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The roar of the crowd, the crunch of the grass beneath his feet, the weight of the racket in his hands.
Keiji took his place at the far end of the court. Instinctively, he looked beside him, but the presence he’d grown so used to—in work and in life—over the last ten years was conspicuously absent.
“Hey, hey, hey!” roared Koutarou from across the court, and Keiji’s heart thudded dangerously in his chest.
For ten years—ten long and wonderful and sometimes painful years—Keiji and Koutarou had been doubles partners. Fresh out of college, Keiji had been languishing on the senior circuit, trying to break through, but never quite making it. He always seemed to be a serve, or a shot, too slow or too short.
Then, Yamiji, his coach, told him that there was a singles player looking to break into doubles, and he and that player’s coach thought that Keiji would be a good match.
Even now, all these years later, Keiji would never forget the first time that Bokuto Koutaoru walked onto his practice court.
“Hey, hey!” he’d shouted—always loud, always larger than life, even then, especially then, when he’d been a rising star on the ATP tour. His silvery hair was gelled into its signature spikes, seemingly defying gravity then and now, and his golden eyes sparkled with excitement as he’d beheld Keiji on the court. “You’re my new doubles partner, yeah? Akashi?”
“Akaashi,” Keiji had corrected, but it had been more automatic than usual, because Keiji had been struck dumb by the sight of the mountain of a man before him—every ounce of him 24 years old in body and in mind, and Keiji was a goner before they’d even played together.
He’d only ever seen Koutarou—Bokuto-san, as he called him then—in passing at tournaments. They’d played more than a few together, but they’d always been in different brackets, Keiji never making it far enough to face Koutarou deep in tournaments. But even though they had never really talked, Keiji had seen him play; more than once, he’d purchased himself a ticket and snuck into Koutarou’s matches, in awe of the sheer power that was Koutarou’s serve, Koutarou’s return, Koutarou’s overhead smash.
No one hit the ball like he did. No one served like he did. No one celebrated like he did, entire body bursting with joy after winning a particularly challenging point.
And, no one sank into the doldrums as he did, after losing a particularly challenging point.
In fact, it was that seesaw of emotions that held Koutarou back from cracking the top 20 in the ATP rankings. When he was riding high, he was unstoppable, but it had been all too easy for Koutarou to get dejected, to let the flow of the match be decided by his emotions.
“He has no resilience.” Koutarou’s coach, Hibarida, said this to Keiji even before Keiji and Koutarou had officially met. “He needs more mental toughness, more ability to withstand the ups and downs of a match.
“It is my hope,” he added, “that doubles—that you—will help him do so.”
Yamiji and Hibarida seemed to think that Keiji’s quiet stoicism—his seemingly unflappable persona, both on and off the court—would make him a good match for Koutarou’s sometimes wild mood swings. At the time, Keiji hadn’t been sure that he agreed.
But to see Bokuto Koutarou in action was to see the sun and the moon and the stars at work. His serve was unrivaled for the time—Keiji had seen videos of Pete Sampras, and he’d watched Roger Federer live on multiple occasions—and Keiji firmly believed Koutarou’s serve, when it was on, to be among those greats of the sport. When he was focused, he could return any serve launched his way. He was quick and agile despite his size, and able to scramble across the court, returning shots that would have been impossible for Keiji to get most of the time.
To reconcile the greatness of the player with the grinning man before him had been, in short, quite a fucking experience.
Who would have thought that, with that first meeting, Keiji would embark upon the greatest adventure of his life?
Who would have thought that, the first time Koutarou had grown dejected on the court during a doubles match, Keiji would be able to turn Koutarou’s emotions around by simply ignoring his antics and carrying on with the match as best he could?
Because Koutarou may have been brilliant, and he may have been prone to mood swings, but he also grew restless and genuinely wanted to give 120% on the court.
He also knew just what to say when Keiji found the pressure of the game to be too much.
“You’re overthinking,” he’d say bluntly when Keiji would sit on the sidelines, towel clutched to his face, scenarios and possible routes to victory running through his head. “You can’t overthink tennis, ‘Kaashi. You just have to play.”
How many times had Koutaoru reminded him of this over the years?
You just have to play.
Today, though, he wouldn’t have Koutarou reminding him to relax, and he wouldn’t have Koutarou hoisting him up into a victory hug (or, even better, a victory kiss).
Today Koutarou was his opponent: the first time they’d faced each other on the court, enemies instead of lovers.
