Work Text:
“Did I ever leave you?”
“You let me go.”
(- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot)
The ball soars over the net - the serve clean and quick, but Komi manages to intercept it with perfect timing.
Akaashi surveys the field from the corner of his eyes: Konoha is too far back, but both Sarukui and Washio are in a good position - both could surely get past the blockers, but who to choose, who-
His eyes meet Bokuto's, who is already taking a run-up, and the rest of the world falls away. Akaashi breathes. The ball touches his fingers, and he tosses.
Bokuto lunges, his approach bold as he leaps, soars, and the gym falls into a stunned silence as he slams the ball past their opponents’ outstretched arms. The score flips again in Fukurodani's favour - the team explodes in cheers, and Akaashi watches Bokuto stand at the centre of it all, grinning and shouting and shining brilliantly, just like a star.
(“We are the protagonists of the world!”)
In hindsight, Akaashi supposes that is how he fell in love: with each moment stacking gently upon the last, until there was nowhere else left to look but at him.
At twenty-two years old, Akaashi Keiji's life has settled into an unbroken rhythm, smooth and steady as the ticking of the clock he never quite manages to ignore.
Like most days, his morning begins in grey light, his apartment still half-shadowed as he goes through the motions: slipping on his wool coat, adjusting his collar, and heading out the door.
His workday is a mirror image of the one before and then one that will surely come tomorrow - he works long hours and he works hard, editing and typing and attending meetings - some of which he isn’t sure are strictly necessary. He stays at his desk until the office is nearly empty, and then he leaves, making his way to the train station.
He takes the train back and watches the sun set between Tokyo’s towering skyscrapers. Once, this sight had meant something. Once, he’d regularly watched his best friend’s face glued to the train carriage window as he looked out at the orange sky.
Magical, Bokuto called it with an awed smile. Every time, no matter how often he’d seen it.
(“You said the same thing yesterday,” Akaashi had remarked. “I would have assumed you’d get bored of looking.”
“What? Never!” And then, in a sage voice, Bokuto had added, “No sunset is ever the same, Akaashi. Isn’t that really cool?”)
In a way, he’d been right. Back then, every day had been different - despite their routines and schedules, every day had brought something new, filled with exasperation and fondness and laughter. Life with Bokuto had certainly never been boring; he’d gotten them into trouble way too many times for that.
Now, with the light making the world appear like it might just catch fire, Akaashi slips a hand into his coat pocket, and runs his thumb along the deformed metal ring he keeps there. He could think of a thousand words to describe the view, framing the setting sun like a scene from a novel. He could make it sound convincing, with a sense of longing or melancholy, depending on what the writing might be going for. That’s his job, after all, and he’s good at it - even if he wouldn’t mean a single word.
The view outside isn’t that special. It’s just the sun, setting like it did yesterday, like it will tomorrow. There’s no magic in repetition.
Akaashi picks up a few groceries on the way home with a polite greeting to the cashier - the same trip every day, the walk home beneath flickering streetlights painfully familiar.
Every day following the one before, each detail as unchanged as the last, like a story stuck in the same chapter, too predictable to surprise anyone.
Bokuto grabs Akaashi’s hand, tugging him through the arcade, weaving through rows of flashing machines and the clatter of tokens dropping into coin slots.
It’s warm, and people are laughing as they pass by. Over the occasional victory sound from one of the machines, Akaashi thinks he can hear a faint hum which must come from all of the neon lights. It's irritating, but Bokuto is excited - each game catches his attention, making his grin grow wider, his eyes almost seeming to glow beneath the bright lights.
So, of course, Akaashi follows - because it’s Bokuto, and Akaashi never says no, even if he’s not particularly fond of the noise or the crowds.
Besides, when Bokuto’s this happy, there’s no point in arguing. Not that he really wants to. Truth be told, he never quite figured out how to say no to those eyes anyway, no matter what everyone else on their team thinks.
They stop at one of the claw machine first, the kind with small, colourful toys lined up inside. Bokuto enthusiastically shoves tokens into the slot, trying and failing to grab a plushie, the claw swinging and slipping uselessly over the prize with a sound of mechanical failure.
After several attempts, Bokuto pouts, and Akaashi shakes his head with fond exasperation. “We can always just try something else, Bokuto-san,” he offers, and it only takes a heartbeat before Bokuto’s grin returns.
“Yeah!” he declares. “Oh, let’s do that one next!” And before Akaashi can react Bokuto is already grabbing his hand and pulling him along to a game of air hockey.
Bokuto’s wide swings often miss the puck entirely, and even Akaashi has to admit that he would need a lot more practice to be considered good at the game, and in the end, they’re both laughing as they try to keep the puck from slipping past them.
After that, Bokuto tries his hand at basketball, though he ends up missing the hoop more often than not when he attempts to spike the ball rather than throw it. He frowns, he pouts. He tries again - only to end up with similar results - until the game attendant finally looks over with a smile and takes out a small box of consolation prizes from the bottom shelf.
“For your effort,” she says, holding out the box, “please pick one.”
Bokuto rifles through the items with careful consideration until he picks something, eyeing his prize with delight before turning to Akaashi and handing it to him with a grin.
Akaashi looks down, raising an eyebrow at the trinket resting in his palm.
It’s a ring - the adjustable band is made from lightweight metal, barely heavier than plastic, and coloured in a dull grey made to look like tarnished silver. The face of an owl is stamped into the material, its features a little uneven, with two yellow beads for eyes - giving it an odd stare. The rest of the band is covered in clumsy ridges that Akaashi supposes might be feathers, though they look closer to fish scales than plumage.
Despite clearly being poorly made, Bokuto looks at it with a sense of accomplishment, as if it were the most precious thing he’s ever won.
Akaashi raises an eyebrow.
“It’s an owl!” Bokuto declares, voice dripping with pride.
Akaashi glances back at the ring. “Yes, I can see that.” He turns it over between his fingers, the band feeling too light, almost flimsy. “Bokuto-san, I can’t wear this. It’s... tacky.”
“What! You have to! I won this for you, fair and square!” Bokuto says, another pout forming on his face.
“It’s a consolation prize,” Akaashi points out. “Technically, you got it because you didn’t win anything.”
Bokuto sticks his tongue out at him. “I still got it as a prize, so it counts.” He links their arms together, his grin returning. “Just for today? Please?”
Akaashi sighs, but his lips twitch up despite himself. “...Fine. For today.”
“Yes! I knew it, Akaashi, you’re the best!” Bokuto cheers, making a fist in the air like a champion as Akaashi slides the adjustable band onto his thumb.
The ring is, in fact, atrocious. It’s cheap and will likely break sooner rather than later, but when Akaashi gets home that night, he still can’t quite bring himself to throw it away. Instead, he slips it into his coin purse, tucked safely next to his loose change.
He doesn’t tell Bokuto that.
Despite the predictability of it, Akaashi considers his life a good one.
He has a good job. Sure, he would have preferred a different department, but he likes the work, and he gets along with his colleagues. Most of his days are perfectly fine - and it’s not like monotony is a bad thing.
He goes to their monthly get-togethers, and he has a drink with his co-workers, smiles and laughs as they share anecdotes from their work week, and then he goes home and sits in on the couch and reads a book.
He’s trying his hand at writing, too - he’s started various short stories that live in a folder on his laptop, though, to this day, all those stories remain unfinished, because ideas are easier to come by than the time it takes to write them.
Of course, he has his bad days just like everyone else.
There are days where he feels like a passenger in his own body. Where it feels like he’s watching himself going through the motions from the outside, watches the polite smile on his own face that feels wrong somehow, like it’s his default response to everyday life.
There are days when his office isn’t the warm place it usually is - or maybe it’s him that doesn’t quite fit in there. When his colleagues are talking about their spouses or partners or family, and they look at Akaashi expectantly, like they’re waiting for him to nod and agree and tell them all about his own love life, which is non-existent.
On a bad day, Akaashi goes home to an empty apartment and crawls into bed. He clutches a cheap ring in his hand, breathes into his pillow and reminds himself, time and time again, that he isn’t lonely.
Because Akaashi has been in love all but once, and even now, years later, with cities and horizons stretched wide between them, Akaashi loves him still.
The day of Bokuto’s graduation is a beautiful day. It’s sunny and mild - there are still cherry blossoms on the trees, turning Fukurodani Academy into a serene picture of light pink against the blue sky.
Watching Bokuto’s graduation ceremony is very much like reaching the last chapter of a story he had not wanted to end.
He had known, of course, that the ending was inevitable. That every story reaches its final page, and that Bokuto was always meant for bigger things than the Fukurodani volleyball team. But that knowledge does little to soften the pang of seeing Bokuto step forward to accept his diploma, his smile radiant, his laughter ringing through the auditorium.
Akaashi sits in the crowd, his own heart oddly suspended, as if trapped between chapters, while watching Bokuto turn the page to a new volume in his life.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls happily when he spots him later outside the school building. “Let’s take a picture together!”
The arm around his shoulders is a familiar weight, and Akaashi bites down on his lip. Even now, about to leave him, Bokuto is warm against his side, his smile radiant.
There’s a pang in Akaashi’s chest and a lump in his throat, and he’s almost afraid that his teeth on his lip will draw blood from biting down too hard, but he refuses to cry. He will not begrudge him this.
He will not.
Bokuto’s hold on him tightens, and when Akaashi looks at him, Bokuto’s eyes, despite his smile, are wet.
“Damn, ‘Kaashi, don’t look like that,” he says, sniffling. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Akaashi replies. “I’m not looking like anything.”
“You are, though.”
“I promise you, I am not.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Akaashi stops short. Looks at Bokuto again, and there’s a tear gathering in the corner of his eye that threatens to spill. Without thinking, he reaches up to wipe it away, but his hand hovers just over Bokuto’s skin, almost as if afraid to touch.
Bokuto catches his hand. Places it against his cheek and covers it with his own, and then the tear does spill, and Akaashi feels it run along his finger.
“I’ll miss you,” Bokuto repeats, softer this time. “Like, a whole lot. So much. I don’t know what I’ll do without you telling me to study, or not spill my food everywhere. I will wake up every morning and hate going to classes alone, and no one in the world will toss better than you, Akaashi. I’ll miss you everyday.”
“You are being dramatic,” Akaashi says and swallows around the overwhelming feeling in his throat. Bokuto laughs, pulling him in and wrapping his arms around him.
“I’ll call you, and text you though. And we’ll still see each other all the time. I’ll come to all of your matches, I promise!”
I love you, Akaashi thinks. He hasn’t said it - not once - but he feels it with every ounce of his being. I love you. Infinitely. He closes his eyes and rests his head against Bokuto’s shoulder, and what he says is, “I will miss you, too, Bokuto-san. Very much.”
The day of Bokuto’s graduation is a beautiful day.
It’s also the worst day of Akaashi’s life, though he will not admit that - at least, not out loud.
Udai is the newest addition to the group of mangaka that Akaashi works with, and he quickly becomes his favourite.
Though he’s older than Akaashi, he’s the youngest person Akaashi has worked with. He’s inspired, he’s open to critique, and more importantly, he tries to stick to his deadlines - at least, most of the time.
When Udai pitches the idea of creating a volleyball manga series, Akaashi almost chokes on his cup of tea.
“I think it’s a good idea. I used to play volleyball in high school, Akaashi-san, and I’ve been told that you did as well. I mean, there are no better people to work on this than us, right? Oh, you’re really pale. Are you okay, Akaashi-san? …Akaashi-san?”
The first time Akaashi enters the Fukurodani gym in his third year, it is quieter than he remembers.
The sounds are all there - sneakers squeaking against the wooden floor, the dull thud of volleyballs bouncing off arms, the occasional barked instruction and cheering among his teammates.
But in a way, it all feels muted, like a song playing from another room. Akaashi surveys the court, watching his team rally. They’re doing well - Onaga has improved his blocking, and the new additions’ spikes grow sharper with every attempt.
Still -
Still, something feels off.
(Akaashi knows, of course. And so does Onaga. Probably Anahori, too - everyone who knew him from last year knows exactly whose voice is missing.)
Bokuto Koutarou has always been like the centre of the universe - gravitational, pulling everything and everyone toward him. It had been Bokuto who had made practice exciting even when the training was gruelling, who’d turned drills into challenges and matches into stories of triumph.
Without him, Fukurodani would still win games, would still function - as they’d always functioned even on the days Bokuto’s energy was muted.
It’s just that there isn’t any spark to it now. Certainly not within Akaashi.
But his promise to Bokuto had been to look after this team - to take them as far as he could - and his promise to himself had been to make Bokuto proud.
And Akaashi would do his best to honour both.
He straightens his posture and signals for Coach Yamiji to call a time-out when he notices the team slowing down. And when they huddle around him, he speaks to them in the same tone he always has - though perhaps with a touch more authority than before. After all, he’s captain now, and their success depends on his ability to lead.
"Anahori, I think your timing on those quick sets needs adjusting. Let’s go over that again in a bit. Onaga, do you think you can manage to position yourself closer to the middle? It’s-“ he clears his throat. “Washio-san used to say it works better for coverage, and I think we should give it a try.”
Onaga nods, focused, but Akaashi sees the small flicker of uncertainty in Anahori’s eyes. He doesn’t say it, but Akaashi knows what he is thinking - would Bokuto have done it this way?
Akaashi cannot fault him for it. After all, it was never a secret that Anahori admired Bokuto, too.
Unfortunately, that knowledge does little to stop the thought from stinging.
When they pitch the idea of Udai’s new manga series to Akaashi’s supervisor, the response is swift and encouraging.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” she says, her eyes scanning Udai’s concept sketches. “Shifting from something like Zombish to a sports series might be bold, but bold gets attention. This might be just what we need.”
“Exactly!” Udai beams. “And I really think I can bring this to life. Especially with Akaashi-san on board - we both have a volleyball background, and that experience will make it authentic.”
Her brows knit slightly as she thumbs through the sketches. “It’s promising,” she says, tapping a spread featuring rough ideas for the team’s main characters. “But there’s something missing. The characters feel a bit… vague. Shapeless, I suppose. If you can sharpen them up, you’ll have something special.”
“We will,” Akaashi assures her, casting a sideways glance at Udai, who offers a sheepish grin. Her statement echoes exactly what Akaashi had told him only the day before.
She sets the pages down thoughtfully, her pen poised against her chin. “Why not go to a live match?” she suggests, almost offhandedly. “That might help bring those characters into focus.”
Udai straightens in his seat. “That’s a fantastic idea!”
“I don’t think-” Akaashi starts hesitantly. “Surely the tickets would be expensive.”
His supervisor waves the concern away as if it were nothing. “Company expenses. Just submit the bill.”
“And just think of the inspiration, Akaashi-san!” Udai adds eagerly. “It’s been so long - I haven’t seen a live match in ages. Have you?”
Akaashi pauses, caught off guard. “…No,” he admits reluctantly. Not live. He’s watched the MSBY games countless times - every match recorded, every play memorised like lines in a script - but stepping into the arena to see one firsthand has always felt too complicated.
Too close.
“Then it’s settled!” Udai declares, grinning.
“Alright,” his supervisor says with a satisfied nod. “Present me with your updates in the coming weeks. If you can breathe life into these characters, you’re good to go.”
Udai looks absolutely thrilled.
Akaashi, on the other hand, feels the knot in his stomach cinch tighter. The prospect of stepping into that arena - of sitting in those stands and seeing him again - sends a wave of unease rippling through him. His chest feels heavy, his thoughts feel tangled, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders why he ever thought this would be a good idea.
The weight of being captain is heavier than Akaashi anticipated, and he sets his bag by the door before dropping down onto his bed.
He’s trying - he really is - but it’s just not the same. The joy that once filled his chest during practices, the adrenaline at setting up a toss and watching Bokuto soar to meet the ball - he’s not going to have that again.
His phone buzzes on the table, and he sits up to a text from Bokuto.
Hey, hey hey! Akaashi!
Practice today?? How was it?
I just know you’re killing it as captain!! :D
Akaashi stares at the message for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He wishes he could hear Bokuto’s voice. His enthusiasm feels just as warm as it always has, but it’s coming from miles away now, filtered through a screen.
That, too, isn’t the same.
He types back:
It went well. The team is shaping up.
Which isn’t a lie - the team is in good form. It’s also not the whole truth, but he doesn’t know how to say, it’s hard without you or I miss you.
His phone buzzes again almost immediately.
You guys are gonna be great!
Not that I ever doubted you! You’re amazing!!
Keep it up, Akaashi. You’re the best!
Akaashi types back something polite, something easy, because everything else he can think of feels too heavy.
You too, Bokuto-san.
Please don’t focus solely on volleyball. Your studies are just as important.
The sad emoji that Bokuto sends back has him smiling faintly, and he puts the phone face down on the table before reaching for his bag and digging out his coin purse. The coins clink together as he takes out the owl ring, lets it rest in his palm while its yellow eyes stare up at him.
They were nice, those afternoons where they’d visited arcades or gone shopping or ate ramen at the convenience store, talking about nothing and everything and listening to Bokuto complain about his homework. Akaashi probably didn’t appreciate them enough, and now the ring is all he has as a memento.
Akaashi runs a finger over the band, over the ridges portraying feathers, and frowns when he takes a closer look at the surface. It's covered in scratches, probably from rubbing against all the loose change.
Pressing his lips in a thin line, he gets up from the bed and walks over to where the jacket of his school uniform is hung over his chair. He tucks the ring inside the pocket and sighs.
He has a job to do. He’s the captain now. The team needs him.
But in the back of his mind, as he tosses to their new spikers during drills, he can’t help but think about how much he wishes he were tossing to someone else.
To someone who made volleyball feel like magic.
It’s fine, Akaashi tells himself, as he gathers his belongings and tugs his lanyard carefully below his coat. It’s one volleyball match.
He still follows the sport on television - watching it live won’t be that different. It’s not going to rip open any old wounds, just because he’ll be sitting in the stands, hear the squeaking of shoes, the echoing thud of the ball striking the floor, the roar of the crowd.
It won’t make a difference. He’ll just focus on the job.
“Ah, Akaashi-san!” Udai’s voice from the doorway is unexpected - by now, the office is usually empty.
Akaashi glances over his shoulder to see the mangaka striding toward him, a wide grin stretched across his face. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’s been running.
“I’m so glad I caught you!” Udai exclaims, taking a breath before continuing. “I got so excited earlier, I immediately looked up the V.League match schedule!”
“Ah. That’s very thorough of you,” Akaashi says, straightening his chair and pushing it against his desk. “But I could have handled that. Zombish isn’t yet finished, and I’d prefer you focus on the next chapter.”
Udai waves his hand dismissively. “I know, I know. But I got excited. And I think you’re going to be, too. Just hear me out.”
Akaashi pauses. There’s something in Udai’s tone - a spark that usually bodes poorly for Akaashi’s peace of mind.
“Listen,” Udai continues, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You mentioned you used to play for Fukurodani back in high school, right?”
The unease in Akaashi’s chest becomes a tangible thing, pressing down on his lungs. “Yes.” He keeps his voice even, though getting the words out proves to be difficult. “I did.”
“Oh, good!” Udai pulls at a loose thread on his sleeve, his grin widening. “I’m sure you know this better than I do, but I just found out there’s a Fukurodani alumnus playing for the Jackals!”
Akaashi feels the floor tilt beneath him. His chest tightens further, his mind racing. His mouth opens, but he can’t get the sound out - doesn’t even know what to say.
