Work Text:
Koutarou slumps over his textbook, chin resting against the top of a page he doesn’t even know the title of despite having read it less than 3 seconds ago. Beside him, Atsumu rests his cheek on his knuckles, elbow on the table as he highlights his own book with the other hand. In front of him, Sakusa’s tapping away at his keyboard, glasses sitting low on his nose so that the screen reflects on them, bright and white except for every time he looks over at Koutarou, which has become increasingly often in the past 10 minutes or so. Koutarou counts the seconds between them as he tries to make out the words through the glare.
If he squints he thinks it might be an ‘f’. Or a– a ‘p’ . It’s a ‘p,’ yeah.
“P .”
And that’s an… “l ”.
And is that an… “a? Pla– Plaa– Plan . Plant? Plane– Plant?”
Koutaoru scrunches his nose to make sense of it, trying to zoom-in on the image because why’s Sakusa writing about plants and planes and–
“Planetary.”
Sakusa’s laptop snaps shut with a forceful shudder that makes Koutarou jump back, and tides a gust of wind that blows Koutarou’s loose sheets of notes off the table. He leans over in his chair to pick them up, but the weight of him tips it over and since he’s got his ankles hooked around the legs of the chair, Koutarou flails as he falls.
“The word is planetary. As in ‘planetary physics,’” Sakusa grits out right as Atsumu grabs the back of Koutarou’s chair and rights him up. Koutarou bounces back with his head a little spinny and winces as Sakusa slides the laptop across the table, harsh enough for the rubbery pads to leave thin skid marks on the glass.
“Omi, jus’–”
“Just no, Atsumu. This isn’t working. He is not making any progress.” And with that, Sakusa fastens a pair of over-ear headphones on.
Koutarou hears Atsumu breathe in sharply beside him, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead his eyes slide towards Koutarou’s and, upon meeting, Atsumu gives a sympathetic half-smile Koutarou’s sure is meant to be encouraging, and yet is anything but.
Koutarou’s place in the collegiate volleyball team is at stake over a stupid class he’s failing and Sakusa… Sakusa’s right. He isn’t making any progress. That has to change. Koutarou sighs, because game theory is hard , but then he straightens up, because he is Bokuto Koutarou; One of Japan’s top three spikers and all-around Superstar Champion. All he has to do is buckle up and concentrate. Koutarou puffs his chest. He’s got this.
Half an hour later Koutarou still hasn’t moved past the first page of his textbook. He hasn’t even looked at it. He has, however, counted the number of lamps on the street outside the window, and watched the old lady out front water that line the short stairwell from the sidewalk to what Koutarou presumes is her front door, and daydreamed at least three new awesome spike attacks that have the whole imaginary stadium cheering in his mind.
Bo-ku-to! Bo-ku-to!
He slow-turns on his heels, basking in the chants of his name that surround him, and letting them bask in his glory in turn.
Bo-ku-to! Bo-ku-to! Bo-ku-to!
“Bokuto!”
Koutarou snaps back to find Atsumu and Sakusa both staring at him, table clear of everything except Koutarou’s stuff.
“Huh?”
“C’mon, Bo,” Atsumu says. “We’re gonna be late fer class.”
“Oh. Right.”
***
Koutarou’s game is off the next day. He knows it, his coach knows it, his teammates know it, everyone knows it. Even if no one says anything. No one has to say anything, because it’s clear in the stinging thwack of the ball hitting the net three times in a row before Koutarou decides he should just stop hitting the ball, really.
It’s embarrassing, is what it is. Koutarou’s the worst player ever and so then what does it matter if he does fail game theory and gets kicked out because of poor grades if he can’t get the ball over the net anyways and they’re just gonna kick him for that . Koutarou groans where he lies long after practice has ended, starfished on the gym floor with his eyes closed.
“Um. Hello, Bokuto-san.”
Koutarou considers not opening his eyes for a solid five seconds, and then he doesn’t. He doesn’t recognise the voice but it sounds awfully gentle and if Bokuto’s going to go out he wants the last thing he hears to be a voice like that.