Memories of the day Keiji had told his now-husband of his dream rang through his mind with every practice serve he made:
“Are you sure you wanna do this, Keiji?” Koutarou asked him; they were sitting up in bed together, Keiji reading a novel, Koutarou going over some paperwork for his latest contract, this time with Rolex. “It’s been a long time since you’ve participated in a singles tournament.”
“That is true,” Keiji replied, marking the place in his book and closing it, “but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about it for some time.”
“What?!” Koutarou tossed his contract to the floor and tackled Keiji onto the mattress. His eyes were a vibrant gold; Keiji couldn’t help but shiver at their intensity. “Do you not want to play with me anymore, Keiji? Am I not good enough for you?” His voice dropped. “Are you trying to sow your wild oats?”
Keiji had burst out laughing, his entire body shaking in response. “I promise you, my darling,” he replied, still giggling, “you are all the wild oats that I need.”
“Then why?” Koutarou wondered, and he seemed so dejected that Keiji had to soothe his pout with a kiss.
“Because,” Keiji replied, breathless as Koutarou took the kiss as his cue to begin kissing down the column of Keiji’s throat, “I want to know what it’s like to stand on the other side of the court from you, to meet you one-on-one, to compete against you, just once.”
“But why?” Koutarou insisted, still frowning.
Keiji tugged him back for a deep kiss. “Because,” he whispered, “you’re the best in the world, and I want to know how it feels to play the best.”
Now, on Center Court at Wimbledon, the center grass loose and slipping a little under Keiji’s feet as he warmed up, he finally had his chance.
Across the court, Koutarou was taking practice shots as well, warming up his serve and taking some swings in between. They’d warmed up together not even an hour before, laughing and joking and stealing kisses as they switched sides of the court. But now, Keiji could see that Koutarou’s entire demeanor had shifted; no longer was he Keiji’s fun-loving husband, the one who cried over life insurance commercials and always insisted on taking Keiji to the best and most exciting places on earth for honeymoon after honeymoon.
Koutarou’s easy laugh and brilliant smile had been replaced by a fierce, intense glare. His body was loose, but every movement he made was laser-sharp and beyond precise. It wasn’t his usual doubles demeanor: that one was intense, but with a softness and an affection reserved for Keiji as they talked out different plays. Doubles player Bokuto Koutarou might have played with ferocity, but he always had a gentleness to him that he showed his husband/partner alone.
Today when Keiji met Koutarou’s gaze, he didn’t see the same softness he’d grown used to over the years. However, he didn’t see the intensity reserved for the top players in the world, either.
Instead, Keiji saw a wan smile—one that held a tinge of regret, as if he had already decided the outcome of the match, and was ready to console Keiji for his loss.
I told you, that smile said.
Keiji steeled his resolve. If he lost to Koutarou today, it most definitely wouldn’t be because his husband felt sorry for him.
“One minute,” the referee said, and Keiji finished his last swing before heading over to the seats. He sat down and put the towel over his head, bowing as he clasped his hands over his lap as though in prayer. He liked to have a moment to himself before the start of a match, and today was no different. He needed the time alone to relax, to remove himself from the situation, to stop the overthinking before it could start.
He needed to be on top of his game today—no. He needed to play the game of his life.
He wanted to show Koutarou—to show the world—how far he had come.
“Hey, Keiji?” Koutarou’s voice from above him grabbed Keiji’s attention. He released his hands and removed the towel, looking up into his husband’s expectant face.
Keiji inhaled. He couldn’t allow Koutarou’s emotions to get the best of him: not now, and definitely not at any point during the match. “Yes, Koutarou?” he replied, voice careful and schooled. “What can I do for you?”
As expected, Keiji’s neutrality caused Koutarou’s face to fall. “I—I just wanted to say,” he stammered, clearly not expecting Keiji to be so cool towards him, “good luck today, baby. That—that’s all.”
Keiji couldn’t help it; the affectionate epithet made him smile. “Thank you, Kou,” he whispered. “Good luck to you today, too.”
“Guess we’ll settle once and for all who’s the best, yeah?” Koutarou said, forcing out a laugh.
Keiji laughed softly. “Yeah,” he replied, “I guess that we will.”
“The first set is about to begin,” the referee announced. “Mr. Keiji Akaashi will serve.”
Keiji got to his feet. He saw Koutarou’s frown and his furrowed brow; already he was slipping away.
This won’t do.
Keiji offered a small smile. “I’m going to knock you flat with my serve, darling,” he said, knocking against Koutarou’s beefy shoulder with a wink. “Just you wait and see.”
Koutarou barked out a laugh. “I can’t wait to see it, Keiji!” he shouted, mood already lighter. “Give me all you got today!”