Apparently mistaking his blank expression for confusion, Udai helpfully clarifies, “Oh, sorry - I mean the MSBY Black Jackals, from Osaka.”
“I see,” Akaashi finally replies, the words scraping against his throat. And what he really means is, don’t say his name.
By now, Udai is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yup!” he says brightly. And then, “Bokuto Koutarou!”
The name feels like a blow, sharp and unrelenting, directly to Akaashi’s chest. He’s not sure he’s breathing.
“He plays outside hitter, and he’s actually kind of amazing - like, really amazing. I’ve seen him on TV, and honestly, I think I might be a fan.”
The words keep coming, but Akaashi doesn’t hear them. The name echoes in his mind, each syllable scraping against old scars. Still. Still the name alone has such an impact.
“And guess what?” Udai continues, oblivious. “They’re playing a match this Sunday!”
Akaashi’s immediate reaction is this: No.
A single word, echoing in his mind that Udai doesn’t hear. But he manages a faint nod, his hands gripping the edge of his bag like it might anchor him.
“Ah,” he says, though what he means is, don’t say what I think you’re about to say.
Please, he thinks, don’t.
But Udai is already ploughing ahead. “Yeah! I know you’re free - you’d usually just sit in my entryway waiting for pages anyway, right? This’ll be way more fun!”
“Osaka is pretty far,” Akaashi manages. “There are matches in Tokyo, we could look into those-”
“Don’t worry - I already cleared it with finance and bought two tickets!”
There’s no air left in the room, and Akaashi feels lightheaded, like he’s teetering on the edge of something vast and inevitable. He hears himself murmur a polite response, sees Udai beam at him, but the rest is a blur.
He doesn’t remember the train ride home or the walk to his apartment. He vaguely thinks he skipped his usual trip to the convenience store, though it doesn’t matter.
He isn’t hungry.
By the time he reaches his apartment, his bag slips from his hand and lands somewhere in the hallway. His jacket follows. The television flickers to life out of habit, but the noise is static in his ears as he sinks onto the couch.
His book lies untouched on the coffee table, and Akaashi doesn’t reach for it. His hands rest in his lap, still, as if bracing for impact. There’s a ringing in his ear, but the rest is silent.
It isn’t until his gaze drifts to the screen and catches the bold flash of Bokuto’s jersey - black and gold against a sea of strangers - that the full weight of the situation settles over him.
It’s a recording, one of Bokuto’s first matches with the Jackals. Akaashi had watched it last night, replaying it over and over, for no other purpose than to make himself miserable.
Seeing it again now accomplishes that task just fine. It feels like fate is mocking him.
He presses the power button, plunging the room into darkness, but it doesn’t matter. The image is burned into his mind.
Akaashi leans back, staring at the ceiling. He lets out a breath, as he takes off his glasses, and rubs at his temples. And for the first time since leaving the office, it hits him that there’s no way out of this.
He’s officially run out of reasons to stay away.
They try their best to stay in touch.
Bokuto calls between his classes, between matches, sometimes even late at night when he’s too wired to sleep. His voice is bright and familiar, full of stories about his teammates and his professors, and Akaashi listens patiently, smiling at Bokuto’s tales, the vigor with which he tells them.
But no matter how solid Bokuto must have believed their friendship to be, Akaashi can’t help but notice them - the cracks in their connection, the distance between them growing not just physically, but in spirit as well.
One day, Bokuto calls while Akaashi is in the middle of practice, and Akaashi texts back,
Can’t talk. Will call later.
But then he stops to buy dinner on the way home, and ends up studying for his test, and when ‘later’ finally comes, Bokuto is already asleep.
There’s the time Akaashi sends Bokuto a photo of the team after a hard-earned win, and the reply doesn’t come until that evening:
Congrats!!! You guys are amazing! :D
Sorry, I was at practice!
I wish I could have been there to see it!
The resentment that hits Akaashi is, of course, entirely irrational - he’d known that Bokuto wouldn’t be able to make it - Bokuto had apologised up and down that he would not be able to come, his own frustration at missing it earnest and heartfelt.
Akaashi had known.
But the empty spot in the stands during the game had hurt more than he expected, and even now he doesn’t quite manage to silence that part of him that wants to yell, yes - yes you should have been. You should have been there.
Akaashi doesn’t reply for a long time, and when he does, it’s just,
It’s okay.
But the truth is, it isn’t okay.
He’s not angry at Bokuto, not really. He knows Bokuto is doing what he’s meant to do - chasing bigger dreams, making new friends, growing into the unstoppable force Akaashi always knew he’d become.
He just hates having to watch it happen from a distance.
And he tries to be okay with it, he really does. Tries to fill the void in other ways: he devotes himself to the team, to his studies, to the quiet comfort of books. But nothing quite replaces the sound of Bokuto’s laugh echoing through the gym, or the way he used to sling an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders had felt like belonging.
One night, as Akaashi lies in bed, his phone buzzes.
Hey Akaashi!
Hope you’re doing okay.
I really miss you, you know.
Akaashi stares at the screen, and his throat tightens. He doesn’t tell him that he misses him too, but he does.
Every day, every practice, every quiet moment in between.
The train ride to Osaka is long, and far too crowded for Akaashi’s liking.
He sits in his aisle seat and uses the time to review some of the work sent to him by another mangaka. Udai, meanwhile, is pressed against the window, furiously sketching and scribbling in a notebook balanced precariously on his knees. There are papers stuffed into the space between them - flyers and printed out articles of the Jackals, and occasionally, Udai’s head pops up and he reaches for them, leafing through the pages before going back to whatever he’s currently working on.
“Akaashi-san, for you, what was the most exciting part of the game?” he asks, his eyes glinting. “Like, what was the moment that made you think, ‘this is what I’m doing it for’?”
Akaashi takes a moment to pull the papers out from between them and arranges them in a neat stack. He doesn’t think of Bokuto soaring, about to strike like a bird of prey - doesn’t think about staring at his back, or incandescent eyes or that brilliant smile after each scored point.
(“Your tosses are the best!”)
“I suppose I just liked when a carefully laid out plan worked out. Offering the best sets possible, and then watching my spikers break through a block.”
Udai nods, writing a few words in his notebook. Akaashi sees him circle the word ‘teamwork’ a few times. He reaches into his pocket, fingers tracing the carved metal ring he keeps there.
“I guess I liked that, too,” Udai admits. “You know, getting that perfect set, and knowing - just knowing that my spike would score, y’know?” He laughs. “Okay, and from an outsider’s perspective? Do you think that’s what gets the crowd on its feet?”
“It depends on the crowd,” Akaashi replies, resting his chin in his hand. “Though yes, I suppose a powerful spike will do the trick. A perfectly-timed block could, as well. Or…” He pauses, his eyes drifting to the stack of papers now resting on the little tray in front of him. The magazine on top features the MSBY Black Jackals in a dramatic pose, Bokuto next to Miya Atsumu on the side, his grin wide and confident. Akaashi’s mouth feels dry. “It could just be one player shining in the right moment.”
Udai hums thoughtfully and jots it down. “Like a hero making their grand entrance,” he murmurs. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
Akaashi’s lips press into a thin line. He remembers those times, walking onto the court, Bokuto front and centre, tossing his jacket behind him with careless ease.
Bokuto has always been the one to light up the gym, to carry the momentum of a game with his energy. It has been years since Akaashi has seen him play in person, but there is no doubt in his mind that Bokuto has only come to shine brighter.
(In a way, yes - Bokuto had always been the hero. A protagonist. Akaashi supposes he should be grateful he got a supporting role, even for a little while.)
The echoes and cheers seem distant in the sub-level of the Tokyo City Gymnasium.
Most of his team is probably already getting changed - quietly, the aftermath of their loss. Only Onaga had lingered in the hallway, looking at Akaashi like he wasn’t quite sure whether to approach him, and Akaashi had done his best to smile at him, and tell him he would be there in a minute.
Ah - he’s been here before, hasn’t he? Sitting on that familiar bench, in a familiar hallway, unable to face his team. Only this time, there is no one to clap him on the back or throw an arm around him, and the quiet only seems to mock him further.
He stares at his hands, flexes his fingers. They ache from hours of practice and the strain of the game - but the ache in his chest is worse. This was his final chance. His last tournament as Fukurodani’s captain, and he hadn’t been able to lead them to victory.
He’d promised himself he would get Fukurodani as far as he could get them. To do right by the team Bokuto had loved so much. Instead, they’d fallen in the quarterfinals, outmatched by a team that just had the better plays.
Akaashi had done his best to remain calm through it all – he’d shaken hands with the opposing captain, offered words of comfort to his teammates. But now, in the quiet of the hallway, the weight of their loss settles heavy on his shoulders.
He’d failed, hadn’t he? He’d failed his team, and he’d failed himself, for breaking his promise - both of his promises - and worst of all, he’d failed Bokuto, too.
“Akaashi!”
The voice booms through the corridor, cutting through the silence. Akaashi’s head snaps up just as Bokuto’s head peaks around the corner, and then he’s bounding toward him with the energy of someone who doesn’t know the meaning of exhaustion.
He’s the same as ever - grinning wide, his hair still as unruly as it was a year ago, when he was Fukurodani’s ace. But there’s something different about him, too. He seems… brighter. Happier. Like he’s carrying the sun on his back.
“You were amazing out there!” Bokuto exclaims, stopping just short of throwing his arms around Akaashi. “I was yelling my head off in the stands! Did you hear me?”
Akaashi blinks, startled. “Bokuto-san... you came?”
“Of course I came!” Bokuto says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. And I saw you pull off that insane dump shot. Man, you’ve always been good, but - wow. You’re amazing, Akaashi!”
His praise stings more than it should. Akaashi looks down, unable to meet Bokuto’s gaze. “It wasn’t enough.”
“What do you mean?” Bokuto tilts his head, confused.
“I couldn’t take them to finals. I couldn’t get them further than this,” Akaashi mutters. “I failed them.”
There’s a pause, and then Bokuto drops onto the bench beside him, close enough that their shoulders touch. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now. “You didn’t fail anyone.”
Akaashi shakes his head. “I promised I’d do right by them. By you. I didn't.”
“Akaashi, hey.” Bokuto leans forward, trying to catch Akaashi’s eye. He reaches out and gently tilts his chin up. “Hey,” he says again. “Do you know how proud I am of you? You’ve been leading this team all year, and I could see it, Akaashi - everyone who knows you could. How much they trust you. How much you’ve grown. You didn’t fail. You were incredible.”
Akaashi doesn’t respond right away, but the warmth in Bokuto’s words seeps into the cracks of his resolve. He lets out a breath.
And maybe Bokuto senses it because he brightens again, his grin returning with full force.
“Come on,” Bokuto says, standing and holding out a hand. “You’re not sitting here moping by yourself. I wanna go say hi to the team, and then we should go get something to eat.”
Before Akaashi can refuse, Bokuto grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet.
“Besides,” Bokuto adds with a wink, “I’ve got something to tell you. It’s really cool.”
And just like that, Akaashi finds himself swept up in Bokuto’s energy once more, the knot in his stomach slowly loosening as they leave the quiet corridor behind.
Udai is practically vibrating with excitement when they finally reach the arena, reminding Akaashi of a certain orange-haired crow he’d once known.
The thought of Hinata almost makes him want to smile, even against the nausea rolling in his stomach. Akaashi wonders what became of him.
“This is going to be great! Just imagine all the ideas I’ll get for the manga!” Udai claps Akaashi on the shoulder. “And hey, aren’t some of the Jackals your age? You must have played against them back in High School, right? Maybe you can give me an inside scoop?
“I… Yes, I did.” Akaashi adjusts his collar and follows Udai through the crowd. His stomach twists as they step into the stadium, the roar of the crowd already thunderous. He hasn’t mentioned Bokuto’s name once - not to Udai, not to himself. Not out loud.
Their seats are close enough to the court that Akaashi can see the players warming up. The MSBY Black Jackals are unmistakable in their black and gold jerseys, and Bokuto is easier to spot still - his silver hair catches the arena lights, flashing like a beacon as he moves. He’s grinning as he lifts his hands, clapping in a steady rhythm like a performer on stage rallying the crowd.
The sound reverberates through the arena, infectious and commanding, pulling murmurs into cheers and scattering excitement like sparks in dry air. Bokuto’s grin widens as people join in, as if willing the entire audience to meet him at his level.
Akaashi lets out a slow breath. Bokuto doesn’t look much different from how he remembers him: broad shoulders, gleaming eyes, and that irrepressible grin that seemed to draw people in like moths to a flame.
“Whoa,” Udai exclaims, leaning forward. “Is that Bokuto Koutarou? He’s unreal. No wonder he’s got so many fans.”
Akaashi hums noncommittally, his hands tightening on the strap of his bag.
The match begins, and it’s explosive. The Black Jackals dominate the field early: Miya Atsumu’s setting is flawless, which Akaashi can appreciate even now, even if it does seem a little daring at times - definitely more daring than anything Akaashi ever attempted.
(Save, perhaps, for one particularly inspired backrow set, during a match in Akaashi’s second Spring Tournament - the only time he’s ever done something simply because he’s wanted to try.
When Bokuto had looked at him and wordlessly asked for everything, and Akaashi had wanted to give it to him.)
And perhaps he is a bit biased, but it seems that Bokuto is the heart of their attack - soaring above the net, spiking the ball at impossible angles, whooping with joy as he outsmarts their opponent’s blocks.
Akaashi’s hand finds the owl ring in his pocket. He doesn’t even realise he’s on the edge of his seat until Udai nudges him. “Guess I’m not the only one really into this, huh?”
There’s a sketchbook resting on Udai’s knees that he hasn't touched once since the game started.
“I’m sorry,” Akaashi replies. He forces himself to relax, though his pulse races. He’d forgotten how mesmerizing Bokuto is on the court, how everything about him seems larger than life.
It’s breathtaking. Still. Still.
Akaashi doesn’t think there will ever be a day where his eyes will not be drawn to him, where he will not be left speechless by this impossible man on the field.
The match ends 3 - 0 for the Black Jackals, and the people cheer.
From his seat, Akaashi watches as the players bow to the crowd, grinning victorious despite the exhaustion visible on their faces. Udai stands and applauds, his forgotten notebook clattering to the ground.
“This team is unreal,” Udai yells over the noise. “And Bokuto Koutarou? I mean, even before the game it felt like everyone was watching him. I get it now. He’s the perfect model for a main character.”
Akaashi doesn’t respond. His gaze lingers on the court, on the broad-shouldered figure standing in the middle of the team huddle. Bokuto is all smiles, leaning in like he’s sharing a joke with Miya before he throws his head back and laughs.
The sight tugs at something deep in Akaashi’s chest.
“He hasn’t changed,” he murmurs, quietly. It’s nothing more than thought given sound, and when the mangaka looks at him in question he just shakes his head.
Then, as if struck by thought, Udai turns to Akaashi with wide eyes, hastily stuffing his sketchbook back into his bag. “We have to go down and meet them. Just for a minute. Please, Akaashi-san.”
“No, I don’t think-”
But he is already dragging him down their row and to the stairs, weaving through the throngs of fans. Akaashi tries to pull back, but it’s useless; Udai is determined, and the next thing he knows, they’re standing by the barricades while the players wave at their fans.
Bokuto is leaning over the railing, taking a picture with a group of fans, and before Akaashi can stop him, Udai cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Bokuto-senshu! Bokuto-senshu! Over here!”
Akaashi’s stomach drops, and he hopes - begs, to whatever deity might be listening - that Bokuto will not hear it over the sounds of the crowd.
“Bokuto-senshu!” Udai calls again, louder than Akaashi would have thought possible, and he raises his arm and waves. “Over here!”
Akaashi stands, frozen, as Bokuto turns at the sound, his golden eyes sweeping the crowd. For a split second, Akaashi sends another prayer - that the distance and the crowd will somehow shield him. He takes a step back from the barricade, subtly angling himself away, as though avoiding eye contact will somehow erase him from sight.
But that prayer, too, falls on deaf ears, and then it’s too late: Bokuto’s gaze finds Udai, still waving, and then they flick to the side and land on him.
Akaashi’s breath catches in his throat. He sees the exact moment recognition flickers in his gold-specked eyes, because Bokuto freezes mid-laugh, his expression going almost slack with surprise. His eyebrows lift, and his mouth opens slightly as though to say something - but before the words come, Akaashi turns his head, hoping to slip back into anonymity.
“Oh, he saw us!” He hears Udai’s voice chattering beside him, oblivious, but Akaashi doesn’t listen. The rest of the noise in the arena fades to static, and he just needs to get out, get out now, because coming here was a mistake, and he never meant for Bokuto to actually see them-
But then, clear as day, Bokuto’s voice cuts through the noise - a sound that, despite the years apart, Akaashi would know anywhere, could pick out in any crowd.
“Akaashi!”
Akaashi winces. He stays rooted in place, debating the merits of pretending he hadn’t heard. Maybe if he waits long enough, maybe if he just leaves-
“Don’t go!” Bokuto calls again, louder this time. “Wait right there! Don’t leave!”
It’s impossible to ignore - impossible to deny.
That, too, hasn’t changed.
Akaashi presses his lips into a thin line, slowly turning back. Bokuto is still staring straight at him, his hand raised in an unmistakable gesture to stay put.
“He knows you?” Udai asks, incredulous. “Wait, you know him?”
“Mh,” Akaashi says. It’s meant to sound like an affirmation. It comes out like a wince.
Before he can object further, Bokuto is already moving, jogging toward them despite the other fans calling out to him, vying for his attention. A teammate - Inunaki Shion, Akaashi’s mind supplies numbly - calls after him, but Bokuto waves him off, undeterred.
“Oh look, he’s coming here,” Udai says brightly.
Bokuto doesn’t stop as he approaches, doesn’t even slow down. He reaches for the barricade and, with one smooth motion, vaults over it like it’s nothing. Which, Akaashi supposes, is par for the course with him - he’s never viewed obstacles or limitations as something that could stop him for long.
There’s a grin plastered across his face when he straightens, and he closes the distance between them in a few strides.
“Akaashi!” His voice is a little breathless, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “I knew it was you. I thought - I don’t know. I thought maybe I was seeing things, but… wow. You’re really here.”
“I…” Akaashi’s throat feels tight. He straightens his posture and inclines his head, defaulting to polite professionalism. “It’s been a while, Bokuto-san. Congratulations on the win.”
“Thanks!” Bokuto’s eyes light up, his chest puffing with pride. “But forget the match - what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming!”
“I didn’t…” Akaashi hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you.”
Bokuto’s grin falters for a moment, replaced by a flicker of something almost vulnerable. “Well, I’m really glad you didn’t sneak off,” he says. “Seriously, you have no idea. I mean - wow, it’s been forever! What are you doing here? Are you working nearby, or…?”
“I-“ Akaashi says. “Ah.”
And then, as if sensing his hesitation, Udai steps forward.
“Hi! My name is Udai Tenma,” he greets before Akaashi can answer, words spilling from him in excitement. “I’m a mangaka, and I’m a bit of a volleyball enthusiast - I used to play back in High School. I guess I’m the reason we’re here? Akaashi-san here is my editor. He, uh. He mentioned that he also used to play, so I dragged him along for some inspiration.”
