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“Don’t do it, Keiji.”
Kenma’s right, of course. As sure as Keiji is that Kenma’s also in college just for show, when he could own half of Tokyo by now.
But just because Kenma’s right doesn’t mean that Keiji is going to listen to him.
All night, he’s been watching Bokuto. All night, he’s watched as Bokuto and Kuroo have made idiots of themselves: playing flip cup, dancing to the music when no one else is, shotgunning beers.
And all night, Keiji has watched, and Keiji has yearned.
To be the one that Bokuto played flip cup with. To be the one he danced with in the middle of the floor at this stupid party.
To be the one who would let Bokuto shotgun a beer into his mouth.
But all night, Keiji has refrained, and Keiji has watched, as person after person has come up to flirt with Bokuto.
Most of them he ignores, or brushes off. He’s polite, Keiji’s best friend and crush is, but firm. And most people, luckily, take the hint.
But this time, it’s a young man—shorter in stature, although not quite as tiny as Kenma—with shoulder-length, (badly) dyed red hair, and an eyebrow piercing. He’s dressed in a black tank top and strategically ripped jeans, and he’s currently trying to grind on Bokuto as he and Kuroo are involved in an elaborate reconstruction of some 90s pop hit that Bokuto plays all the time but Keiji can’t remember the title of (even though he probably knows all the words by now).
And yes, Kenma’s right. Keiji should leave it alone. But there is a hum chafing against his soul at the sight of someone making a move on Bokuto—especially when it’s someone that Bokuto seems to be trying to ignore. Keiji watches as Bokuto flashes the young man a weak smile and shakes his head, then turns back to Kuroo as they enact a grapevine. Kenma’s chuckling and shaking his head, but Keiji’s so pissed off he could tear apart a small village with his bare hands.
That hum is louder now, making his entire body vibrate. He’s watching Bokuto, watching that man try and hit on Bokuto, and that hum is slowly but surely taking shape as words.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It’s ridiculous, really. Bokuto doesn’t belong to anyone: least of all, to Akaashi Keiji. Keiji’s been the best friend, the confidante, for too many years for him to think he would ever have a chance. Bokuto hooks up, Keiji knows, but doesn’t date, citing his dedication to his team and his academics (which, if he fails, he loses his scholarship, and hence, loses the team). Keiji helps Bokuto with most of his studying; even the subjects he doesn’t know, Keiji does complete and total research before embarking on a lesson plan for Bokuto.
It’s just how devoted he is to making sure the person he loves most in the world is happy, comfortable, safe.
And this scene that’s unfolding…
“Keiji.” Kenma’s voice is desperate. That probably means Keiji’s doing something he shouldn’t, but Keiji can’t really begin to care. Kuroo’s walking away; to get drinks, presumably—but that leaves Bokuto alone in the middle of the room with…
With a man who is touching Boktuo’s arm right now. Who is feeling up Bokuto’s taut muscles. Who is smiling as he does so.
Keiji’s body is moving, but his mind is blank, save for those words, repeated over and over again:
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It’s a funny thing, feeling angry and feral. Keiji thought he’d be enraged, but instead, he’s calm, cool, focused.
He might kill this guy.
“…And then Akaashi set the ball, and it was just perfect!” Bokuto is shouting over the music as Keiji approaches. “He doesn’t even play regularly anymore, and it’s still like his sets are perfect for me!”
Keiji’s heart warms at how affectionately Bokuto recalls their high school playing days, as well as the times when Bokuto’s able to drag Keiji away from his studies to practice for a few precious hours. Keiji’s body isn’t as strong as it once was, but he’d set to Bokuto for hours if it means they can continue to play together.
“It’s true,” Keiji says, and Bokuto’s face lights up as Keiji approaches and slips under Bokuto’s arm, effectively plastering himself to his best friend/perpetual crush’s side. He looks up affectionately at Bokuto. “Hello, darling,” he adds, and Keiji feels a rush of adrenaline at Bokuto’s warm, golden gaze.
