Work Text:
Keiji looks up at the curtains of sakura covering the walkway. Shades of white, pink, orange, and red cast a gentle shadow, and the smell of the blossoms, sweet and cloying, fills his nose.
Once upon a time, Keiji looked forward to the yearly trip to see the sakura trees at Hikarigaoka Park. He loved seeing the blossoms; he loved watching them float to the earth; he loved finding them on his clothes, in his hair…
On Bokuto.
The memories flood back, fierce and overwhelming: the sound of Bokuto’s laugh as Keiji picks blossoms from silvery strands. The crunch of fried chicken as they feast on a picnic lunch. The hoots of the owls at the bird sanctuary, mixed with Bokuto’s cries of delight when they eat from his palm.
The light in Bokuto’s eyes as they explore the library and Keiji finds a book to read aloud. And, the warmth of Bokuto’s body as he curls up next to Keiji on the picnic blanket, under a sakura tree, as Keiji reads and Bokuto dozes in the coolness of an early April afternoon.
Keiji sighs and tightens his grip on his bookbag, his knuckles white and his body shaky. He really shouldn’t have come here, not with Bokuto gone and Keiji alone. But viewing the sakura trees has been—no, had been—their tradition since high school, and even though Bokuto’s gone off to Osaka to join the Black Jackals, Keiji still felt the urge to come here today.
“Hey, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto yelled from across the walkway. “Look at the blossoms here! Are there enough for a proper cover from the sun?”
Keiji smiled at his best friend—no. At the love of his life. “Sure, Bokuto-san,” he agreed, taking the basket off his arm. “Why don’t we set up here? There’s a perfect view of the river, too.”
“When I’m with you, Akaashi,” Bokuto said seriously, “it’s always the perfect view.”
Keiji shivers at the memory. It’s silly, it really is, remembering the past and all the lost moments. He could have confessed his feelings so many times, but it never felt “right”, it never felt “good.”
And then, Bokuto left for Osaka, and nothing has been “right” or “good” since.
Keiji thought that he could be strong, that he could withstand the rush of feelings that he knew would overwhelm him as soon as he got off the train and left the station. But every step he takes, he’s reminded of Bokuto.
As he walks the path he and Bokuto once walked together, Keiji feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He sees the turn in the walkway, where he and Bokuto once raced, when Bokuto skidded into Keiji and the two of them nearly tumbled into the lake. He smiles at the thought, even as his heart thuds painfully, longingly, in his chest. The yearn for Bokuto to be near lingers, even as Keiji knows it’s not something that can be.
He tries his best to enjoy the afternoon. It’s warmer than it’s been, and this is the last day before the first semester of his final year of school. He’s always pushed himself hard, because unlike Bokuto, Keiji doesn’t have a job lined up for after college. He needs to work, make excellent grades, and demonstrate his abilities in order to find something in his chosen career of publishing. He wants to edit books, maybe even write them if he’s lucky enough, but the market is fierce and Keiji is only one mediocre man amongst the masses.
He will take what he can get.
For now, though, it’s enough to be here, wandering the park, admiring the sakura blossoms. He’s vaguely aware of other people; he’s avoiding looking at anyone else as much as he can. He doesn’t want to be reminded of happy couples or cheerful families. He doesn’t want to be reminded of how alone in the world he is, now that Bokuto has left.
Logically, Keiji knows that Bokuto isn’t really “gone”: he’s in Osaka, four hours away by train. They’ve already made plans for Keiji to come visit during Golden Week, and Bokuto has promised to return the favor when the team breaks before the start of the season.
It’s not nearly enough, not when Keiji has grown used to seeing Bokuto regularly over the last six years.
It’s not nearly enough, but it will have to do. It must.
Keiji closes his eyes and inhales, allowing the sweetness of the blossoms’ scent to fill his nose. He’s awash in nostalgia, but he’s determined to stay mindful and in the moment. His therapist always tells him he thinks too much, plans for the worst, and that he needs to remain grounded in order to enjoy all that life has to afford him. He supposes she’s right; after all, his senses are moving into overload and he’s barely been here thirty minutes. He’s not used to being bombarded on all sides by the brilliance of nature, so perhaps he should take it slow, find a place to sit, and read the book he’s brought. Maybe he’ll listen to the band that Kenma recommended, too.
But first…that perfect spot. Keiji needs to find it.
And he knows just where to look.