Bokuto blinks, as though startled to notice Udai for the first time. His eyes flicker back to Akaashi. “Because you used to play,” he repeats, voice a bit lower than before. “Right. Used to.”
Akaashi exhales, his lips twitching upward. “It has been a while,” he admits.
Bokuto’s smile returns and he offers a hand to Udai, who eagerly shakes it. “A mangaka, huh? That’s so cool! What are you working on?”
“I’m gathering ideas for my next series, actually. That’s why we came.”
“Ohh,” Bokuto’s eyes go wide. “A volleyball series?”
Udai laughs. “Yes. Hopefully.”
“You know, I don’t know if Akaashi’s ever mentioned me, but you could say I was his ace.” He nods towards Akaashi, his grin widening. “Right, Akaashi?”
Akaashi exhales, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Something like that.”
“Oh wow,” Udai says. “Akaashi-san never mentioned any names, but from the way he spoke - I thought he must have set for someone amazing in high school. So that was you, huh?”
Bokuto’s grin softens. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes finding Akaashi’s. “That was me.”
And for a moment - just a moment, the pressure on Akaashi’s chest eases. The noise of the crowd fades, and it’s just the two of them standing there, as if no time has passed at all. As if they’re back in the Fukurodani gym, at a time when they could understand each other without using any words at all.
Then Miya appears at the barricade.
“Oi, Bokkun!” he calls, waving a hand over his head. “Hurry it up, will ya? We got - oh.” He stops mid-sentence, his sharp eyes flicking to Akaashi with the precision of a setter sizing up an opponent. His gaze narrows in thought, then widens in recognition. “Wait a sec - you’re Fukurodani’s setter!”
Akaashi blinks. “Ah. Yes. Hello, Miya-san.”
“Knew it! I knew I’d seen ya somewhere.” Miya nods to himself, clearly pleased with his memory. Then he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Bokuto. “Still, we gotta go. Dinner plans, remember? The team’s waitin’.”
“I-” Bokuto looks torn. “But it’s Akaashi,” he says, as if his name would mean anything to Miya. “I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“I hear ya, Bokkun-” He pauses, eyes flicking to Akaashi again, then Udai. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Unless...ya wanna bring ‘em along? Meian won’t care.”
“Bring them along?” Bokuto’s eyes light up like he’s just been handed a match-winning set. “That’s brilliant, Tsum-Tsum!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a genius. Now move it.” Atsumu waves them off impatiently.
“Please, Akaashi.” Bokuto turns back to him, leaning in. “You have to come. I haven’t seen you in forever - don’t just disappear again. Meian’s great, I swear - everyone is. And Tsum-Tsum’s right. No one’s gonna mind.”
“Bokuto-san, I don’t think—”
“You’re not imposing! Please!” Bokuto’s voice lowers just slightly, and there’s a sense of urgency there that makes Akaashi’s chest ache. “Just one dinner. For old time’s sake?”
Akaashi’s resolve wavers under the weight of Bokuto’s gaze, the knot in his chest tightening. It’s a battle he already knows he’s lost. His fingers reach for the ring in his pocket again, finding comfort in feeling the carved surface against his skin. He glances at Udai, who is looking back at him with big eyes.
“Fine,” he says at last, sighing. “If your team doesn’t mind, then… yes.”
Bokuto beams, his grin brighter than the arena lights, and Atsumu snorts, already turning back towards the team. “Yer lucky he’s so polite, Bokkun. Now, don’t keep us waitin’, yeah?”
And just like that, Akaashi is swept into the chaos once more.
Bokuto comes along when they go back to Fukurodani. He stays for their post-tournament meeting, quietly waits by the doors as the team bids their goodbye to Akaashi. He waits while they file out, one by one, until there’s no one left but the two of them, and when Akaashi keeps staring at the net, unable to turn around, Bokuto comes up to stand beside him and gently rests his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders.
“Hey,” he says. “Toss to me, Akaashi?”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve outgrown me, Bokuto-san.” The words sting on the way out, and Akaashi doesn’t quite manage to hide the bitter tone.
But Bokuto only laughs - softly, quietly - and pulls him closer. “Never,” he promises. “C’mon, just this once. For old time’s sake.”
So he does. And as it always is with Bokuto - with them - once becomes twice, becomes three times, then four, then five.
Bokuto’s technique, his approach - they may be different now, but it only takes some minor adjustments, and then it’s like no time has passed at all. Akaashi sets, and Bokuto’s hand connects. Bokuto soars, and Akaashi watches.
And this, at least, is still the same: tossing to Bokuto comes as natural to him as breathing.
After Akaashi locks up and turns his back on the Fukurodani gym for the last time, they walk down the same street they used to walk together every day, and they have dinner in a small ramen restaurant that they frequented often in the past.
Over their steaming bowls, Bokuto nudges Akaashi’s shoulder with a smile.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’ve got some news.”
Akaashi glances at him, curious despite himself. “News?”
Bokuto nods. “Yeah! I’m trying out for the MSBY Black Jackals next month!” Bokuto beams. “It’s gonna be tough with school and everything if I make the team, but, you know. I mean, it’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.”
Akaashi stares at him, and for the first time in months, he sees the Bokuto he remembers. The one who could light up a room, who never let anything hold him back. Bokuto is shining, brighter than ever, and Akaashi knows he’ll only get brighter from here.
“I think I can do it,” Bokuto goes on. “No, I know I can do it.”
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says quietly, and isn’t sure how to continue.
“Hm?” Bokuto grins, motioning for Akaashi to go on. “What?”
“Nothing.” Akaashi shakes his head. “I’m just - I’m proud of you, too.”
Bokuto grins, and for a while, they just sit there, talking about everything and nothing. For a while, Akaashi lets himself pretend that nothing has changed.
Bokuto looks so beautiful then, in the lantern-lit restaurant - radiant and happy, and it occurs to Akaashi that, despite his busy schedule, despite the fact that he has the try-out of a lifetime ahead of him and that he should be preparing for that, he’d still made time to come see Fukurodani play at the Spring Tournament.
He’d still made time to see Akaashi.
Akaashi loves him for it. So much. Even after almost a year apart, he loves him still.
But he can’t let this go on.
Because he’s the reason Bokuto is still looking back. Bokuto is still here, keeping a space for Akaashi, keeping the door open. And Akaashi can see it now - how hard it must be for him to balance everything. His studies, his training, his dreams.
Because Bokuto is letting himself pretend, too – is trying to hold on to the past because Akaashi needs him to.
Akaashi doesn’t want to be the one holding him back. But he realises, with a sinking clarity, that he will if he doesn’t let go.
When they eventually part ways that night, Akaashi feels a hollowness so vast within him that he fears it might swallow him whole.
“Hey Akaashi.” Bokuto grins, and he steps in for a hug, his arms coming up around Akaashi and holding him tightly against Bokuto’s chest. “I was so happy to see you again! Let’s not wait this long until we meet next time.”
Akaashi allows himself to breathe in the scent of him one last time, closing his eyes. When Bokuto eventually - reluctantly - pulls back, his hands on Akaashi’s waist linger just a moment longer than they used to. Almost as if he’s sensing that something is wrong - as if he doesn’t want to let go.
It’s a gesture so gentle Akaashi is afraid he won’t be able to hold the tears back long enough for Bokuto to leave.
He takes a breath, steadies his voice. “Seeing you again made me happy too, Bokuto-san. Thank you for coming today.” He takes another breath. “I hope you know that I am proud of you. And I firmly believe that you will make the team.”
“Aw, thanks, Akaashi! You’ll be the first one I’ll tell, I promise!” He glances at his phone. “Ah, damnit, I really gotta go, or I’ll miss the train.”
“Of course,” Akaashi says. “Don’t let me stop you.”
And what he really means is: Don’t ever let me hold you back.
“Yeah, okay. Take care, Akaashi! Goodnight!”
“You too.” Another breath - shakier, this time. “Goodbye, Bokuto-san.”
He lingers at the corner, watching as Bokuto disappears into the city lights. He doesn’t cry, which is something, but the parting words taste like ashes in his mouth.
The izakaya they go to isn’t too far from the arena, and it buzzes with conversation and laughter as Akaashi and Udai enter after the rest of the team.
They gather around a long, crowded table, which, before long, is filled with plates of yakitori, bowls of steaming ramen, and mugs of frothy beer. Amidst the chaos, Akaashi sits quietly at one end of the table, sipping at a glass of water, while Udai animatedly talks about his project, firing questions at Miya about the specifics of setting.
“I’m telling ya, it’s all about the tempo! Get the spiker in rhythm, and boom, you’re golden,” Miya says, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks.
“You say that, but half the time, you’re the one throwing everyone off rhythm,” Sakusa Kiyoomi mutters from across the table, poking at a plate of grilled fish.
“Don’t pick on him, Omi-Omi!” Bokuto pipes up from the middle of the table, leaning forward. “There’s like, a genius hiding in that brain!”
“Genius at being annoying, maybe,” Sakusa shoots back. His expression is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches as though amused.
Akaashi watches the banter unfold, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. He remembers a time when Miya Atsumu had been nothing more than one of the Miyans - another opponent Bokuto was eager to conquer. Or when “Omi-Omi” was a freshly minted nemesis, Bokuto spitting the name Sakusa with exaggerated disdain, as though it had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
Now, they’re sitting side by side, laughing, their jokes tumbling easily into shared grins.
It’s a comfort, of course. This - this is what Akaashi has always wanted for Bokuto: a team that could match his energy, people that love the sport just as much as he does, and that he can truly lean on.
(He’s always wanted Bokuto to be happy. He just didn’t expect the sharp pang that comes with the realisation that happy no longer includes him.)
“Hey, Akaashi,” Meian calls from his seat beside Bokuto. “Bokuto says you were his setter back in the day?”
Akaashi inclines his head politely. “That’s correct.”
“So you’re the one who spoiled him,” Meian jokes, nudging Bokuto with an elbow.
“Hey! I’m not spoiled!” Bokuto protests, puffing out his chest. “I’m just used to great sets.”
“So basically,” Sakusa says, “you’re spoiled.”
“I’m not! Right, Akaashi?”
Akaashi raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile forming. “You’re certainly… something.”
The table erupts into laughter, and Bokuto dramatically clutches his chest. “Akaashi! C’mon, I can’t help it that your tosses were that good.”
That seems to get Miya’s attention though, and he turns to Akaashi with an assessing stare.
“That good, huh?” he leans forward, his arms crossed over the table as he looks Akaashi up and down. “Y’know, I’ve heard plenty about ya. Bokkun never shuts up ‘bout how perfect yer tosses were back in the day.”
Akaashi blinks, unsure how to respond to the pointed look Miya is giving him. “Bokuto-san exaggerates,” he says diplomatically. “I simply tried to get the ball where it needed to be.”
“Oh yeah?” Miya’s grin sharpens. “That all it was? Must’ve been some ball-settin’, then, considerin’ how much he goes on about it. Makes me wonder how I’m supposed to measure up, seein’ as yer tosses were apparently the best.”
“Aw, c’mon, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto interrupts, waving a hand. “You’re great too! I mean, Akaashi’s tosses were amazing, but yours-”
“Don’t say it,” Miya warns, holding up a finger. “Don’t ya dare say ‘different,’ Bokkun, or I swear I’ll send those different tosses to anyone else in our next match.”
“Uh…” Bokuto freezes, his mouth slightly open, clearly caught. “Unique?”
Miya groans, bowing his head in defeat while the table laughs again.
“Don’t mind him.” Inunaki grins. “Bokuto once called him his second-favourite setter in an interview, and he’s still not over it.”
“Oh shut up,” Miya says, recovering and sending Akaashi a sly look. “But maybe I’ll give it a try next practice, huh? Betcha Bokkun here’d be thrilled if I started copyin’ ya.”
“Please don’t,” Akaashi says dryly, taking another sip of his water.
The table erupts again, Bokuto loudly protesting while Miya leans back, though there’s still a peculiar spark in his gaze as he watches Akaashi. Almost like he’s seizing up his competition. Which, of course, is ridiculous. Miya is the V.League Division 1 setter, not Akaashi.
Akaashi hasn’t played in a very long time.
Still, he tries, very hard, to push down on whatever came alive inside his chest at the thought of Bokuto still talking about Akaashi to his teammates - even if just to mention his setting.
“Man, this is great material,” Udai says, scribbling furiously in his notebook between bites. “You guys have so much… I don’t know. Spirit. Personality? It’s like a goldmine!”
“What’s he writing now?” Miya asks, craning his neck to peek.
“Oh, nothing,” Udai says, waving him off. “Just inspiration.”
Bokuto leans in closer, the movement bringing him closer to over Sakusa, who shifts back uncomfortably as if to get as much space between them as possible. He glares at Bokuto, who just smiles sheepishly.
But as he looks at Akaashi, Bokuto’s voice drops slightly. “I’m glad you came, Akaashi. It’s been too long.”
Akaashi glances at him, and for a brief moment, the noise of the table seems to fade. But before he can reply, Inunaki calls out across the table.
“Hey Bokuto, stop hogging the edamame for a second and pass me the plate?”
“Ah, sorry, Wan-san!” The noise and chaos return in full force, and Bokuto jumps back into the fray, laughing as he slides the plate across the table.
Akaashi leans back slightly. He glances at Udai, who seems to fit in almost too well, peppering everyone with questions and sketching out quick character designs in his notebook.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says to no one in particular. “I’m just going to step out to get some air.”
Bokuto still texts.
Hey Akaashi!!
Crossing my fingers for your exams!
Tell me how you did!
Though it’s you, so you’ll do great!
At first, Akaashi replies with short answers - just enough to keep Bokuto from worrying. Then, he starts letting days pass before replying. Then weeks.
Hey, hey hey! Akaashi!!
How’re you doing?
I didn’t fail a single class this semester.
Are you proud of me, Akaashi!
He doesn’t think Bokuto notices. He’s busy, just like Akaashi knew he would be. But his texts grow more heartfelt, more insistent.
One day, Bokuto calls, and Akaashi clutches the phone to his chest until it stops ringing. Bokuto texts right after.
AKAASHI!!
I MADE THE TEAM!!
AKAASHI I’LL BE A JACKAL!!
CALL ME BACK WHEN YOU CAN!!!
There are so many things he wants to say, and he types out multiple replies - how proud he is, and how he's never doubted him for a second. How much he misses him.
Akaashi wants to tell him that he loves him, that he wishes him nothing but the best, that he’ll always believe in him, no matter what.
But in the end, he doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t call back. He stares at his phone for a long time and reminds himself that Bokuto is meant for greatness.
And Akaashi? Akaashi knows when it’s time to let go.
The muffled roar of the restaurant fades as he steps into the crisp evening air and softly closes the door behind him.
Summer is over now, and it has gotten cold - his breath curls visibly in the chill, and he’s glad for his coat. The street outside is quieter, illuminated by warm yellow lanterns swaying in the breeze, and for a moment, he simply stands there, tilting his head toward the sky.
Akaashi leans against the wall. Takes off his glasses to run a hand down his face.
Seeing Bokuto again feels very much like catching sight of a star after years of cloudy skies. Akaashi had missed him. God, he’d missed him. Not just in passing, but in a way that had seeped into every quiet moment of his life, lingering in the spaces that Bokuto’s voice once filled.
And he’d tried - tried so hard to let go, convince himself it was better this way, and that distance and time would dull the longing. But nothing about Bokuto had dulled at all - the ache in his chest feels both familiar and fresh at the same time.
And even though he’s right there, just inside, Akaashi can’t ignore how far away Bokuto feels, as though he has slipped into an orbit Akaashi can’t - shouldn’t - ever reach for again.
The door creaks open.
“Akaashi?”
The voice is unmistakable, even after all this time - deep, warm, and carrying that familiar lilt Akaashi could recognise anywhere, no matter what sounds surround it. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is, but he does anyway, drawing a long breath as he steadies himself.
“Bokuto-san,” he says quietly, inclining his head. “Shouldn’t you be inside? Your teammates might miss you.”
“Nah. They’ll survive for a bit without me.” Bokuto steps out, his jacket unzipped despite the cold. His hair is slightly mussed, as though he’d run a hand through it moments ago. “Hey,” he says, his smile easy, though his golden eyes seem to search Akaashi’s face. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Akaashi replies quickly. Too quickly. “I just needed some air.”
Bokuto nods, leaning against the wall beside him.
“It’s nice out here,” he says eventually, exhaling a visible puff of air. “But, uh, I saw you leave, and I thought…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I thought maybe you didn’t feel comfortable in there. With, y’know. All of us.”
“It’s not that,” Akaashi replies. But then, the truth isn’t far off. He exhales, glancing away. “Though I suppose it has been a while since I’ve been in this kind of environment.”
“Yeah, I get that. I mean, I know Tsum-Tsum and Omi-Omi always go at it, but they’re great. Meian, too. And Wan-san’s got the best jokes.” He grins. “They’re good people.”
“Yes. They seem lively.” He glances at Bokuto. “They suit you.”
“Yeah!” Bokuto grins. “They’re like a second family.”
He stops then, his gaze drifting away, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.
The sounds of the city fill the silence - the hum of distant traffic, the chatter of pedestrians passing by. And Akaashi knows he’s supposed to keep his distance. He knows that if he allows himself to get close again, it’ll only hurt more once he goes home. But this close, it’s impossible not to look, and so he allows himself to glance at Bokuto from the corner of his eye.
His earlier notion was right - up close, the years have only made Bokuto more radiant - his expression as warm and bright as ever. His hair is shorter now than it was in High School, his features more defined, but he is still as brilliant, as arresting as ever, and Akaashi finds himself struck by the sheer beauty of this man standing next to him.
His heart is a traitorous thing. Caged as it might be, it still sings at the sight of him, spreading its wings as if it might leap from his chest and directly into Bokuto’s arms.
“God, Akaashi,” Bokuto murmurs then, turning to him, and Akaashi notes, faintly, that his eyes are still the same: still striking, like two burning, golden stars. “It’s been, what? Years?”
“It has,” Akaashi acknowledges, doing his best to keep his tone neutral.
Bokuto hums thoughtfully. “You’ve been hiding from me?” Bokuto’s tone is light, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze - curiosity, maybe even concern.
“Hardly,” Akaashi replies, turning to look back down the street. “I’ve been busy. As, I assume, have you.”
Bokuto scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess. But man, it’s really good to see you. You should’ve told me you were coming; I would have made more time! Maybe next time I can get you better seats, at least.”
Akaashi can feel the weight of Bokuto’s gaze, steady and unyielding, as though searching for something Akaashi isn’t sure he wants found.
“I appreciate the offer, Bokuto-san,” he says, carefully. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you up on it.”
“What do you mean?” Bokuto says, frowning a little. “Why not?”
“I’m just not sure if I can attend another game anytime soon.” Akaashi’s voice falters briefly. “This was for Udai-sensei’s benefit, you see.”
The words taste bitter as they leave his lips. Akaashi exhales slowly. It’s a cheap excuse, nothing more, but he’s worked too long to be okay with the distance between them. This can’t be more than a one-time thing.
But then Bokuto shifts, turning to face him fully, and the hurt Akaashi sees flickering in his eyes sends a sharp pang to his own heart.
“I don’t like it.” Bokuto’s words are blunt. Honest. “I don’t like that we drifted. I know it’s mostly my fault, with school and volleyball and everything. But I thought…” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “I thought we’d always stay close.”
