Chapter Text
To celebrate, Akaashi makes Bokuto’s favourite yakiniku, producing a small portable grill from somewhere and grilling the richly-marinated meat in front of Bokuto.
It feels weird to be eating while Akaashi serves him – the man declines to join him and Bokuto doesn’t push – but it’s made less weird by Akaashi’s using the time to discuss strategy.
“I think,” he says, as he turns over some tripe with his chopsticks, “that you should consider hosting a social event for the executives in your company.”
Bokuto blinks. “You want me to have a cocktail party?”
“Well. Some sort of event to build stronger relationships between the different portfolios. As I understand it you have an acceptable personal relationship with some of the executives but not all, and that doesn’t extend far into your work. Your portfolio is relatively siloed, and while that hasn’t been an issue to date it’s always helpful to have stronger ties to departments like strategic planning and finance.”
Bokuto grimaces, picking at a strip of tenderloin.
“Bokuto-sama?”
“Eh, it’s just Iida from Finance. He hates my guts ‘cause I got in on celebrity and he got in with a Master’s from Toudai. Every success I have seems to piss him off.”
“All the more reason to take this opportunity to offer an olive branch. Finance is probably the most important department in the company – without their approval you’re stuck, and they can make your life a misery if they choose to. You need to have them on your side.”
Bokuto sighs, head drooping. The idea of buddying up to Iida makes him physically exhausted. “What if I just work real hard and make sure there’s no mistakes in my budgets?” he suggests hopefully.
Akaashi stares back at him, unimpressed. “There will always be discrepancies, Bokuto-sama. I’m here to advance your cause, and I’m telling you you should build this bridge.”
“So serious, Akaashi,” he whines; Akaashi fails to budge, and he crumbles. “Fine, fine. We’ll do it. Pick a date and send invites. Do we need catering or something?”
Akaashi picks some more pieces of meat off the grill and puts them on Bokuto’s plate. “No, I can take care of it.”
“It’ll probably be a late night – you don’t have to stay.”
“It’s for work. I can handle it,” says Akaashi politely. Bokuto nods, and considers the matter closed.
***
The majority of the VPs at Strong Sports are pleased with the invitation. Theirs is a culture that focuses heavily on work and play, with frequent after-hours drinking parties and all-you-can-eat events paid for by their social budget. Private events at executives’ homes are much rarer, and invitations are more prized. Especially to the home of a former Olympian. Bokuto attends plenty of the parties, but he’s never hosted one before. He would have considered his home too casual. That’s a problem Akaashi has solved, however.
He sees Iida in the executive break room pouring himself some coffee the day before the party. The CFO glances at him and nods. “Bokuto-kun. I understand you’re hosting an event.”
“Yep,” says Bokuto, projecting energy he doesn’t feel. “My place, drinks tomorrow. You coming, Iida-san?”
“How could I refuse?” says Iida sardonically.
“Great. We can let our hair down.” He can feel the skin crawling on his back, tries to focus on smiling. Iida gives him a reptilian smile in return.
“Won’t that be fun?” The coffee pot starts gurgling as he finishes filling his mug. “Oh, apologies, looks like there’s no more left.” He steps away and walks out, past Bokuto. Bokuto turns his eyes skyward for a moment, then goes to look for one of the staff to make some more coffee.
***
He comes home a little early on the day of the party to help Akaashi prepare for the event starting at seven. Unsurprisingly, though, everything’s already prepared. The house is spotless, floor shining and furniture looking brand-new. There are champaign glasses, cocktail glasses and tumblers ready on the counter, there are bottles of champaign and wine and shochu and a pitcher of margaritas. The island is covered with plates of appetizers, some Japanese and some western, all of them hand-made and looking delicious. Akaashi is putting out coasters and little stacks of cocktail napkins when Bokuto gets home.
“Akaashi! This is amazing – holy crap, these look super delicious,” he says, poking his head into the kitchen.