Keiji’s smile grew wider. “I certainly intend to,” he said, and proceeded to his side of the court.
The ball boy tossed him two balls; Keiji tucked one away in his pocket and held the other in his hand. He felt the roughness of the surface, scratching against his fingertips. He felt the grass, felt his shoes gripping the surface. And, he felt the weight of his racket, the handle smooth and cool in his grip.
Keiji bounced the ball—once, twice, three times. He caught it in his palm, then looked across the court.
There, grinning at him, lowered in his return position, was his husband. His eyes sparkled, daring Keiji to make good on his threat to knock him flat with his serve.
Keiji nodded once; Koutarou’s smile faded, replaced by his game face, fervent and fierce.
Keiji tossed the ball into the air, and threw himself forward, giving all that he had into his serve.
The ball launched off his racket and soared over the net. It landed in; Koutarou grunted, bringing both hands back to receive the ball. It rebounded with lightning-quick force; Keiji had to scramble to get to the ball, just barely able to return it over the net. He got to his feet and scurried back, hands on the racket, watching his husband with intense focus.
Koutarou was ready. He charged, shooting it back over the net, and Keiji saw his chance:
A lob, clean and right over Koutarou’s head, out of reach of his leaping racket hand, landing neatly in the far corner of the court.
“Fifteen-love,” the referee intoned.
The crowd erupted; Keiji allowed himself one little smile before trotting back to serve again. The ball boy tossed him the ball; he could feel the second one in his pocket, digging into his side, a reminder not to miss.
He cast a glance across the court. Koutarou stood at the far corner, racket clutched between his massive hands, a huge grin on his face.
Bring it, he mouthed, and Keiji smiled back.
He bounced the ball again—three times, as was his custom. He tossed the ball in the air again, and served.
It was a fierce battle. Koutarou might have been in the top five tennis players in the world, but Keiji knew him. He knew his stances, his tells. He knew which direction Kou would send a ball; he knew when his husband was going to try and trick him.
He knew every centimeter of the body across the court.
He just had to try and keep up.
Keiji took the first game; Koutarou the second. His husband’s serve was incredible: regularly over 230 km/h, sometimes as high as 250. It was all Keiji could do to receive it, and more often than not, he had to scramble to get back into position. Koutarou’s receives were as dazzling as his serves: two-handed, zipping across court or down the line. Keiji was a master of the short game, but when Koutarou kept sending shots all over the court, out of Keiji’s reach, how was he supposed to show that to the world?
Still, Keiji managed to keep up. His observation skills allowed him to predict most of Koutarou’s serves; even when they were right down the middle, Keiji got a racket on them, his footwork keeping him upright and preparing him for what came next.
Back and forth they went; Keiji’s break in the fifth game brought him ahead, 3-2. The crowd roared its approval; they all knew what was at stake for the couple.
For Koutarou, a trip to the quarterfinals and a chance to keep his hopes of a Grand Slam alive.
For Keiji, the glory of beating his doubles partner, his husband, one of the best in the world.
At 5-3, Keiji had the chance to serve out the first set. He looked around Center Court, taking in the sights and the sounds. He saw the referee leaning forward in his seat; he saw the ball boys, poised and ready to collect any errant serves. He saw the silhouettes of people, shimmering in the late afternoon London sun, their voices carrying on the breeze.
And, he saw his husband, standing at the other end of the court, a broad smile on his face, one that conveyed his pride in Keiji… and his desire to destroy him.
Keiji couldn’t help it. He laughed; Koutarou stared at him, golden eyes clearly delighted by the course of the match.
This is it, Keiji thought, bouncing the ball his customary three times. I can take the first set. I can do it.
He tossed the ball, and served.
Koutarou received it with the force of a man possessed: his grunt, the way his eyes flashed when the racket made contact with the ball, made it clear to Keiji that Koutarou was just getting warmed up.
Maybe Keiji was, too.
He let out a similar grunt as he sent the ball back across the court. Keiji watched it land in the back right corner, then charged the net.
This was it: a chance to set the pace for the game, to show that he, Akaashi Keiji, doubles and grass court specialist, could take a set from Bokuto Koutarou.
Koutarou read him perfectly; his line shot took Keiji off guard, and he dove for it, barely able to make the return.
Keiji could feel the joy radiating off his husband at having beaten Keiji; Keiji got his feet under him, just in time to see Koutarou hit a lob, presumably over Keiji’s head.
Keiji scrambled, his feet slipping a bit on the grass. He had to get to it; he had to move a little faster, a little faster, a little…
He leapt, his racket straining. The ball hit it, and he slammed it down with all he had.