Akaashi swallows thickly. He looks away, unable to meet Bokuto’s gaze, focusing instead on the faint glow of a distant streetlamp.
“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly. “Life just happens.”
He knows full well that, between the two of them, Bokuto never stopped reaching.
That had been the problem.
“That’s a lousy excuse. We could’ve tried harder. I could’ve tried harder,” Bokuto mutters, crossing his arms.
Akaashi doesn’t respond immediately. His chest aches, and he struggles for something - anything - to say.
“You’re doing well,” he says finally. “On the court. Off the court. You seem… happy.”
“I am,” Bokuto agrees. And then stubbornly, he adds, “But I’m even happier now that you’re here.”
Akaashi’s breath hitches, and he hopes Bokuto doesn’t notice.
“Bokuto-san,” he says softly, “you’ve built a life for yourself.” He needs to see that - that he’s what he has is something good. A team that loves him, the career he’s always worked for. It’s the kind of life they both wanted for him, and he needs to see that Akaashi doesn’t have a place in it.
“I mean, yeah…?” Bokuto brow furrows. “What’re you saying, Akaashi?”
But maybe, just maybe, he can at least tell him what he couldn’t text back then, when he’d first learned that Bokuto had become a Jackal.
“I’m saying I’m proud of you.” Akaashi forces a faint smile.
“I - thanks.” Bokuto hesitates, as though weighing his next words. “But I missed you, ‘Kaashi. I mean it. I really, really missed you.”
The nickname hits him like an arrow to a target.
It’s not fair - he has let Bokuto go a long time ago. They haven’t spoken in years.
Why is Bokuto still holding on?
This is why he shouldn’t have come - because he wants to stay. He wants Bokuto in his life. He wants to see him, be near him, hear his voice. And standing here now, so close, it feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t pull himself back from.
He turns to face him fully, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “Bokuto-san, I-”
The door opens again, and Udai’s head pokes out, his hair dishevelled, and cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth inside. “There you are!” he exclaims, spotting them. “Akaashi-san, I really hate to mention this. I mean, I’m having a great time, but I think that if we don’t leave soon, we’ll miss our train.”
Startled, Akaashi exhales, the moment slipping through his fingers like sand. He checks his watch and nods curtly, turning back toward the door. “We should go back.”
Bokuto lingers for a moment, his gaze still fixed on Akaashi. Then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
Following Bokuto’s message, Akaashi quietly tracks down every magazine and article announcing the latest addition to the MSBY Black Jackals.
Each page is carefully preserved, sorted chronologically in a pristine folder. He hoards them, like a dragon guarding its treasure.
Weeks pass.
Hey Akaashi!
It’s been a while.
Are you doing okay?
I miss you.
Akaashi reads the text over and over, his finger hovering over the keyboard. He wants to reply. He wants to say, I miss you, too - that he feels Bokuto’s absence in his life like a phantom limb.
He writes none of those things, and eventually, the messages stop coming. Bokuto doesn’t push. Maybe he thinks Akaashi is just busy, or maybe a part of him has learned to accept that people grow apart.
Akaashi keeps the messages, though. He never deletes them. And on the nights when the silence feels unbearable, he reads them again, imagining Bokuto’s voice. He runs his finger over his metal owl ring as he stares out of the small window in his room and imagines a world where he could have said what he truly felt.
The stars are faint that night, barely visible against the glow of the city, but he looks for them anyway.
“Well, thanks for coming,” Meian says, shaking Akaashi’s hand firmly. “It was very nice meeting you. We don’t often get to meet old teammates, you know?”
“Thank you. It was an honour to meet all of you as well.” Akaashi inclines his head. “You played an excellent match. Congratulations again on the win.”
“You should come to more games,” Inunaki says with a grin. “It’s good luck, apparently.”
Akaashi smiles faintly. “I’m not sure our schedule would allow it.”
“Shame,” Miya cuts in, leaning on the back of a chair. “Would’ve just to hear what Fukurodani’s ex-setter thinks of my tosses.” His tone is light, but Akaashi doesn’t miss the edge to it, like a challenge tucked just beneath the surface.
Udai, however, jumps in before Akaashi can respond. “Oh, your sets were amazing! Watching you guys gave me so many ideas for the manga. I was taking notes the whole time!”
“See? Genius confirmed.” Miya’s expression is entirely smug, but his gaze flicks to Akaashi, as if waiting for him to confirm it.
“They were… effective,” Akaashi says evenly, meeting his gaze without flinching, even as Miya’s eyes narrow.
Bokuto, apparently oblivious to the tension, bursts into laughter before clapping Miya on the back. “See, Tsum-Tsum? You’ve got the Akaashi stamp of approval!”
“Well then,” Akaashi says, wrapping his coat tighter around himself. “It was very nice meeting you all. Thank you for letting us join you.”
“Anytime,” Meian replies, smiling. “Have a safe journey back.”
Nodding, Akaashi steps away from their table, bowing his head in farewell while Udai cheerfully waves at the team.
They step out into the cool air, but before the door can fall close behind them, Bokuto is there, grabbing Akaashi’s arm gently.
“Hey, Akaashi, wait a sec.” His voice is quieter now, and Akaashi looks at him, willing himself to stay still as the familiar weight of Bokuto’s gaze settles on him.
“I just…” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Thanks for coming. It really… it really meant a lot to me to see you here.”
“It was part of my work,” Akaashi says softly, doing his best to keep his tone neutral. “Udai-sensei needed inspiration.”
“Still. Whatever the reason was - I’m glad you came.” Bokuto’s eyes flicker with something, something that Akaashi can’t quite discern. If this had been years ago, he would have known what Bokuto was thinking instantly, without words. If this had been Fukurodani’s Bokuto, Akaashi would have had a reply ready before he’d even stopped them at the door - but it’s not.
This new Bokuto - the Black Jackal’s Bokuto - is both familiar and strange, and Akaashi doesn’t know how to read him.
Akaashi shifts slightly, unsure how to respond, but Bokuto fills the silence.
“We’ve got a game in Tokyo next month,” he says quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab lunch? Before or after? You know, catch up. Properly.”
Akaashi hesitates, the knot in his chest tightening. He should say no. The words hang on the tip of his tongue. It’s not a good idea. But what comes out instead is, “I’ll… think about it.”
Bokuto’s expression falters briefly. “Okay. Okay, just let me know, yeah? My number’s still the same. Call me. Text me. Either is fine, I mean-” And there it is again, that flicker of something in Bokuto’s eyes that Akaashi doesn’t know how to decipher. “Don’t just disappear again, okay? I’ll be waiting.”
On an overcast day in spring, surrounded by cherry blossom trees that have lost most of their petals already, Akaashi graduates.
The ceremony is brief, the speeches long, and when it’s over, he tucks his diploma into a folder and walks out into the afternoon with the rest of his year. He doesn’t linger. There are pictures and congratulations, but eventually, he slips away, making his way home through streets that haven’t changed.
At home, his ring leaves its regular place in the pocket of his uniform to find its new home in the pocket of his coat.
And that’s that.
The warm air of the train envelopes him, a soothing contrast to the biting chill outside.
The sleek, modern interior stretches ahead of them, rows of plush blue seats neatly arranged. They walk past a few rows before reaching their seats, and Udai offers the window seat to Akaashi, and he places his bag into the overhead compartment before sliding into the seat.
“You think I should try sketching a bit more?” Udai asks, glancing up at the train’s sleek white exterior. “I’m feeling really inspired, but I’m afraid I’ll just pass out the second we start moving.”
“That depends,” Akaashi turns on his tablet, opening a document filled with notes he’s made so far on Udai’s manga. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”
“Well - no. I was trying to finish that chapter for Zombish.” Udai glances over, raising an eyebrow. “It looks like you're still prepared to work, though."
“It’s better than sitting idly,” Akaashi replies without looking up.
“You’re really dedicated, huh?” Udai leans back, pulling this notebook from his bag. “Then I guess I’ll work on my character design.”
The train jerks slightly, the faint hum of the engine rising as it begins to pull away from the station. Akaashi glances out the window, watching the city blur into motion.
So,” Udai’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “I can’t help but feel like there’s some history there.”
Akaashi blinks. “Excuse me?”
“With you and Bokuto-san.” Udai glances up at him, a curious look in his eyes. “I just thought - well. I mean, he was practically glowing every time he looked at you.”
“That’s just how he is,” Akaashi says, brushing off the comment with practiced ease. Adjusting his glasses, he returns his focus to the screen.
“Mh.” Udai’s tone is sceptical, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he leans over his notebook and begins shading one of the characters.
Out of the corner of his eye, Akaashi catches glimpses of the page. Udai is working on the rough lines of a volleyball player’s pose, his shoulders exaggerated just enough to make the movement leap off the paper. With careful strokes of his pencil, he darkens the shadows under the player’s arm.
“Hm,” Akaashi murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he watches.
“What?” Udai asks without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re gonna tell me it’s too dramatic, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s… appropriate,” Akaashi replies. His gaze lingers on the expressive lines defining the character’s face - a furrowed brow, a determined glare. It’s striking, even in its unfinished state. Akaashi frowns faintly.
The pose, that expression - it’s familiar. The way the figure twists mid-air, arm poised to strike, mirrors the spike they’d both seen earlier today, when Bokuto had soared above the net to score a point for the Jackals.
Akaashi can still see him - how easily he’d moved, his timing impeccable. The memory of the ball slamming into the floor, past blockers who hadn’t even realised they’d been outmanoeuvred.
It had been brilliant, of course.
The shading on the page grows darker, highlighting the tension in the figure’s arm, the broadness of his shoulders. It’s dramatic, yes, but it also perfectly captures Bokuto’s presence on the court - the way he commands attention, and how everything else seems insignificant when he’s mid-air.
In terms of appearance, the figure looks nothing like him, and yet…
“It’s Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly, more to himself than to Udai.
“Huh?” Udai glances up, startled.
“That spike,” Akaashi clarifies, nodding toward the sketch. “It’s the one he pulled off today. The back-row attack.”
Udai blinks, then grins. “Oh! Huh. I wasn’t even trying to copy him, but yeah, I guess it is. It was so memorable; I must have done it subconsciously.”
Akaashi doesn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on the sketch - on the movement of a man who once relied on him for every toss but had now grown into something extraordinary.
“He is,” he murmurs finally, almost absently. “Memorable.” His chest tightens slightly and he looks away.
“Yeah. I mean, I get it now,” Udai continues, shading the hollow beneath the figure’s ribcage with a few soft strokes. “He’s, like, the ideal ace. Crazy strong, but also super nice…” He trails off, shooting Akaashi a sly look. “But I guess you already knew all that.”
Akaashi adjusts his glasses again, carefully neutral. “Focus on your sketches.”
Udai laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to the notebook, and Akaashi returns his focus to the notes in front of him - or tries to, at least. His thoughts keep drifting back to the match. To Bokuto, who’d shone just as brilliantly as he always had, who’d rallied an entire arena with this energy.
With a sigh, he turns off his tablet and looks out of the window.
“Bokuto-san hasn’t changed a bit,” he murmurs, more to himself as he watches the lights of Osaka’s skyscrapers grow smaller in the distance.
“Good thing too,” Udai says with a grin. “Guys like him? They’re the heart of the story.”
Life moves forward in a way that isn’t dramatic or groundbreaking - just steady, like waves lapping at the shore.
Akaashi attends university, studies literature. His classes are interesting, his professors passionate, and he loses himself in essays and annotations, filling the margins of his textbooks with neat, thoughtful notes.
He gets a small apartment near campus and makes new friends, people who sit with him in lectures and drag him to coffee shops between classes.
He still talks to his old ones: Onaga texts him sometimes - casual updates, a funny picture of something he saw during his day, the occasional volleyball match commentary - and every now and then, he meets up with Konoha, Komi and Sarukui; usually at some small restaurant where the drinks are cheap, where the conversations ebb and flow like they always have.
They never mention Bokuto.
Life goes on, and it’s just that: life. There is no great upheaval, no thrilling new chapter waiting to be unravelled. But then, Akaashi never expected one - he was never main character material. He wakes up, goes to class, does his assignments, meets his friends when they ask. Some days, he even thinks he’s content.
He misses Bokuto; that doesn't change. And sometimes - when his apartment is quiet, when his hands are buried in his pockets and his fingers brush the cold metal of the ring - Akaashi’s mind still finds its way back to him, and he wonders if Bokuto ever thinks of him, too.
It’s an ache he learns to live around.
That night, Akaashi lies awake a long time, turning Bokuto’s invitation over in his mind. The longing he feels is familiar, a pull toward something he knows for sure he’s not meant to have.
He picks up his phone, Bokuto’s number glowing on the screen. He’s already read the text Bokuto has sent him three times.
Hey, Akaashi!
It was great seeing you today!
Hope you got home safe.
Let me know about lunch next month, okay?
The words are simple and kind. Very Bokuto, in every way.
He’d thought it would be easier, somehow. Not seeing him again, of course - Akaashi had always known that might be even harder than letting him go the first time.
No, it should’ve been easier to stay distant. To let the years do what time always does. The knot in Akaashi’s chest tightens, not unlike the way it had felt seeing Bokuto for the first time today - brighter than memory, effortlessly pulling Akaashi into his orbit again.
He sets the phone down and tries to breathe evenly.
The next morning, he goes to work.
He doesn’t quite manage to drag himself out of bed at the crack of dawn and instead lingers a little longer beneath the blankets, staring at the faint light on the ceiling before finally rising. He stays home long enough to brew himself a cup of coffee before leaving, rather than buying one at the station, which is a small break in routine, yes, but it doesn’t feel indulgent so much as necessary.
He slips on his wool coat, wraps a light scarf around his neck, and heads out the door.
On the way, Akaashi greets his neighbour in the hallway. He blinks at him, visibly surprised, but Akaashi only nods curtly and continues down the stairs, the faint clicks of his shoes on the floor the only sound in the quiet building.
On the train, he sits by the window. He doesn’t pull out his phone or his book. His mind drifts, unfocused, replaying yesterday’s match - the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors, the rush of the crowd, and Bokuto’s voice cutting through it all.
(“Don’t just disappear again.”)
The words linger like an echo, frustratingly persistent. Akaashi tried not to dwell on them, but his thoughts keep circling back to Bokuto regardless - the way his grin still seemed to hold the light of a thousand suns, the energy that pulled everyone toward him as naturally as gravity.
By the time the train slows at his stop, Akaashi hasn’t thought of work once.
Unfortunately, his focus continues to waver as the day goes on. Akaashi sits through his meetings, nodding at the appropriate times, but the words blur together.
His desk is littered with drafts and edits. He adjusts his glasses and straightens a page, then sets it down without finishing. His fingers hover over his keyboard for a moment before he lets out a breath and leans back in his chair.
When the clock hits 6:00 PM, he closes his laptop and stands.
“Heading out?” a colleague asks, glancing at him with a hint of surprise.
“Yes,” Akaashi replies simply. He picks up his bag and leaves without elaborating.
In his second year of university, Akaashi tries his hand at writing.
It’s clumsy and unpolished, lines scribbled in the margins of his notebooks, ideas half-formed before he abandons them. Then, late at night, his fingers hover over his keyboard, filling blank documents with scattered paragraphs that don’t quite connect.
He writes about things he knows - quiet boys who stand at the edges of their own stories, waiting for something to change. About absent figures who leave behind spaces too big to be filled. About conversations left unfinished, words unsaid.
And sometimes, he thinks he might even be getting close to something real, something sharp and aching - but he always stops before he does.
He saves the files. He closes his laptop. He tells himself he’ll finish it another day.
A day passes, then two, and the torrent of conflicting emotions that turns Akaashi’s stomach upside down still hasn’t quieted.
One evening, he doesn’t take his usual route to the station; instead, he lets his feet carry him aimlessly through side streets and quieter alleys. It’s dark, and the air is cool, almost sharp.
He should go home. There’s no reason for him to be out here, but the silence feels different from the kind that fills his apartment - less oppressive, somehow. He pauses by a bench and exhales, glancing up at the sliver of moon.
With the city lights around him, the stars aren’t visible.
Two days after their trip to Osaka, Akaashi makes his way to a convenience store he hasn’t visited in years. It’s smaller than the one near his apartment, but he remembers coming here often when he was younger - back when Bokuto would drag him out after practice, insisting they grab snacks before heading home.
He walks the aisles aimlessly until his eyes land on a familiar package. It’s a bag of cheap instant ramen - the same ones Bokuto and he would often get. They would sit by the window and eat, and Bokuto would end up claiming half of Akaashi’s food despite the fact that Bokuto had already finished his and could have just bought another one.
Akaashi picks up the package, turning it over in his hands. He almost puts it back on the shelf but pauses, lips pressing into a thin line.
When he leaves the store, the packet of ramen is tucked neatly into his shopping bag.
Hours later, Akaashi sits alone at his small dining table, a cup of tea cooling at his side. The apartment is silent, save for the occasional hum of passing traffic below.
Bokuto’s text still sits unanswered on his phone.
He picks it up, scrolling back through their message history. The texts grow fewer, more spaced out, as the months pass. Bokuto’s words remain as earnest as always, “Good luck on your exams!” or “Don’t work too hard, okay?” - but Akaashi’s responses had dwindled to polite, efficient replies.
Akaashi pulls up the keyboard and types,
It was good to see you.
He deletes it.
Thank you for inviting me. I’ll check my schedule.
Deletes that, too.
He types again, slower this time, and stares at the screen.
I miss you.
The words hang there, suspended in the soft glow of the screen. He could send them, could hit that button, watch the message disappear into the void, and wait for Bokuto to catch it on the other side.
But Akaashi hesitates. The weight of the words feels too heavy, too much to place on a single text. He backspaces, letter by letter, until the screen is blank again.
Frustrated, he locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket.
The stories pile up - fragments and unfinished chapters, characters waiting for resolutions that never arrive. Akaashi doesn’t know why he can’t finish them. Maybe because endings feel too final. Maybe because he doesn’t see any of them ending happily, or because he doesn’t know how to write one that feels right.
Maybe because he’s still waiting for his own.
The conference room smells faintly of coffee and dry-erase markers, the fluorescent lights above casting a harsh glow on the long table.
Akaashi sits near the far end, his laptop open, a half-full notepad in front of him. Udai is perched next to him, gesturing animatedly as he outlines his ideas for the volleyball manga series and its characters.
“And we have this character, who used to play setter, but he had an accident, and so he hasn’t played in a while. But he’s, like, this quiet genius, right?” Udai gestures broadly, the end of his pen brushing dangerously close to the storyboard sketches spread across the table. “He used to be amazing. Like, calculating, methodical, always thinking two steps ahead - but he’s sure he’s never gonna play again. And then he meets the ace, this chaotic powerhouse who throws all his plans out the window and convinces him to try again, y’know?”
Akaashi’s supervisor nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’ve really given these characters some depth. You got all of that from watching one game?”
“It was a really good game,” Udai says. He starts giving a summary of the match, the players, but Akaashi tunes him out. He doesn’t need another play-by-play, doesn’t need him to describe the team, or mention silver hair and golden eyes-
“-And it’s something we can certainly work with, don’t you think, Akaashi-san?”
At his supervisor’s question, Akaashi blinks, realising too late that everyone is looking at him. He straightens in his chair, trying to force his thoughts back to the meeting.