He absolutely knows the risk he’s taking here. That this could make or break their friendship. But he can’t sit by anymore tonight and let all these people think they have a chance with Bokuto. He can’t.
His mind is a shifting prism of thoughts and emotions as he watches Bokuto respond to his butting in. At first, Keiji’s amused, and a little bit shy, as he sees the joy that crosses over Bokuto’s face. That’s quickly replaced by terror as Bokuto’s expression changes: from the joy of seconds before, to confusion.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Should he have done this? Should he have made this kind of a move? What if Bokuto…
And then, Bokuto’s face settles, and Keiji lets out a quiet sigh, because to him, it’s clear that Bokuto is relieved.
Like he knows why Keiji’s there, and he’s grateful.
And at the relief, a rush of possession runs hot through Keiji’s veins.
Because Bokuto is school and volleyball.
And Keiji’s the only one who gets to see him as anything else.
“In fact,” Keiji continues, looking up at Bokuto with what he hopes is an adoring face, “weren’t you recently saying that we should practice our skills off the court, too? Especially…” Oh god, can he really do this? The man is staring at him, though, and if he wants to get rid of him for good, he needs to be obvious and a tad dramatic.
He’s seen Kenma do this when he wants to stake a claim on Kuroo.
Can he do the same thing?
“Especially your spiking skills,” Keiji murmurs, sliding an arm around Bokuto’s waist and feeling the muscle. He’s not taking advantage—he’s just being convincing, and Bokuto definitely relaxes into his hold, like he knows what Keiji’s doing, and why. But still, Keiji can’t deny that being this close to Bokuto, that being able to touch Bokuto like this?
It’s more than a little thrilling.
The young man—who is slowly becoming aware that he’s a third wheel—interrupts. “You—you know,” he grits out, “we were having a conversation.”
Keiji glares at him. Okay, he’s now pissed. He’s trying his hardest here; can’t this guy take a hint?
He’s giving in to the sass a little too quickly, but he’s mad and he just wants this guy gone.
“The only conversation you were having was between your dick and my boyfriend’s pants, and so far as I can tell, it was one-sided,” Keiji says flatly.
“A—Keiji,” Bokuto murmurs, and Keiji’s just gonna forget that Bokuto used his first name, yes, he is.
The young man’s mouth drops open. “You could have told me you were taken,” he accuses Bokuto.
“He did,” Keiji cuts in, “but you have a listening problem, and if you don’t get out of here, you’re gonna have a Me problem, which you definitely don’t want.”
Bokuto’s eyes widen as the young man huffs and walks away. The music’s still blaring, but Bokuto’s now just staring at Keiji, who feels the weight of what he’s just done and all he can do is stare right back.
The tension hangs heavy in the air; Keiji thinks that if he speaks, if he even so much as opens his mouth, the moment will crack, shatter, bend, be gone…
From the way Bokuto is staring, Keiji knows he feels it, too.
Did he fuck up? Did he change things between them by stepping in where he wasn’t wanted? Did he…
“Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice is low, husky. Keiji shivers. “I—I don’t—” Keiji’s heart leaps, swoops, drops, freezes.
What’s Bokuto trying to say?
“Thank you,” he says at last. “For stepping in. The guy wasn’t…he wasn’t getting the hint and…”
Keiji laughs nervously. “It’s what friends do, right?” he answers, then realizes his arm is still around Bokuto’s waist and he jumps, goes to pull away, but Bokuto’s arm around his shoulders tightens.
“Don’t,” Bokuto rasps, “don’t—“
“Oya Oya, what’d I miss?” Kuroo’s back, and he’s got two drinks, one of which he hands to Bokuto. “Oh, hey, Akaashi,” he adds; his grin becomes a downright dastardly smirk when he sees their compromising position. “Didn’t realize you liked to get down, too. Wanna show off your moves?” he adds with a wink, and Keiji feels sick.
