Chapter Text
The first thing Akaashi notices is the light.
It’s too white. Too clean. It presses against his eyelids even when he closes them.
When he opens his eyes, the ceiling is unfamiliar.
He does not panic.
He turns his head slowly. Machines. A curtain half-drawn. The faint antiseptic smell of a hospital.
He tries to recall yesterday.
There is nothing there.
Not blankness. Not fog.
Just absence.
The door opens quietly. His mother is the first thing that makes sense. She looks like she hasn’t slept. When she sees his eyes open, her expression shifts — relief first, then something he cannot categorize.
“Keiji,” she says carefully, like she’s testing the word.
“What happened?” he asks.
His voice sounds normal. That, at least, is grounding.
The explanation comes in pieces over the next hour. An accident. A fall. A head injury. Observation. Tests.
Then the doctor says something that rearranges the air in the room.
“Your short-term memory is not consolidating during sleep.”
A pause.
“In simple terms, when you sleep, the day does not transfer into long-term storage.”
Akaashi studies the doctor’s face to make sure this is not metaphor.
It is not.
“So I forget,” he says.
“You will retain older memories. But new daily experiences may reset after each sleep cycle.”
May.
That word feels dishonest.
They run a controlled test the next day.
He is asked to memorize three objects: a coin, a blue pen, a folded crane made of paper.
He repeats them back perfectly.
He writes them down.
He falls asleep.
When he wakes, the nurse asks, “Do you remember the objects?”
He does not.
There is no grief in the realization.
Just confirmation.
That night, he asks for a notebook.
His mother hesitates before handing it to him.
He sits upright in the hospital bed. The IV line tugs slightly when he moves, but he ignores it.
He flips to the first page.
He dates it carefully.
January 8, 2025
He pauses only once before writing.
I am writing because I forget.
If I fall asleep, today will disappear.
This is not panic. This is documentation.
He closes the notebook.
Places it on the bedside table within reach.
Turns off the light.
When he wakes again, the ceiling will still be unfamiliar.
But the notebook will not be.
When Akaashi wakes, the first thing he sees is the notebook.
It is positioned precisely where he left it.
For a brief second, there is that same clean absence in his head — the ceiling unfamiliar, the air unanchored.
Then he reaches for the notebook.
He reads.
He does not react outwardly, but something inside him steadies.
I am writing because I forget.
If I fall asleep, today will disappear.
This is not panic. This is documentation.
He exhales.
The word documentation feels like something he would write.
That is enough.
By the time he is discharged, he has already begun designing a system.
One notebook per month.
Labeled clearly on the spine.
Digital copies stored in a cloud folder titled: READ FIRST.
Sticky notes arranged on his bedroom wall in ordered columns:
- Condition: You forget new memories after sleep.
- Morning Routine: Read notebook before speaking.
- Trusted People: Mother. Father. Tsukishima Kei.
He tests it the first night at home.
He writes three pages detailing the day.
He places the notebook on his desk.
He tapes a reminder to his lamp: READ BEFORE PANICKING.
He sleeps.
Morning.
Absence.
The ceiling is familiar now — his own — but yesterday is gone.
He sits up immediately.
He does not allow confusion to bloom.
He reads.
Page by page.
By the time he reaches the end, his breathing is even.
He brushes his teeth.
He showers.
He dresses.
The system works.
Tsukishima Kei arrives after school that afternoon.
He does not knock twice. He never does.
“You forgot I was here yesterday,” Tsukishima says flatly, leaning against the doorway.
Akaashi closes the notebook.
“Yes.”
There is no apology in his tone.
There is no accusation in Tsukishima’s.
Tsukishima steps forward, scanning the wall of notes.
“Add this,” he says, taking a pen and writing neatly beneath Trusted People:
He does not pity you.
Akaashi watches him do it.
“That is unnecessary,” Akaashi says.
“It isn’t,” Tsukishima replies.
That night, Akaashi updates the notebook.
January 18, 2025
Read notebook before interacting.
Do not assume you remember conversations.
System functioning as intended.
He underlines the last sentence once.
There is comfort in repetition.
If memory cannot be trusted, structure can.