“Please don’t eat anything, Bokuto-sama. If you want some food there’s left-over curry in the fridge.”
“Yeah, yeah, I won’t mess up the appies. Can I help?”
Akaashi for once looks a little harried. He’s wearing a slightly nicer suit than usual, better fitted and with satin lapels – a formal waiting outfit. He’s got a white apron on over it. “No, thank you. If you could just…” he pauses, considering. Bokuto smiles.
“Stay out of your way?”
Akaashi’s lips twitch upwards. “Yes, please. I put out your suit in the bedroom.”
Bokuto looks down at the one he’s wearing now, a dark brown with pale yellow stripe to match his eyes. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“It’s a little dull. This is a celebration, a light-hearted event. You should look your most… charming.” He stutters momentarily before the final word, blushing a little.
Bokuto puffs up his chest theatrically. “Eh, you can compliment me anytime, Akaashi – I don’t mind.”
Akaashi looks momentarily off-kilter, so Bokuto grins. “Don’t worry about it – it won’t go to my head. Too much air there already! Ha ha!” He heads out for his bedroom, trying to ignore the way his heart started beating faster at the sight of Akaashi’s blushing face.
In the bedroom he finds a suit he hasn’t seen before. It’s light grey, the material with a slight sheen to it. The lines are a bit heavier than Akaashi’s suits – Bokuto’s got too much bulk to look good in slim lines – and they emphasize Bokuto’s size and strength. The shirt is black, freshly-pressed, the cotton soft. Beside it is a silver tie, the embellishments sable and gold diamonds. Fukurodani colours. Bokuto runs a hand over the jacket of the suit; it’s soft, smooth. He wonders what Akaashi was thinking about when he ordered this, wondered if he gave even a second’s thought to how hot Bokuto would look in it.
He sighs and pulls the suit off the rack. Time to get changed.
***
The guests start arriving at seven, most having taken public transit or cabs in the full expectation of a long evening of drinking. Akaashi greets them at the door and shows them around the house – it’s a loose gathering, some in the kitchen trying the appetisers and admiring Bokuto’s backsplash, others in the den or the dining room in small groups chatting. The alcohol flows freely, Akaashi seemingly everywhere at once with glasses and tumblers, serving and refilling.
Bokuto’s in his element – mingling with great stories from his days on the Men’s Volleyball Team. Although they’re all businessmen most of Strong Stuff’s VPs do have an active interest in sports, and Bokuto’s got a rolodex of funny, improbable, and heartwarming stories. He tells Sunawara about the time the Jackals came back from losing the first two sets of a five-set match by more than eight points; he tells Muramata about seeing the Olympic figure-skating team drink the basketball team under the table; he tells Tanaka about the time someone made a video collage of every time Kageyama’s eye twitched on court.
Bokuto himself limits his drinking, aware of Akaashi’s stern gaze and his mandate to be making friends and impressing people. He chats about his plans for Welcome Home Japan, he chats about the products from the R&D team and about the new magazine splashes from Publicity, lavishing praise and the perspective of an athlete. He charms the head of Strategic Planning with a story about how on his first day to work he was so impressed by her handling of a difficult situation in the break room and the tact and skill she displayed.
By ten-thirty he knows the night is a success. Everyone’s in a good mood, everyone’s laughing and gossiping and telling old stories in small groups. A couple of VPs are half-passed out on the sofa, a baseball game on TV on mute across from them. Kinodani from HR keeps bringing more and more plates of appies out and wolfing them down. Iida sits on a chair, sometimes talking, sometimes on his own, steadily downing shochu under a thin veneer of pleasantness.
People start trickling out around midnight, calling cabs or heading to the nearest subway station. Akaashi, still looking fresh as a daisy, his suit crisp and his gloves white, coordinates departures. Bokuto finds himself in slowly shrinking circles of conversation, until it’s just him and Muramata from R&D talking about some dumb ad campaign from Bokuto’s childhood. They end it with hoots of laughter, Muramata so drunk he can hardly stand. Bokuto starts casually escorting him to the door. When he gets there he finds Akaashi is absent, so he calls a cab himself while the other VP struggles to put his shoes back on.