Sick.
He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have stepped in. Because now he’s here, and Bokuto’s here, and he’s looking at him in a way that Keiji has dreamed of for so long, but it’s an act, it’s not real, it’s…
Oh, god, he touched Bokuto. He touched him, and he acted all possessive, when he’s not Keiji’s, he’s not, and…
“I gotta…I’ll see you later, Bokuto-san,” he says, and stumbles away, in search of the nearest bathroom, leaving Bokuto and Kuroo staring after him, but too lost in his own head, in his own thoughts, to really stop and care.
“Keiji?” He can hear Kenma, but he’s too busy wallowing in self-doubt to stop and listen to his friend. He pushes through several people in the crowd, makes his way to the bathroom, says “It’s an emergency” to the person at the front of the line, and goes to step in ahead of them.
“Keiji!” A small hand closes around his wrist and tugs. “I’m sorry,” Kenma says to the person who was waiting (and who is very clearly scowling at Keiji). “He can wait. You go ahead.” Keiji watches helplessly as the person goes into the one quiet place in the whole apartment; the one place Keiji can have five minutes of peace and quiet to calm down and to think through whatever the fuck he just did.
“Kenma!” Keiji can’t help the whine that escapes his throat. “What are you doing??”
But Kenma just grunts, and drags Keiji back through the party, back past a wide-eyed Bokuto and an open-mouthed Kuroo, and towards the kitchen. He grabs two cups from the counter, pours them each a shot of vodka, hands Keiji one cup, takes the other for himself, then closes his hand around Keiji’s wrist again and drags them to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the kitchen, which lead to a tiny balcony. Kenma opens the door, pushes Keiji through, follows, then turns and slams the door shut behind them.
“Now,” Kenma orders, the door safely closed so they can’t be overheard, “spill.” He points a finger at Keiji, who jumps. “What just happened?”
Keiji can feel his eyes go round and wild. Did everyone know what just happened? Were people now judging him? Judging Bokuto?
“Kenma,” Keiji says wearily, “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”
“I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking!” Kōtarō moans to Kuroo. They’re still in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, still holding their drinks. They just watched Akaashi run off, Kenma go after him, then Kenma dragged Akaashi back through the living room and into the kitchen. Kōtarō chugs his drink.
“You must know something.” Kuroo’s hazel eyes are accusatory. “What the hell could you have done that made Akaashi run off like that?”
Kōtarō let out a pathetic whine. He’d seen the look of confusion, of horror, in Akaashi’s eyes.
Like he’d done something wrong.
When, in fact…
“That guy over there,” Kōtarō says, pointing in the direction of the young man, who’s now got his arm around a pretty girl with brown hair tied up in a bun, “was hitting on me, and it was making me uncomfortable. Kei—Akaashi came over and interrupted. He pretended to be my boyfriend, Tetsu!” Kōtarō’s voice is hitting desperation decibels, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Kuroo’s eyes widen. “He did.” Kōtarō nods. “Our Akaashi? Pretending to be your boyfriend.” Kōtarō nods again.
Kuroo starts to laugh, that loud, annoying hyena laugh that makes Kōtarō want to punch him in the face on the best of days, but today…
“Kuroo!” Kōtarō hisses. “This is serious.”
“I know.” Kuroo levels him with a steady gaze. “You’ve only been praying for this moment for what, like four years now?”
“Five,” Kōtarō replies meekly.
“Exactly!” Kuroo claps him on the back. “So what’s the big deal? Why not just tell him that you liked him pretending to be your boyfriend, because you’d like him to be your real boyfriend?”
“It’s not that easy!” Kōtarō snaps. He’s really fucking tired of everyone thinking they know him! Well, Kuroo does, but still.