He turns off the light.
The wall of reminders glows faintly in the dark.
Tomorrow, he will read them again.
February arrives without ceremony.
The system is stable.
Wake. Read. Adjust. Repeat.
Akaashi moves through his days with mechanical precision. He speaks carefully. He listens more than he talks. He writes everything down.
It is efficient.
It is survivable.
The sketchbook sits on the corner of his desk for twelve days before he touches it.
He does not remember the last thing he drew.
When he opens it, there is an unfinished painting clipped inside — soft washes of color, the suggestion of light through trees.
It is technically good.
He feels nothing.
He studies the brush strokes the way he studies his own journal entries — analytically, without attachment.
He cannot remember what he intended it to become.
He cannot remember what it meant.
He closes the sketchbook.
Leaves it on the desk.
Does not open it the next day.
In class, teachers speak slower around him.
His parents ask fewer questions.
Tsukishima watches him like he is monitoring something fragile but refuses to say so.
“You used to draw during lunch,” Tsukishima remarks one afternoon, not looking at him.
Akaashi pauses mid-sip of tea.
“Did I?”
“Every day.”
Akaashi considers this.
“It seems inefficient,” he says calmly. “There is no point beginning something I may not remember finishing.”
Tsukishima’s jaw tightens slightly.
He does not argue.
That night, Akaashi writes longer than usual.
February 3, 2025
Painting feels unnecessary.
It requires emotional continuity.
I do not possess that.
He stops there.
He stares at the page for a moment longer than needed.
Then he adds one more line.
Focus on what is manageable.
Days pass.
The wall of reminders grows denser.
The notebooks stack neatly on his shelf.
The sketchbook gathers dust.
He does not think of it as loss.
He thinks of it as adaptation.
When he turns off the light each night, he feels prepared.
Prepared is safer than inspired.
By March, the routine no longer feels temporary.
It feels structural.
Akaashi wakes before his alarm most mornings now. The first sensation is still absence — that clean, unmarked space where yesterday should be — but it no longer startles him.
He reaches for the notebook without hesitation.
Read. Process. Align.
There is comfort in seeing his own handwriting greet him.
His wall has become a grid of information.
- Condition: You forget new memories after sleep.
- Morning Rule: Read before reacting.
- Trusted People: Mother. Father. Tsukishima Kei.
- Do Not: Make long-term promises after 8 PM.
He has added color-coded tabs to the notebooks. January in blue. February in gray. March in white.
Order makes the days feel continuous, even if they are not.
At school, the whispers have dulled into background noise.
Teachers hand him printed summaries at the end of each class. He copies important points into a smaller notebook he carries in his blazer pocket.
He does not resent the adjustments.
They are practical.
One afternoon, Tsukishima sits across from him in the library.
“You’re better at this than most people would be,” Tsukishima says without inflection.
Akaashi looks up from his notes.
“At forgetting?”
“At not falling apart.”
Akaashi considers the statement carefully.
“Falling apart would not improve the situation.”
Tsukishima exhales through his nose — not quite a laugh.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You still come here every day,” Akaashi replies.
“That’s because you’d forget to eat if I didn’t remind you.”
Akaashi makes a small mental note — then writes it down anyway.
That night, he updates the journal before bed.
March 27, 2025
System functioning.
Academic performance stable.
No unexpected complications this month.
He pauses.
Adds one final line.
This is manageable.
He closes the notebook.
Turns off the lamp.
The sticky notes glow faintly in the dark like quiet constellations.
Tomorrow will follow the same pattern.
Wake.
Read.
Adjust.
It is controlled.
It is predictable.
It is enough.
Spring arrives without asking permission.
The windows in Akaashi’s bedroom are open for the first time in weeks. The air is warmer, lighter. It carries the faint scent of something blooming outside his awareness.
He wakes before his alarm.
The absence is still there — that clean, hollow space where yesterday should sit — but it no longer frightens him.
He reaches for the notebook.
Reads.
Aligns.
March 27, 2025
System functioning.
Academic performance stable.
This is manageable.
He closes the notebook with quiet certainty.
The wall of reminders remains unchanged.
- Condition: You forget new memories after sleep.
