Chapter Text
Lavender is most commonly associated with silence, devotion, and quiet endurance, it represents calm strength. Its small purple blooms are delicate yet resilient, known for their soothing presence. Lavender does not compete with louder flowers; it simply survives beside them.
Oikawa Tooru learned very quickly that university acceptance letters tasted better soaked in alcohol.
Honestly, every day after he got in felt like it deserved a party. Or maybe every day needed one. The distinction stopped mattering after the first week.
He went to one almost every night.
Sometimes two.
Sometimes he’d leave one party already tipsy, wander into another apartment because the music sounded louder or the lights were brighter, and pretend that was intentional. Alcohol made everything easier. The noise. The people. The pretending.
He knew they were bad choices; the drinks, the strangers’ mouths, the way he’d fake-forget assignments until deadlines became punchlines, but parties were-
so
much
fun.
Fun was loud. Fun was warm hands on his waist. Fun didn’t ask why volleyball videos were muted on his phone or why his knee still ached when he climbed stairs too fast. Fun didn’t look at him with expectation.
Fun didn’t know him.
This party was the same as the others: too crowded, too hot, someone’s generic playlist blasting from speakers that rattled the walls. Plastic cups everywhere. The air smelled like sweat, beer, vodka and perfume layered on top of regret.
Oikawa leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling like it was second nature, he didn’t find where the drinks were, so he stayed waiting for someone who could give him some.
Wide, easy, charming.
The smile that had carried him through interviews, introductions, life. He laughed at something someone said, didn’t actually hear it, didn’t really care.
He was finishing his drink when he noticed the guy leaning in the doorway.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair that stuck up like it actively refused to behave. There was something sharp about him, not dangerous, exactly, just… edged. Like he took up space on purpose.
The guy was watching him.
Not in the lazy, half-drunk way most people did. Not like they were deciding if he was hot enough to flirt with. It was more curious than that. Amused.
Oikawa hated that his stomach flipped.
He raised his cup in a mock-toast, because of course he did. The guy snorted, actually snorted, and pushed off the doorframe.
“Careful,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “You’re gonna strain something, smiling like that all night.”
Oikawa blinked. Then laughed, bright and fake and perfect. “Wow. Hi. That’s such a weird thing to say to someone you don’t know.”
“Yeah,” the guy replied easily. “I’m great at first impressions.”
Oikawa tilted his head, studying him now. Up close, the guy’s eyes were sharp, catlike, and his grin unapologetic. Confident without trying to be charming. Annoyingly attractive.
“Oikawa Tooru,” he said automatically, because that was what he did. “And you are…?”
“Kuroo Tetsurou.” He clinked his cup against Oikawa’s. “You look like you hate this party.”
“I love parties,” Oikawa shot back instantly.
Kuroo hummed, unconvinced. “Yeah. Sure. It’s just, you have that ‘I’m here so I don’t have to be somewhere else’ kinda vibe.”
The words landed dangerously close to something real.
Oikawa took a long drink instead of answering. The gin burned down his throat, grounding him. He leaned in, invading Kuroo’s space on purpose. “And you’re here because…?”
Kuroo shrugged. “Bored. Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d see what kind of disasters freshmen were creating this week.”
“Oh,” Oikawa said sweetly. “So you’re judging me.”
“Absolutely.”
“Rude.”
“You’ll live.”
They stared at each other for a beat too long. The noise of the party blurred around them, like the world had decided to step back and let this happen.
Oikawa smiled again, slower this time, softer. Less practiced.
“Get me another drink,” he said. “Then you can keep judging.”
Kuroo’s grin widened, sharp as teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
And Oikawa didn’t think about volleyball.
Didn’t think about hospitals or surgeries or hands slipping out of his grasp.
Didn’t think about the ache that lived permanently under his ribs.
For one night, he let himself be just a boy at a party, leaning into a bad idea with a stranger who looked at him like he could see through the act
And for once, Oikawa decided not to care what it meant.
Kuroo was still there when Oikawa finished his drink. Still leaning too close. Still watching him like he’d already decided something.
Oikawa felt the familiar itch crawl under his skin, the restless need to move, to do something before thinking caught up.
“You always stare like that,” Oikawa said, tilting his cup toward him.
Kuroo raised a brow. “You always notice.”
The challenge settled between them, heavy and obvious.
Oikawa stepped closer.
He didn’t ask where this was going. He already knew.
Kuroo leans in to say something. Oikawa never finds out what.