He wanders along the path, this time with his eyes and ears fully open. He allows himself to take in the cacophony of the park on a Sunday afternoon: the children shouting and running; the friends chatting merrily; the dogs barking at pigeons that have landed too close to their owners’ picnics. Despite his melancholy, Keiji smiles, because it’s good to know that even though he is here and Bokuto is in Osaka, the world continues to revolve on its axis and people continue to come and go and exist.
Life goes on, and Keiji must go on with it.
He rounds the corner and hops off the path. There’s a tree not far from here that he and Bokuto discovered on their second visit, Keiji’s first year in university. It’s thicker than the other sakura trees, and its branches hang low over the grass, providing a cooler, more private retreat than other locations might. Although it’s been a year since Keiji’s been here last, his feet follow the familiar path, and when he comes over the grassy knoll, his heart drops as he sees that someone is there, that someone has taken his spot, their spot, his and Bokuto’s alone—
Keiji opens his mouth on instinct. He wants to call out, to yell, Hey, wait, that spot is taken, it’s always taken.
And then, the person turns, and Keiji's jaw drops. The black cap the person is wearing is emblazoned with a familiar golden logo, and stands of silvery hair fly away, unruly and untucked beneath the hat.
Golden eyes light up in recognition, and a beefy arm raises and waves wildly.
“Akaashi!” the person shouts. “Akaashi, you made it!”
Keiji stands stock-still, his mouth still hanging open. He…he can’t believe it.
B—Bokuto—Bokuto is…
Here?
The person—Bokuto, Keiji can see so clearly now, as though it could have ever been anyone else—jumps to his feet. Oh, he looks incredible: tall and toned and wider across the shoulders than Keiji remembers. He’s wearing a white t-shirt under a denim jacket, and his black pants are well-fitted and cling to his legs. His strides across the clearing are long, and Keiji’s heart thumps in time with Bokuto’s steps: faster and faster, yet still steady.
“Akaashi!” he calls again, even as he closes the distance between them. “Akaashi, you’re here!” He reaches Keiji and clasps his hands tightly, shaking them both up and down. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it!” he admits, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “But I wanted to come anyway, just in case!”
Keiji blinks, and looks down at their joined hands. Bokuto’s are warm, so warm: his thick fingers engulf Keiji’s slender ones, even though Keiji’s hands are slightly bigger. He glances up, and sees Bokuto gazing at him: the steady heat in his eyes; the scar hidden in his right eyebrow from a nasty collision with a volleyball net’s post in Keiji’s first year of high school; the flush on his cheeks; the purse of his lips.
He’s beautiful, Keiji thinks, recklessly, helplessly, he’s so beautiful.
“Akaashi?” Bokuto’s eyes narrow with concern; Keiji sucks in a breath and stands up straighter.
“You—you’re here,” he manages at last, the words weak on his tongue. “You’re actually here.”
Bokuto puffs up. “‘Course I’m here!” he exclaims, tugging Keiji towards their tree, where Keiji can see a blanket spread on the ground and a basket nestled beside it. “Where else would I be? The day before classes begin is always the day that we see the sakura trees together!”
“You remembered,” Keiji whispers, letting Bokuto’s hands guide him to a seated position on the blanket.
“Akaashi.” Bokuto’s tone turns serious; Keiji startles and looks at him more deeply. Bokuto’s brows have furrowed, and he’s doing the thing where he chews on his bottom lip. He’s nervous, Keiji realizes with a jolt, and immediately wonders why.
“Did you think I’d forget?” Bokuto asks next, his voice quavering. “Did you think that I wouldn’t remember our special day?” He frowns. “Did you think I’d be so caught up in my new life I would forget the best part of my old one?” He waves around them, gesturing to the whole of the park, of the universe. “Did you think I’d forget this? Forget you?”
“N—no, Bokuto-san,” Keiji bursts out, louder than he’d intended, “I didn’t think that you’d forget me. I mean, at least, I hoped you wouldn’t.” A little lame, but whatever. “B—but besides that,” he stammers out fast, watching Bokuto droop and not wanting to be the reason the person he loves most in the world is sad, “don’t you have practice? Shouldn’t you be getting settled with your new team? You shouldn't be taking the time to come all the way here, when I’m going to visit in less than a month, anyway.”
“A month is too far away,” Bokuto informs him, reaching behind the basket, “or, at least, when I realized what today was, I knew that it was too far away and that I couldn’t wait to see you.”
Keiji’s heart warms. Bokuto… missed him? Couldn’t wait to see him? On today of all days?
Suddenly, not just his heart is warm; his entire body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He’s sure he’s bright red and there’s no hiding it.