- Morning Rule: Read before reacting.
- Trusted People: Mother. Father. Tsukishima Kei.
Everything is in place.
He dresses for the new school year with practiced efficiency.
The second-year hallway is louder than expected.
Voices bounce off freshly cleaned floors. Desks scrape. Someone laughs too loudly near the lockers.
Akaashi moves through it like he always does — observant, unobtrusive.
Nothing suggests deviation from established routine.
He repeats that thought once, internally, as if confirming a hypothesis.
The library is quieter.
Sunlight cuts across the shelves in long, pale strips. Dust floats lazily in the beams.
Akaashi scans the catalogue list in his hand and finds the call number he needs near the top shelf.
He drags the small rolling ladder into position.
Climbs carefully.
Steady.
The movement is automatic — reach, grip, shift weight.
His fingers brush the spine of the book.
The wheel of the ladder shifts slightly beneath him.
Just enough.
The world tilts.
There is a brief, suspended second where he calculates the angle of impact.
Floor. Shoulder first. Possibly worse.
He lets go.
And falls.
He does not hit the floor.
The impact never comes.
Instead —
Hands.
Firm. Sudden. Warm.
One arm braces across his back. The other steadies at his waist. The book slips from his fingers and lands somewhere nearby with a dull thud, but Akaashi remains suspended.
For a moment, he is simply aware of contact.
Not clinical.
Not procedural.
Human.
“Whoa— hey, hey, careful!”
The voice is bright. Too bright for a library.
Akaashi opens his eyes fully.
He is eye-level with a broad grin and a pair of golden-brown eyes that look more startled than amused.
“Are you okay?” the boy asks, softer now. Almost careful.
Akaashi processes the question.
There is no pain. No sharp throb. No dizziness.
“Yes,” he replies.
The boy exhales dramatically, like he had personally avoided disaster.
“Good. I’d feel terrible if you cracked your skull open because I moved the ladder earlier.”
Akaashi blinks.
“You moved it?”
“A little! I didn’t think— I mean, I thought it was locked. It looked locked.”
There is no guilt in his tone. Just honesty.
Akaashi studies him properly now.
Uniform slightly untucked. Shoulders broader than most. Hair that refuses to lie flat. A presence that feels larger than the space he occupies.
Still holding him.
“You can put me down,” Akaashi says calmly.
“Oh! Right.”
The boy sets him upright with surprising gentleness.
Once Akaashi’s shoes touch the floor, the hands withdraw immediately — as if contact beyond necessity would be improper.
There is a brief silence.
“I’m Bokuto,” the boy says, offering a hand this time. “Bokuto Kotarou.”
Akaashi looks at the extended hand.
He shakes it.
“Akaashi Keiji.”
“You’re in second year too, right? I’ve seen you around.”
Akaashi considers this.
It is possible. He would not remember.
“Perhaps,” he says.
Bokuto laughs — not unkindly, not mockingly. Just amused.
It is an uncontained sound.
It lingers in the quiet library air.
Akaashi finds himself watching the way it lifts Bokuto’s shoulders.
The way his eyes crease at the corners.
The way he seems genuinely relieved that Akaashi is unharmed.
“You sure you’re okay?” Bokuto asks again, softer now.
There is something about the repetition.
Like it matters.
“Yes,” Akaashi says again.
This time, he means more than the absence of injury.
That night, he writes longer than necessary.
April 9, 2025
A loud boy caught me today.
His name is Bokuto Kotarou.
He smiled like it mattered.
He pauses.
The pen hovers.
Then he adds:
I do not know why I am writing about him.
He closes the notebook.
Turns off the light.
The room is quiet.
For the first time in months, the silence feels slightly altered.
Akaashi does not expect to see Bokuto again so soon.
The system does not account for repetition unless it is intentional.
But Bokuto appears anyway.
In hallways. Near the vending machines. Outside the gym.
Always waving first.
Always smiling like the encounter is a victory.
The hallway is loud when it happens.
After practice. Lockers slamming. Shoes squeaking against polished floor.
Akaashi is closing his notebook when a shadow falls across the page.
“Akaashi!”
