth and tongue and saliva and bruised lips.
But, then again, a first kiss shouldn’t take six years to happen.
Kōtarō’s hands slide around Akaashi’s waist; he’s thin, but Kōtarō can feel the muscle there; he wonders idly if Akaashi still goes for a run every morning, no matter the weather. He wonders if Akaashi still reads manga secretly at night, when he thinks everyone has gone to bed. He wonders if Akaashi is working too hard. If he’s eating enough. If he’s going home.
If he’s going to stay.
“Bo—Bokuto-san,” Akaashi gasps, but Kōtarō’s not ready to give him up: not yet, not after all time, not when Akaashi is cold and his lips are chapped and delicious and Kōtarō wants to smother him with hugs and kisses and all the love he’s held inside for so many years.
Especially if this isn’t real. If this isn’t what he’s hoping it is.
“Bokuto-san,” says Akaashi, a little more insistent this time. Kōtarō huffs, but pulls back only enough to rest their foreheads together.
“Keiji,” Kōtarō murmurs, and the full-body shiver that elicits from Akaashi is worth it. “Keiji, I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. I can’t believe you’re here, that you love me too, that you—”
Akaashi kisses him again, and it’s long and languid and so, so good. Kōtarō might collapse and die, and he’d be a happy man, having kissed Akaashi Keiji like this.
“It seems that,” Akaashi whispers, “we’ve both borne the burden of being in love, and being alone, for far too long. Now I’m here, Kōtarō; let me take some of that burden, and lay it down, so it no longer holds us back.” He kisses Kōtarō again; Kōtarō leans into Akaashi’s lips, his tender touch, his crisp and cool scent. He wants to stay here, to drown here, in Akaashi, forever.
“I don’t have exams until Tuesday,” Akaashi adds, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Kōtarō’s heart thunders; he’s missed that tiny grin that signifies multitudes. “That gives us…four days?...and I think I want to use that time to see what we’ve missed.”
Kōtarō groans—actually, really, loudly groans—at Akaashi’s insinuation. “I’ve been in love with you for six years, Keiji,” he breathes. “I don’t think four days will be enough.”
Akaashi’s eyes are still red, but now they are dancing. “Oh,” he says, cupping Kōtarō’s jaw with his right hand, and drawing him close around the waist with his left, “I’ve spent a lot of nights thinking about exactly what I want to do. And, if you’re ready…” Akaashi leans forward; his breath is soft, intimate, and tickles Kōtarō’s ear. “I think I’d like to show you.”