“I—I missed you too, Bokuto-san,” Keiji murmurs, almost afraid to meet Bokuto’s gaze. “I didn’t want to not come here today, but also…”
“I didn’t want to be here without you.”
The words are said in unison; Keiji sucks in a breath. Before him, in Bokuto’s trembling grasp, is a bouquet of tsubaki: white, red, and yellow.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto begins, his voice as shaky as his hand. He stops, clears his throat. Keiji blinks again and stares at him, wondering, the moment still not quite registering in his mind. Bokuto is…here? Bokuto…misses him? Bokuto…brought him…
“Keiji,” Bokuto says instead, and Keiji’s face heats up. Embarrassment, pleasure, desire: all three roll around in his gut in an not-uncomfortable way. He tries to cover his face with his hands, but Bokuto stops him, instead offering him the bouquet. Keiji takes it, his gaze now fixed on the beautiful flowers before him.
“Keiji,” Bokuto says again, and Keiji grips the bouquet tighter, willing himself to meet Bokuto’s eyes. They’re wide, sheer gold and shimmering, and Keiji’s heart thunders with anticipation. “I—I should have done this before I left,” he begins, then shakes his head. “No,” he corrects himself, “no—fuck—I should have done this ages ago. Because then you wouldn’t have ever doubted me, and how I feel about you.”
“How—how you feel—”
“I love you, Keiji,” Bokuto interrupts, raising his voice over Keiji’s. Keiji’s mouth slams shut; his own eyes widen to match Bokuto’s. He’s sure they must look like saucers. “I love you,” Bokuto repeats, softer now, “and I should have told you a long time ago, because I have loved you since we were in high school and you agreed to extra practice with me.”
“Bokuto-san,” Keiji whispers, “that was the first day we met.”
“I know.” Bokuto smiles, although his eyes seem full of regret. “Can you believe I was such an idiot? But I couldn’t tell you! I didn’t know if you’d even return my feelings, or if you would consider a guy.” He laughs. “And then once I figured out that you liked guys, I didn’t think you’d ever like someone like me.” He sags a little, then perks back up. “But I hope you will,” he continues, his voice a little stronger, “and I hope that you will accept this bouquet, and my feelings…”
“Loving, waiting, longing,” Keiji jumps in. Bokuto stops mid-sentence as Keiji points to the flowers. “Loving,” he says, pointing to the red tsubaki. “Waiting,” he continues, gesturing to the white tsubaki. “And, longing,” he concludes, indicating the yellow tsubaki.
Bokuto pales, even as his cheeks shine pink. “Yes,” he whispers; his hand has found its way into Keiji’s free one. “Loving, waiting, longing.” He pauses to take a breath. “How did you—”
“Because I feel the same, Boku—Kōtarō.” Oh, Bokuto’s given name sounds divine on Keiji’s tongue. He wants to savor it, wrap the syllables up with the air of his lungs, expel them slowly and carefully and let them mingle with the scent of the blossoms. “I have…loved you,” he admits, willing his voice to be stronger than it feels, “since I saw you at the Interhigh tournament your first year of high school.” Bokuto jolts, but he stays silent, allowing Keiji to continue. “I—I thought you were a star,” Keiji explains, “the first time I saw you spike a ball. And then, I met you for real, and I knew . You’ve always been destined for greatness, Kōtarō; it’s something I’ve felt as sure as the fact that I breathe in and out. And I have always been content to be by your side, whether my role was to give you the best tosses I could, or help you study for exams, or tutor you in math, or review your prospective professional contracts. I have always …” Keiji emphasizes the word, hoping Bokuto will understand, “wanted the best for you. And I have always been happy to do what I can to give you that.”
“What if ‘happy’ for me means to have you by my side as more than a friend, Keiji?” Bokuto sounds tentative, even a little desperate.
But he doesn’t need to be.
“Yes.” The word flows as easily from his lips as Bokuto’s given name. “Yes, Kōtarō, even then.”
Commissioned Artwork by RhapeSeuhans
Keiji tugs Bokuto to him gently; his gaze drops to those luscious lips, which Bokuto wets in the split second that Keiji blinks. “I have loved you,” Keiji whispers, “and longed for you, and waited for you, for me, for my chance. I was…afraid I missed it.”
Bokuto smiles. “Never,” he whispers back. “You’ve always been the only one in my heart, Keiji.”
“And you,” Keiji agrees, “have been the only one in mine.”