Too loud. Too public.
Several heads turn.
Akaashi looks up calmly.
Bokuto stands there like he has rehearsed this and forgotten the script halfway through.
Behind him, a cluster of swimmers pretends not to watch.
Kuroo is leaning against the wall a few lockers down, amused.
Tsukishima’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
Bokuto inhales.
“Will you go out with me?”
The hallway freezes.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Akaashi does not blush.
He does not laugh.
He considers.
There is no rule on the wall prohibiting dating.
There is no medical reason to refuse.
It is, objectively, an experience he has not yet documented.
“Yes,” Akaashi replies.
The silence cracks.
The swimmers erupt. Someone whistles. Kuroo lets out a low, impressed sound.
Tsukishima stares at Bokuto like he has just stepped into traffic.
Bokuto looks almost startled by his own success.
“Wait, really?”
“You asked,” Akaashi says evenly.
After school, they meet behind the gym.
The sunlight is softer there. The noise of campus distant.
Bokuto scratches the back of his neck.
“Okay, so. I should probably explain.”
Akaashi waits.
“It’s… kind of fake.”
Akaashi tilts his head slightly.
“Define fake.”
“Like. We say we’re dating. But we don’t have to, you know, actually—” Bokuto gestures vaguely. “Feel things.”
“I see.”
There is no visible offense in Akaashi’s expression.
Only analysis.
“Why?” he asks.
Bokuto hesitates for half a second.
“It’s easier that way.”
The answer is incomplete, but Akaashi does not press.
Instead, he nods once.
“Then we require parameters.”
“Parameters?”
“Rules.”
Bokuto grins despite himself. “Okay. Rules.”
- Ignore each other during school hours.
- Interact only after school.
- Do not fall in love.
Bokuto laughs at the last one.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It is preventative,” Akaashi replies.
“Right. Preventative.”
Bokuto holds out his hand again, like sealing a deal.
Akaashi shakes it.
His grip is steady.
That night, the journal entry is longer than usual.
April 21, 2025
I agreed to date Bokuto Kotarou.
The arrangement is not serious.
It is temporary and conditional.
The pen pauses.
He continues.
I do not know why I am writing about him again.
He stares at the word again.
Underlines it once.
Closes the notebook.
When he turns off the light, the room feels marginally less symmetrical than it did in March.
The first after-school meeting is quieter than expected.
No witnesses. No hallway noise. No swimmers pretending not to stare.
They sit on the rooftop because Bokuto says the air is better up there.
Akaashi does not argue.
The sky is a pale blue that feels almost deliberate. Wind presses gently against the chain-link fence. Somewhere below, a whistle blows from the field.
Bokuto talks.
About practice. About a relay he nearly ruined. About how he hates losing more than he hates being tired.
His voice moves quickly. His hands move faster.
Akaashi listens.
There is no rule against listening.
At some point, without deciding to, Akaashi reaches into his bag.
He pulls out a pen.
A scrap of paper from the back of his notebook.
Bokuto is mid-sentence when he notices.
“Are you taking notes on me?”
“No,” Akaashi replies automatically.
He looks down.
He is not writing words.
He is drawing.
The lines are light at first. Careful. The curve of a jaw. The suggestion of hair that refuses structure. The angle of shoulders that carry too much momentum.
Bokuto leans closer.
“Is that—”
He squints.
“Is that me?”
Akaashi studies the page as if seeing it for the first time.
It is undeniably him.
Not exaggerated. Not caricatured.
Just present.
“It appears so,” Akaashi says.
Bokuto goes quiet for once.
He watches like he is afraid to interrupt something fragile.
“You’re good,” he says finally, softer than usual.
Akaashi’s pen pauses.
Good implies continuity.
Skill implies practice.
He has not practiced since January.
“I used to paint,” Akaashi says, the statement sounding distant even to himself.
“Used to?”
Akaashi considers explaining.
He does not.
“It was inefficient,” he says instead.
Bokuto frowns slightly, as if that answer does not fit.
“Not everything has to be efficient,” he says.
The wind lifts a few loose pages from Akaashi’s notebook. Bokuto reaches instinctively to steady them.