The ball shot down, over the net, into Kou’s court, so hard it bounced up, out of Koutarou’s reach, and into the stands.
The silence was deafening. Then:
“Fifteen-love.”
And the crowd went crazy.
Keiji stood there, hunched over, hands pressed to his knees, chest heaving. That shot had taken everything he had to first, get to it, and second, to get it over the net. The adrenaline in the moment was wearing off, and he needed a moment to recover.
Then he glanced across the court; his husband stood there, applauding, hand clapping the webbing of his racket. His eyes gleamed; his smile could have rivaled the sun.
“Way to go, Keiji!” he shouted. “That was incredible!”
Keiji let out a long sigh, then stood up. He let out a shaky laugh and pointed his racket at Koutarou.
“The first set is mine, Kou!” he called.
“Is that so?” Koutarou’s grin curled into a smirk. “We’ll see about that, baby!”
Their gazes locked; there was a moment where, like when they played side-by-side, like when Koutarou hovered over him in the bedroom, Keiji could right into the depths of his husband’s soul. There was a fire there, one that burned brightly and fiercely and never failed to both put the fear of god into their opponents and to turn Keiji on.
Keiji was surprised to find that in this case, for him, both things were true.
He was terrified.
He was also very turned on.
He swallowed his fear, pushed aside any desire he might feel for his husband (for now). He was close, so close to taking the first set.
“Yes, Kou,” he shouted. “We definitely will!”
The crowd cheered, loving the banter and demanding more. But Keiji and Koutarou both turned and trotted back to their places: Keiji ready to serve, Koutarou ready to receive.
The game went to deuce… three times. Each time one of them scored, the other would respond. Keiji was starting to sag; his physical conditioning was excellent, but it was nearly impossible to contend with the firebrand across from him that was his husband. Koutarou was trained to cover the entirety of the court; by the time Keiji sent a wicked cross-shot past a diving Kou to win the set, he wanted to follow the ball right to the ground.
“First set, Mr. Akaashi,” the referee said, and Keiji let out a long sigh, his limbs trembling from the effort.
The crowd cheered; Keiji waved his racket in appreciation, then went back to his seat and threw the towel over his head, trying to slow his breathing.
It was going to be impossible to keep up this pace. Already he felt close to his limit: every shot, every serve, felt more and more labored.
But he’d taken the first set. He only needed two more to win.
Would that be enough to propel him forward?
A rough hand fell on his shoulder. Keiji removed the towel and looked up to see Koutarou staring down at him.
Gone was the teasing grin he’d worn through most of the first set. It had been replaced by the grim, intense gaze he wore when he was down in a match. Keiji shivered; this was his husband before him, but also… it decidedly was not.
“Good set, Keiji,” Koutarou said gruffly.
“Th-thank you, Kou,” Keiji answered. He was surprised; normally Koutarou didn’t congratulate his opponents. Was it because they were partners?
Koutarou removed his hand; Keiji immediately missed its weight. “You were better than I expected.” He grinned, his face lighting up, and Keiji nearly sighed with relief, because there was his husband again. “Guess I’ll have to kick it up a notch.”
“Yes,” Keiji said, smiling a little in response, “I guess that you will.”
As they took their positions, Keiji couldn’t help but admire his husband: tall and muscular, his white shirt clinging to his broad chest, skin glistening in the late afternoon sun…
The ball boy tossed Koutarou two balls; he was serving first in the second set. Keiji watched, breathless, as his husband tossed the ball into the air—gods, his form was perfect—
Focus, Keiji! That’s coming for you!
The ball rocketed across the court; Keiji had been distracted, though, and dove for the ball a second too late.
A service ace for Koutarou! The crowd bellowed its admiration; Keiji looked behind him at the serve display.
250 km/h.
Keiji let out a breath. One of the fastest serves Koutarou had put up all day. There was no way he could catch up!
If his husband kept serving like that, Keiji was going to lose.
No. There had to be a way! He could do this. He could.
The next serve seemed even faster, but Keiji had a read on the direction before the ball left Koutarou’s fingertips. Desperately, Keiji threw himself towards the corner of the court; his racket made contact, and the ball zipped over the net into Koutarou’s part of the court.
He nearly sighed with relief, but he couldn’t afford the time. Koutarou had already reached Keiji’s receive and, feet planted, was preparing to send it back across the court. Keiji got his legs under him as quickly as he could, but he predicted wrong: Koutarou’s shot went wide, cross-court, into the far corner. Keiji lunged, late and weak on his legs, body going one way and ankles going the other.