Outside it’s frigid, December in Tokyo damp and chill. The cab arrives and Bokuto puts Muramata into it, waving while it pulls away. He goes back inside, shivering, and shuts the door.
For a moment the house is silent. That’s it, party over. He succeeded in promoting himself, he succeeded in pulling their leadership team together for an evening that reminded everyone he’s not just a dumb lug with a gold metal.
Then he looks down and sees a foreign pair of shoes. Bokuto frowns. And, from deeper inside the house, comes the sound of raised voices.
“Cnn’t even show shome shame,” someone’s shouting drunkenly. “Nnno, shuch a show-off, so – so – so bold! Who’re you, even? Jus’ some shtupid, brainless, muscle-heap. No smarts, nnno thoughts.”
“Iida-san, please, you should go.” Akaashi’s voice, just audible.
“G’ddammit, you don’t deserve this – this job and this house. Shameless moron!”
Bokuto, walking quickly, makes it to the doorway of the den to see Iida on his feet with an empty cut-glass tumbler in his hand. Akaashi’s a few meters away, hands outstretched, face anxious. Iida’s not looking at him, though. He’s looking across the room at the framed pamphlet from the Men’s Volleyball Olympic team. In a flash he raises his hand to throw his glass, and Akaashi moves – not to stop Iida, but to stand in front of the pamphlet.
Bokuto’s running but he’s not fast enough – Iida throws, Akaashi flinches, and the glass glances off his temple and shatters on the floor. Iida, thrown off-balance by the motion, falls cursing on his ass. Akaashi stumbles backwards, hand to his head. He hits the wall with a thump; beside him the picture shakes and falls, glass cracking as it hits the ground.
Bokuto changes his course without thought, ignoring the cursing, stuttering VP of Finance and going to Akaashi. “Akaashi. Show me.” He reaches out and catches hold of Akaashi’s head, his hands gentle, fingers cradling the back of the man’s skull. He turns him to see the reddening welt on his forehead – no blood. Akaashi’s dark eyes are focused, his pupils reacting to the light behind Bokuto. He stares up into Bokuto’s face, shocked.
Bokuto’s heart is in his mouth, his body whip-tense. “Are you okay? Holy fuck – Akaashi?”
Akaashi tries to pull away and finds the wall right behind him; he takes in a shuddering breath. “Sorry – I’m –” his voice is raw, full of emotion, his thoughts clearly disjointed but the tone strong.
“You idiot – why didn’t you move?” demands Bokuto, his heart racing, his skin afire with fear.
Akaashi glances down at the fallen pamphlet. Slowly he bends and picks it up one-handed, brushing his gloved thumb over the crack in the glass with something more than care – something almost like tenderness.
“Idiot – fool – ingrate,” babbles Iida from behind them. Bokuto turns, suddenly wrathful, and strides over.
“Time to go home, Iida,” he says, grabbing the man under the elbow and pulling him sharply to his feet. Iida stumbles and swears at him but Bokuto’s not listening, his mind firmly on Akaashi. He takes the CFO to the front door. Akaashi follows, the framed pamphlet still in his arms, calling a cab.
Bokuto ushers Iida outside into the cold air, the drunken executive swerving and shivering. Bokuto stands, arms crossed, cold and silent until the cab comes and Iida gets in. He doesn’t bother to watch them leave.
He turns to find Akaashi on the doorstep, waiting for him in the warm glow of the house. Bokuto pushes him inside in front of him and shuts the door, locking it. “Come with me,” he says; Akaashi follows.
He takes him into the kitchen – bright and comforting, their space. Pulls an ice pack from the freezer and points at the stool. Akaashi sits, mute, while Bokuto wraps the ice pack in a kitchen towel and hands it to him. Akaashi trades the framed pamphlet for it.