“Ah… yes,” he says smoothly, though his voice is a fraction too soft. “The contrasting characters work well. It’s dynamic, and something I’m sure readers would love to see.”
Udai beams, scribbling something on his notes. Akaashi’s gaze flickers back to the sketches, but the neatly drawn volleyball court does little to stop his thoughts from wandering, his mind tugging him back to golden eyes and a hopeful smile.
(“Let me know about lunch next month, okay?”)
Akaashi exhales quietly, his hand tightening around his pen, and the meeting moves on, voices ebbing and flowing as the team discusses art styles, pacing, and character designs. Akaashi listens half-heartedly, making the occasional note in his book, but his thoughts remain in that arena in Osaka.
The way Bokuto had soared above the net, every movement decisive and powerful, a far cry from the moody player Akaashi had once known.
He remembers the warmth of Bokuto’s hand on his arm when he’d pulled him aside, the sincerity in his voice when he’d asked him to stay in touch.
(“Don’t just disappear again.”)
Akaashi’s chest tightens.
“Something on your mind, Akaashi-san?” Udai’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
Akaashi looks up sharply. Udai is studying him, his chin propped on his hand.
“You’ve been zoning out,” Udai continues, tapping his pen against the table. “That’s very unlike you. Are you okay?”
“Of course,” Akaashi says, a touch too quickly. He glances down at his notes. “I’m just thinking.”
“Ah.” Udai’s grin widens knowingly. “Thinking about the match? Or a particular someone you saw there?”
Akaashi freezes, and Udai’s eyes light up.
“I knew it,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a triumphant air. “I knew there was something there. Bokuto-san, huh?”
“It’s not-” Akaashi begins, but Udai waves him off.
“I’m just saying. He looked really happy to see you. And you’ve been acting differently since then. Did you text him yet? You guys are going to meet up next month, right?”
Sinking back into his chair, Akaashi takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
He doesn’t reply.
The story that Akaashi doesn’t write is this:
There once was a setter desperately in love with the ace on his team, but instead of telling him, he was too afraid - of rejection, perhaps, or of risking their friendship, or maybe, just of change - and so, when the time came, he let him go.
(But some days, when his apartment is quiet, when he’s worked through half the night editing pages upon pages, Akaashi lets himself remember. How Bokuto’s eyes had gleamed in the light. How loud and enthusiastic he’d been, but how gentle, how kind to others.
He allows himself to recall how, on some days, Bokuto had held him like Akaashi was something precious, and in those moments, Akaashi’s heart had stuttered and he’d thought, what if.
But Bokuto had never said anything, and neither had Akaashi, and so, in the end, it was never anything more than a maybe, never more than an almost.)
When Akaashi returns to the quiet of his apartment that night, he sits on the couch and pulls out his phone. For a long moment, he stares at it, his thumb hovering over the screen, before opening Bokuto’s message again, reading it for what must be the hundredth time.
Akaashi presses his lips together, his fingers tightening around the device. It would be easy to say no, be done with it.
Granted, it hasn’t been easy at all these past days, thinking of turning him down. But it would be so much easier than the alternative, which would mean letting Bokuto back into his life, despite knowing that he’s not meant to stay in it forever.
It would be so much harder, having to let him go again.
But Akaashi can still see the look in Bokuto’s golden eyes, so hopeful, as if agreeing to something as simple as lunch would mean the world to him.
And Akaashi is only human, and sometimes, he doesn’t make smart choices.
He types,
Bokuto-san,
Lunch sounds good.
Please let me know the time and place.
And before he can talk himself out of it, he presses send.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Akaashi!!
Yes! I’ll find the perfect spot.
Thank you!
This is gonna be great!
Akaashi sets his phone down, leaning back in his chair. In the end, Bokuto has always been his undoing.
Time slips by in small, unremarkable increments.
He finishes university with a quiet sort of relief, the weight of assignments and exams finally behind him, though his degree in literature becomes something he’s proud of.
He aims to find work as an editor and ends up in the world of manga, which is a new chapter he didn’t anticipate but embraces anyway. It’s the kind of work that suits him - steady, detailed, the kind that doesn’t ask for attention, just dedication.
The city feels like a place he’s grown into, and he finds comfort in his routines: early mornings with a cup of coffee, long afternoons in front of his computer screen, evenings in dimly lit cafes or tucked into his favourite corner at the library.
Akaashi gets a new apartment, slightly bigger than his old one, though still relatively small. It never quite feels like home, but there are books on the shelves and the occasional photograph of his friends, and to him, that’s enough.
He makes new acquaintances at work, polite conversations and half-smiles exchanged over lunch breaks, and there are still texts from Onaga, from Konoha, from the familiar faces of his past.
And sometimes, when the workday ends and the world outside falls into a hush, Akaashi thinks of Bokuto. He sees every match, records them, sometimes rewatches them late at night when the city is asleep.
He feels something inside him stir when he watches Bokuto on the court - something sharp, like pulling on stitches of a healing cut, or a wounded limb that still hurts when it rains, but he doesn’t reach for his phone anymore.
By the time he’s twenty-two years old, Akaashi Keiji's life has settled into an unbroken rhythm.
Smooth and steady as the ticking of the clock he never quite manages to ignore.
The restaurant is warm, a small place tucked away on a quiet street that Akaashi wouldn’t have thought to visit on his own.
It looks rustic, and it’s warm inside; the smell of food is delicious and it’s not too loud - Akaashi can only hear the faint clatter of chopsticks against bowls and quiet conversation.
Scanning the room, he spots Bokuto immediately. He’s seated by a window, shoulders barely fitting into the narrow booth, golden eyes bright as he waves enthusiastically.
“Akaashi! Over here!”
The warmth in Bokuto’s voice cuts through the faint traces of anxiety that have settled in Akaashi’s chest. He takes a deep breath before walking over to the booth, slipping off his coat, and sliding into the seat across from him.
“Bokuto-san, hello,” Akaashi says, his voice calmer than he feels. “Thank you for picking the place.”
Bokuto grins, leaning forward slightly. “Of course! I figured you’d like something quiet. This spot’s been here forever - my parents love it. We used to come here all the time in high school.”
Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you mentioning it.”
“Probably because I was too busy dragging you to that convenience store for snacks and instant ramen,” Bokuto says with a laugh. “Priorities, right?”
Akaashi huffs softly. “Indeed.”
He doesn’t mention his trip to that very same convenience store only a few days prior.
They both order when the server arrives, and when the menus are taken away, they settle into conversation. Bokuto talks about volleyball, his team, and their recent matches. Akaashi listens, asking the occasional question, and finds himself smiling faintly as Bokuto recounts a particularly chaotic practice.
It’s easy, this. Akaashi is both surprised and not, because he expected it to be awkward, expected the weight of distance and time that have separated them to weigh on their shoulders. He expected silence to stretch between them.
But then, it always has been effortless, spending time with Bokuto. Even now it comes naturally, as though the years of distance hadn’t passed at all.
By the time they finish eating, the muscles around Akaashi’s mouth hurt from smiling so much. He’d always known he missed Bokuto - of course he knew. But sitting here, talking about everything and nothing at all, the ache of his absence feels so obvious it’s almost embarrassing.
For the first time in what feels like years, he’s really enjoying himself.
Bokuto leans back in his seat, stretching his arms above his head. “Man, that was good. I missed this place.”
Akaashi nods, glancing out the window. The soft afternoon light filters in, casting a faint glow over the table.
“So,” Bokuto says, his tone carefully casual. “What do you wanna do next?”
Akaashi blinks, startled. “Next?”
“Yeah!” Bokuto leans forward again, propping his chin on his hand. “I mean, if you’re not busy. I don’t have anything else planned until practice tonight, so… you wanna hang out?”
Akaashi hesitates. Part of him knows he should say no - that he should set boundaries now, before things get complicated. But the other part of him, the one that hasn’t smiled this much in what feels like forever, doesn’t want to leave.
He looks at Bokuto’s hopeful expression. The candlelight on their table reflects in his golden eyes, making them look bright enough to be glowing.
“…All right,” Akaashi says softly.
Bokuto’s face lights up, his grin wide and genuine. “Great! I’ve got a ton of ideas - there’s a park nearby – you know the one! Or we could check out this bookstore I know, or-”
Akaashi lets him ramble, and just watches - taking in the lines of his face, the twinkle in his eyes, the curve of his lips and committing them to memory.
He knows he’s already made his decision. This won’t last forever, Akaashi knows that. And it’ll hurt immeasurably when they inevitably go their separate ways again.
But for now - for today - Akaashi is willing to take what he can get.
They end up wandering through the park - a sprawling, tree-lined space with winding paths and a small pond at its centre that Akaashi remembers from their high school days. Bokuto, apparently, seems to be heading down that same train of thought.
“Do you remember that time we took the team here?” Bokuto asks, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.
Akaashi hums softly, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “They were doing maintenance work in the gymnasium, and you refused to let practice get cancelled.”
“Well, I was dedicated!”
“Konoha-san came very close to murdering you, if I recall.”
“Aw, you know he misses me.”
“I remember you fell into the pond trying to chase after a volleyball.”
“Right!” Bokuto bursts into laughter. “And you just stood there, looking like you couldn’t believe it.”
“That sounds accurate.”
Bokuto slows his pace, falling in step beside Akaashi. The path crunches faintly beneath their shoes, and a gentle breeze stirs the bare branches above them.
“But you helped me back out,” Bokuto continues softly. “Helped get me dry again and lent me your scarf.”
Akaashi looks at him from the corner of his eyes. There’s fondness in Bokuto’s expression, his smile incredibly soft.
“Mh.” He averts his eyes and says nothing more.
For a while, they walk in companionable silence, and Akaashi catches himself stealing glances at Bokuto - at the way his face softens in the pale autumn sunlight, at the way his golden eyes flicker with life. He looks so much the same and yet so different from the boy Akaashi used to know.
“You okay?” Bokuto asks suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Akaashi blinks. “Why do you ask?”
Bokuto shrugs, but his expression turns thoughtful. “You’ve been quiet. Not in a bad way, just… I dunno. Are you having fun?”
Akaashi hesitates. The answer feels, in a way, vulnerable, but he gives it anyway. “…I am.”
Bokuto’s smile is immediate and warm, a little less dazzling than his usual grin but no less genuine. “Good. That’s all I wanted.”
He reaches for Akaashi’s hand and squeezes it, and warmth blooms in Akaashi’s chest, spreading through his entire body all the way to his fingertips - and he tries to push it down, down, down, because he cannot be having these feelings for Bokuto, not anymore, not when he doesn’t know for how long he gets to have him in his life.
By the time twilight colours the sky gold and orange, they stumble upon a small bookstore tucked into the corner of a side street. It’s cozy and cluttered, with narrow aisles and stacks of books that threaten to topple over.
Akaashi stops to look at the window display for apparently a second too long because Bokuto immediately insists they go inside, claiming it looks ‘exactly like something you’d like, Akaashi!’
As Bokuto browses haphazardly through the shelves, Akaashi finds himself drawn to a small display of poetry collections. He picks up a slim volume, traces his finger over the embossed title, but he doesn’t really read the words, letting his thoughts drift.
He hadn’t expected to enjoy today so much. He hadn’t expected to feel this… light.
Bokuto’s voice pulls him back to the present. “Hey, ‘Kaashi, look at this!”
Akaashi turns to see Bokuto holding up a children’s book with an exaggerated illustration of a volleyball on the cover.
“You think Udai-sensei would want this for his manga research?” Bokuto jokes, grinning.
Akaashi shakes his head, a small huff of laughter escaping him. “You should buy it for yourself. It suits you.”
“Rude!” Bokuto gasps, clutching the book dramatically to his chest. “But also true.”
Akaashi hums, shaking his head fondly before his gaze drifts to a nearby display of notebooks. He trails his fingers along their spines, pausing when his eyes catch on one journal in particular, and he pulls it out. The design is simple, but with a golden sheen to the cover, catching the light just so.
It reminds him, inexplicably, of Bokuto’s eyes.
“Oh, a notebook?” Bokuto’s voice comes over his shoulder.
Akaashi inclines his head, turning to let Bokuto have a better look.
“You always liked your stationary,” Bokuto grins. “Come to think of it - did you ever start writing?”
Akaashi blinks, turning to face Bokuto fully. “What?”
“Back in high school,” Bokuto explains. “You’ve always loved books. And you once told me you’d like to try writing. Did you?”
“Ah,” Akaashi says before nodding. “I did.”
He doesn’t remember mentioning that - but then Bokuto is really the only person he’d ever say something like that to. It’s sweet that he’d remember, especially when Akaashi himself doesn’t. He tries to ignore the flutter in his chest.
“Oh, cool!” Bokuto tilts his head. “Can I read something sometime?”
“I’m afraid I never finished anything, so it’s not really ready to be read.”
“Aw, damn. Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.” Akaashi exhales, offering a small, lopsided smile. “I can never quite come up with a fitting ending.”
Something flickers across Bokuto’s face, something thoughtful and unfamiliar. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head. “Endings are hard.”
Akaashi nods, putting the journal back with the others.
“You’re not gonna get it?” Bokuto asks.
“Hm. I have no need for it. I’ve got my work planner, and I’m too busy to start anything new at the moment.”
Bokuto hums, eying the notebook display for a moment longer, but then he shrugs. “I know what we can do next, ‘Kaashi. There’s this café, and it has the best hot chocolate ever. I swear - you’ll never want to drink one anywhere else ever again.”
In the end, they leave the store not having bought anything, and instead head to the café where they settle into a corner table.
By now, the sky outside has begun to darken, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows on the pavement. Akaashi wraps his hands around the warm mug in front of him, letting the heat seep into his fingers.
Bokuto stirs his own drink, the whipped cream already half-melted. “This was a good day,” he says simply as he leans forward to take a sip.
“It was,” Akaashi admits.
“I’ve missed this.” Bokuto’s golden eyes meet Akaashi’s. “I’ve missed you.”
Akaashi looks down at his mug, unsure how to respond, and instead takes a slow sip of his drink.
“I mean, I love my team,” Bokuto continues. “They’re great. It’s just- it’s different. I just miss you.”
Akaashi glances up at him, and Bokuto’s expression is so open, so trusting, that it tugs at Akaashi’s heart.
“I-” Akaashi tries to swallow past the tightness in his throat.
“Sorry - I’m not trying to make it weird. It just felt like you should know that. Anyway,” Bokuto grins then. “Tomorrow. You’ll come to the game, right?”
Akaashi blinks at the sudden change in topic.
“Yes,” he replies, because he’s already made up his mind. “I’ll be there.”
Bokuto beams. “Awesome! I’ll save you a seat. And afterwards…” He trails off, scratching his neck. “Maybe we can grab dinner or something? If you want.”
Akaashi considers him for a moment. Bokuto is still smiling, his expression just as open and bright as it was before, but there’s a carefulness in his tone now. Like he is giving Akaashi room to refuse.
But somewhere between the falling autumn leaves and Bokuto’s steady warmth beside him, Akaashi has stopped wanting to say no.
“That sounds good,” he says finally.
Bokuto’s grin widens.
By the time they say goodbye on a corner near the train station, the city is awash in the golden glow of early evening.
As he watches Bokuto walk away, waving over his shoulder, warmth settles in Akaashi’s chest. It won’t be easy - this fragile thing they’re rebuilding. He knows that. He knows the risks, knows that the inevitable ending looms somewhere on the horizon.
But as much as his mind tells him to hold Bokuto at arm’s length, the rest of him is tired of the distance, of pretending he can live without this warmth in his life.
Bokuto is worth it.
The thought strikes him with startling clarity. Bokuto has always been worth it - his kindness, his sincerity, the way he lights up every space he enters. Akaashi doesn’t know if he’ll ever find that kind of brilliance again. Now that it’s back in his life, he doesn’t want to lose it again.
He doesn’t want to lose him again.
Akaashi exhales - a long, shaky breath. It’s likely that he’ll have to let go again someday, and it will hurt when it is over. But right now, at this moment, Akaashi chooses to believe in what they can rebuild.
And for the first time, he doesn’t feel afraid.
The next day, Akaashi arrives early at the arena, but the court is already alive and crowded anyway: players warming up, fans filling the stands, and an undercurrent of excitement humming through the air.
He spots Bokuto immediately. It’s impossible not to; he’s grinning wide, gesturing animatedly to his teammates as they huddle near the net. Akaashi watches him for a moment, until Bokuto turns to scan the crowd. When their eyes meet, Bokuto grins, wide and cheerful, and waves enthusiastically at Akaashi while bouncing on his feet.
Warmth stirs in Akaashi’s chest. He raises a hand and gives a small wave back.
The match is like watching a force of nature. Perhaps Akaashi is biased, but it seems like Bokuto is unstoppable - leaping high, his spikes cutting through the air with precision.
The crowd roars each time the ball slams into the opponent’s side of the court. Akaashi claps along with the rest of the audience, unable to stop the smile from forming as Bokuto turns to the stands, pumping his fists and calling to his teammates to keep the momentum going.
The Jackals take the match in straight sets.
Akaashi stays seated as the team bows to the crowd, his gaze fixed on Bokuto, whose grin remains unshakable.
After the game, they end up at a small, cozy restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The table is crowded with steaming plates of food, and Bokuto’s excitement is palpable as he recounts moments from the match, gesturing animatedly between bites.
“Did you see that quick set from Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto says, practically bouncing in his seat. “It was perfect! I thought the blockers had me for sure, but nope - bam!”
Akaashi hums in agreement, though his own meal remains largely untouched. He watches Bokuto instead, drawn to the way his eyes sparkle as he talks, the way his smile seems to take up his whole face.
Eventually, Bokuto slows, leaning back with a contented sigh. “Man, that felt good. It’s been a while since I played a game like that.”
“You played well,” Akaashi says, meeting his gaze. “You always do.”
Bokuto’s grin softens. “Thanks, Akaashi.”
There’s a brief pause, the warmth between them stretching comfortably, and then Bokuto glances out the window, his expression thoughtful. “I’m glad you agreed to come, ‘Kaashi.”
Akaashi feels his chest tighten, and he looks down at his plate, suddenly finding it difficult to meet Bokuto’s eyes. “Likewise,” he says.
His thumb traces the carvings on the ring in his pocket before he lets go of it and rests his hand on the table, and Bokuto turns to him then, reaching across to cover Akaashi’s hand with his own. “Let’s stay in touch this time, okay? I’ll come see you whenever I can, I promise.”
“Yes,” Akaashi agrees softly. “Okay.”
The weeks that follow slip by in a gentle rhythm.
True to his word, Bokuto visits Tokyo whenever he has a free weekend, and Akaashi finds himself looking forward to those visits more than he’d like to admit. They explore the city, sharing meals at small restaurants and wandering through parks, their conversations flowing as easily as they always have.
In turn, Akaashi makes trips to Osaka, where Bokuto eagerly shows him around the city he now calls home. He attends the Jackals’ games, watching from the stands as Bokuto commands the court.
Between visits, they stay connected through texts and calls.
Bokuto’s messages are always full of energy, peppered with exclamation marks and pictures of his teammates, his meals, or even random things he finds funny. Akaashi reads them all. And though he responds with measured words, he can’t deny the warmth in his chest or the smiles that form on his lips whenever he sees a new text message pop up on his phone.
Meanwhile, the new manga progresses smoothly. The characters take shape, their dynamics becoming sharper with each iteration. Udai beams with pride as Akaashi offers his input, the project slowly but surely coming alive.