He kisses him first, sharp and unapologetic, like he is daring Kuroo to pull away. Like this is a challenge instead of an invitation.
Kuroo does not hesitate.
His mouth is warm, firm, decisive. There is no gentleness to it, no careful testing. Just pressure and intent. His hands find Oikawa’s waist immediately, fingers curling like they belong there, thumbs pressing in a way that makes Oikawa suck in a breath he pretends he does not need.
“You always do that?” Kuroo murmurs against his mouth.
“Do what?” Oikawa asks, already distracted.
“Go straight for the kill.”
Oikawa laughs, breathless, hips tipping forward without thinking. “Only when I’m bored.”
Kuroo’s grip tightens. “You don’t look bored.”
Someone whistles behind them. Someone else makes a loud, exaggerated gagging noise. Oikawa barely registers it. The room has narrowed to heat and proximity and the familiar hum under his skin that alcohol always loosens.
They stumble through the apartment together, shoulders bumping, Oikawa laughing when he trips over absolutely nothing. Kuroo steadies him without comment, palm firm at his lower back. The touch lingers just long enough to be intentional.
The bedroom is dim and unfamiliar. Posters crooked on the wall. Laundry piled in a corner. The kind of room that exists purely as a backdrop for bad decisions.
The door does not lock properly. Kuroo kicks it shut anyway.
“No strings,” Oikawa says suddenly, because saying it out loud feels like armor.
Kuroo pauses just long enough to look at him. Really look at him. Then he nods. “Yeah. Didn’t sound like you were offering any.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
They kiss again, harder this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that has no patience for pauses. Hands everywhere, not searching, not tentative. Straight for the kill. Familiar in a way that feels unfair for two people who met less than an hour ago.
Clothes go quickly, dropped wherever they land. Oikawa barely registers the loss of fabric, only the heat that replaces it. Skin on skin. Too warm. Too close. Exactly what he wants.
He presses Kuroo back onto the bed, knee between his legs, grinning like this is something he does often. Like this is a version of himself he knows how to be.
Kuroo lets him.
Lets Oikawa take the lead, lets him climb into his space, lets him set the pace. His hands stay steady, guiding rather than grabbing, thumbs digging in just enough to make Oikawa’s breath hitch.
“You’re confident,” Kuroo murmurs, voice rough.
“You say that like it’s a flaw.” Oikawa laughs, high and breathless.
Kuroo hums in response, and Oikawa’s thoughts scatter completely.
The world narrows to sensation. To friction and heat and the low, constant awareness of another person responding to him. Oikawa moves without thinking, chasing feeling rather than control. He does not have to perform anything beyond this. Does not have to be clever or impressive or charming.
Just wanted.
When Kuroo shifts them, it happens smoothly, decisively. One moment Oikawa is above him, the next he is pressed into the mattress, Kuroo’s weight solid and grounding, hands bracketing his hips.
Oikawa gasps, more startled than resistant.
“You good?” Kuroo asks, low and close, breath warm against his skin.
Oikawa nods, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Hands move lower. Pressure. Weight. Oikawa arches without meaning to, bites down on whatever sound tries to escape him. He does not feel delicate. He feels wanted in a blunt, undeniable way that makes his head go pleasantly empty.
He pulls Kuroo closer by the necklace, kisses him again, deeper this time, open-mouthed and desperate. His legs hook around Kuroo’s hips without thinking, pulling him in, asking without words.
Kuroo swears softly. Low. Controlled. It sends a jolt straight through Oikawa.
“Relax,” Kuroo murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Oikawa hates how much that works.
He lets himself go loose under Kuroo’s hands. Lets the pace be set for him. Lets sensation override control. The bed creaks. The room fills with broken breathing and the quiet sounds of skin on skin.
Oikawa’s fingers dig into Kuroo’s shoulders. He tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut, fully present in his body. There is no space for guilt here. No room for memory. Just heat and friction and the grounding weight of someone else. He laughs once, sharp and breathless, when Kuroo mutters something under his breath.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Kuroo replies. Then, after a beat, “You’re loud.”
Oikawa grins. “You’re welcome.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wow. Rude.”
“Effective.”
It is fast. Urgent. A little rough around the edges. Neither of them trying to make it pretty or meaningful. When it finally crests, it hits Oikawa hard enough that his vision blurs, the world narrowing down to breath and warmth and the solid press of another body keeping him here.
It is not perfect. Oikawa prefers them stronger and shorter.
But it 's so good.