“I’m sorry,” says Akaashi, again. Bokuto frowns. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I – replacing this would have been easier than dealing with Iida-san now. I know that.” He lowers his head.
“First,” says Bokuto, parking his anger momentarily, “are you okay?”
Akaashi nods. “It didn’t hit me that hard. Just a little bruised.”
“Okay. If you know it’s not important, why did you step in front?” Bokuto pulls the other stool over and sits, the two of them and the litter of the party – dirty glasses and plates covered in crumbs and balled-up napkins. “It’s just a thing, Akaashi – doesn’t matter that it’s mine, my stuff isn’t more important than you. Even you can’t believe that.”
“It’s not – yours,” he says, voice quiet but intense. He looks up, his eyes bright. “It’s mine, Bokuto-sama. I didn’t get it off eBay. I got it when it came out, when you were on the team. I’ve been a fan of yours since high school. That pamphlet… it’s important to me. Getting to share it with you felt right.”
Bokuto stares, genuinely taken aback. The idea that Akaashi’s been following his career for years, watching him on TV, maybe even in the stands is fascinating, exciting. “Wait – but – dude! Akaashi! Why didn’t you say something? We could totally have bonded over this! We’d have so much to talk about!”
Akaashi smiles, tiny and fragile. “Don’t you think it would be weird having your hired help be someone who’s followed your career since you were 15? I do. And…” Now he looks away, eyes falling. Bokuto’s not sure, but he thinks there’s more colour in his cheeks.
“And?” he asks, tentatively. He feels an undercurrent of strong emotion, of anxiety laced with something else. If it weren’t Akaashi, Akaashi who’s resolutely rebuffed him, he would think it was interest.
Akaashi speaks slowly, his words picked carefully. “And your father knew that my former boss tried to pick me up. I think he believed me that it wasn’t my choice, but he also was mistrustful. He made it clear that a condition of my employment was that there could never be a relationship with you. I guess you must know more about your father’s views than I do, but I don’t think he approves of your – our – orientation.”
Bokuto feels like he’s swallowed a mouthful of soap flakes, like they’re foaming up inside him, filling him full to bursting with bright buoyant bubbles of hope and anxiety. “Akaashi. Akaashi – look at me.” He waits until he does, Akaashi tilting his chin up again, nervous for the first time that Bokuto has ever seen. He’s so handsome, his face so clean-cut and his eyes full of intelligence and, now, softness. “I told you the day you started, my dad doesn’t employ you, he doesn’t set the rules. I do. I don’t give a rat’s ass what conditions he put on hiring you, or about his approval. If you’re not into me that’s totally cool. No pressure, no expectation. But if you are…” he pauses, swallows, his throat suddenly desert-dry and the spittle razor-sharp. “If you are, I’d like that. A lot.”
“I…”
“You don’t have to have an answer,” says Bokuto hastily, suddenly nervous. Akaashi’s staring at him with big, uncertain eyes and the idea that he might say yes is suddenly almost as scary as the idea he might say no. “Why don’t I get you some water and an aspirin. Does your head hurt? Sorry Akaashi – maybe you should be lying down, or –” he hops off the stool and makes to reach for a glass from the cupboard. He’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder, long, strong fingers pulling him around.
Akaashi’s standing in front of him, ice pack on the counter now and his forehead a little damp and a little pale where it was pressed, and Bokuto doesn’t know why he’s focusing on these details because Akaashi’s leaning in, those severe lips parted, and –
The kiss is soft, careful. Bokuto freezes for a moment, afraid that if he moves he’ll break something. But then Akaashi’s relaxing against him, his body flush to Bokuto’s, and Bokuto presses forwards and fits them together. Akaashi’s shorter and slimmer, he fits perfectly against Bokuto and when he tilts his head up to keep kissing him something in that surrender makes Bokuto’s knees weak. He moans, surprised, and Akaashi breaks away and laughs – laughs.