He was going to lose this match. That was the moment he was sure.
Normally, this was also the moment that Keiji’s competitive fire burned brighter. He always wanted to win, no matter the cost, no matter how tired he was or how badly his body hurt. He always wanted to be the one standing on the top of the podium, Koutarou by his side, their fingers touching as they raised the trophy over their heads. This was the moment he would dig deep, find the courage and strength to go on. Because he and Koutarou always won, always found a way to win.
But Koutarou wasn’t by his side. Koutarou was on the other side of the court.
And Keiji kept getting lost in watching the beauty of his husband’s play: the exquisite precision of his serves, the power of his receives, the way his tongue would stick out when he lined up a cross-shot, the way his eyebrows furrowed for a line shot. The more they played, the more Keiji forgot he was supposed to be keeping up, missing a shot because Koutarou’s arms flexed in a way that reminded Keiji of the bedroom, or because Koutarou’s swing brought a shuddering cry of admiration to Keiji’s lips.
In the end, it wasn’t much of a competition, at all. But Keiji couldn’t bring himself to care.
What a joy it was to be able to play his husband on this court, in this venue. To stand across from him and give it all he had, to know the glory of beating Koutarou in a long rally, to hear his laugh when Keiji bested him with a precisely landed lob.
As they crossed the court to meet at the net after the final point, Keiji saw that Koutarou’s eyes were narrowed with concern. Maybe it was because Keiji was gasping for air a bit (he definitely would need that rescue inhaler when he got to the locker room), or maybe it was because Koutarou could see the tremble in Keiji’s legs as he staggered forward.
All the pain, all the exhaustion, though, were worth it when Keiji thought about the fact that he had played Bokuto Koutarou—his partner, his husband—at Wimbledon, on Center Court, and that, for at least two sets, Keiji had more than held his own.
That, to him, was everything.
“I lost!” Keiji exclaimed when they met in the middle. He let out a wild laugh, one that startled his husband, who jumped as a guffaw escaped Keiji’s lips. “Kou, I lost!”
And just like that, Koutarou’s face went from worried to elated. “You sure did, Keiji!” he shouted. “That was the best loss ever!”
Keiji beamed, all the exhaustion and pain leeching from his limbs. “You really think so?”
“Hell yeah I do!” Koutarou grinned. “I’ve never seen anyone keep up with my returns like you did!”
“Really?” Hope soared in his heart. “I kept up?”
Koutarou reached out and took Keiji’s hands. “I’ve never had an opponent like you, baby,” he said seriously. “I still think you were crazy for wanting to do this, but now I think I understand why you wanted to a little bit better.”
Keiji felt a blush creep over his cheeks. “I just wanted to know what it was like to play you in a real match,” he murmured, “and now, I do.”
Koutarou leaned forward; it was wholly inappropriate for a match, but Keiji was too tired to care. He leaned in and met his husband’s lips over the net. Koutarou’s mouth was soft and warm; somewhere in the distance, he could hear the boisterous cheers of the crowd, but everything was drowned out except for the taste and the feel of Koutarou’s lips on his.
“And now you do,” Koutarou murmured. “I hope that we can go back to being partners, and I never have to face you again.”
“Is that so?” Keiji whispered against his lips. “Why is that?”
Koutarou groaned. “Because you’re a great player, Keiji! It was scary playing you! If you work on your stamina a bit more, you could totally beat me someday!”
Keiji smiled. “Is that the only reason, Kou?”
Koutarou blushed. “You’re also really sexy when you’re facing me, baby,” he said sheepishly. “How can I play my hardest when I’m imagining you all hot and sweaty and under me?”
In spite of himself, Keiji laughed. “Well,” he said, walking to the end of the net and beckoning his husband to follow him, “I think we could both do with a little post-game cooldown, don’t you?” When Koutarou reached him, Keiji couldn’t help it: he ran his hands up and down his husband’s arms, enjoying the feel of Kou’s hot, slick, powerful biceps and forearms. “I’d like to give you a massage, darling,” he whispered, “and perhaps you could give me one, too.”
Koutarou’s golden eyes darkened. “I don’t want to ever play you in anything other than practice ever again,” he said huskily. “You’re the only partner I’ll ever want, Keiji, and I prefer to have you here, next to me, on and off the court, than anywhere else.”
Keiji hummed and slipped his arms around his husband’s neck. “I know what you mean, my love,” he whispered, tilting his head up for another kiss, “and as much as I loved playing you in a match, especially here on Center Court… I want nothing more than to be your partner, on and off the court, every day, for the rest of our lives.”