Kuroo drops down beside him with a low exhale, forearm over his eyes. Oikawa lies still, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too fast.
No hands reaching out. No instinct to curl closer.
Just silence settling back in.
“You staying over?” Kuroo asks eventually, voice already steady again.
Oikawa shrugs, like it does not matter. “Sure.”
“Cool.”
They turn away from each other after that. Close enough to feel the heat linger. Far enough to keep it uncomplicated.
Oikawa falls asleep before he can think about anything else.
~~~~
Morning comes in fragments.
Light leaking through cheap blinds. Someone yelling in the distance about whose party this even was. A headache blooming slow and mean behind Oikawa’s eyes.
He groans and rolls over.
Immediately regrets it.
“Oh,” he says, blinking blearily at the body next to him. “You’re real.”
Kuroo snorts, voice rough with sleep. “Unfortunately.”
Oikawa drops back onto the mattress, covering his face with one arm. The sheets smell like detergent and alcohol and something distinctly not his. His phone buzzes somewhere near the floor, probably another missed alarm he is going to ignore.
“God,” he mutters. “I’m never drinking again.”
“That’s a lie,” Kuroo says without opening his eyes.
“Okay. I’m never drinking again until tonight.”
“More believable.”
They lie there for a minute, neither of them rushing to move. Not because it is intimate, but because hangovers make everything heavier than it needs to be. Oikawa peeks at Kuroo through his fingers. His hair is even worse in the daylight, sticking up in defiant angles. There is a faint crease between his brows like he frowns in his sleep.
Oikawa looks away fast.
He sits up slowly, head throbbing, and scans the floor for his clothes. His shirt is halfway under the bed.
“Do you have water?” he asks.
“Kitchens that way,” Kuroo replies, finally sitting up. He squints at the light like it personally offended him.
They pull themselves together in companionable silence, stepping over discarded cups and bodies sprawled across couches. The kitchen is a mess. Someone left pizza out overnight. Someone else spilled something sticky on the counter.
Kuroo pours two glasses of water and hands one over without comment. Oikawa downs it gratefully.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Mm.”
They lean against opposite counters, the distance between them deliberate. Oikawa checks his phone. A few unread messages. Nothing important. He pretends that matters.
“So,” Kuroo says casually. “You always party this hard?”
Oikawa smiles, easy and automatic. “Only when I have something to celebrate.”
“Like what?”
“Surviving the week.”
Kuroo huffs a laugh. “Fair.”
There is a pause. Not awkward. Just empty.
“I heard someone say yesterday that you play volleyball?” Kuroo says suddenly.
Oikawa stiffens for half a second, feels like he shaked his knee, he is not sure. “Played.”
Kuroo glances at his knee, subtle but not subtle enough. Files it away. Does not push.
“University team?” he asks instead.
Oikawa shrugs. “Something like that.”
They let it drop.
Kuroo grabs his phone off the table and unlocks it, holding it out. “You want my number or are we pretending this is a mysterious one time thing?”
Oikawa hesitates. Just a beat. Long enough to feel dangerous.
Then he laughs it off. “Wow. I’m so good in bed you’re asking me to commit already?”
“Relax,” Kuroo says. “It’s just a number.”
That makes it easier.
Oikawa takes the phone, types his name with a flourish, adds a stupid little star next to it because, let's be serious, he is one. Hands it back.
“Text me,” he says lightly. “Or don’t. I’m very chill.”
Kuroo smirks. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Rude?”
“At least I’m honest.”
They part at the door without ceremony. No dramatic goodbye. Just a quick, easy kiss that tastes like toothpaste and last night’s regrets.
Oikawa steps into the hallway, phone warm in his pocket.
He tells himself it was fun. That it was nothing. That this is exactly what he wanted.
~~~~
Iwaizumi pov
Iwaizumi Hajime wakes up to the sound of someone burning toast.
He does not open his eyes right away. He knows exactly who it is.
“Akaashi,” he says into his pillow. “You’re doing it again.”
“I am not,” Akaashi replies calmly from the kitchen. “It’s just darker than usual.”
“That’s burned.”
There is a pause. Then, quieter, “It is… a little burned.”
Iwaizumi sighs and pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. The room is small but clean. Sunlight filters in through the thin curtains, catching on the stacks of textbooks by the wall and the folded laundry he forgot to put away last night. His shoulder aches the familiar way it always does in the mornings, not really painful, just present.
He stretches, listens to the pop of his joints, and gets up.