“I’m Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto-san. Your new tutor?” the voice tries again, and Koutarou’s mind lets the voice wash over him – silky, pretty. “Sakusa-san said–” Sakusa? Koutarou’s brows furrow at the sudden apparition of Sakusa in Koutarou’s otherwise-heavenly ascent to the volleyball career afterlife– Wait.
Wait.
Tutor?
Koutarou’s eyes shoot open and– and wow . A man stands above him, backlit by fluorescent gym lights that glow around his curly hair like a halo. And when Koutarou’s eyes adjust it’s ocean green– no, ocean blue eyes that peer down back at him, such a distinct shade of– of pretty that Koutarou feels himself go slack-jawed at the sight. Now this is the sight to go out with. Wow.
“Wow.”
Akaashi – Akaashi, what a pretty, pretty name – looks away, impassive even as he fiddles with his hair. Koutarou watches as Akaashi re-adjusts a stray, curling lock behind his ear with long, elegant fingers. He traces them, their movement, round the curve of his ear to his soft, statuesque jaw. He follows the tip of his chin up, over plush pink lips and a cupid’s bow that dips like waves on a petal’s edge, up a rather sharp but dainty nose. And those eyes. Those eyes that meet his head-on, it’s like standing at a cliff’s edge, staring out at a vast and furious sea, and Koutarou wants to stare at it forever.
“It’s rude to stare, Bokuto-san.”
Koutarou gulps.
“Right. Sorry.” He’s not. Not when Akaashi’s cheeks colour red, not unlike how Koutarou’s entire face probably is right now.
Akaashi looks away again, thick lashes sweeping as he blinks into the movement before bringing a hand up to cough into his fist. Koutarou opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, because he wants to hear that voice again, but nothing comes out. Akaashi’s cheeks flush impossibly darker.
“Keiji-kun!”
Atsumu’s voice breaks through Koutarou’s reverie – barely, if only because where does Atsumu know Akaashi from and why hasn’t he introduced them before, what happened to the BRO code – and Koutarou turns to see him walking over from the other side of the gym, running a towel over his hair, fresh change of clothes, and a curl-scrunching Sakusa in tow.
“Atsumu-san, Sakusa-san.” Akaashi nods politely as they approach, and Koutarou watches in wonder as Atsumu, Miya Atsumu, comes to a personal-space-respecting still and wraps his arms around Sakusa instead, then with wonder as Sakusa smiles at Akaashi .
The wonder doesn’t cease. Koutarou sits with his hands splayed by his sides, looking up at Akaashi as Sakusa introduces him. He’s an illustration major. An honour roll. He’s a member of the debate team. He has 3.9 GPA. He’s here on an academic scholarship. He used to play volleyball. He’s incredibly pretty. (Koutarou adds that one himself.)
Whatever Sakusa says about Koutarou, he misses, which might be a first in Koutarou’s life because he was born to revel in praise. But for once, he has more important things to think about. Like what Akaashi’s favourite season is, favourite colour, animal, what position he played in highschool, what position he’d like to play with Koutarou, if Akaashi believes in love at first sight, and how he’s going to get Akaashi’s number.
Koutarou gulps.
And then 2 minutes later he’s staring down at a slip of paper, the name ‘Akaashi Keiji’ written in neat, crisp kanji above his number. Because it turns out being tutored by Akaashi gives him a fast-pass to Akaashi’s number.
Score.
***
The library staircase is comforting as Keiji walks up it, satchel at his hip and a pen behind his ear. It’s soothing, is what it is, with its quiet air and tall windows. The library is by no means an empty place, especially not around this time of the semester when finding an unoccupied space is like striking gold, but Keiji can appreciate the stillness of it all the same; Distilled by never-ending tomes on all sorts of topics, the weight of inescapable student responsibility, and the unspoken understanding that most people are here with the expectation of uninterrupted solitude.
Just a few steps from the stairs’ edge on the third floor, Keiji opens the door to the private study station he’d reserved for today. He’s a quarter of an hour early, but from what Sakusa mentioned about Bokuto, Keiji wants to make sure he has everything ready beforehand.