Time passes. The days grow colder, the nights longer. But having Bokuto back in his life - it feels like sunlight spilling into the corners of his life, chasing away the shadows he hadn’t even realised were there.
“You seem... lighter,” Udai mentions one afternoon when Akaashi visits his desk to take a look at some sketches. “Happier, maybe. What’s up?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Akaashi brushes it off with a faint smile. “Your sketches seem to be coming along. I like this one,” he points to a drawing of the main character, mid-air as he readies himself for a spike. “I like the lighting. It’s very dramatic.”
“Exactly what I’m going for.” Udai leans back, holding up the sketch at arm’s length to examine his progress. “Dramatic lighting is everything. You think I should darken this shadow here?” He points to the hollow beneath the character’s ribcage.
“Not too much,” Akaashi advises. “You’ll lose the sense of motion if it’s too heavy. Try softening the edges instead.”
Udai hums thoughtfully and picks up a softer pencil. The lines he adds now are lighter, blending the darker shadows into the surrounding white space. It’s a subtle adjustment, but Akaashi watches the character on the page come to life, the shading adding a sense of movement to the spike.
“Not bad, huh?” Udai grins, glancing at Akaashi for approval.
Akaashi nods once, his lips curving slightly upward. “Not bad.”
And so, slowly, autumn gives way to winter.
Akaashi’s birthday arrives quietly, slipping in with the early morning light and the soft hum of his phone vibrating against his bedside table.
The messages start early, with his friends, old ones and new, sending him birthday wishes. His parents text him, simple and warm, just as they always do.
And, of course, so does Bokuto.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AKAASHI!!!!!!
I hope today is THE BEST DAY EVER!!!
I’m gonna call you tonight!!
Akaashi smiles faintly at his phone, typing out his thanks before setting it aside.
He doesn’t take the day off work - he never has, and with so many deadlines to meet and Udai’s project moving forward, there’s too much to do. Udai, luckily, seems very motivated, and Akaashi finds him fully absorbed in his sketches, when he gets to the office.
“Akaashi-san! Good morning,” Udai greets with raised eyebrows. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the date. You really want to spend your birthday here?”
Akaashi scans his desk, pages and pages of sketches that seem to be coming along. “There’s work to do.”
“Sure, but you always have work to do,” Udai points out, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t kill you to take some time off.”
“I’ll think about it next year,” Akaashi replies dryly.
“Okay, okay. Happy Birthday, Akaashi-san.” Udai shakes his head, but smiles. “Tell me if there’s anything you’d like.”
“Thank you.” Akaashi’s lip twitches upwards. “If you could finish the chapter you promised me last weekend, I would be very grateful.”
“Yeah,” Udai groans. “I walked right into that one.”
The two of them work in comfortable silence for most of the day, occasionally exchanging notes or passing pages back and forth, and by the time evening settles in and the office has mostly emptied, Akaashi remains at his desk, scanning through his latest edits.
Across from him, Udai stretches with a groan, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Man, it’s late,” he mutters. “Akaashi-san, don’t tell me you’ll be staying longer?”
Akaashi hums in response, eyes still on the page. “Just a bit.”
Udai snorts. “I knew it.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Please tell me you’ve at least eaten something today.”
Akaashi hesitates.
Udai groans. “Unbelievable.”
Before Akaashi can offer a weak excuse, a knock at the door interrupts them. He frowns, glancing at the clock - it’s almost half past six.
Udai raises an eyebrow, and Akaashi calls out, “Come in.”
Their receptionist stands in the door, balancing two large bags. “Good evening, Akaashi-san. I was just finishing up when a delivery man dropped these off for you. I assume you ordered dinner?”
“No.” Akaashi blinks. “I didn’t.”
“Really?” She frowns, “But it has your name on it. Ah, see? There’s a note.”
True enough - there, taped to the front of the bag, is the delivery note, and under special instructions, it says,
Please add note to recipient:
Happy Birthday, Akaashi!!!
I know you’re still at work, and I KNOW you haven’t eaten, so here!
Say hi to Udai-sensei for me!
- Bokuto (your favourite person)
“Is that from Bokuto-san?” Udai peers over Akaashi’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s so sweet!”
“I didn’t know it was your birthday, Akaashi-san,” their receptionist says. “Happy birthday.”
“Ah, thank you.” Akaashi replies, looking from her to Udai who’s already pulling the bags from his hands.
“Well, I’ve clocked out for today, so I’ll be heading home now.” She takes a small bow. “Have a nice evening, you two.”
“Yes, thank you. To you, as well.”
Inside the first bag, they find more food than one person could reasonably eat, so it looks like Bokuto either knew that Udai would be with him, or he’d gravely miscalculated how much Akaashi eats. Either way, he’s happy to share, and they divide the take-out boxes between the two of them.
The second bag contains a small box of four cupcakes from a popular bakery chain, each topped with a miniature chocolate owl. Akaashi huffs a laugh.
He takes a photo of all the food spread out on his desk, Udai waving in the background, and sends it to Bokuto.
This wasn’t necessary, Bokuto-san. But thank you, I appreciate it.
His phone buzzes when they’re halfway through the food, and he pulls it out to find Bokuto calling.
“Hello, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi greets when the Jackals’ locker room fills his screen.
“Akaashi!! Happy Birthday!!” Bokuto beams at him. “And hi, Udai-sensei. Long time no see!”
“Hi, Bokuto-san!” Udai grins. “It’s nice to see you!”
Behind Bokuto, Akaashi can see the rest of the team.
“Happy Birthday!” Inunaki gives a cheerful wave, followed by cheers and well-wishes from the rest of the Jackals. Inunaki raises a cupcake - one that looks suspiciously like the ones Bokuto ordered for him.
On closer inspection, they all seem to have one - Miya, Meian and even Sakusa.
“Thank you all,” Akaashi blinks. “Bokuto-san, what is this?”
“We all got the same cupcakes!” Bokuto grins, turning the camera slightly to show Miya already taking a bite. “I mean, I couldn’t be there in person, but I wanted us to at least celebrate together. This is kind of like sharing cake, right?”
Udai makes an amused sound from across the desk, while Akaashi shakes his head. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
The thought of Bokuto not only thinking to order him food because he knew Akaashi would be working late, but getting his team to stay behind to share celebratory cupcakes for someone they’ve only seen a handful of times - it’s sweet. Overwhelmingly so.
“But I wanted to,” Bokuto argues.
Akaashi doesn’t know what to say. It was always going to be a slippery slope, having Bokuto back in his life. Akaashi knew that. But this - this is where he realises just how wrong he was.
He thought he knew the depth of his feelings, that he had mapped them out, safely contained within the boundaries of affection and longing. But Akaashi realises he has underestimated them entirely.
Time and distance didn’t do anything to dull his feelings. If anything, they only sharpened, making him more aware of every detail, every way Bokuto seems to pull him in without even trying.
Akaashi loves him. Oh, how he loves him.
Still.
Always.
Meian steps forward. “We’re playing in Iwate in two weeks,” he says. “It’s the last game of the season. We’re saving a ticket for you.”
Akaashi’s eyes widen. “What-?”
Miya laughs. "Figured Bokuto was gonna drag ya here anyway, so might as well make it easy on ya."
“Besides, Bokuto here plays better when you watch,” Inunaki adds. “I was right when I said you were good luck.”
“Um, excuse me? Hello, Wan-san, I always play well,” Bokuto says, pointing at him. “But you need some time off, anyway, right? No excuses, Akaashi.”
Udai lets out a low whistle. “A free game ticket? They really want you there.”
Akaashi presses his fingers to his temple as if that might hide the warmth spreading across his face. He’s not used to this - this many people caring so loudly.
Bokuto grins, shifting the phone back to himself. “Also, I have something for you,” he says. “A proper birthday present. You have to come so I can give it to you.”
Akaashi swallows against the tightness in his throat. Like he needs another reason to want to go. Like it hasn’t been far too long since the last match.
He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want to see Bokuto.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
Bokuto’s grin stretches wide and unrestrained, and across the miles between them, Akaashi feels something warm and light flutter in his chest, affection so vast he doesn’t have a name for it.
In Iwate, the December air bites through even the thickest layers of clothing, and snow piles high along the streets.
The arena is buzzing; the crowd roars with every point the Jackals score, and Akaashi claps along because the team is amazing, because the match is exciting, but in the end, perhaps his applause is a little bit more for Bokuto than the rest of them.
Bokuto is everywhere.
He moves like he was made for this, powerful and precise, his presence a force that to be reckoned with. His jersey clings to his frame, damp with sweat, his arms flexing as he swings, muscles coiling and releasing like it takes him no effort at all. He lands light on his feet despite the height of his jumps, the sheer force of his spikes. It’s like he’s thrumming with energy, his eyes burning with something wild and alive.
Akaashi watches, helplessly caught.
He has always admired Bokuto’s strength, the way his body moves with such effortless control, but now - now his gaze lingers. On the way his broad shoulders tense before each jump, on the flex of his thighs as he propels himself into the air. On the sweat that trickles down the column of his throat, catching in the hollow of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his jersey.
His mind betrays him, slipping into thoughts he shouldn’t be entertaining.
He wonders what it would feel like to be held by those arms. To be pressed against something solid and unyielding, to feel that raw strength braced against him - not just in fleeting touches, but in ways that leave no space between them at all.
To touch that skin beneath those knee pads, feel those muscles as he trails his fingers up Bokuto’s thigh-
Heat coils in Akaashi’s stomach, and he forces himself to blink, to breathe.
This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous.
Bokuto turns to the stands after an impossible spike that wins them the match, pumping his fists in victory. His eyes find Akaashi’s - and Akaashi can’t look away. A rush of heat floods his chest, sharp and all-consuming, like a breath stolen straight from his lungs.
Seeing Bokuto now - so alive, and in his element, victorious on the court and eyes locked with Akaashi’s like there is no one else in the world but them - has something in him stirring with startling intensity.
The game ends and Akaashi lingers in his seat for a moment. He tells himself it’s to avoid the rush, and not because his knees feel weak, not because his mind is still reeling, not because his heart is beating in time with Bokuto’s name.
When most of the crowd has dispersed, he makes his way to the arena’s entrance, though Bokuto catches him by the stairs, grinning so brightly it lights up the dim space. Akaashi feels his pulse quicken, warmth blooming in his chest despite the cold air seeping in through the entrance doors.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls, waving over the sea of people vying for his attention.
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies, and despite the pounding of his heart he can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips.
“Did you see the last spike?” Bokuto asks before leaning down to take a photo with a fan. “Wasn’t it awesome? The blockers were right there! If I’d messed that up, Tsum-Tsum would’ve killed me!”
Akaashi watches Bokuto sign tickets, posters, even someone’s jersey. His pride feels too large for his chest. “You played well,” he agrees. “It was a very good game.”
Bokuto beams at him. “Let’s get food later!” he exclaims. “I just gotta shower and change, and there’s the team debrief, but it won’t take long. Wait for me?”
Akaashi nods. “Of course.”
After all, it seems that no matter how much he’s tried to forget, a part of him has always waited for Bokuto.
Perhaps it always will.
The izakaya is warm and noisy, a sharp contrast to the freezing streets outside. Bokuto orders enough food for a small army, chatting nonstop, his chopsticks moving animatedly in the air.
“And then Sakusa did that thing with his wrists, right? And I swear the other setter almost fainted.” Bokuto laughs, shaking his head as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “It’s really cool though, you should see it sometime!”
Akaashi huffs a quiet laugh.
The warm air, the wooden beams, the smell of miso and grilled meat lingering in the air - it reminds him of that many months ago, the first time Bokuto had convinced him to join him and his team for dinner. When Akaashi had sat at the end of the table, anxious and small, the table between him and Bokuto had felt like an unbreachable distance.
Now their knees press against each other under the table, and Bokuto easily reaches across the space between them and absent-mindedly traces the lines of Akaashi’s upturned palm with his finger before casually covering it with his hand.
“Akaashi?” Bokuto tilts his head, catching him off guard.
“Yes?”
“I still haven’t given you your birthday gift!”
“Ah, Bokuto-san, you didn’t have to get me anything.” Akaashi pauses. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
Bokuto shrugs. “Still though! I mean, it’s not a lot but…” He reaches down to fish something out of his gym bag. “I hope you’ll like it!”
The present he hands Akaashi is rectangular, wrapped in brightly coloured gift wrap. Akaashi accepts it with both hands, carefully loosening the bow while Bokuto drums his fingers on the table.
Gently removing the paper, Akaashi finds a journal. The cover, though simple in design, seems to shine where it catches the light, and in the bottom left corner, his name has been embossed in golden Kanji.
It’s the same journal Akaashi had held during their trip to the bookstore.
Flipping it open to the first page, Akaashi finds the simple message Bokuto had written:
To Akaashi, my best friend and favourite person,
For whenever you’re ready to write an ending.
Akaashi stares down at the journal, his fingers ghosting over the golden lettering of his name. The weight of it in his hands is steady, grounding.
His throat tightens. Akaashi tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
He had only held this journal for a moment that day in the bookstore, barely long enough to trace its golden sheen with his fingertips before setting it back down. They’d talked, yes, but about writing in general, not about the notebook - Akaashi hadn’t said a word about it. Hadn’t thought Bokuto had noticed.
And yet, here it is. Wrapped carefully, given with thought. Perhaps it’s nothing grand or extravagant, but it’s something far more dangerous. It’s something that says, I see you. I remember you - something that makes hope flutter in Akaashi’s chest.
His fingers tighten slightly around the cover. His chest feels too full, too tight.
Bokuto is watching him, shoulders tense in a way they rarely are, his fingers still drumming against the table. Waiting.
Akaashi exhales slowly. He meets Bokuto’s gaze.
“Thank you.” He clears his throat, willing himself to sound normal. “It’s-” His voice wavers, and he presses his lips together before trying again. “It’s perfect.”
Bokuto beams, and Akaashi knows, with absolute certainty, that there aren’t enough words to hold everything he feels for him.
“Gah, what a relief! I didn’t have a lot of time to stop there the last time I came to visit. I was super happy they still had it!” He reaches out again, covering Akaashi’s hand with his own. “I’m so glad. I really wanted to get you something you’d like.”
Akaashi blinks, eyes falling to their joined hands.
“I do. Very much. Thank you, Bokuto-san. I will treasure it.”
Bokuto runs his thumb over Akaashi’s knuckles and Akaashi’s breath hitches.
“You okay?” Bokuto’s expression softens, and he leans in slightly.
“I am.” Raising his gaze to meet Bokuto’s Akaashi’s eyes fall on Bokuto’s lips. He forces himself to nod. “I am,” he repeats. “Just - thinking about endings.”
Bokuto beams, satisfied, and Akaashi looks away, willing his racing heart to calm.
By the time they leave the restaurant, the weather has taken a turn for the worse.
What had been nothing more than a soft, drifting flurry has now thickened into a fast-falling blanket of snow, swirling in the harsh wind and biting at any exposed skin. It clings to their coats and scarves, turning their breaths into white puffs as they trudge through the knee-deep drifts piling along the sidewalks.
“It’s really coming down,” Bokuto says, his voice muffled by his scarf as he shakes snow from his hair.
Akaashi squints into the storm, his jaw tightening. The darkened sky is nearly invisible now, swallowed by the swirling flakes. The streets are eerily quiet, the city muffled under the growing weight of the storm. He glances at Bokuto, knowing the team’s hotel is on the other side of town. It’s too far, and with the roads this treacherous, calling a taxi is out of the question.
There is really only one acceptable solution.
“My hotel’s closer,” he tells Bokuto. “You should come with me, wait there until it stops.”
“Yes, please,” Bokuto replies, flashing a grin. “You’re a lifesaver, Akaashi.”
The walk to the hotel is short but brutal. The wind bites through their layers, and Akaashi feels the snow numbing his fingers and he rubs his hands together in a desperate attempt to warm them. With a grimace, he shoves them back into his coat, fingers wrapping around the ring he keeps in his pocket. Glancing over at Bokuto trudging beside him, Akaashi finds that he’s wearing gloves.
Well, at least one of them came prepared.
If someone had told him years ago that Bokuto would be the one better prepared for harsh weather conditions, seventeen-year-old Akaashi would not have believed them.
Though, he supposes, it’s a matter of experience: Bokuto travels far more often than Akaashi does – surely preparation comes with the territory.
Bokuto catches him looking. He raises a gloved hand. “My first season, I got caught in the snow with only my tracksuit.” He grins, apparently knowing exactly which direction Akaashi’s thoughts had taken. “You’ll be proud to hear I’ve since learned from my mistakes.”
“Very proud,” Akaashi agrees through chattering teeth. “There is hope for you yet.”
“Aw, Akaashi, you didn’t bring any, did you?” Bokuto frowns at the sight. Then he takes off the glove on his right hand and holds it out to Akaashi. “Here you go.”
“Ah, don’t worry, Bokuto-san. It’s not much further. And I’m afraid one glove won’t make a difference.”
Bokuto keeps holding out the glove. “C’mon, put it on,” he insists.
Sighing, Akaashi relents, and pulls the fabric over his right hand. “Thank you-”
With a grin, Bokuto catches Akaashi’s left hand and, covering it with his own, tucks them both into the pocket of his coat. “There,” he says. “Now we’re both kept warm.”
“Ah,” Akaashi says, feeling suddenly warm for entirely different reasons. He buries his chin deeper into his scarf and stares ahead. His thoughts churn with the storm around them, caught between the overwhelming realisation of just how deeply he loves this ridiculous, incredible, beautiful man beside him.
“Thank you, Bokuto-san.”
By the time they reach the hotel, Akaashi’s cheeks are pink with cold, and his heart pounds - less from the walk, and more from the emotions that linger whenever Bokuto looks at him, grinning like they’re sharing some sort of secret.
He returns the glove only when he’s taking the room card out of his wallet and opens the door, and the warmth of his room greets them like a sigh of relief, melting the sting of the cold still lingering on their skin.
Bokuto drops his scarf and coat onto the chair by the door and flops onto the bed with a groan.
“Man, it feels good to sit down,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up slightly with the motion, revealing a sliver of toned skin above the waistband of his sweatpants.
Akaashi’s eyes linger on the exposed skin. His throat feels dry, and for a fleeting moment, he can’t quite stop his thoughts from wandering. How it would feel to let his hands wander beneath the fabric, raise it higher - how he could trace along his muscled chest with his fingers, his tongue-
Tearing his gaze away, Akaashi wills his heartbeat to calm, wills the heat coiling in his gut to settle before it becomes obvious, before he ventures off into a place he can’t come back from.
He shifts uncomfortably, his heart still unsteady as he settles down next to Bokuto, careful not to touch. The space between them feels both impossibly small and insurmountably vast, a dichotomy that Akaashi tries to ignore.
“Wanna watch TV?” Bokuto suggests, holding up the remote, his grin easy.
Akaashi nods, shuffling to get comfortable. Bokuto shimmies further up the bed to make room. They bump elbows briefly when Akaashi slides up next to him, and the simple touch sends a spark through him. He pulls away, his pulse quickening.
They squabble over what to watch - Bokuto insists on finding a movie, but Akaashi presses to find the news channel.
“You’re no fun,” Bokuto huffs, but he relents anyway. He flips to the weather forecast and turns up the volume.
