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Akaashi Keiji is sure he can find Bokuto Koutarou anywhere.
He will follow him through life as far as he’s allowed, push any and every door open for him, to be with Bokuto when he’s in need. And that’s what he does now, pushes the doors to the locker room open with both hands, heart high in his throat as he looks for him.
Training for the MSBY Black Jackals is hard; Keiji knew he’d see that first hand this weekend. It’s the first time he’s visited Bokuto since he’s signed here. Through the many phone calls, it’s been apparent that life as a pro player is no mean feat. Keiji himself sat lonely in his new dorm room as he listened, clinging to the sound of Bokuto’s voice late at night, even when it brimmed with a strain he wasn’t owning up to. Keiji could see that his friend had been taking his vow to become ”ordinary” to mean he should repress all acknowledgement of difficulties. Both of them stood awkwardly in their new worlds, scrambling in the near dark, feeling the absence of each other like a missing limb.
Bokuto’s on his knees now, back to Keiji, curled low, harsh hands buried in his hair.
Keiji can see the flex of his biceps where he's clutching his roots, the frustration seeping along his arms into his fingers.
The day has faded, replaced with a low hazy light, dark except the glow from the frosted window glass. But now the open door illuminates Bokuto’s form in an avenue of luminosity, catching in his silver hair and against the carved contours of a body that should only ever know joy and pleasure.
But even now when he’s on knees, Keiji aches for him.
He has never been more sure that he’s in love with Bokuto than he is at this moment.
Though he knew it in truth from the moment he saw Bokuto leap through the air for the first time: the power and force of him, the incandescent glow. Bokuto was a streak of gold painted across Keiji’s black and white life. And the more their lives intertwined, the more Keiji’s world exploded into blazing colour. He has dreamed and wondered and imagined; he has realised that he does not want to return to a Bokuto-less existence. Some would say self-preservation has abandoned him, they would say he rubs salt in open wounds and balances on the knife edge of a love possibly, very likely, unrequited. Of a love that his family and conservative society would shun. But still he clings. He clings to Bokuto as they move through life. Even as Bokuto graduated; even as Keiji did, too. And he’s relieved to find Bokuto seems to be clinging to him right back.
In the confines of his manic mind of his he’s finally reached an age where he can admit he’s in love. He can see his own devotion, especially now when that man he desires and aches for is collapsing in on himself.
“Go away, ‘Kaashi.”
Keiji lets the door settle shut behind him. Bokuto’s voice is heavy, the anger and agony glaring;
“Leave me alone.”
The words are forced out. Keiji doesn’t believe them for a second. Even if he’s never heard them said to him before, he knows Bokuto intimately enough to understand they could never truly be meant, not when Keiji is the one seeking him. In fact, every instinct in Keiji’s body is telling him not to leave, that something incredibly important is happening here. And that Keiji needs to be here with Bokuto, to witness it, that he doesn’t belong anywhere else.
The training had been messy. Keiji had watched avidly, able to spot every minute way Bokuto’s game was off, unable to quell the squeezing in his chest when Bokuto‘s head kept turning to look for him in the stands. Wanting help Keiji could not give.
“Bokuto-san.”
His captain whimpers at the mention of his name, back straightening, weight sinking back on to his feet.
Keiji’s well aware that there are times when he still mentally refers to Bokuto as “his captain” even though he hasn't been that for three years now. Keiji doubts if he’ll ever be able to bring himself to let that go, though, to ever move on from the deep privilege of being Bokuto’s right hand, his vice, his setter.
Keiji moves slowly towards him, watching the line of Bokuto’s precious body, cataloguing the tension in his shoulders. Still, he feels the same rush of admiration, of want, of wonderment as he always feels when he gazes at that back, even now as it sags in defeat. Keiji can’t resist imagining the stretch of the number “4” across those now even broader shoulders, missing the black and white of Fukurodani, a uniform that felt designed for Bokuto.
The side of Bokuto’s closed fist crashes against the locker and Keiji’s heart cracks. The noise is ugly, garish. Though Bokuto is not, he never could be. But still Keiji’s rarely seen him so broken. And he’s never seen him express anger so obviously. The ease and joy is hidden beneath a veil, sadness, and hurt stealing the smile Keiji hangs on.