Five minutes later, Keiji has the teacher’s syllabus, upcoming assignments, primary textbook, as well as his own workshops and assignments from last semester, laid out artfully along the table in the order in which he anticipates they will become relevant.
With ten minutes on the clock, Keiji grabs his satchel from the chair beside him and pulls out his sketchbook for the second time today. He flips through the pages to the two-page spread he’d begun working on a week into the semester, when Keiji had first walked into the gym stands one early morning that practice had run late and Keiji’d decided to wait for Sakusa indoors. Black and white though it is, Bokuto’s form is nothing short of brilliant where he hangs, forever suspended in the pages of Akaashi’s sketchbook, high above the net – the crowd, the world – back twisted as he braces himself for the spike of a lifetime.
Sakusa’s text had taken him by surprise in the middle of Colour III, but when he’d explained that Bokuto – ‘with the owlish hair, remember him?’ As if Keiji could ever forget. – needed help with a class Keiji had taken last semester, Keiji couldn’t pass up the chance to be a part of Bokuto’s orbit. Even if just for a little while.
***
Bokuto arrives five past two, and Keiji’s more relieved than he is bothered as he watches Bokuto through the glass walls of the island. Somehow, in the short time Keiji’d sat, thinking about Bokuto, and then unsuccessfully trying really hard not to think about Bokuto when he realised he was making himself nervous , Keiji’d filled an entire page with with anatomy sketches only to look down and realise they were all Bokuto. Keiji files whatever that might mean into a ‘????’-labelled folder at the back of his mind as he shuts the sketchbook, sliding it back into his satchel and re-adjusting his hair to regain some composure.
Bokuto stands at the top of the stairs like he’s regaining his breath, one hand limp by his side, the other tight on the strap of his backpack, looks around like he’s never been to the third floor of the library – but he’s got his backpack on, for which Keiji’s vaguely grateful because he’d been told Bokuto sometimes forgot it – spots Keiji above the half-height shelves, and beams. Keiji fights not to shy under the intensity. He feels his cheeks warm anyways.
“You’re late, Bokuto-san,” is the first thing that comes out of Keiji’s mouth when Bokuto slides the door open, because in lieu of a cool-calm-collected greeting, Keiji defaults to blunt and honest. He cringes at himself, just a bit.
“Sorry, Akaashi. I got lost.” Koutarou’s cheeks turn pink at the admission and distantly, Keiji wonders if he’s ever been to the library at all. Keiji files the thrill that runs through him as he considers he’s the first to bring Bokuto to the magical haven that is a library into the ????!!! folder that refuses to stay at the back of his mind.
“It’s okay. You’re here now. Have a seat, Bokuto-san,” Keiji says as he – not knowing what else to do with his hands but needing to do some thing – gathers everything he’d laid out over the desk into a single pile and begins to lay them out again.
“Okay,” Bokuto says as he surveys the space. He sounds nervous. Why he’s nervous, Keiji can’t fathom.
Keiji’s breath hitches when he hears the scrape of the chair across him. Bokuto sits down, Keiji wills his heart to calm down.
It’s just a study session, Keiji, calm down. Be cool.
***
It’s not just a study session – it’s the most chaotic study session Keiji’s ever led. Keiji tries his best to syphon all of Bokuto’s restless energy into studying, but it’s no use. The session’s going… rough. Bokuto’s legs keep bouncing, he can’t keep his hands still, arms changing position every ten seconds, and though Bokuto keeps nodding at everything Keiji says, Keiji sincerely doubts he’s absorbed anything Keiji’s said in the past half hour.
Keiji pauses mid- Prisoner’s Dilemma explanation and looks at Bokuto, who’s run his hands through his hair probably a hundred times at this point, who’s bothered his bottom lip red, and is looking down at the notebook between them like it might as well be another language. At Keiji’s silence, Bokuto looks up, golden eyes weary like he’s exhausted with the effort it takes to keep up. Keiji’s heart aches.
It started going downhill the moment Bokuto sat down, Keiji thinks. He gets it, to some degree, how one small thing can affect everything. Bokuto picked the chair across Keiji, most likely because it was the most familiar arrangement – a classroom set-up, with a teacher in front meant to be paid attention to – but it’s not working. With all that boundless energy entrapped in such close quarters, Keiji’s surprised Bokuto’s even lasted as long as he has. He doesn’t even think he’s looked at the textbook once all chapter.