“…Snowfall will remain heavy throughout the evening, accompanied by high winds and freezing temperatures. Conditions are expected to improve slightly during the night, but we urge everyone to stay indoors and avoid unnecessary travel until morning.”
“Well,” Bokuto says, breaking the silence, “guess I’m here for a while.”
“Looks like it,” Akaashi murmurs. He glances toward the window, where the snow outside blurs the world into indistinct shapes under the streetlights with no signs of stopping.
“You should stay,” he says, with a glance at Bokuto. ‘During the night’ could mean anything. “They said not to travel until morning.”
“Oh,” Bokuto says, “Yeah. I mean, if that’s okay?”
Akaashi nods. “It would be safer. I’ll let the front desk know. And you should probably inform your team, so they won’t worry.”
“Got it.” Bokuto pulls out his phone. “Thanks, Akaashi!”
“Of course.” And with that, Akaashi crosses the room.
It takes a moment for him to return. He pays the extra fee for having a second guest and picks up a few of the hotel’s amenities: a spare pair of pyjamas, some snacks, a toothbrush... Akaashi isn’t sure what products Bokuto uses these days, so he spends a while scanning the labels of various lotions, hair products, and oils. Eventually, he settles on the ones he deems safest - fragrance-free and free of unnecessary chemicals - before heading back to the room.
He finds Bokuto waiting in the hallway, grinning and holding a few cans of beer against his chest.
Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”
“No, no.” Bokuto laughs. “I just spotted a vending machine on the way up and figured it’d be cheaper to raid that than your mini fridge.”
“I see.”
Shaking his head with a fond smile, Akaashi opens the door and they step further into the room. Akaashi sets the small bag of toiletries on the table, pulling out the items and holding them out to Bokuto.
“I wasn’t sure what you needed, so I got a bit of everything,” Akaashi tells him.
Bokuto takes the small collection of amenities and examines them with a grin. “Oh, coconut oil,” he says, turning the packet over in his hands. “This is good stuff. Nice pick, Akaashi.”
Akaashi shrugs lightly, but there’s a faint flush to his cheeks. “It seemed practical.”
Bokuto chuckles and places the packets on the bedside table. He grabs the set of pyjamas from Akaashi’s outstretched hand with a grateful look.
“Might as well get changed now, right?” He says with a grin and pulls off his shirt over his head.
Akaashi decidedly doesn’t stare at his muscled chest. He doesn’t look at the exposed skin, or his hips, or the point below his navel, where Bokuto’s skin dips below the waistband of his pants.
Pressing his lips together, he grabs his own set of pyjamas, fingers digging into the fabric. He takes a breath and starts unbuttoning his own shirt.
When they have both changed, Bokuto hands him a beer, and they settle back onto the bed, leaning back against the pillows. Akaashi takes a sip of his drink, while Bokuto grabs the remote, flicking through the hotel’s movie options until he lands on something that looks like an action film. They watch in easy silence, tossing out the occasional amused comment or sharing a laugh.
By the time they’ve opened their second beers, Bokuto has draped an arm around Akaashi, and by the time Akaashi finishes his drink, Bokuto’s fingers have started tracing light, absent-minded circles on his shoulder, his thumb brushing his throat every so often. The touch makes Akaashi’s breath catch, sends a shiver down his spine and makes heat coil in his gut.
His heart races so loudly that he’s sure Bokuto can feel it.
The movie continues, but Akaashi barely notices. He’s too aware of Bokuto’s proximity - the way their shoulders occasionally brush, the warmth radiating off him, the way his scent lingers faintly in the air between them.
He thinks, too close.
And then: not close enough.
The feeling isn’t entirely new. Akaashi has always felt it, the constant pull towards Bokuto - but he doesn’t know when it started to evolve, turn into more: an ache to be nearer, to touch. He’s never allowed himself to dwell on it, but now, with Bokuto so close, it’s impossible to ignore.
His gaze drifts to Bokuto’s lips. He wonders, briefly, what they might feel like pressed to his own - how soft they’d be.
Akaashi grips the fabric of his pants to keep from reaching out, but the longing coils tighter in his chest, and his body betrays him with a slight tilt toward Bokuto as though pulled closer by some unknown force.
He wants him. God, how Akaashi wants him.
He’s hyper-aware of every little movement Bokuto makes, the way his shoulder leans just a fraction closer, his breath warm against Akaashi’s skin. Akaashi swallows thickly, and carefully navigates one of the pillows across his lap to hide the tightness in his pants.
“Hey, you’re not really watching the movie anymore.” Bokuto’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and Akaashi looks over to find himself pinned by golden eyes. And there’s something there, in Bokuto’s expression, something unusually calculating - something that Akaashi doesn’t know how to parse.
“Hey,” Bokuto says again, softly. “Something on your mind?”
Akaashi can’t bring himself to answer right away. His gaze locks on Bokuto’s face - his lips just a few inches from his own. It would be easy. So easy, to lean in, close the distance.
He wants to. Wants it more than anything, but –
It feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t undo.
“I-” Akaashi clears his throat, trying to steady himself. His voice comes out softer than he intended. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”
But his eyes are still fixed on Bokuto’s lips, and he feels the tightness between his legs, the heat in his gut like a hunger he can no longer ignore.
Bokuto’s hand shifts, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of Akaashi’s neck, and the touch sends an electric pulse straight to his groin. His breath catches, and he makes a small, involuntary sound.
“Akaashi.” His name is a breath on Bokuto’s lips, before his hand gently cups the back of Akaashi’s neck.
Akaashi doesn’t know who moves first, but it doesn’t matter – one moment he’s looking into molten gold, and the next Bokuto’s lips are on his own, warm and soft. For a moment, Akaashi hesitates, unsure, but then it’s like everything clicks into place, and he leans into it, eyes fluttering closed.
The kiss is tentative at first, slow and searching. Akaashi’s hands tremble slightly where they hover, before they find their place tangled in Bokuto’s hair. His heart pounds, the rhythm of it a wild echo in his ears.
Bokuto pulls back just enough to catch his breath, but the space between them feels unbearable, and Akaashi makes a soft sound that slips free before he can stop it.
It’s all the invitation Bokuto needs.
He crashes their lips back together, the kiss more urgent, almost desperate, and Akaashi melts into it, his body tilting toward Bokuto’s like it’s impossible to stay apart.
One of Bokuto’s hands moves to frame Akaashi’s face while the other slides down to remove the pillow between them, and Akaashi freezes for a moment. But Bokuto’s thumbs brushes over his jaw, gently, tenderly, and then he leans in for another kiss that is anything but.
He traces Akaashi’s lower lip with his tongue as if asking permission, and Akaashi opens for him, of course he does, and Bokuto cups Akaashi’s backside, pulling him fully against him. The pressure makes Akaashi gasp into the kiss, his body arching instinctively as Bokuto grinds against him, the friction easing the ache building between his legs.
It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and it isn’t enough - Akaashi wants more, wants him closer, and when Bokuto pulls away he makes a desperate sound that he might have been embarrassed about once, but not anymore. He needs this, needs Bokuto against him, doesn’t know how he will ever go without feeling it again, not now that he knows it feels like this.
Fingers fumble at the hem of Akaashi’s shirt, before Bokuto tugs it over his head in one fluid motion before gently guiding Akaashi down onto the bed and leaning over him. The cool air nips at his newly exposed skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of Bokuto’s mouth, trailing kisses on his shoulder, his neck, his throat.
Bokuto pulls back briefly, his gaze raking over Akaashi’s body like a man starving.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Bokuto murmurs, his voice hoarse.
Akaashi swallows hard, his skin flushing under Bokuto’s gaze. He feels exposed in a way that’s both terrifying and exhilarating, and he reaches up, fingers cupping Bokuto’s neck to pull him back down against him.
Bokuto obliges, hungrily licking into Akaashi’s mouth once more before his lips trail downward, brushing along Akaashi’s jaw and neck before grazing his teeth along the hollow of his throat, gently nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin. Akaashi closes his eyes and tips his head back, his breath hitching as Bokuto’s tongue flicks out as if to soothe the spot he’d just marked, his touch turning tender where it had been sharp moments ago.
He trails lower, pressing kisses to his collarbone and the skin of his chest. And when his mouth closes over one of his nipples, his tongue flicking lightly, Akaashi jerks beneath him with a low, involuntary moan.
Bokuto’s hands explore slowly, one making lazy strokes down Akaashi’s waist while the other grips his hip, as if to ground him - which isn’t unwarranted; his whole body feels like it might unravel. Akaashi’s fingers tangle in Bokuto’s hair, holding him close, and he arches into the touch, wordlessly begging for more.
Bokuto takes his time, savoring every shiver and gasp he pulls from Akaashi. When their eyes meet again, Bokuto’s gaze is wild in a way that makes Akaashi’s stomach tighten. Bokuto leans in, brushing his mouth softly against Akaashi’s, a contrast to the hunger Akaashi sees in his eyes.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Bokuto murmurs, his voice raw. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Akaashi exhales shakily, a hand resting against his chest, over his racing heart. He finds no words, and so he leans up, pressing a kiss to Bokuto’s throat, his jaw, and then his lips. He means for it to be gentle, to convey everything he’s unable to put into words, but he’s too wrapped up in this, in Bokuto above him, against him, and soon he’s pulling Bokuto back down on top of him, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and sucking, and Bokuto groans into the kiss, his tongue sweeping against Akaashi’s in a way that steals the breath from his lungs.
Their bodies press together, and Akaashi feels hot, feels hot and tight and untethered. This must be what drowning feels like, he thinks, and presses against Bokuto as if he is his lifeline, hands in his hair and mouth on his lips and then on his neck.
Bokuto’s hand begins to wander, sliding lower, fingers ghosting over his skin until they reach below the waistband of Akaashi’s pants. His touch is slow, deliberate, and when he wraps a hand around him, a soft cry escapes Akaashi’s lips, and his hips jerk up in response, against Bokuto. Bokuto groans, the sound deep and guttural.
His body is tense with restraint, but his movements are precise, focused, every shift and movement designed to draw Akaashi closer to the edge. Akaashi bites at Bokuto’s shoulder, fingernails digging into his skin, every ounce of pent-up desire that’s been building in him for years spilling out of him with every stroke.
“Not yet,” he gasps. “Not like-” He lifts his mouth to Bokuto’s again, the kiss messy, desperate. “I want you. Please.”
He’s not sure he’s making sense, but Bokuto halts, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth.
“Are you sure?” He asks against his lips. “We don’t have to. We can just-”
Akaashi thinks he might be trembling - or perhaps they both are.
“Yes,” he says simply, voice barely more than a breath. He kisses Bokuto again, long and deep. “I’m sure. I want- Please. I want you.”
Bokuto looks at him, his eyes like molten gold. He kisses Akaashi, once, twice, before he nods.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Bokuto hooks his fingers into Akaashi’s waistband and slides his pants down, the fabric brushing against his thighs before they’re discarded on the floor. Akaashi’s skin feels hypersensitive, every movement, every shift of air heightening his awareness.
Before Bokuto can reach for his own waistband, Akaashi sits up, pressing closer, his lips finding Bokuto’s chest. He trails kisses along warm skin, his hands sliding downward until they graze the fabric of Bokuto’s waistband. As he tugs at it, his tongue flicks out against Bokuto’s nipple, testing, tasting.
The sharp, surprised gasp Bokuto makes sends a bolt of heat straight to Akaashi’s core. Encouraged, he does it again, his mouth closing over the sensitive peak, tongue tracing slow, lazy circles around it. Bokuto groans, his head tipping back, his fingers digging into the sheets beneath him as Akaashi pulls the fabric of his pants lower.
Bokuto shifts to help, kicking off his pants before Akaashi’s gaze drops. The sight of him, bare and unguarded, makes Akaashi’s breath hitch, and he reaches out, deliberate and careful, his fingers brushing along Bokuto’s length. Bokuto makes a sound, low and guttural, and his hips jerk forward, thrusting into the touch.
It’s intoxicating. Akaashi feels like he might come undone.
He licks his lips, but as his fingers graze against the sensitive skin, Bokuto’s hand wraps around his wrist. His grip trembling as though even he isn’t sure if he wants to stop Akaashi or beg for more. When Akaashi looks up, Bokuto’s expression is raw and wild, his gaze burning with need.
Bokuto leans in, capturing Akaashi’s lips in a kiss that’s hot and desperate, before guiding him gently back onto the bed. His mouth never stops moving, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach - the corner of Akaashi’s mouth, the base of his throat, along his collarbone and his chest. His lips trail downward, mapping a path to Akaashi’s navel and lower, his breath hot against his skin.
Spreading Akaashi’s legs apart, Bokuto presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, Akaashi shivers, his hands clutching at the sheets. Bokuto’s movements are deliberate, filled with a reverence that makes Akaashi feel weightless.
Bokuto reaches for something on the bedside table, tearing open a small packet. Akaashi catches the faint, familiar scent of coconut as Bokuto spills some of the oil onto his palm, before he leans back down, kissing and biting the sensitive parts on Akaashi’s inner thigh while his hand drifts lower, fingers slick and warm as they explore. He teases the skin at Akaashi’s entrance, before pressing forward.
The first finger slides in, and Akaashi gasps, his back arching slightly at the new sensation.
Bokuto pauses immediately, looking up to meet Akaashi’s gaze. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” Akaashi breathes, his fingers threading through Bokuto’s hair. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
Bokuto’s smile is soft, reassuring, as he leans in to press a kiss to Akaashi’s hip. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
His finger moves slowly, carefully, easing Akaashi into the sensation. He whispers gentle words of encouragement, his voice low and soothing.
“You’re doing so well,” Bokuto murmurs, brushing his lips against Akaashi’s skin.
The praise makes Akaashi’s breath hitch, a flush spreading from his chest to the tips of his ears. When Bokuto adds a second finger, Akaashi gasps again, his hips tilting instinctively, seeking more. Bokuto stills immediately, his free hand smoothing over Akaashi’s thigh. “Okay?”
Akaashi breathes, his voice shaking slightly. “I’m okay.”
Bokuto nods, and his fingers resume their gentle rhythm, coaxing soft, breathless sounds from Akaashi’s lips. His other hand trails over Akaashi’s skin in lazy strokes.
Akaashi is painfully aware of every inch of Bokuto’s touch, every slow, deliberate movement of his fingers as they explore, stretching and preparing him while Bokuto’s lips brush over his skin with a tenderness that makes Akaashi’s chest ache.
His head tips back, his eyes fluttering shut. Every touch, every brush of Bokuto’s fingers feels like a spark igniting him. The heat coiling in his gut spreads lower as Bokuto’s movements grow more purposeful, as he works Akaashi open.
It’s consuming. Overwhelming. He doesn’t want it to stop.
When Bokuto pulls away, Akaashi whimpers, the sound slipping out before he can catch it.
“You still sure-?” Bokuto begins softly, but Akaashi doesn’t let him finish. He surges forward, swallowing the rest of Bokuto’s words with a kiss - hungry, desperate.
“Yes,” Akaashi murmurs against his lips. “I’m sure.”
Bokuto pauses for a moment, his gaze searching Akaashi’s face, and whatever he finds there seems to ease the tension in his shoulders. He reaches for the oil again, pouring more into his palm before moving down to spread it along his length.
Akaashi watches him, his breath catching at the sight. His body feels taut, every nerve alive as Bokuto shifts until they’re aligned. Bokuto threads their fingers together.
With one strong, careful thrust, Bokuto pushes inside, and Akaashi gasps sharply at the sensation.
It’s a lot. The pressure is unlike anything he’s ever felt, stretching him in a way that’s both foreign and strangely right.
“I’m okay,” he says, before Bokuto can stop. His grip tightens around Bokuto’s hand, clutching at it as though it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment. “Don’t stop. I’m okay. Please.”
“Okay,” Bokuto whispers, pressing a kiss to Akaashi’s temple before he moves - slowly at first, carefully. Bokuto’s grip on his hand is grounding, as though silently reassuring him that he’s there, that he’ll go no further than Akaashi allows.
The sensation is overwhelming. Akaashi feels hot. He feels full. Every movement sends sparks racing along his nerves, and his legs tighten around Bokuto’s hips as if on instinct. Bokuto leans in closer, brushing his lips over Akaashi’s jaw, his neck, murmuring quiet words between kisses.
“You’re incredible,” Bokuto breathes, his voice low and raw, and the words make Akaashi’s heart stutter. “You’re so beautiful.”
Slowly, the initial stretch gives way to something deeper, something that makes Akaashi’s breath hitch with every roll of Bokuto’s hips; each movement stokes the fire low in his belly, the pressure building steadily until it’s all he can focus on.
Bokuto thrusts and Akaashi clings to him, urging him closer, deeper, harder, with every arch of his back, every whispered breath of Bokuto’s name, until Bokuto presses deeply enough to find that spot inside him that makes Akaashi cry out, his back arching off the bed.
The sound of it makes Bokuto groan.
“Right there,” Akaashi whispers, his voice trembling. “Please.”
Bokuto obeys, his movements growing more insistent as he rocks into him, until Akaashi feels like he might come undone completely. His fingernails dig into Bokuto’s back, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The heat in his belly burns hotter, sharper, the pressure between his legs building until it feels like it’s on the verge of spilling over.
And just when he thinks he can’t take any more, Bokuto shifts again, his hips pressing forward, hitting that spot inside Akaashi, and every nerve in Akaashi’s body lights up as he tumbles over the edge. He cries out, his back arching, his nails scraping down Bokuto’s shoulders as his release crashes over him. Bokuto leans up, kissing him deeply, swallowing every sound Akaashi makes.
The intensity of it leaves him trembling, his vision white for a moment as the pleasure consumes him.
Bokuto isn’t far behind. With his legs still tight around him, Akaashi feels the exact moment Bokuto tips over the edge. With a guttural moan, Bokuto’s whole body shudders as he buries himself deep, his release spilling warmth inside him. He collapses against Akaashi, his chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of Akaashi’s neck.
For a moment, the room is silent save for the sound of their ragged breathing. Bokuto’s weight is warm and solid against Akaashi, grounding him as the aftershocks ripple through his body. Bokuto’s hand traces soothing circles down his side until the heat and haze begin to settle.
After a while, Bokuto shifts slightly, his hold on Akaashi tightening just a fraction - like he’s making sure he’s still there - before he lifts his head, his golden eyes soft and filled with something that makes Akaashi’s chest ache. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to Akaashi’s lips.
“You okay?” Bokuto asks, his voice low, his hand brushing damp hair from Akaashi’s forehead.
Akaashi hums softly in response, his lashes fluttering but not quite opening. He tilts his head just slightly into the touch, grateful for the way Bokuto is holding him even now, for the way his warmth is anchoring him in the lingering satisfaction that keeps his body pliant and his thoughts pleasantly slow.
They stay like that for a moment, tangled together in the dim light, the world outside the room forgotten. Bokuto presses another kiss to Akaashi’s temple, then his jaw, before he shifts slightly, reaching for a tissue on the bedside table.
His movements are slow and careful as he cleans them both up, gentle enough to make Akaashi’s chest ache all over again. When he finishes, he tosses the tissue into the small trash bin by the bedside table and settles back onto the mattress, pulling the blankets up over both of them.
He reaches for Akaashi without hesitation, tugging him close. His arm wraps around Akaashi’s waist, his fingers brushing absent circles against the small of his back.
“Warm enough?” Bokuto murmurs.