The apartment smells like coffee and toast that has definitely crossed the line into charcoal. Akaashi stands at the counter, composed as ever, scraping blackened bread into the trash with surgical focus.
“You know,” Iwaizumi says, grabbing a mug, “most people stop after the first time they burn something.”
“I’m experimenting,” Akaashi says. “With timing.”
“With arson.”
Akaashi glances at the toaster like it has personally disappointed him. “If I wanted arson, I would simply invite Bokuto to cook.”
“Fair.”
They move around each other easily, the practiced choreography of people who share space without needing to negotiate it anymore. Iwaizumi pours coffee. Akaashi plates the non burned slices. The radio murmurs softly in the background.
It is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just lived in.
“Bokuto coming over again?”
Akaashi pauses. Just a fraction of a second. “He mentioned it.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “He always mentions it.”
As if summoned by name, there is a loud knock on the door. Three quick raps, followed by an even louder voice.
“AKAASHI I BROUGHT FOOD AND ALSO MYSELF”
Akaashi closes his eyes. Iwaizumi grins.
“I’ll get it,” Iwaizumi says, already moving.
Bokuto Koutarou fills the doorway like a force of nature. Hoodie half zipped, hair wild, grin bright enough to hurt your eyes. He holds up a plastic bag triumphantly.
“Breakfast,” he announces. “And also morale.”
“You’re loud” Iwaizumi says, stepping aside.
“I am alive!” Bokuto corrects, marching in. “Very important distinction.”
He drops the bag on the table and immediately launches into talking. Something about practice. Something about a professor who hates him. Something about a bird he saw that was definitely an omen.
“…and then the bird looked at me, like directly at me, and I just knew it meant something.”
“It meant you were near bread,” Akaashi says.
“I didn’t have bread!”
“You always have crumbs.”
“That’s not- Iwaizumi, tell him!”
“You do have this crumbs energy”
“This is bullying.”
“It is an observation,” Akaashi replies.
By the time they leave the apartment, Bokuto is already talking about practice again. He walks between them on the sidewalk, hands moving wildly, voice carrying as he recounts a rally like it changed his life. Iwaizumi half listens, nodding when appropriate. Akaashi listens fully.
Campus is busy in the morning. Students everywhere. Backpacks slung low. Coffee cups clutched like lifelines. The air hums with motion.
It reminds Iwaizumi of something.
Not a memory. Just a feeling. The sense that there used to be someone who walked beside him like this. Someone loud enough to complain about everything and confident enough to demand attention for it.
The thought slips away before it can settle.
They stop at the fork where the gym complex branches off from the academic buildings. Bokuto is already bouncing on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders like he is warming up for a match that has not started yet.
“Okay,” he says, clapping once. “If I’m late again, Coach’s gonna kill me with his eyes. Like. Laser eyes.”
“You say that every time,” Iwaizumi replies.
“And one day it’ll be true.”
Bokuto turns, walking backward for a few steps. “You coming?”
“In a minute,” Iwaizumi says. “Go on.”
“Okay! I’ll warm up without you! Don’t die! Or do! Actually don’t!”
He jogs off toward the gym, shouting something about jump serves to absolutely no one.
The space he leaves behind feels bigger than it should.
“He’s a lot.” Iwaizumi shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Yes.” Akaashi watches Bokuto disappear through the doors.
“You know,” Iwaizumi says, keeping his tone light, “he likes you.”
Akaashi does not look up. “Bokuto likes everyone.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Akaashi exhales and sets his plate down.
“He’s kind,” he says. “He’s loud. He's like that with everyone.”
“You’re terrible at lying,” Iwaizumi replies.
Akaashi finally meets his eyes. There is anxiety there. Hope, restrained so tightly it almost disappears.
“I like him,” Akaashi admits quietly.
Iwaizumi laughs, then stops. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re gay?”
“Are you not?” Akaashi frowns.
“No,” Iwaizumi says automatically. Then hesitates. “I mean. I do not think so.”
“Huh.”
“Huh.”
They stand there, the weight of it settling.
“My parents would not care,” Akaashi adds after a moment. “They are strict. Not cruel.”
“Must be nice,” Iwaizumi says, before he can stop himself. He thinks of his father. Then his mother’s quiet endurance.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” Akaashi says gently.
“I know.”
Akaashi tilts his head. “You didn’t know I was gay?”
“I assumed you were private,” Iwaizumi says.
Akaashi considers that. “That is fair.”
They stay in a silence for a while
“I should go to class,” Iwaizumi says eventually. “As Bokuto said, our gym teacher really does have laser eyes for late people.”
