Work Text:
Koutarou’s been a little in love with everyone he’s ever met for as long as he can remember. Oh, it’s not all that tragic. He loves it. He loves being in love. He thrives on it, enjoys the horrified regret of every moment that he slips up in front of someone, flustered and how.
He loves the smell of certain perfumes, the scents that people leave behind in elevators, because it reminds him of every evening that they’ve all ever gotten ready to go out, him and his friends crowding in front of mirrors and shoving each other out of the way, laughing about what Oikawa considers to be fashionable and crying about the same when it comes to Kuroo. (He loves the way he can smell Kuroo’s cologne whether he’s plastered to the guy or not.)
With his lips pressed to Akaashi’s left collarbone, he inhales a scent that should be on someone much older than eighteen. He doesn’t mind; far from it. He thinks that maybe the first time he’d set eyes on Akaashi, he’d decided— along with a whole bunch of other things, if he’s being honest— that the guy looked like he’d sound like he’d feel like he’d taste like he smells: addictive but too subtle to figure out. Now that he’s done with affirming that ridiculously vague idea, he can also affirm the more mortal side of things: whatever Akaashi has on, it smells like the kind of drinks Koutarou and Kuroo buy on special nights. Chilling, somehow, the kind of thing that goes up to your head and stays there for the rest of the night.
The taste he can’t get into. Every scrape of his teeth over Akaashi’s skin makes him jealous of himself in a way, but that could be the day talking. Whatever it is, he’s never felt this convinced that he’s found something unforgettable. Not to mention the way it’s all pulling together— Akaashi tasting like he smells like he’d look like he’d sound like he feels: rich and silky under Koutarou’s touch like something he stole that he absolutely should have. One of Koutarou’s hands is at the small of Akaashi’s back, little finger curling against the rough waistline of his jeans, thumb scratching into the vertical-running dip of his spine. The other one is on his shoulder across from where Koutarou’s lips are, holding on tight as if Akaashi’s the one moving here when all he’s doing is holding on tight because Koutarou’s the one moving here.
It’s all pulling together, Akaashi feeling like he tasted like he smelled like he’d look like he sounds: dark and paper-thin and something Koutarou has to catch with a perfectly timed shutter snap. His lips are only slightly parted but every once in a while he lets out a brief note that drives straight into Koutarou’s stomach. Koutarou’s always gone after what he wants with this disgusting kind of confidence, but he’s outdoing himself in the way he wants to pull more and more of those sounds from Akaashi’s throat.
And it all pulls together: Akaashi sounding like he felt like he tasted like he smelled like he looks right now, when Koutarou drags himself away. Selectively disheveled and completely in the know, eyes narrowed almost threateningly, hair a riot, shirt pulled to the side, faint red lines on whatever skin of his Koutarou could reach (it’s not a lot, and yet). Against the pale wall he stands out, but not in the same way that he does outside the backroom, in the thick of Vertigo. There he’s a focal point in the crowd for Koutarou to lift his eyes to again and again; here he’s the subject of his naked vision.
Anyway, Koutarou’s been a little in love with everyone he’s ever met. It’s not all that tragic, he thinks, as he leans in and fits his lips over Akaashi’s, sees and hears and feels and tastes and smells him all over again, like something that goes up your head. Akaashi kisses like someone much steadier than eighteen, steadier than Koutarou with his almost-there twenty. But his fingers curling in Koutarou’s hair are very much eighteen years old; tight, wanting, fast.
●●●
It’s actually during the fortnight that Kuroo loses control over his impulses that Koutarou actually starts to get his damn life together.
●●●
There’s definitely something to be said about the way you look at a person once you know what it’s like to kiss them.