Bokuto’s heart hurts, it feels so good to hear him laugh. He wraps his arms around Akaashi and holds him, laughing softly back. “Akaashi – Akaashi,” he says it just to hear it, his voice breathless.
“Yes, Bokuto-sama?”
“Stay with me?”
Akaashi presses his face against Bokuto’s neck, his breath hot down his collar. “Of course.”
***
Bokuto’s fantasies of Akaashi, back when he allowed himself them, were mostly centered around the kitchen – imagining himself fucking Akaashi against the island, over the sink, on his hands and knees on the hardwood floor.
When he takes him to bed, though, it’s on his sizeable mattress with Akaashi on his back, sucking in breaths while Bokuto presses kisses against his pale thighs.
Upon entering the bedroom Akaashi had stripped himself without a word, and while Bokuto had felt himself growing hard at the sight of him slowly undoing the buttons of his formal vest and shimmying out of his tight trousers, it was the sight of him pulling his gloves off with his teeth that was really nearly too much. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from catching hold of Akaashi’s hand and slipping those long fingers into his mouth; Akaashi had stared, then smiled and pulled him back onto the bed. And now here they are.
Akaashi’s stronger than the narrow cut of his suit made him out to be, his legs toned and his stomach flat. His prick is sharply curved and deliciously pink, like a sakura bud. Bokuto takes it in his mouth, his stomach hot and tight at the sounds Akaashi makes as he blows him. Akaashi looks unbelievable hedonistic stretched against the white sheets, his head thrown back against the pillow, his eyes heavy-lidded. Those long hands card through Bokuto’s hair, fingers sometimes tensing over his skull when the pleasure peaks, his breath catching.
He's beautiful, really beautiful, and Bokuto pulls his mouth away to tell him so. Akaashi laughs again, more air than sound. “I had no idea you were such a flatterer in bed, Bokuto-sama.”
“Just Bokuto. Or…”
“Or?”
“Koutarou?”
Akaashi sits up and reaches out, pulls him up into an embrace and presses his mouth to Bokuto’s cheekbone. “Koutarou-san, then. Between us,” he says, and rocks his hips. Bokuto gasps as their cocks grind against each other, his body suddenly singing with pleasure. He reacts instinctively, pinning Akaashi to the bed and angling his hips to increase the pressure, breathing hard as he watches Akaashi’s back arch. “Nnh – oh – yes,” Akaashi’s voice is soft but he keeps moving against Bokuto, his arms around Bokuto’s back holding him close while Bokuto thrusts against his hips. “I want – nnh – please –”
“What? What do you want, Akaashi?” He’s grinning through the haze of eroticism, watching Akaashi writhing.
“I want you – to fuck me – fuck – ngh!” His fingers tense against Bokuto’s back, digging into the skin, painful but in a good way. Bokuto’s cock is throbbing at the notion of having him, of taking him.
“You sure? We don’t have to – I can make it good for you,” he says. He changes the angle of their grinding to prove it, Akaashi twitching against him.
“No – that’s – fuck, I want you.”
Bokuto leans down to suck a kiss into his neck while he reaches out to fumble with the bedside table. He finds his lube and the box of condoms, tosses them both on the bed and fumbles to get the cap undone. It snaps off unexpectedly, lube shooting into his palm, slick and wet, and he laughs against Akaashi’s throat. Then he’s reaching down, finding the curve of Akaashi’s ass, his legs parting in expectation in a way that makes Bokuto’s stomach clench.
He finds his entrance and rubs his finger over it for a moment, Akaashi gasping. He waits until he’s ready, then presses in slowly. Akaashi makes a quiet noise – accepting, agreeing – and he slides his finger in all the way to the knuckle. Akaashi twists against him making himself gasp, his head dropping back so that Bokuto can see his eyes are half-closed, his lip caught between his teeth.
Fuck he’s hot. Bokuto starts stroking him, pressing inside of him, opening him. Akaashi’s clinging to him, his legs spread, his breaths coming fast, and it’s all Bokuto can do not to grind his cock against him. He’s hungry, so hungry for this.