“Akaashi’s skittish,” Kōtarō explains. “He…gets too inside his own head, and he…” Kōtarō thinks for a moment. How to explain things that are just such an innate part of Akaashi, Kōtarō knows them as well as he knows himself? “He overthinks,” Kōtarō says at last. “He overthinks, and obsesses, and dwells, and then he’s sure he’s made a mistake, even if he’s the most perfect person in the whole wide world.”
“Aren’t you a little biased, Bo?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow, and Kōtarō punches him lightly in the arm.
“So what if I am?” he shoots back. “Akaashi’s my best friend…”
“Who you’d like to be more than a best friend,” Kuroo points out.
“But if Akaashi doesn’t want that,” Kōtarō says, again struggling to keep the whine out of his voice, “he’ll run, and we won’t be friends. At least, not in the same way. It’ll be weird.”
Kuroo hums, taps on his chin. “I think that,” he says slowly, and oh, Kōtarō doesn’t like it when Kuroo’s thinking before he’s talking. “I think that what Akaashi did tonight? Already made things weird.”
Kōtarō gasps. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but Kuroo’s right. Akaashi made a move on him; to save him from Creepy Guy, but he made a move nonetheless.
That means that Kōtarō has to…
“I see those gears catching fire,” Kuroo teases. Kōtarō frowns at him. “But seriously, Bo,” he adds, “you have to think…if things are already weird, what’s to stop you from telling him?”
“Because then things could be weirder!” Kōtarō exclaims.
“Sure,” Kuroo replies easily, “but if they’re already weird, and you have a chance to make them not weird, don’t you think you should take it?”
Kōtarō frowns, sips what’s left of his drink, thinks on this.
Akaashi comes over, saves him from Creepy Guy.
Akaashi stands up for him, says sexy things.
Creepy Guy goes away.
Akaashi looks all weird.
Kōtarō is even more in love.
Akaashi runs.
“He ran, though, Tetsu,” Kōtarō answers, his frown carving deeper. “He ran, and now he’s somewhere with Kenma, and I don’t know what to do.”
Kuroo takes a casual sip of his drink. “I’ll tell you what you do,” he advises, clapping his free hand onto Kōtarō’s shoulder. “You wait.”
Kōtarō blinks. “I…wait?”
Kuroo nods and grins, like this is the best fucking idea in the world. “Yup!” he replies. “Akaashi and Kenma have gotta come out from wherever they are sometime, and when they do…”
Kuroo slings his arm over Kōtarō’s shoulders. “We watch,” he advises, “and we wait. If Akaashi seems receptive, you make your move. If not…” He looks out in the crowd of people, then back at Kōtarō. His hazel eyes are serious. “We wait.”
Kōtarō thinks over this plan. It’s not terrible, as far as Kuroo’s plans go? Although Kōtarō had to admit that Kuroo advising patience is about as rare as Kōtarō eating vegetables electively (he’s with Kenma on that one! But he needs them for vitamins and strong muscle growth, so he bears it as best he can). But if Akaashi looks at him, smiles at him, maybe that would mean he’s not mad? And maybe Kuroo’s right (again—ugh, Kōtarō is never telling him this!) that he’d be willing to listen to a love confession from Kōtarō.
“O—okay, Tetsu,” he says, hesitantly. “Let’s wait for Kenma and Akaashi to come out of hiding.”
“We won’t have to wait long,” Kuroo says, nudging Kōtarō’s arm. He moves it aside, and sees that Kenma and Akaashi have come back out from the kitchen, and are now talking quietly as they lean against the wall on the opposite side of the living room. Kenma has his game out and is playing, with Akaashi watching.
“See?” Kuroo says. “All’s good. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Except that,” Kōtarō says, pointing with a shaky finger at a figure moving across the room towards Kenma and Akaashi. It’s a guy. He’s tall; his dark hair is styled in an undercut, which looks annoyingly good on him. He’s all lean muscle; not as built as Kōtarō, but he’s defined, as clearly seen in the way his muscles cut a striking figure, from the waist up, anyway. His legs are thick and covered in dark, denim-wash jeans.