“Don’t let Bokuto injure himself.”
“No promises.”
The gym smells like rubber floors, sweat, and industrial cleaner that never quite masks either. The echo hits first, voices bouncing off high ceilings, the sharp thud of volleyballs against the court, sneakers squealing as people pivot too fast.
Bokuto is already there, halfway through an exaggerated warm-up routine that looks more like a performance than anything sanctioned by a coach. Arms windmilling, knees high, hair already damp with sweat. He spots Iwaizumi the second he walks in.
“IWAIZUMI!” Bokuto bellows, waving like they’re separated by miles instead of half a court. “YOU’RE LATE.”
“I’m on time,” Iwaizumi snaps back, dumping his bag on the bench and tugging his jacket off.
The coach blows the whistle before Bokuto can spiral further. Sharp. Commanding. Everyone moves.
That’s the thing Iwaizumi likes about this place.
You don’t get time to think.
They start with laps. Then drills. Then more drills. Repetition layered over repetition until his body slips into that familiar rhythm, muscle memory taking over, thoughts shoved to the background where they belong.
Today they are training volleyball, and it would be a lie to say this isn’t his favorite college subject.
Bokuto doesn't try to hide it’s his favorite.
He celebrates good hits like he’s won an Olympic medal. Groans dramatically when he messes up. Complains about the floor being “hostile.” About the air being “too dry.” About the ball “having personal beef” with him.
Iwaizumi yells at him to focus. Bokuto grins wider and does.
It’s infuriating how well it works.
They pair up for passing drills. Bokuto hits hard but he adjusts when Iwaizumi snaps at him, angles his wrists better, reins it in just enough. Sweat drips down Iwaizumi’s spine.
Between drills, Bokuto flops down beside him on the floor, chest heaving.
“Man,” Bokuto says, staring up at the ceiling, “don’t you just love this?”
“Love is a strong word,” Iwaizumi mutters, wiping his face with his towel.
“But you do,” Bokuto insists, rolling onto his side to peer at him. “You get that face.”
“What face.”
“That face.” Bokuto squints, clearly trying to articulate something he does not have the vocabulary for. “Like… you’re mad, but in a good way.”
Iwaizumi huffs a laugh before he can stop himself. “Shut up.”
Coach calls them back. They run scrimmages. Bokuto throws himself into every play like it might be his last. Iwaizumi blocks harder than necessary. The ball smacks into his palms again and again, stinging, grounding him.
This is easy.
Not physically, his lungs burn, legs trembling by the end. But mentally.
No room for doubt here. No questions about whether this was the right choice, or whether he’s wasting his time, or what his father would say if he saw him now.
He already knows what his father would say.
You’re throwing your future away.
He spikes.
Sports don’t last.
The voice overlays.
Be realistic.
Iwaizumi spikes the ball harder.
When Coach finally blows the whistle to end practice, Bokuto collapses onto the floor like he’s been shot.
“I have died,” Bokuto announces. “Tell Akaashi I loved him.”
“He’ll say you’re being dramatic,” Iwaizumi replies.
“He likes when I’m dramatic.”
“He says you’re ‘manageable in small doses.’”
Bokuto gasps. “He does not.”
“He absolutely does.”
“…Okay but like. Fondly, right?”
“Very fondly.”Iwaizumi smirks, “now get up,” Iwaizumi says, nudging him with his foot. “You’re embarrassing.”
Bokuto grins up at him, sweat-soaked and radiant. “He worries when you’re mean to me, you know.”
“I’m not mean.”
“You told him I have crumbs energy.”
“You do have crumbs energy.”
“That’s not even a thing!”
“It is now,” Iwaizumi says.
They hit the locker room laughing. Noise, steam, bodies moving in practiced chaos. Iwaizumi changes quickly, methodical, towel slung over his shoulder. Bokuto is still talking, about lunch, about an upcoming game, about how Akaashi probably hasn’t eaten properly yet.
“I’m gonna find him after class,” Bokuto says, tying his shoes with more enthusiasm than accuracy. “He looked tired this morning.”
Iwaizumi hesitates. Just for a second.
“He always does,” he says.
Bokuto frowns, not his usual dramatic pout, but something quieter.
Thoughtful.
“Yeah. But I can fix that.”
Iwaizumi doesn’t respond. He watches Bokuto jog off again, energy somehow restored, like being near Akaashi is its own kind of fuel.
The gym empties out slowly. Iwaizumi lingers, stretching.