He adds a second finger, Akaashi’s mouth tightening momentarily before relaxing, his body moving against Bokuto’s with each breath. They’re finding their rhythm, moving in tandem, Bokuto making him ready and Akaashi opening himself to his touch. He’s never wanted to explore someone else so much, never enjoyed the process of preparation for itself rather than in anticipation of what’s to come. He could finger Akaashi all day, could watch the emotions as they flit across his face forever.
“Fucking hurry up,” gasps Akaashi, and Bokuto laughs just once now, eager. He adds a third finger and Akaashi groans, rutting against Bokuto’s stomach.
Then he’s pulling out, opening the condom with slippery hands and struggling to get it on. Akaashi, making a frustrated sound, takes it from him and puts it on, and his capability and factuality as he runs his hands down Bokuto’s cock is almost enough to make him come. “Fuck, you’re so good,” breathes Bokuto; Akaashi smiles tightly and raises his hips.
They come together smoothly, Bokuto finding his entrance again, his cock fiery and weeping with the wait. He’s too ready, really, too sensitive, and pushing inside Akaashi nearly undoes him. Akaashi’s stiff in his arms, adjusting to his girth, and moving slowly nearly kills Bokuto. He slides in, in, in, until he’s balls deep, buried inside Akaashi and with his mouth at Akaashi’s throat again. “Please,” he moans, begging. Akaashi throws back his head and tightens his arms. His thighs press against Bokuto’s flanks, flat, sweaty, hot.
“Okay,” he whispers. And Bokuto starts moving.
It’s good – it’s better than good – it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Better than his best receive, better than his best spike, better than standing on the podium. Akaashi’s slick and tight and with every thrust he catches his breath with a slight gasp, Bokuto driving him crazy. He’s so responsive, so affected by Bokuto, and all he wants to do is make Akaashi scream for him. He picks up his pace as his own need drives him, slamming in fully, tilting his hips to feel Akaashi fully penetrated. Akaashi’s fingers are digging into his back again, harder now, and he’s panting in Bokuto’s ear “Oh, oh, oh –” soft, shocked sounds.
Then he’s letting go of Bokuto and fumbling between them, catching hold of his prick and stroking himself. He moans loudly and it’s the sound that sends Bokuto over the edge, pounding in as he comes with a shocked cry.
When the haze of the orgasm fades and he relaxes he can feel Akaashi slumping under him, sated. He pulls out and takes a moment to take care of clean-up, then rolls over. He tilts his head down to rest his forehead against Akaashi’s temple. “You’re so good,” he says. “At everything. Y’know, it’s kind of scary, Akaashi.”
Akaashi smiles up at him. “Please don’t worry about it, Koutarou-san.”
***
The next day, Bokuto reports to Tsuruya that Iida threw a glass at his employee. No charges at this time, but Bokuto wants him watched and let go for any further incident. Tsuruya agrees to talk to Iida. He calls Bokuto back a couple of hours later and tells him Iida denies it, but that Tsuruya agrees to a one-strike approach.
“Frankly, Bokuto-kun,” he says, “it doesn’t surprise me. And I could get another VP of Finance more easily than I could replace you.”
Bokuto blinks, surprised. “Um, thank you?” he says.
“You should think better of yourself,” replies Tsuruya, with more kindness than chastisement, and hangs up.
Bokuto goes home that night, bemused, to find Akaashi making stew and rice. There’s a welt on his head, but it’s not immense or, according to Akaashi, very painful. (“I would rather take a beating to discover your feelings,” he had said.
“I’d rather just the feelings and no beating,” Bokuto had replied.)
“That better not all be for just me,” says Bokuto, coming over to where Akaashi’s stirring the stew. He looks up, and he smiles.
“No. It’s for us. I thought I could stay and we could talk. Okay?”
Bokuto presses a kiss to his cheek. “Okay.”
END