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Akaashi should have known better than to give Bokuto a paint brush and a job. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected Bokuto to go at least a little overboard— this was Bokuto, after all. But when he walked into his apartment (was this even his apartment anymore?) and saw what was taking place, he knew that this had been a huge mistake.
There was a tarp haphazardly covering the floor, but Akaashi could pinpoint small splatter spots that would take ages to get out of the carpet. The wall was coated in thick globs of paint here, and light streaks over there. There were even some small splotches on the ceiling. And not to mention the color; “I don’t care too much,” Akaashi had instructed. “Just pick something neutral.” The bright orange hues that greeted him were the furthest thing from neutral he had imagined.
The perpetrator of this heinous crime was currently squat in the middle of the floor, bristle-broken paintbrush in one hand. Bokuto was a speckled mess, his peppered hair streaked with the same orange now covering Akaashi’s walls. He had a silly grin on his face, and he was humming along to some pop music playing in the background. He was also shirtless, which would have been a bit more appealing if the living room wasn’t currently… Well, in the state that it was in. But when Bokuto heard the door click and saw Akaashi standing in the doorway with a bag full of groceries, his attention careened towards the principle reason for this mess. Akaashi braced for impact.
“Akaashi, hey! Hey! Welcome back!” Bokuto gave him a hefty pat on the shoulder. “I think you’re really going to like what I did with the place.” Bokuto proceeded to waggle his eyebrows towards Akaashi, as if Akaashi couldn’t survey the room for himself.
“I see.” The bag was set on the ground, and ever-obedient as always, Bokuto hoisted it up and above his head and immediately made his way to the kitchen. Having someone like Bokuto around wasn’t always a bad thing, especially when it came to menial tasks like carrying groceries or observing shirtless men. Living with Bokuto always added some kind of spice, and sometimes that spice was flavored like neon orange paint. Akaashi followed behind into the kitchen, taking note of each and every paint stain on his furniture.
“You know, Akaashi, when I said I would do this for you,” Bokuto rambled while he tore apart the grocery bag, “I had no idea how much fun I was actually going to have! I guess I really am the best painter in the whole metropolitan Tokyo area!” His fingers grabbed onto a box of ice cream sandwiches, and a hearty laugh filled the kitchen as the box was tore open.
Akaashi caught the sandwich that was thrown in his direction. Do I tell him? Do I tell him that this is the worst paint job I’ve ever seen and that I could have probably found a better paint just about anywhere else in the world? There would be, of course, reactions to this statement. The primary reaction would be a fierce mode of dejection, and if Akaashi was really weighing his options that was something that he didn’t want to deal with under any circumstance. The kitchen was finally silent as Bokuto ate his ice cream and Akaashi thought about just what a mess they were in.
It had started very simply: “I think I should paint the living room,” Akaashi had said one hot summer day. Their air conditioner was broken, and the sweltering summer sun had kept any possibility of movement out of the question. But Akaashi was a creature of movement, and he needed to do something to keep himself busy. Bokuto, who had been just as shirtless as he was now, but planted on the hardwood floor, had looked up at him with a perky, youthful excitement.
“Really? You should let me do it!”
“Bokuto, you’ve never painted a room before,” Akaashi replied in his stern, gentle tone that made Bokuto’s skin tingle and his heart thump.
“Neither have you!” Bokuto kicked up his feet, sitting up to make eye contact with Akaashi. They had been living together for a little over a year now, and these domestic spats usually sprang up when Akaashi had to remind Bokuto that he was only human, despite Bokuto’s loud protests that he could do just about anything Akaashi wanted or asked for. “Akaashi,” Bokuto rested one thick hand on Akaashi’s knee. He was wearing a serious expression. “I am a man of the arts. I have an eye for these things.”
Akaashi snorted, fanning himself with a free hand and using the other to gently nudge Bokuto’s sweaty one off of his equally sweaty knee. “Since when?”
“Akaashi, come on! Support me here!” Bokuto had now wormed his way up onto the couch and was pulling on Akaashi’s hand. “I’m so bored, and summer is so hot, and I might die if I can’t find something to do.” An exaggeration of epic proportions; if Akaashi had to count every time Bokuto had made that threat, he would still be counting twenty years from now. But still, there was something endearing about it. About the way Bokuto rested his head on Akaashi’s shoulder and made grumbling noises about the problems with summer and how he absolutely needed to find something to do, or about the way the soft sunlight made hazy streaks in their apartment and washed them both in an orange summer glow. The grumbling had ended, and Bokuto’s head was still on Akaashi’s shoulder. They sat in silence, while Bokuto quickly and skillfully laced their hands together. Everybody always said that Akaashi knew Bokuto better than Bokuto knew Bokuto, but Akaashi knew that it was just as applicable the other way around. Bokuto knew how to win him over.
“Well, if you really want to do it that badly,” Akaashi looked down at him. “You can do it.” Bokuto’s head immediately sprung up, and he looked like a giddy fifth grader who had just been given a raise in their allowance. He stared at Akaashi, bathed in orange, and kissed the side of his face with fervor.
“You are not going to regret this one bit, Akaashi!”
And here they were, standing in the kitchen, Akaashi full of regret. He tried to make it better by staring at Bokuto’s chest; it gave him some comfort, but it still couldn’t make up for the mess in the living room. Summer tan lines and muscles just couldn’t equate to hideous orange paint splatters.
“I just want to know…” Akaashi set his ice cream sandwich down on the counter, jerking his head towards their living room. “What made you pick orange?”
Bokuto grinned, and discarding his wrapper, grabbed Akaashi by the arm and lead him back into their miserable living room. “I thought you looked really nice with orange, so—!” He laughed again, filling up the room with his laughter. “I picked something that I thought would go best with you!”
It was so simple. So, so simple. Akaashi felt that familiar feeling pool around him; it was like when Bokuto would finally break through a wall of blockers, or when he would get a perfect spike from a toss. It was a feeling of complete and utter affection.
“Ah.” Akaashi kept his face completely deadpan despite the rumbling in his own chest. “It’s a good color on you, too.” Orange sun, orange laughter, orange love; Akaashi surveyed his living room with a newfound appreciation for the color orange. He could feel Bokuto swinging their arms back and forth where they stood, expectantly waiting to be praised. “I like it.” He leaned over, giving the source of his big orange revelation a kiss. Bokuto responded by slinging an arm around his waist and leading him towards the orange spotted couch.
“So when are you going to let me fix the air conditioner?” Orange sunlight filtered through the room as they laughed, hands pressed together.