“Why don’t you come sit next to me instead, Bokuto-san?” Keiji finally asks after concluding it’s ridiculous that his neck should hurt from the way it has to twist so that at least one of them can look at the textbook between them, when he’s the one who already knows what’s on the pages.
Bokuto’s entire demeanour changes in an instant and Keiji can’t help but smile as he watches his eyes light up with glee. Keiji wonders, heart a little tender, if anyone can keep up with Bokuto, who seems to marathon through thoughts and emotions like he’s determined to think and feel everything there is in the world all at the same time.
There’s a grating screech as Bokuto’s chair’s pushed back, but despite the pink on his cheeks, Bokuto’s chest puffs up as he rounds over to Keiji’s side. It’s amusing, and endearing, and puts Keiji at ease. Because it’s easy to feel at ease when no one’s taking themselves too seriously.
So when Bokuto sits down and drags the chair right up until it meet the edge of Keiji’s so that Bokuto’s entire body is pressed against Keiji’s side, while the more punctilious part of Keiji’s brain baulks at the complete dismissal of personal space, the more… another, part of him thinks this is kind of nice. And maybe, maybe this is okay. It’s also a lot easier to explain things to Bokuto this way, Keiji reasons, with the textbook between them, Bokuto’s notebook on the left, and Keiji’s laptop to their right. Keiji lets himself sink into Bokuto’s side when he reaches over to point things out in Bokuto’s notebook, and when Bokuto gasps excitedly after he finally gets what Keiji’s been trying to explain the past half hour, Keiji can’t help but swell with pride.
***
“Hey, Akaashi?” Koutarou says when it’s nearly 6pm and their study session has devolved into Akaashi drawing and Koutarou halfway through his game theory assignment. Koutarou rests his cheek on his elbow over the desk, music – ‘lo-fi,’ Akaashi’d said, ‘to fill the silence and drown out distractions. Plus, I like it.’ – plays softly in the privacy of their bubble, and Koutarou’s feeling better than he has in days as he looks at Akaashi, sitting with his knees tucked against the table, little black sketchbook hidden behind them. Smart, kind Akaashi.
“Yes, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi says, in that soothing, mellow voice that makes Koutarou’s brain go all fuzzy.
“I like studying with you.”
Akaashi looks up at that, and Koutarou doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over how beautiful Akaashi is. Doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget the way he smells of black tea and honey when he leans over to write ‘well done! :-)’ in Koutarou’s notebook when he finishes an exercise, and how he almost laughs at Koutarou’s jokes and it’s the best sound Koutarou’s ever heard.
“I’m glad to hear that, Bokuto-san.” And to anyone else Akaashi might look impassive, but Koutarou’s been studying Akaashi while he’s been studying game theory too, and he’s pretty confident that’s a smile, a soft little smile, playing at the corner of Akaashi’s lips. It fills Koutarou up with courage.
“Hey, Akaashi?”
Koutarou sits up, so that he’s face-to-face with Akaashi. Akaashi’s eyes are tempestuous and relentless, Koutarou wants to drown in them.
“Yes, Bokuto-san?”
“You’re pretty cool, ‘Kaashi,” he whispers.
There’s a lull as Akaashi just looks at him, and Koutarou wonders if he can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
***
Bokuto’s eyes gleam molten in the dimming evening light. Looking into them, face to face like this, Keiji realises just how close they really are. So close that Keiji can see the freckles on Bokuto’s cheeks, the ones he’s been sketching for an hour now. They seem fitting, for a man that burns brighter than the sun. There’s even a freckle on the tip of his cupid’s bow, Keiji now realises, a tiny light brown dot that pulls Keiji in until he’s close enough he can feel the warm exhale of Bokuto’s breath on his lips. He can’t believe he missed it.
“Bokuto-san, if you pass this course, I’ll kiss you.”
***
It’s a kiss like sunlight breaking the surface after a long, long night.