Hands warm again.
Close again.
This time, Akaashi notices the steadiness in his grip.
Not panic.
Just presence.
That night, the journal entry begins differently.
April 28, 2025
I drew him without intending to.
I have not drawn anything since January.
He hesitates.
Adds:
This feels inefficient.
Another pause.
The pen does not lift.
I do not dislike it.
He closes the notebook more slowly than usual.
On his desk, the scrap of paper remains.
He does not put it away.
When he turns off the light, the room is no longer perfectly symmetrical.
There is a page on the desk with someone’s face on it.
And for the first time in months, the imbalance feels deliberate.
By May, the rooftop no longer belongs to only two people.
The first time Kuroo follows them up the stairs, he does it without asking.
“You guys look suspiciously couple-shaped,” he announces, pushing the door open with unnecessary force. “That makes this public property.”
Bokuto beams like he’s been awarded something.
Tsukishima clicks his tongue.
“You weren’t invited.”
“Neither were you,” Kuroo shoots back lightly, dropping beside him anyway.
Akaashi sits cross-legged between them, lunch neatly arranged, notebook resting at his side.
The air is warmer now. The wind softer. Someone is practicing drums somewhere below, the rhythm uneven but persistent.
Bokuto nudges Akaashi’s shoulder with his own.
“You’re in the shade,” he says, frowning. “Move over. Sun’s better.”
“The sun is indiscriminate,” Akaashi replies calmly.
“Exactly. It likes you.”
Kuroo makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“You two are disgustingly domestic.”
“We are not domestic,” Akaashi says.
“You sit next to each other every day,” Kuroo counters.
Tsukishima reaches over without looking and flicks Kuroo’s forehead.
“Stop narrating things no one asked for.”
Kuroo grins at him like that was encouragement.
It becomes routine faster than Akaashi anticipates.
Rooftop lunches.
Shared drinks.
Kuroo leaning too close to Tsukishima just to watch him recoil.
Bokuto laughing at everything.
Akaashi listening.
Observing.
Participating more than he means to.
One afternoon, Bokuto sprawls on his back and declares, “If I jump off this roof, will you catch me?”
“No,” Tsukishima answers immediately.
“Absolutely not,” Akaashi adds.
Kuroo tilts his head thoughtfully. “Maybe. If you promise to scream first.”
Bokuto sits up indignantly.
“You’re all terrible friends.”
“We are realistic,” Akaashi says.
Bokuto laughs again — loud, bright, uncontained.
The sound carries over the edge of the building.
Akaashi finds himself watching the way Tsukishima doesn’t actually move away when Kuroo’s knee brushes his.
Watching the way Bokuto glances at him mid-laugh to make sure he is still looking.
There is warmth here.
Not overwhelming.
But persistent.
That evening, Akaashi writes with less precision than usual.
May 8, 2025
We ate together again.
Kuroo talks excessively.
Tsukishima pretends he dislikes them.
He pauses.
Adds:
He stayed the longest.
He turns the page.
For a moment, he considers drawing something small in the margin — a line, a shape, a suggestion of hair caught in wind.
He does not.
Not yet.
But when he turns off the light, the rooftop laughter lingers longer than the silence.
The first time Akaashi goes to swim practice, he tells himself it is observational.
Bokuto insisted.
“You’ve seen me almost drop you,” he’d said, grinning. “Now come see me do something impressive.”
The natatorium smells like chlorine and echoes.
Water slices against tile in clean, rhythmic strokes. Whistles pierce the air. Sunlight filters through high windows, breaking into ripples across the pool’s surface.
Bokuto stands at the edge in nothing but swim trunks and momentum.
He stretches like he is winding himself up.
Then he dives.
The entry is sharp and controlled. No splash worth mentioning.
In the water, he is different.
Focused. Streamlined. Quieter.
Akaashi watches the repetition of arms cutting through blue, the turn at the wall, the explosive kick back into motion.
There is something relentless in it.
As if Bokuto is always chasing a finish line no one else can see.
Akaashi opens his notebook without thinking.
He sketches from the stands.
Lines first. Then shadow. Then the arc of water trailing behind a powerful stroke.