Kōtarō frowns. He doesn’t like this.
“Oh!” Kuroo’s eyes narrow. “This should be interesting,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “I wish I had popcorn.”
“Akaashi’ll just tell him to leave, right?” Kuroo’s eyes turn to Kōtarō, who immediately feels his blood run cold.
“That’s if he leaves,” Kuroo says. “Oh, look, he’s leaning in to see what Kenma’s playing. How cute.”
Kōtarō shivers. He’s tried to watch Kenma play games on his console before, and barely made it out with his vision intact. Kenma’s tiny, but fierce and protective of his games and trade secrets.
Sure enough, they watch Kenma bare his teeth, then slip under the man’s arm and stride away.
“Kenma!” Kuroo calls, waving his arm. Kenma looks around, like he doesn’t know where the voice is coming from.
“Kenma!” Kuroo calls again, standing on his tiptoes to be seen above the crowd. Kōtarō chuckles as he watches Kenma sigh, then slowly make his way over to Kuroo and Kōtarō.
“Look who it is,” he says, not even looking up from his game. “Who let the cat in?”
“Ohh, it’s good to see you too, babe,” Kuroo coos, sidling up next to his boyfriend. “It’s almost like we came here together or something.”
“Keiji’s not comfortable.” Kenma’s eyes flicker up to Kōtarō, just for an instant.
“I know,” Kōtarō says immediately, all the mirth at Kuroo and Kenma’s interaction leaving his face. His eyes narrow as he watches that man lean into Akaashi’s personal space.
“Tetsu,” Kōtarō says in a low voice, “hold my drink.” He holds it out; Kuroo takes it. “I’ll be back.”
He’s vaguely aware of Kuroo answering him, of Kenma making what he’s pretty sure is a snarky remark, but Kōtarō’s too focused on Akaashi to care. He takes long, purposeful strides across the room; he’s pretty sure people are moving out of his way, which is good. He wouldn’t want to demolish innocent people on his way to Akaashi.
Akaashi, the way he scooches away, just a smidge, just enough for Kōtarō to know the man is much too close.
Akaashi, the way his chest is heaving, as though he’s been cornered, as though he’s close to panic.
Akaashi, the way his pupils are blown wide, even behind his glasses.
Akaashi, Akaashi, Akaashi.
Akaashi’s in trouble.
The man has Akaashi in a kabedon when Kōtarō reaches them; Akaashi’s scrunched against the wall and looks small, so small, so fucking small and Kōtarō has to fight back the growl that’s brewing in the back of his throat.
“Come on, baby,” the man’s saying. “How about you show me the way those hips can move?”
“Something the matter here?” Kōtarō asks, coming to Akaashi’s side, the man’s arm all that stands between Kōtarō and Akaashi now. He’s trying to keep his voice pleasant, but there’s a hint of darkness to it that causes Akaashi’s eyes to snap to him, wide-eyed with wonder.
Kōtarō tries to telegraph his plans:
I’m here; you’re all right.
I’m here.
There’s a relief that takes over Akaashi’s face; Kōtarō sees him visibly relax, and he offers Kōtarō a weak smile, one that Kōtarō returns broadly.
“Hey, baby,” he adds, “sorry I was away for so long.”
“Too long,” the man snarks, still not moving his hand. “Looks like your ‘baby’ has better people to talk to.”
Kōtarō frowns; the man has a few centimeters on him but Kōtarō’s definitely bigger. He could probably pick this guy up and throw him across the room, if necessary.
Kōtarō…kind of hopes it comes to that. Just a little.
“Doubtful,” he says instead, and takes the man’s hand in his, gently forcing his arm back to his side. Kōtarō maybe also flexes a bit to show off his biceps and shoulders, just because he can. He turns to Akaashi, who’s still staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes still wide, even though he’s clearly more comfortable now than he was even ten seconds ago.
