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Twelve years is a long time to miss someone.
It's not that he misses him. It's more like waking up in the morning, sunlight kissing his bare thighs, and making his way to the kitchen to hear the soft murmur of coffee brewing as he yawns once and twice and thrice. It's getting his favourite mug and pouring the coffee and, right before his two spoonfuls of sugar, that moment; quick like lightning, just four words striking bright.
(He likes it black.)
Missing sounds a lot like being aware of him all the time, it sounds like feeling lonely and unloved every day they aren't together. It sounds like love songs that aren't for him to listen and all the kisses he could have had for the last twelve years. Bokuto doesn't miss Akaashi. He doesn't think about him every second of every day; not even once every couple of weeks. Twice a month, maybe. It's been a while since he stopped counting.
It's not about time. Twelve years is a lot of it but it's gone by too fast. It's a lifetime. One sunset. Just time.
It's more or less about those moments, maybe once a month or twice a year or thrice a week, when he thinks He only smiles when he means it or He never wears gloves or He only brushes his hair at night
(and the last one; He likes it black)
and Bokuto thinks he would give up anything in the world just to spend a lifetime with Akaashi Keiji, or maybe only one more sunset or perhaps, even, just some time.
Outside the grocery store. Sometime in the afternoon. Winter is kind this year but it doesn't mean it'll go easy on them. There's: a warm green scarf, cold hands closed tightly around his bags with food and a couple of beers he's taking home with him like trophies, and a surprise.
Meeting him again is like meeting him for the first time except Bokuto's already in love with him (still).
“Keiji.”
There's also: wide gray eyes, a cigarette halfway to an open mouth, and a breathless “Koutarou.”
“You smoke?”
And then there's, finally, this: eyelashes curving down as Akaashi lowers his gaze, a sort of guilty smile, and, “Not often. I think I'll quit.”
He still likes his coffee black. Bokuto beams when Akaashi takes a sip and hums in approval. The two of them are alone in the kitchen where they once fucked (on the counters; Akaashi had strong legs, Bokuto felt like his head was going to blow off) and it sounds like a recipe for disaster but, after all, he's still absolutely hopeless when it comes to Akaashi.
(Outside the grocery store. Sometime in the afternoon after Bokuto's legs turned numb and it had nothing to do with the cold. Akaashi said Do you still make good coffee? and the rest, as they say, is history.)
“You got new mugs.”
“I mean, come on, it's been twelve years.”
Bokuto's hand shakes a little around his coffee. If Akaashi notices, he politely looks the other way.
“Yes,” Akaashi agrees, gentle. “It's been a while.”
There's a phone number written on a napkin, like in those old romance movies. Bokuto huffs, tosses it into the trash can, takes a shower, drinks a full can of beer, watches some cute show about old people adopting abandoned puppies, and then he comes back and gets the napkin from the trash.
“Fuck you for doing this,” he tells the numbers, serious.
He's, he decides, definitely not as classy as Akaashi Keiji.
I want to see you again.
You could make it sound a little less blunt, Koutarou.
Yeah, I guess I could.
Also a little less romantic.
So are we doing this or what?
(Akaashi breathes in and out. The sound coming from the other end would be creepy if Bokuto could focus on anything other than the five heart attacks he's having right now).
I won't think it's a bad idea if you won't think it's a bad idea.
(It seems Akaashi still is, too, absolutely hopeless when it comes to Bokuto Koutarou.)
Deal.
A park. Trees that hide under white. A green scarf (again) and hands that aren't wearing gloves. Another cigarette. Bokuto takes it from him and throws it away, casual and careless.
“Quit now.”
Akaashi sighs, makes a face that makes him look twenty again, “Fine.”
Bokuto would say winter suits him, that it enhances his pale skin and his dark hair, but the truth is that Akaashi Keiji is beautiful and winter is enhanced by him. If Bokuto were a poet, he'd write that one down. Instead he shares his discovery with Akaashi and watches him blush a pretty shade of pink.
“What are you, fifteen years old?” Bokuto asks, delighted.
Akaashi shoves his cold, hard hand against his face, making him jump back and scrunch up his nose.
“Please shut up.”
Bokuto used to think Akaashi Keiji was his first kiss, from that day when they were sweaty and young and a little bit too awkward. There were a lot of kisses after that, both with and without Keiji, but he was the first, shy and wet and then sloppy and eager.
Now he knows. Akaashi's the first. But he got the kiss wrong. He's always had it wrong.
This is Bokuto Koutarou's first kiss: he's thirty-three, there's wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles, and Keiji holds his face between his cold, hard hands. This time he doesn't jump back.
(The conversation that waited twelve years.)
“So why did you leave?”
“I had to. You know. We talked about it.”
“You chose and you didn't choose me. That's all I got from what you said.”
A pause. “You're right.”
Bokuto nods. Twelve years is a long time to miss someone and it's also a long, long time to be angry. Too long.
“I guess I forgive you. Jerk.”
Akaashi's fingers make to grab a cigarette from a pack that doesn't exist anymore. “Thank you.”
“Just don't do it again.”
The kitchen counter will have to wait. First, bed.
Akaashi Keiji only smiles when he means it. He still doesn't ever wear gloves.
He can't really get away with only brushing his hair at night, though, not at his age.
His coffee of preference is always black.
Bokuto thinks that's gross, but it's fine.