“I can't do it ‘Kaashi. I just can't do it.”
Keiji lets himself fall to his knees behind him.
Keiji’s not used to touch, coming from a home where physical affection is a foreign language to him. Feigned cool detachment is what he knows. And he has practised this, has had to to fortify all elements of his public-facing self within it Yet, there's something about Bokuto that has always made him consider another way. There’s something about Bokuto that makes him long to hold and touch and be touched.
It can’t be denied that a want and need has awoken in his soul since this man came into his life, a dangerous hope that he could finally be known.
So Keiji presses hands to Bokuto’s shoulder blades and his captain leans back into him.
It’s automatic, a reflex: honesty drips from Bokuto’s tongue with barest touch of Keiji’s fingertips;
“I love it so much. It makes me so happy. But sometimes…. my head. It feels like it's gonna explode. I’m chasing myself in circles, ya’ know? I just can’t hold myself up, ’Kaashi. Can’t keep myself in line, there’s so much. It’s so loud. I’m gonna ruin this opportunity.”
Bokuto goes to lean forward again, hands reaching to cover his face. Keiji wants to take the cracked and jagged edges of him and hold them together with his bare hands. He wants to take the pain Bokuto feels and make it his own. So Keiji surrenders to his own desire for once, wraps his arms around him. Pressing his body against Bokuto’s back, his hands slip around to clutch his friend’s broad chest, palm flat over his heart, forehead resting heavy against the base of Bokuto’s neck.
They’ve barely touched like this before, rarely so openly and so obviously intimate. And never under Keiji‘s instigation. Keiji’s affection is usually hidden in the slight leaning of his body into Bokuto’s space. The lingering of his fingers when he passes Bokuto his water bottle. It’s in his contentment and returning squeeze when Bokuto pulls him into a hug of celebration.
But this, this is different.
Keiji’s adoration, love, want; it’s bleeding out of him here and he doesn’t think he can stop it.
Bokuto reaches for him; there’s urgency pressing through his palms as he pulls Keiji around him. It’s like having Keiji at his back isn’t enough, he needs him on his chest, needs him in his arms.
Keiji’s sitting across Bokuto’s lap now, those powerful thighs beneath his jean-clad own. And Keiji presses his body against him, clutches that handsome face between his hands and looks into vulnerable eyes. He feels the wetness of tears streaming down flushed, freckled cheeks and the hot breath of a sob dampes his skin even more. Bokuto’s jaw pushes into Keiji’s fingers, like he’s trying to hide his six-foot body within the space of Keiji’s palm.
Keiji feels the hopelessness deep in Bokuto’s core, the despair seeping out. The world wouldn’t think such a man who’s confidence incarnate could house such sadness. But really it makes perfect sense to Keiji. Bokuto is the most complicated and astonishing person he’s ever known. The seeming simplicity is the home of huge emotions. Of gigantic dreams, of raw power, of a uniqueness and a craving to be understood and listened to.
Keiji’s not bold by nature. He's not a risk taker; all his years of inaction and loving in silence have shown this. He is careful, controlled, measured. But here's that greediness again, that bravery; Keiji’s grown aware of the dangerous fact that Bokuto can summon these things from him. The confines of boyhood are no longer here: life is more vast than it was. And the need to help and heal and comfort is bursting through all Keiji’s self-imposed restrictions, the years of holding back tripping over itself, clawing to be released. He wants to wipe that expression from Bokuto’s face; he wants to replace it with ease and solace and peace.
Bokuto’s words seem to be caught, eyes squeezing shut against Keiji’s hand, rough voice letting out another rasping sob.
To see such a loud man silenced sits so wrongly; Keiji presses his lips to Bokuto’s cheek, to let him know he’s here, that he’s waiting, that he’d wait forever.
It’s just a soft press of his mouth, really.
It could be ignored, shoved to the side like so many of life’s moments, left in that half-space we never visit.
But Bokuto freezes, the intake of breath echoingly loud.
Keiji panics, mind more frantic than it’s ever been. He’s engulfed by a tidal wave of: “Stupid. So stupid. He’s crying, how could you?! He’s your friend! You’ve messed this up. You’ve lost him. Taken advantage of him, He’ll not want you around him now. He’ll finally know for sure you’re..…that way. That you like boys a little too much. He’ll be disgusted. Why couldn’t you be satisfied with just knowing him? You’ll miss him so much, you’ve lost your best friend.”