“Why don’t you and I get out of here?” he asks Akaashi kindly. “I left you alone, and I need to make it up to you.”
And just like that, air whooshes from Akaashi’s lips, making them even more plush, even more lovely than before. “O—okay,” he says shakily, and reaches for Kōtarō’s hand.
But Kōtarō’s caught up in the moment—in Akaashi—in wanting to protect, to touch, to love Akaashi.
In wanting to show this man—and the one who hit on him before—and the whole fucking world, really—that he’s Akaashi’s, and Akaashi is his.
So Kōtarō takes it a step further. When Akaashi reaches for him, Kōtarō pulls him flush into his arms.
He feels Akaashi melt against his chest; his hands nestle in the valley of Kōtarō’s pecs. He’s looking up at Kōtarō now, his beautiful blue eyes a mixture of affection, confusion, and relief. “Hey,” Kōtarō whispers. “You sure you’re okay?” He eyes the man, who scowls, but finally backs off and walks away. “Kenma said you were uncomfortable.”
Akaashi shifts a little against him. “I…I was,” he admits. “But not anymore.” He tilts his face up a bit more; Kōtarō’s eyes drop to his lips, the urge to kiss, to nibble, to claim, bubbling to the surface. “I…I hoped you would come over and interrupt,” Akaashi adds, blushing a bit in the most adorable way. “I hoped you would come over and break things up, like I did for you.”
“You—you hoped that I would?” Kōtarō asks.
Akaashi nods, that blush still high on his cheeks. Kōtarō wants to kiss it away. “Y—yes,” he says softly. “Because I—I—” He pauses, takes a deep breath. Kōtarō waits, his own breath hushed and patient.
“I liked pretending to claim you, to say that you were mine,” Akaashi adds, so quiet Kōtarō needs to lean down a little to hear him. “I liked touching you and feeling you relax against me. I liked when that man walked away, and I liked how…how you looked at me.” He’s blushing so hard now Kōtarō can’t help but grin, can’t help the way his heart is swelling at Keiji’s words.
Akaashi…liked…no, likes…being possessive of Kōtarō.
And Kōtarō? How does he feel about Keiji…
“I liked it too,” Kōtarō says, quickly, breathlessly. “I liked when you came over and interrupted. I liked when you put your arm around my waist. I liked when you were sassy and made that guy leave—no, I loved that,” he chuckles. “And…and I…”
Now Kōtarō took a deep breath of his own.
“I liked interrupting you, too,” he admits. “I liked how you looked at me, like you were so fucking happy to see me, and I liked when I got to show that guy that I could throw him into a sofa.”
“You could, too,” Akaashi laughs quietly.
“And I like holding you,” Kōtarō says in a rush. “I like doing it in front of them, too. I like making it seem like…like…” He falters, not sure what words he wants to say, how he wants to say it.
“Like I’m yours?” Akaashi offers.
“Yes,” Kōtarō says, relieved. “Yes. Like you’re mine.”
Akaashi trembles. “I—I like it too,” he says softly. “Like I’m yours, and like…you’re mine.”
The words hang heavy in the air between them. They’ve both just admitted something that has, if Kōtarō’s being honest, probably been brewing between them for far longer than he had thought possible. And Akaashi looks so beautiful right now, the way his eyes catch the light and sparkle, and the way his cheeks are still so lovely and pink.
Kōtarō wants to give him the world, he realizes.
He wants to give Akaashi everything.
“Maybe we should make it official, then,” Kōtarō answers, his heart thundering in his chest. “So no one else tries to make us jealous anymore.”
“O—official?” Akaashi asks.
Kōtarō slides a hand down to the small of Akaashi’s back; the other casts up to cup his cheek lovingly. Oh, Akaashi’s skin feels soft and warm against Kōtarō’s palm, and his body hums. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “official.”
Akaashi blinks, and then, his face softens and he smiles. “Yes,” he says, “I think I’d like that, too.”