Outside, the campus hums. Classes changing. Lives in motion.
Iwaizumi exhales, long and steady.
He has practice.
Has a routine.
He has noise to drown things out.
Somewhere across campus, his cousin is probably sitting perfectly still, drowning in thoughts instead.
The idea sticks with him longer than he expects.
And as he grabs his bag and heads out, the noise fades just enough for him to wonder, briefly, what it must be like to carry everything quietly.
~~~~
Akaashi pov
Akaashi does not notice when the lecture ends.
He notices when the room becomes louder.
Chairs scrape. Zippers pull. Conversations rise in overlapping waves.
The professor closes his laptop with a soft click.
That is how he understands it is over.
He looks down at his notes.
They are neat. Structured. Complete.
He does not remember writing half of it.
Mildly concerning.
He presses his thumb against the edge of the desk, grounding himself in the texture of the wood.
He’s tired. That is all.
Fatigue affects memory retention. There is no reason to dramatize it.
He closes his notebook carefully.
The workload is dense.
The terminology excessive.
The expectations unreasonable.
Veterinary medicine was the most reasonable option among the ones his parents presented.
Reasonable does not mean ideal.
Around him, students move in clusters.
He steps aside to let them pass.
He prefers the edges of rooms.
It is easier to observe from there.
A classmate brushes his shoulder accidentally. Apologizes. Akaashi nods.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Outside the lecture hall, the hallway is brighter than he expects. He squints slightly. The fluorescent lights inside were easier. Predictable.
He checks his schedule on his phone even though he already knows it.
Two hours until his next lab.
Enough time to study.
Enough time to think.
Exactly the problem.
His phone vibrates in his hand.
BOKUTOBELOVED: Did you eat
BOKUTOBELOVED: Answer honestly
BOKUTOBELOVED: I have a sixth sense
Akaashi does not remember when Bokuto changed his contact name again.
He changes it back.
He always changes it back.
He calculates the most efficient response. If he lies, Bokuto will likely find out.
He does have the inconvenient ability to detect irregularities in Akaashi’s routine.
Akaashi: Not yet.
The reply appears almost instantly.
Bokuto: Unacceptable
Bokuto: Stay where you are
Bokuto: I am approaching
Akaashi: Ominous.
Akaashi exhales softly through his nose.
Approaching.
That could mean anything from walking briskly to sprinting recklessly across campus.
He steps out of the main flow of students and stands near a vending machine.
Waiting feels inefficient. Despite that, his feet are firmly planted on the ground.
He tells himself it is practical. If Bokuto brings food, that saves time.
That is the reason.
He does not examine the small warmth that settles beneath his ribs.
A few minutes later, he hears him before he sees him.
“AKAASHI.”
Heads turn.
Bokuto jogs toward him, hair disheveled, expression determined like he is responding to a national emergency rather than a skipped meal. He is holding two convenience store sandwiches triumphantly.
“I knew it,” Bokuto says, slightly out of breath. “You get that look.”
“What look?” Akaashi asks.
“The ‘I forgot I have a physical body’ look.”
“That is not a real expression.”
“It is for you.”
That is statistically believable.
Bokuto presses one of the sandwiches into his hands. Their fingers brush briefly. Bokuto does not seem to notice.
“Thank you,” he says.
Bokuto beams like he has accomplished something monumental.
They stand there for a moment. Students move around them in a steady current. Bokuto talks about practice, about how Iwaizumi was “extra intense today,” about a serve that almost took someone’s head off.
Akaashi listens.
The noise in his head lowers in volume.
The calculations. The measuring. The quiet self-criticism.
Not gone.
But quieter.
“You’re thinking too much again.” Bokuto bumps his shoulder lightly.
“I am always thinking.”
“Yeah, but like. The heavy kind.”
Akaashi considers denying it.
Instead, he takes a bite of the sandwich.
It tastes average.
It’s a necesity.
Bokuto waits. As always.
It contradicts his usual impatience.
Akaashi has never understood why the exception applies to him.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Bokuto studies him for a second longer than usual.
Then he nods, as if choosing to accept the answer.
“Okay,” Bokuto says. “But I’m still walking you to your next class.”
“That is unnecessary.”
“Correct.”
And he does.
They walk side by side. Bokuto’s steps are slightly uneven, full of restless energy. Akaashi matches his pace automatically.
Carrying things quietly is easier, he thinks, when someone insists on being loud beside you.
He does not say that out loud.
He rarely says the important things out loud.