He does not need to look down often.
The image is already forming somewhere behind his eyes.
When practice ends, Bokuto jogs over, hair damp, grin brighter than the overhead lights.
“Well? Did I look cool?”
Akaashi turns the notebook around.
Bokuto stares.
For once, he is quiet.
“You drew that just now?”
“Yes.”
“From memory?”
Akaashi hesitates.
“Yes.”
Bokuto looks at him differently after that.
Not louder. Not teasing.
Just… aware.
A few days later, Akaashi notices a phone angled toward him.
“Are you filming me?” he asks without looking up.
“For documentation,” Bokuto replies cheerfully.
“Of what?”
“You existing.”
Akaashi glances over.
Bokuto shrugs.
“In case you forget something important.”
The statement is casual.
But it lands somewhere deeper than intended.
That night, the journal entry is less structured.
May 19, 2025
He swims like he is chasing something.
I drew him from memory tonight.
He pauses before adding another line.
I remembered the shape of him without assistance.
The pen lingers.
He underlines nothing.
He does not call it progress.
But when he closes the notebook, he leaves the sketch open beside it.
The slip happens on a Tuesday.
It is small enough that most people would miss it.
Bokuto does not.
They are sitting on the rooftop again.
Kuroo is mid-argument with Tsukishima about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
“It absolutely does,” Kuroo insists.
“It absolutely doesn’t,” Tsukishima replies without looking up from his drink.
Bokuto nudges Akaashi with his elbow.
“Remember when you said sweet and savory combinations are statistically efficient?”
Akaashi blinks.
“I have never said that.”
“You did! Last week!”
“I did not.”
It is not defensive. It is factual.
Bokuto’s smile falters for half a second.
“You were holding a melon pan,” he adds lightly.
Akaashi searches for the image.
There is nothing.
“I do not recall that,” he says.
Silence ripples outward, subtle but real.
Tsukishima’s fingers tighten around his cup.
Kuroo glances between them.
Bokuto laughs it off.
“Guess I imagined it.”
But his eyes linger on Akaashi a beat too long.
It happens again two days later.
Bokuto reaches for Akaashi’s hand without thinking.
Akaashi pulls back instinctively.
“What are you doing?”
Bokuto freezes.
“We—” He swallows. “We do that.”
Akaashi’s expression remains composed.
“We do?”
There is no accusation in the question.
Only confusion.
Something inside Bokuto shifts.
Tsukishima finds him after practice.
They stand near the vending machines, fluorescent light harsh above them.
“How long?” Bokuto asks quietly.
Tsukishima does not pretend not to understand.
“Since January.”
Bokuto looks down at his hands.
“He forgets every day?”
“When he sleeps.”
“And you just—” Bokuto exhales sharply. “You just let me not know?”
“It wasn’t my information to share.”
That answer sits heavily between them.
“He doesn’t want pity,” Tsukishima adds after a moment. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
Bokuto laughs once — not humor, not quite pain.
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
He waits for Akaashi after school.
No rooftop this time.
Just the quiet stretch behind the gym where they first set their rules.
Akaashi approaches at exactly the time written in his notebook.
“You wanted to talk,” he says.
Bokuto nods.
He does not rush his words.
“You don’t remember yesterday.”
“No,” Akaashi replies calmly.
“Or the day before.”
“Correct.”
There is no shame in his voice.
Only clarity.
Bokuto studies him like he is memorizing something fragile.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It is inefficient to resent circumstances beyond control.”
Bokuto huffs out a breath.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“That has been noted before.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then Bokuto steps closer.
Not dramatic. Not sudden.
Just deliberate.
“Okay,” he says softly.
“Okay?”
“Then I’ll just meet you again tomorrow.”
The words are simple.
Unadorned.
Akaashi feels something unfamiliar beneath his ribs.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Pressure.
“You do not have to,” Akaashi says.
“I know.”
Bokuto smiles — not wide, not loud.
Just certain.
“I want to.”
That night, the journal entry is uneven.
June 3, 2025
Bokuto knows.
I explained the condition.
He said he does not mind meeting me every day.
The pen lingers.
I do not understand why that made my chest hurt.