But still, Keiji is weak and starved and desperately in love and can’t help but let his lips press a moment longer on Bokuto’s cheek, because god it’s everything he ever imagined it would be. He just wishes he could have felt Bokuto this close for a little longer; he wishes for another second of Bokuto’s wet skin under his mouth.
He also wishes this lapse of unforgivable weakness, of recklessness, of desire to help, hadn’t caused Keiji to lose him.
But then Bokuto turns into the press of Keiji’s mouth, breath hot on Keiji’s cheek,
“Kiss me, ‘Kaashi. Please. Fuck please, kiss me. I’ve waited so long. Please. We’re ready now.”
Keiji hasn’t kissed anyone before.
Being so guarded and reserved by nature, different from most of those around him, unable to explore. But most of all, being bone-achingly in love with his best friend and captain: it has left him with lips un-kissed
He watches Bokuto’s beautiful mouth form the words and it feels like a haze, like this moment will be snatched from him, because hell he’s dreamed about and imagined kissing and touching Bokuto, feeling him inside him, more times since he was eighteen than anything else.
And Keiji may be hesitant, but he’s never been able to refuse when Bokuto calls for him, and what’s more, he’s so tired of denying himself. He will not refuse. Not when Bokuto’s begging him with eyes so trusting, so adamant, not when Bokuto is offering himself.
Keiji turns, lets his mouth press gently, softly. He feels himself be taken by immobilisation, hears the whimper escape him when he finally, finally gets what he wants; when Bokuto’s soft mouth is beneath his own.
But then Bokuto surges forward, the same passion and urgency he does everything with rippling through the movements. His arms pull Keiji even firmer against him, huge hands around his waist so he can lean Keiji back to get at him easier and deeper, mouth moving against Keiji’s own like it's the only opportunity he’ll ever have.
He knows that Bokuto has kissed others before. All girls. Keiji carries the wounds of seeing it accidentally first-hand. But the way he kisses Keiji, Bokuto does it instinctively. Like he knows exactly how to do it, like he was born to do it.
Another whimper escapes Keiji, part shock, part relief, part sheer need. And then it all snaps within him; he fists Bokuto’s shirt, yanks at him, needy and starving in a way he didn’t think he was capable of. He wants and wants and wants, and Bokuto wants him in return, giving Keiji everything he is.
Keiji’s imagined many times in high school kissing Bokuto sweetly during one summer evening as they walked home. Hesitant. Careful. With some poise and restraint. Yet time and Keiji’s fears have stolen the possibility of tentative after-practice kisses. He’s never imagined it like this: urgent and desperate and sloppy, on the floor of the Black Jackals barely lit locker room, Bokuto’s tears and snot staining both their faces.
Though Keiji started it, Bokuto’s guiding, like Keiji always imagined he would: cupping Keiji’s jaw to keep him in place, hand sinking into his curls and gripping. The caress of Bokuto’s tongue is as much a lash as it is a stroke. It fills Keiji’s mouth, sliding against his own, working his soul open in a way only Bokuto could.
It’s absolutely fucking perfect.
And Keiji moves with him, palms dragging and cupping Bokuto’s chest, his shoulders, his neck, yanking white hair with both hands and giving as good as he’s getting.
It’s all here, the self-denial, the teenage frustration, the years of want. It’s all wrapped up in this kiss.
His captain lifts him, laying him on his back, powerful body making space for itself between Keiji’s thighs. Thighs that part with embarrassing ease, like they have been waiting for this specific moment, waiting for Bokuto to take up a place that’s always belonged to him. Hands are sliding everywhere at once, under the hem of his T-shirt, dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. It’s like Bokuto’s trying to catalogue every inch with his touch and mouth. Familiarising himself in the way he’s always wanted to, not pulling back, not letting them take breath into their lungs.
It’s like he wants to be the only thing Keiji breathes and Keiji’s never felt anything like it before: the adrenaline surging through him, the absolute freedom, the pulsing desire. It’s reminiscent of being on the court with Bokuto, the rush of when they seamlessly play together, when he predicts Bokuto with precision and accuracy, when Bokuto’s force aligns with his own.