Over a bouquet of tsubaki, under the cover of sakura, Kōtarō kisses Keiji, soft and slow and sweet. Their lips linger against each other, neither wanting to be the first to break apart. Keiji can feel Bokuto’s breath, warm and moist, against his own, and he sighs from his chest, his body melting into Kōtarō’s, the kiss deepening as he does so.
It’s quite a thing, kissing Bokuto Kōtarō. Keiji has dreamed of it for nearly half his life. Many times, he’s imagined something wild, desperate, or sudden, something done in the heat of the moment, without much thought other than a sudden inclination to just kiss .
This kiss, however, is deliberate, thoughtful. Keiji feels the press of Bokuto’s lips, the warmth of Bokuto’s hand in his, the gentle thrum of Bokuto’s heartbeat as they slide together. Bokuto’s free hand circles Keiji’s waist, and Keiji’s head tilts back, Bokuto’s hand supporting him now as Keiji gives himself over to Bokuto’s strength.
For so many years, Keiji has restrained himself against Bokuto’s warmth and his kindness. It feels good to give in now. It feels good to have Bokuto devour him, to feel his tongue (hot and strong, just like the man himself) licking into Keiji’s mouth. It feels good to have Bokuto squeeze his waist, drag his fingertips along Keiji’s spine, tip him back even further, further, further…
“Kōtarō,” Keiji laughs against Bokuto’s mouth, finally breaking the kiss, “we’re on the blanket.”
Bokuto blinks; sure enough, he’s lowered Keiji down to the earth completely. He laughs, and kisses Keiji again: once on the mouth, then on his nose. He kisses each of Keiji’s eyelids, then his cheeks. He peppers kisses along Keiji’s jawline, down to his chin, then back up to his mouth again. Keiji hums, the vibration pleasant against their lips.
“So we are,” Bokuto notes. His eyes twinkle down at Keiji. “Wanna get up?”
“Never in a million years,” Keiji shoots back lightly, breaking free of Bokuto’s hand and reaching around to the middle of his back. He tugs Bokuto back down for yet another kiss. “I’ve waited so long to kiss you, Kōtarō. I don’t want to stop now.”
“But Keiji,” Bokuto insists, his voice teetering on the edge of a whine, “I brought you Onigiri Miya and fried chicken and cake!”
Keiji freezes, right against Bokuto’s mouth. “You did?”
Bokuto laughs and tugs Keiji upright. “I did,” he replies. “How could I properly woo you if I didn’t bring all your favorite foods?”
Keiji’s heart softens. His Bokuto really is perfect, isn’t he?
“Kōtarō,” Keiji says, covering Bokuto’s hand with his own once again. “You don’t need to ‘woo’ me.”
“Yes I do!” Bokuto insists. “And now that you’re mine, I’m gonna woo you so hard every single day!”
“Somehow,” Keiji replies, trying not to laugh and failing, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It is! I know it is!” Bokuto answers. He opens the basket. “I got your favorite foods,” he says. He points at the bouquet. “And your favorite flowers.”
“But tsubaki isn’t—” Keiji begins.
“And your favorite trees!” Bokuto continues, pointing up at the sakura tree above them. “And I’ll keep giving you all the things you love from now on!”
Keiji smiles; he feels wild and gooey. His heart might burst with joy. “You’ve already given me the thing I love most,” he says, knowing how sappy he sounds and not caring. He shimmies around until he’s resting against Bokuto, whose arms circle him and hold him close. “And I’m not going to let you go so easily, you know.”
“Good.” Bokuto presses a kiss into his hair. “I’m not letting go of you, either.”
Keiji looks up at the sakura tree; a slight breeze has picked up, sending petals fluttering towards the ground. Bokuto is warm and firm behind him, and Keiji’s heart has never been so full. “They really are the loveliest of trees, aren’t they?” he says fondly, the A.E. Houseman poem coming to mind.
He looks up; Bokuto stares down at him, the petals reflected in his golden eyes. “They are,” he agrees, and Keiji tips his chin up for another kiss. “But I think the loveliest sight of all is right in front of me.”
As Bokuto kisses Keiji then, Keiji can’t help but think about time: not of the past, when they weren’t together yet, but the future, where so many hopes and dreams and firsts are awaiting them both. He thinks of trips to Osaka, of volleyball games and dinners after. He thinks of long nights in the library, and warm meals when he gets home. He thinks of shared kisses, shared beds, shared love.
Bokuto’s lips are on his, and Keiji thinks of them, of the future, and he knows that this? He and Bokuto, together, now, forever?
That is truly the loveliest of things.