He does not attempt to categorize the sensation.
He closes the notebook.
For the first time, the system feels slightly less like armor.
The next morning, Bokuto reintroduces himself.
He does it badly.
“Hi, I’m Bokuto Kotarou,” he says, holding out his hand like they have never met. “I’m ridiculously good at swimming and moderately good at existing.”
Akaashi looks at him for a long moment.
Then he shakes his hand.
“Akaashi Keiji.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bokuto says, too bright. Too careful.
Akaashi does not comment on the way his grip lingers.
It becomes a ritual.
Some mornings Bokuto bows dramatically.
Some mornings he salutes.
Once, he places a carton of milk on Akaashi’s desk with a sticky note attached:
For hydration. From your boyfriend.
Akaashi reads the note twice.
Then three times.
He writes the word boyfriend down in the margin of his notebook like it is new vocabulary.
The rooftop grows warmer as June deepens.
Kuroo sprawls across the concrete like he owns it.
Tsukishima complains about the heat while not actually moving away from him.
Bokuto films everything.
Short clips.
Akaashi turning pages.
Kuroo getting flicked in the forehead.
Tsukishima pretending not to smile.
“Documentation,” Bokuto says when Akaashi raises an eyebrow.
“For you?” Akaashi asks.
“For us.”
The plural lands differently.
Akaashi begins waking with expectation.
He reads the journal.
And before he finishes the entry, he finds himself glancing toward the door.
Waiting.
He notes this down clinically.
June 22, 2025
I wake up and expect him now.
This is statistically concerning.
He stares at the sentence.
Adds another.
I do not dislike it.
Color returns quietly.
He buys new paints one afternoon without overthinking it.
He sketches Bokuto’s hands mid-gesture.
The way sunlight catches on wet hair.
The crease between his brows when he concentrates on tying his goggles.
He does not call it love.
He calls it observation.
But the lines are softer now.
Less restrained.
On a particularly hot afternoon, Bokuto leans against him without asking.
Akaashi feels the weight.
Does not pull away.
“You know,” Bokuto says quietly, “I don’t mind doing this every day.”
“Doing what?”
“Choosing you.”
Akaashi does not respond immediately.
He will forget the sentence by morning.
But something in his chest memorizes it anyway.
July arrives heavy with heat.
The rooftop is too warm at noon now, so they stay later — when the sky begins to soften and the air stops pressing against skin.
Crickets hum somewhere below. The city feels distant.
Kuroo and Tsukishima leave first that evening, bickering about convenience store ice cream.
Bokuto and Akaashi remain.
Not intentionally.
Just… slowly.
They sit with their shoulders almost touching.
Bokuto is quieter than usual.
“Do you ever wish you remembered?” he asks suddenly.
Akaashi does not pretend not to understand the question.
“Yes,” he says.
There is no performance in it.
Just truth.
“I wish I remembered the middle of things,” he adds after a moment. “Not just the beginning.”
Bokuto watches him carefully.
The sky is streaked orange behind him.
“Then remember this,” Bokuto says.
It is not dramatic.
He doesn’t grab. Doesn’t rush.
He leans in slowly enough that Akaashi could move away if he chose to.
Akaashi does not move.
The kiss is soft.
Warm.
Not consuming.
Just a press of lips that feels like a held breath finally released.
Akaashi registers texture first.
The faint taste of sports drink.
The warmth of fingers curling lightly at the edge of his sleeve.
Then the stillness.
Like the world has decided to pause for them.
That night, the journal entry trembles slightly.
July 28, 2025
I kissed him.
I hope tomorrow I do not forget how that felt.
He closes the notebook carefully.
Places it exactly where it belongs.
Turns off the light.
Morning.
Absence.
He reaches for the notebook.
Reads.
His eyes linger on the sentence longer than the others.
I kissed him.
He touches his own lips unconsciously.
There is no memory attached.
No replay.
But there is a warmth beneath his ribs.
A certainty without origin.
He picks up the pen again.
Adds one more line beneath the previous entry.
I think I love him.
I don’t remember deciding that.
He does not cross it out.
He leaves it there.
Outside his window, summer presses forward.