The semester starts off much quieter than his last full working shift at Vertigo ended, or louder, in a way. He has projects to turn in, smaller ones than the black and white thing that’s slowly taking shape despite being shaky at best, at times. (He’s pulling more people in on the plan one by one; Akaashi might as well be at the helm but Sugawara knows a story when he sees one, and eventually Koutarou will end up at the foot of Oikawa’s bed, staring at the ceiling and asking for ideas.) There are boring classes and more boring classes and some classes which aren’t all that boring, and Koutarou, who’d forgotten— like he he does every fucking summer— what it’s like to not be around Kuroo or out in the open every minute of the day, finds the tables and chairs too small sometimes, like they belong to dolls.
Akaashi’s sitting in one of those dolls’ chairs, across the dolls’ table from him, with a stack of books to his right and a lethal-smelling coffee to his left. There’s definitely something to be said about the way you look at a person once you know what it’s like to kiss them. It’s almost like yesterday that Koutarou was in the same cafeteria, losing his mind over his lost camera. He doesn’t know if it’s the strain of getting back into work or the residual daze of being in Akaashi’s vicinity, but because of one or the other, he can’t make out the titles on any of the books.
‘Structure evaluation,’ Akaashi says without looking up from his laptop. ‘I could show you the programs one day, if you like.’
On the night of his last full shift at Vertigo, Koutarou’d failed to take his fill of pictures of Kuroo or Tsukki (mainly because he couldn’t get either of them in his hands long enough to demand some kind of consent, which, okay, he’s not sure how he’d have managed; you can’t exactly walk up to someone and go hey, so can I secretly take pictures of you during an indefinite period while you possibly cook up a terrible romantic comedy plot) but had consequently managed to save up both battery and memory to take dozens, of Akaashi. And he’d done just that. And when he’d lowered his camera at three in the morning, Akaashi’d stayed leaning against the dark wall, looking openly at him.
Hands-free until it wasn’t, hands-on until it wasn’t enough; Koutarou doesn’t think he’s ever had a first kiss like that, and he’s had a lot of first kisses. It changed the way he looks at the same features on Akaashi’s face, and the first time he put his hands under Akaashi’s shirt felt like the first time ever.
He feels...quiet. He knows it’ll go away soon, knows himself better than the others give him credit for. But Akaashi’s in white today, with his hair in its usual loose curls, and honestly all he’s doing is fucking sitting in a doll’s chair at a doll’s table and he still looks like the most amazing thing Koutarou ever laid his eyes on.
‘AutoCad,’ he’s saying. ‘I pick as many fights with my laptop as you do, Bokuto-san.’
●●●
By the time his birthday rolls around, it’s been two weeks since Vertigo, and he can feel some sound returning to his surroundings. Really, the surprise here is that he finds that he didn’t really mind whatever sheet had been thrown over him. Now that it’s slipping away, though, he likes the open sky just that little bit more.
For all the progress they’ve made, Akaashi only officially meets Kuroo on Koutarou’s birthday, when they’re all holed up in Sawamura and Sugawara’s apartment like they own the place (which they kind of do). More specifically, it’s when Kuroo comes in through the door looking pissed nine ways to hell, arguing with Himuro about something too technical for Koutarou to give a shit about once he verifies that Kuroo’s not genuinely upset. Mid-tirade, Kuroo spots Akaashi and straightens up, and Koutarou lets everything happen on its own. He knows when he doesn’t need to really do anything, and the laughter of his other friends is infectious and bringing back his own.
It goes just like he’d imagined it to— mostly quiet, with some nodding and a couple of smiles and a whole lot of looking each other up and down without moving their heads, or even their gazes. After a few minutes of exchanging majors and opinions on the day’s traffic, Akaashi shifts closer to Kuroo, and Koutarou, triumphant as a fucking king, settles himself down beside Ushijima and plucks his book out of his hands. Oikawa and Iwaizumi announce their entry noisily, and Sugawara complains about Shimizu being late.
Koutarou sits up immediately, and Sugawara frowns. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘Did you hear about Shimizu?’
Koutarou’s not sure there’s anyone on campus who didn’t hear about it. He might’ve had a bunch of experiences that night, but even he didn’t miss it.
‘Right,’ Sugawara says. ‘Is someone going to tell me what actually happened? I’ve been hearing this for a fortnight now.’