Yet this is even more intimate, untamed, almost feral, just like the man he loves.
And the need to show Bokuto what he means burns, the need to replace any feeling of despair with love.
Because oh how Keiji loves him.
They have to go slow, because there’s an obvious way this should end. A way Keiji’s been craving for so long, and judging by the weight of Bokuto’s erection, impossibly heavy and hot against his thigh, Bokuto has craved it, too.
But as much as he craves, Keiji doesn’t want to make love with this man for the first time in the Black Jackals locker room floor where they can be found any moment. He wants, needs, slow exploration. Tender hands, a mattress beneath his back, sheets that will drape and tangle.
Bokuto must want the same thing for his kisses have softened. They’re sweeter now, there’s so many of them and he whispers “Kaashi” which bleeds into “Keiji” between each one. And Keiji feels himself crying, slow trailing tears which Bokuto catches with big thumbs, wiping them away as they leak out.
So many years of aching, so many nights spent imagining Bokuto’s skin and lips… could Keiji have had this the whole time?
“You kissed me.” Bokuto’s forehead presses to his. The smile has replaced the agony; in fact, Keiji’s never seen Bokuto look as euphoric as he does right now. No match, no line shot, no service ace, no pro signing has brought this reaction.
To have it said like this so unabashedly causes Keiji's face to throb. He did kiss him. But Keiji can’t help but feel he’s the one who’s pressed his mouth to a force of nature. An explosion of pure light and power has burnt his lips, caressed them so they hang open trembling.
“You were distressed and I didn’t like it.”
Keiji’s voice sounds rough in a way he’s never heard before, words thick and clumsy and foreign.
Bokuto’s eyes waver, doubt simmering in the golden irises. Keiji feels Bokuto’s body brace, almost like he’s steeling himself for hurt.
Keiji realises how it sounded and the thought that Bokuto could doubt Keiji’s love feels like a slice to his heart, a wound of the cruellest kind,
“No! Bokuto-san…Koutarou… I meant…I—”
Bokuto cups his jaw, ”Say it again.”
“…Koutarou…”
“And again.”
“Koutarou, Koutarou, Koutarou….My Koutarou.”
Koutarou’s now laid against Keiji’s chest, listening to Keiji rattle out his name till his voice cracks and all the syllables become one. He slides his long fingers into that hair instead, touching out his affection with his hands now that he is allowed. He can’t count how many times he’s wanted to, how many times he’s imagined his fingers weaving through and gripping black roots. And Koutarou’s dissolving at the touch, cheek nuzzling into Keiji’s chest, lips pressing to the cotton of his T-shirt over his heart.
Keiji groans, the sound unchaste, unfamiliar in the most beautiful of ways. The man he loves is laid between his thighs, face pressed to his body, hand sliding across his chest so he skims a nipple. He can still feel the heavenly, undiminished promise of Koutarou’s desire against his own. With burning cheeks Keiji can’t help but think how well they rest together, even the most intimate parts of their bodies. This development in their relationship has the potential to kill him; it may shorten Keiji’s time on this earth deliciously.
“I guess this means we can touch like this all the time now.” Koutarou says, all delight and eagerness.
Keiji hums, overwhelmed. How can he voice, with any semblance of dignity, that now that Koutarou has started touching him, he never wants him to stop.
“Are you mine now, Keiji?”
Koutarou’s ability to cut through to the heart of the matter hasn’t diminished as he’s aged. Keiji laughs, because as if Keiji wasn’t already his. As if he hasn’t been every day for the last six years,
“I always have been.”
“Good. Cus I’m yours, yeah? I’m yours and you're mine.”
Koutarou looks up at him and smiles a smile so blinding Keiji has no choice but let his eyes flutter shut, the image burned beneath his lids. It’s so much; the press of this man’s mouth again seeking his own. The heat of his huge hot body pining Keiji to the floor. The bold, growled declaration of requited love: it’s all so intensely Bokuto Koutarou, so absolute, so unmistakable, that Keiji even with this mind of his, can’t deny that he is the keeper of Koutarou’s vulnerable, yet raging heart.