Kōtarō’s heart beats wildly, but he tries to hold it together, for both his own sake and for Akaashi. “Since we…since we both agree,” Kōtarō replies slowly, “then…”
He angles Akaashi’s face just so. “Is this okay?” he asks. Akaashi has tears in his eyes, but he’s nodding vigorously, so Kōtarō kisses Akaashi’s left eye, then his right.
“No tears,” he whispers, “or you’re gonna make me think I suck at this.”
“You couldn’t suck at anything even if you tried,” Akaashi murmurs, and Kōtarō shudders a bit before pressing their mouths together in a soft, gentle kiss.
There’s a moment where Akaashi goes stiff, but almost immediately, his body hums and he relaxes, his arms circling Kōtarō’s shoulders as his fingers press into Kōtarō’s delts and he deepens the kiss. Akaashi’s lips are warm, soft, and Kōtarō can’t help the way his hand shifts on Akaashi’s back, the way his body slots into Akaashi’s even more. He can feel eyes on him—on them—but fuck it, he doesn’t care…
No, wait, yes. He does.
This is his moment to say: Akaashi is mine. I am his.
Akaashi is mine. I am his.
The kiss is one of possession, of claiming, of announcing to the world:
Do not touch the one that I love.
But it’s also one of great tenderness, of deepness and grace and gentleness and love.
It’s a kiss that also announces to the world:
I love this man. And he loves me.
There’s a wolf whistle, followed by a screech, that Kōtarō thinks is most likely Kuroo, with Kenma hitting him for being so obnoxious. Akaashi giggles into Kōtarō’s mouth; apparently, he heard it too, and found it just as amusing.
“Idiots,” Akaashi murmurs.
“Who?” Kōtarō murmurs back. “Them, or us?”
Akaashi pulls back, glares at him flatly. “Them, obviously,” he says, and Kōtarō cackles. He pauses to take Akaashi in. Has he ever noticed just how blue Akaashi’s eyes are, and how long his lashes are, even behind those adorable glasses? Has he ever noticed the color of Akaashi’s lips: rosy pink? They look so soft; Kōtarō really wants to touch them, to press a finger to the little bow part of his lips, to see how well it fits.
So, he does.
And Akaashi kisses it. And Kōtarō kisses him.
And kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him.
He’s drowning in the depths of Akaashi:
Of Akaashi’s mouth. Of his lips. Of his tongue.
Of Akaashi’s hands. Of Akaashi’s fingers.
Of all of Akaashi, now, and forever, and ever.
“Hey, hey,” Kōtarō whispers against Akaashi’s lips, “the offer to get out of here still stands, if you want to.”
Akaashi pulls back just slightly; Kōtarō can see the dazed look in his eyes, the hint of a smile on his swollen lips. He’s so beautiful like this; Kōtarō wants to map this moment onto his skin, sear it into his memory.
The first time he kissed Akaashi.
The first time Akaashi kissed him.
“Sure,” Akaashi whispers back. His lips fumble a bit; it’s relentlessly endearing. “If—if that’s what you want to do.”
The way he says it—so open, so vulnerable, so hopeful—makes Kōtarō’s heart soar.
“Keiji,” he breathes, and Akaashi’s face flushes, a sinful pink that makes Kōtarō want to call him by his first name, and only his first name, for the rest of their lives.
“There’s nothing I have ever wanted more.”
He can feel the eyes on him as he kisses Akaashi one more time; he can feel Kuroo and Kenma watching as he takes Akaashi’s hand, and he waves to them and mouths I’ll call you to Kuroo, who grins and gives him the most embarrassing thumbs-up ever.
But he can also feel the urge, the want, radiating off Akaashi’s body, sweeping him up in a powerful surge of desire that leaves him heady and aching for more.
Let them look. Let everyone look.
Now, they all know:
Akaashi Keiji is his.
And he?
He is Akaashi Keiji’s.