‘Well,’ Koutarou says solemnly, ‘last time at Vertigo, we kind of…’
‘Everyone kind of…’
‘Saw her…’
‘Kissing someone,’ Oikawa finishes dramatically. ‘Imagine that. Shimizu. Kissing someone. At Vertigo.’
Sugawara blinks. ‘Oh, Michimiya’s back in town? I haven’t seen her all month!’
●●●
By the time the room recovers from that, it’s already time to get to their reservation for lunch. The weather is absolutely amazing. The sky’s so blue it hurts to look at, and it’s fresh enough for everyone other than him not to need jackets or anything (he excludes himself because he kind of doesn’t needs jackets in general, something that regularly horrifies Sugawara). There’s a bit of a breeze and he regrets not being able convince the bleach-blond first year duo to join them, but he hopes they’re having their own fun, or as much fun as Tsukki and Yachi could have together. Youth, really.
Asahi comes along with Shimizu to the restaurant and miraculously, the Michimiya revelation is forgotten entirely because he’s gone and gotten a strand of his hair coloured, of all things, turquoise. Akaashi, never having met the man before, keeps a tally on his tissue of the number of times Asahi says IT’S TEMPORARY, which Koutarou keeps looking at every few moments to laugh. It’s really everything he could’ve asked for, everyone at the same table and the clinking of cutlery, and when they’re done one of them reads his mind and says it’s time to sit down outside, somewhere, and bring out the guitars.
Kuroo never really trained, unlike Himuro, but Koutarou’s bias makes him observe Kuroo’s fingers more often anyway. They both play amazingly in their own rights, though Himuro’s chords are perfect and Kuroo sometimes stumbles and then picks them up again with a secret little smile. Koutarou fucking loves it, loves it when they sing without looking up, when they sing without concentrating, when Sugawara’s always pulled up by someone or the other to dance a little. They’re not putting on a show, really, though Koutarou wouldn’t have a problem with that. They’re just minding their own damn business under the September sun, with Oikawa taking Koutarou’s camera to record everything like the giant fucking sap he pretends not to be.
From beside him and up this close, Koutarou sees the faintest red glow on Akaashi’s cheeks, barely there but more pronounced on his neck, and he’s almost beside himself.
‘The birthday bastard has to dance, though,’ Sawamura calls out, and Koutarou laughs loudly, swears at him but allows himself to be yanked up, spun around. Sugawara’s always there with instructions, hands on my waist, follow my feet, okay, faster now, and lifting him is so easy, and the smile on Akaashi’s face is so easy, and Shimizu’s taken her coat off to sit beside him on the grass. Kuroo’s had an angel’s voice for as long as Koutarou can remember, and anyway, Koutarou’s always been a little in love with everyone he ever met in this fucking world.
●●●
Honeybunch [23:56]
Can you tell him to come outside? I’m in the car
Me [23:57]
now whoooooo would this HIM be, i wonder, kuroo-san
Honeybunch [23:57]
Bokuto don’t be an ass. It took me forty minutes to wrap this damn shirt
Me [23:59]
he’s sayin no
Honeybunch [23:59]
Tell him to come outside or so help me god I will honk and wake this entire neighbourhood up
Me [00:00]
ROGER
Me [00:44]
????????????????????????????????????????????
Honeybunch [00:51]
I don’t know either, all right. Just tell me how he looks
Me [00:59]
IMG_547.PNG
Honeybunch [01:02]
I have an 8 am. Tell him to put on some proper pants next time
Me [01:03]
tell him urself, malfunctioning bastard
●●●
He saves the picture to the project folder, laughing loudly to himself throughout. Tsukki in a silk shirt and pyjama pants, glaring at him immortally in black and white; that’s a fucking gem whether it’s a project or not.
He decides, as he folds the laptop lid down, that it’s good enough. He’ll show it to Akaashi in the morning. He’ll see Akaashi in the morning. It’s not always tragic.