“Yes,” Akaashi replies softly, his cheek pressed against Bokuto’s chest.
The steady rhythm of Bokuto’s heartbeat thrums against his ear, and Akaashi lets himself sink into the warmth of the embrace. Bokuto presses a kiss to the top of Akaashi’s head before settling on the pillow. Slowly his breathing begins to slow.
Bokuto mumbles something - something that might have sounded like “Keiji,” but his voice is too drowsy and quiet to be sure.
It sends a jolt through Akaashi anyway, a streak of heat and possessiveness curling at the thought of his given name on Bokuto’s lips - the intimacy of it - and he presses his lips to Bokuto’s throat in response.
But Bokuto doesn’t say any more, already slipping into sleep. His breathing evens out until it is deep and steady, and Akaashi closes his eyes, willing his own mind to follow.
Flashes and images, Akaashi’s dream is a disjointed mess that doesn't make sense.
He’s seventeen again, sitting on the same bench in the sublevel of the Tokyo City Arena. He’s waiting for something - waiting for what, he doesn’t know. But the clock on the wall doesn’t move, and he doesn’t move, and the hallway is empty.
Then he’s at the net, eyes following the ball. He knows where to set. He knows where Bokuto will be. He has known for years. The angles are familiar, the calculations quick and precise, but when he sets, there’s no one there. No one on the field, no one in the stands. The lights are out, and the air smells like dust. The ball hits the floor with a sound that’s too loud. A sharp slap that doesn’t echo.
There’s a phone next to him on the bench, but it’s silent.
He’s twenty-two now, scrolling through the endless feedback on Udai’s manga, eyes burning with the glow of the computer screen. The fans don’t really understand - they cheer for the wrong things. They cheer for the ace and his setter, but it’s wrong. It’s wrong. The ace deserves better. The ace deserves more.
He’s back on the bench. He’s seventeen and twenty-two, and he’s waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.
The phone on the bench is still there.
It doesn’t ring.
Akaashi stirs awake with a jolt, disoriented, his body still nestled against Bokuto’s in the faint light of early morning. It’s warm, which is the first thing he registers - the warmth of their shared space, the weight of Bokuto’s arm draped loosely around his waist, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing.
For a few seconds, he lets himself stay there, still and cocooned in the remnants of sleep, the memory of last night lingering in his skin. It had been everything he’d ever wanted - more than he’d dared to hope for. Every kiss, every touch had felt impossibly right, like something inevitable, something perfect.
And then, reality sinks its teeth in.
Oh.
Akaashi's eyes snap open, the last remnant's of drowsiness falling from him.
Oh no. Oh god.
A cold wave of dread washes over him, and he resists the urge to push away in panic, to put space between them before he loses himself in the illusion of this warmth. Because that’s all it is, isn't it? An illusion.
He swallows hard, his fingers twitching against Bokuto’s bare skin. For a few perfect moments, he had let himself believe - what, exactly? That he could have this? That his feelings might be mutual?
How foolish. Bokuto never said anything about feelings. He said he'd wanted it, yes, but wanting and loving aren't the same thing. It doesn't mean - well. Akaashi doesn't know, does he? He doesn’t know what it meant to Bokuto.
He knows Bokuto cares about him. Bokuto, who has always given his affection freely. Who cares deeply and without hesitation, just not in the way Akaashi wants him to. And just because he was held like something precious last night doesn’t mean-
It doesn’t mean Bokuto feels the same way.
Akaashi’s heart pounds so loudly in his ears that for a moment, he’s sure it will wake Bokuto. His breath comes short, his hands trembling where they rest against Bokuto’s chest. He feels seventeen again - helpless under the weight of what he can’t control, afraid of what he can’t bear to lose.
Before last night, it would have been painful but manageable. He could have lived with his unrequited feelings as long as he still had Bokuto in his life. He had been willing to swallow that longing, to endure the ache of wanting more than he was allowed.
But this?
How is he supposed to go back to being just friends after this?
Panic presses down, urgent and suffocating. He needs air. Needs to move, needs to breathe.
Carefully, he disentangles himself from Bokuto’s embrace, slipping out of bed as quietly as he can to avoid waking him. Bokuto stirs briefly, his brow furrowing, but then he settles back into sleep, and his breathing evens out again. Akaashi stares at him for a moment, something sharp and unbearable curling in his chest.
Then he moves. He grabs his clothes, barely aware of his own hands as he pulls on his coat and boots. He leaves his glasses, leaves his wallet – he just needs to get away. He needs time to think.
Outside, the world is still half-formed in the faint light of early morning, the horizon barely touched with the first hints of dawn. The storm has quieted during the night, but snow still continues to fall, the faint glow of streetlights illuminating the flakes as they drift.
The cold air stings his cheeks as he makes his way past through the hotel parking lot. It’s quiet, the streets blanketed in fresh snow that muffles his footsteps as he walks. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shaking both from the chill and his nerves, and his fingers wrap around the familiar ring, fingers tracing the carvings in an attempt to calm himself.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just knows he needs to move, to do something - anything.
For all he knows, Bokuto might wake up and smile at him, bright and carefree, and go on as though nothing has changed. And Akaashi isn’t sure he can handle that - pretending none of this ever happened.
To act like it was just a fleeting thing, forgotten by breakfast.
Akaashi’s breath shudders out of him. He stops at the edge of a small park, staring blankly at a bench buried beneath a thick layer of snow. He doesn’t sit. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, the icy air sharp in his lungs.
What now? What is he supposed to do, what is he supposed to say?
What can he say, really, after this?
“Akaashi!”
The sound of Bokuto’s voice has his stomach lurching, a bit like missing a step on the stairs - sudden, breath-stealing, a split second of weightlessness before the ground rushes back up to meet him.
Slowly, he turns. The sky has softened, deep blue dissolving into dusky violet, and the horizon glows pink, heralding dawn.
Bokuto stands a few feet away, wearing only a hoodie against the cold - no coat, no gloves. His hair is a mess of silver strands, his breath curling in the air like smoke.
He looks worried.
“I woke up, and you weren’t-” He stops. Takes a step closer. “Hey,” he says again, softer now. “You just left. What’s going on?”
“I'm fine.” The words sound hollow even to his own ears, and Akaashi swallows around the lump in his throat. “I-”
His hands tremble in his pockets, his eyes stinging from more than just the cold.
“Akaashi.” Bokuto takes another step. “Hey. Talk to me.”
"Bokuto-san," Akaashi tries, but the name barely makes it past his lips. Bokuto frowns, but Akaashi shakes his head. And then it spills out before he can stop it. "I don’t know how to go back from this."
“Back from- wait, what?” Bokuto’s brows knit together. “Back to what, Akaashi, what do you mean?”
“Back to what we were before. Back to-” Akaashi’s voice cracks, his fingers curl into fists at his sides. “I don’t know how to pretend this never happened.”
Bokuto stills. For a moment, his expression is unreadable, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than Akaashi has ever heard it. “Why would you want to?” He hesitates. Then, even softer, almost fragile: "Do you… do you regret it? What we did?”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because Akaashi does, and he doesn’t.
He regrets acting impulsively. He regrets jeopardising everything he has rebuilt with Bokuto. He regrets the possibility of losing him - no, the inevitability of it.
But he doesn’t regret the way Bokuto felt beneath his hands, the way he kissed him like he had been waiting his whole life to do it. He doesn’t regret learning what it’s like to have Bokuto, to hold him, to act on the feelings he’s buried for so long - even if it was just this once.
He cannot regret Bokuto.
Akaashi exhales, his breath unsteady. "I don’t regret last night," he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could never. But that’s just it, Bokuto-san. I don’t know how to act like it was nothing to me. I don’t know how to-" His throat tightens. "How to act like I’m not in love with you."
The second the words leave his mouth, Akaashi wishes he hadn’t said them. Wishes he could reach out, pluck the words right out the air before they reach Bokuto’s ears.
It is, of course, too late. Bokuto’s eyes widen.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Akaashi murmurs. “Please, just- ignore me. I shouldn’t- ”
Before he can finish, Bokuto closes the distance between them.
“You’re in love with me?” He asks, his voice trembling. His gaze searches Akaashi’s face as if looking for confirmation. His eyes are alight from the soft glow that gathers at the edges of the horizon.
There’s no more room to hide. No more deflecting, no more pretending. Akaashi exhales slowly, closing his eyes for the briefest moment, bracing himself.
“Yes,” Akaashi whispers, his voice raw. “I am.”
“Oh.” Bokuto’s lips part, a breath of air escaping. Then, something like understanding flickers across his face. Slowly, his expression softens, the corners of his mouth tugging into a stunned, almost disbelieving smile. “Oh, I thought you knew.”
Akaashi blinks. Catches the hope rising in his chest to clip its wings before it can take off. “Knew what?”
“Akaashi,” Bokuto says. Stops. And then, softer: “Keiji.” He waits a beat, almost like he’s giving Akaashi the chance to object. As if Akaashi ever could. As if his heart doesn’t soar at the sound of his name on Bokuto’s lips.
Around them, the snow-covered streets are brushed in muted gold. The first hints of sunlight catch on the frost-laced branches, but Akaashi can only look at Bokuto.
When he doesn’t say anything, Bokuto smiles. “Keiji,” he says again. He reaches out a hand to cup Akaashi’s face, the touch so impossibly gentle that it stops every frantic thought in its tracks. “I’m so in love with you. I have been for years.”
Akaashi’s breath catches, his mind reeling. “You can’t be,” he shakes his head. “You’ve never-”
“No, and I should have. But I did. I do. Probably since that time you found me hiding under the desk.” Bokuto laughs softly. “I remember. You sat with me for hours. and you bought me yakiniku afterwards.”
Akaashi frowns. “I understand you were happy, Bokuto-san, but that doesn’t mean you were in love with me.”
“Well, I’ll admit I liked the bit about the food - but it’s not that.” Bokuto nods, a small grin playing on his lips. “You didn’t leave me. You didn’t give up on me. You never have.”
“That was years ago,” Akaashi argues, hand coming up to circle Bokuto’s wrist. He remembers. Of course he does. It was in their first year together; the very first time he’d witnessed one of Bokuto’s moods.
“I mean, yeah, but I knew it was you, even then. I’m only more sure of it now. Why else would I-” Bokuto cuts himself off with a soft laugh, brushing his thumb over Akaashi’s cheek. “Keiji, I love you. It was always you. It’s always going to be you.”
The sunlight cresting over the horizon paints his face in soft gold, illuminating him like something divine, something inevitable, something meant to be.
Akaashi stares, breath catching in his throat. He reaches for something to say, anything, to convey what he feels but his mind draws a blank and he comes up empty.
The only thing that comes to mind is that Bokuto has never looked more beautiful.
Bokuto steps forward then, wrapping his arms around Akaashi and pulls him close, and Akaashi’s chest tightens. To think they could have done this years ago. If only Akaashi hadn’t gotten so lost in his own head. If only he hadn’t decided he knew what Bokuto needed, what would be the best for him.
How presumptuous.
“But in the end, I did leave,” Akaashi murmurs. “And I am sorry. I’m sorry I stopped replying. I’m sorry I let you go.”
Bokuto stills for a moment, and then his hold on Akaashi tightens. Warm and safe. “Maybe you let me go, but you didn’t leave me. I didn’t leave you either. I thought of you every day.” He presses a soft kiss to Akaashi’s head. “Just - don’t push me away again, okay? I know it’s gonna be hard, with the distance and stuff. But Keiji, we’ll figure it out. I want you in my life, and I want to be part of yours. Let me stay.”
I love you, Akaashi thinks. He feels it with every ounce of his being, but he hasn’t said it yet - not those three words, not in that order. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against Bokuto’s shoulder. No more hiding.
“I love you.” The words fall from his lips like a secret he’s been holding onto for too long. “I’ve loved you since High School. No, perhaps even longer. You’ve held my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on you. I couldn’t look away. I still can’t.“
“Good,” Bokuto laughs into Akaashi’s hair. “Don’t ever look away. I feel stronger knowing my entire world is watching me.”
Akaashi huffs as he buries his face against Bokuto’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, breathing in. The smell of laundry detergent and Bokuto’s aftershave and that something that is just uniquely him.
“I love you,” Bokuto murmurs again, tightening his arms around Akaashi.
Akaashi’s eyes flutter open, and he tilts his head up to meet Bokuto’s gaze. Warmth curls in his chest, and his throat feels tight with the weight of all the emotions he’s feeling.
“I love you,” he says back. “I should have said it years ago. I wasted time.”
Bokuto’s smile is radiant. “We have now,” he says happily, pressing a soft kiss to Akaashi’s forehead. “And tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that. We’ve got forever, Keiji.”
Akaashi decides he quite likes the sound of that.
Their life together becomes a patchwork quilt, stitched together in brief but golden moments - like the morning sun slanting through the curtains of Akaashi’s apartment, like the stadium lights that frame Bokuto in victory.
It isn’t always easy - the waiting, the travel, the nights spent apart. The schedules that don’t always align, the missed calls, the lingering ache of distance.
But it’s worth it.
Akaashi knows it in the quiet moments, when he’s unlocking his front door to find a pair of Bokuto’s trainers lined neatly beside his own. When he opens a kitchen cupboard to see a box of protein bars that he didn’t buy. When he sits down at his desk after a long day at work and finds a hastily scribbled note waiting for him:
Eat something, Keiji!! (P.S. I miss you already!)
They don’t get one single place togehter, not with their careers pulling them in different directions. But Bokuto has a key to Akaashi’s apartment, and Akaashi never knocks when he visits Bokuto’s. His books find their way onto Bokuto’s shelves, and Bokuto’s hoodies end up folded in Akaashi’s drawers. Their lives, despite the distance, weave together seamlessly, and eventually, Akaashi comes to think of them as their homes - one in Osaka, and one in Tokyo.
The first time Akaashi calls Bokuto by his given name, Bokuto is so happy he picks up Akaashi and spins him around, earning them the laughter from Bokuto’s teammates. And that's another thing: Bokuto’s team - Meian, Inunaki, Miya, and even Sakusa - become a fixture in his life, whether he wants them to be or not.
Bokuto calls them his second family, and Akaashi supposes that it’s accurate: they are, in every way, like the brothers he’s never asked for but whom he wouldn't want to miss for the world.
(And when Bokuto calls him one evening from the Jackal’s locker room to tell him-
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but like, it’s you, so it’s probably okay, right? So you can’t tell anyone, Keiji, but the team is signing Hinata! You remember Hinata, right? He’s coming back from Brazil!”
- the fondness Akaashi feels for this team - his team, by extension - is overwhelming.
“Yes, Kou, I remember Hinata.” The nickname slips out easily as Akaashi smiles against his phone. “Please say hi to him from for me when you speak to him.”)
One evening, Akaashi is putting away his coat when something small tumbles from the pocket and lands softly on the floor. He frowns, kneeling to pick it up.
The owl ring.
The metal is scratched and worn, the paint long since faded, but it’s still intact. He’d thought it a flimsy thing once, and yet he kept it, because it gave him comfort. It’s almost absurd, how something so cheaply made has lasted this long. How it has survived, even when he had thought it wouldn’t.
He turns it over between his fingers for a moment before carrying it to the bookcase, setting it down carefully between the spines of his favourite books, next to a photo of him and Bokuto, where he can see it every day.
Behind him, Bokuto watches before reaching over, running a thumb over the ridges.
“This ring...” His brow furrows before his eyes widen. “I got you that! I won it at an arcade that time!”
“It really was a consolation prize, Koutarou,” Akaashi shakes his head with a smile. “You certainly didn’t win it.”
“A prize is a prize,” Bokuto argues. “I can’t believe you. You said you hated it.”
“Mh. I never said that. I’m certain I called it ‘tacky.’”
“And yet you kept it.” Bokuto laughs.
“You gave it to me,” Akaashi smiles, eyeing the ring. “Of course I kept it.”
Bokuto is silent for a moment, then he turns to Akaashi and reaches for his hand. “One day, I’ll get you a better one. A real one.”
Akaashi huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t protest. He just looks at Bokuto, warmth unfolding in his chest. Oh, how he wants to hold onto this feeling, for as long as he can. He thought he was okay with his life before - content, even.
But with Bokuto beside him, Akaashi knows he's happy.
.
.
.
.
At twenty-four years old, Akaashi Keiji’s life has settled into a rhythm, steady and familiar as the gentle rhythm of Bokuto’s breathing beside him.
Like most days, his morning begins in soft golden light, the apartment bathed in the quiet glow of sunrise. He wakes slowly. There’s warmth pressed against his back, and Bokuto’s arm slung lazily over his waist. Akaashi stays like that for a moment, letting himself sink into the comforting warmth, willing the world to hold still for just a moment longer.
Bokuto stirs then, mumbling incoherently. He tightens his hold on Akaashi, before snuggling closer and pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.
“Morning,” he greets, his words muffled by Akaashi’s skin.
“Morning,” Akaashi mumbles back, dreading the thought of having to get up. But he does huff a laugh when he turns to see Bokuto’s hair, even more unruly than usual.
They move through their morning together, same as they always do - Bokuto pulls the curtains open while Akaashi starts the coffee. They eat breakfast at the small dining table, Bokuto swinging his legs idly as he finishes his toast, chattering between bites, sharing half-formed thoughts about training, about the match coming up, about something ridiculous Miya said yesterday. Akaashi listens, half amused, half fond, as he skims through his messages, and offers the occasional remark between sips of coffee.
It’s wonderfully, beautifully ordinary.
Too soon, the clock reminds them it’s time to leave. Akaashi smooths his shirt cuffs, Bokuto grabs his gym bag, and they meet at the door.
“You sure you’ve got everything?” Akaashi asks.
Bokuto nods, grinning. “Almost!” He leans in, pressing a kiss to Akaashi’s lips. “Now I do.”
Akaashi rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away. “Have a good day, Kou. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You too,” Bokuto says, shouldering his bag. “I love you.”
Warmth floods Akaashi’s chest. Still. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing those words.
“I love you,” he says back. Even after years, he still means every word.
Bokuto leans in and kisses him once more before stepping outside.
Akaashi lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching as Bokuto jogs down the steps, pausing only to turn back and wave, still grinning. Akaashi shakes his head, smiling softly as he locks the door behind him and heads off in the opposite direction.
The day unfolds in its usual routine - hours of editing, meetings, the steady rhythm of work that he enjoys more than he ever thought he would. Udai’s manga is a hit; its fanbase massive and loving, and Akaashi finds satisfaction in seeing it all grow into something beautiful.
As the evening sets in, he takes the train home, watching the sun dip between Tokyo’s towering skyscrapers. The sky is a wash of amber and violet, streaks of gold catching on the windows.
Akaashi lifts his phone and snaps a photo, and as he lowers his phone, his gaze catches on the golden band around his ring finger, gleaming in the fading light.
It’s heavier than the one he kept in his pocket for years, and a little brighter. Something made to last.
With a smile, he sends the picture to Bokuto without a caption. A moment later, his phone buzzes.
MAGIC!!!
Akaashi huffs a quiet laugh. Indeed.
He slips his hands into his pockets, watching as the last of the sun disappears beyond the skyline, turning the sky to deep violet. He used to think that there was no magic in repetition - that there was nothing special about days unfolding just as they had before.
But now, with the city bathed in twilight and a life he has built with Bokuto waiting for him at home, Akaashi knows better - because somehow, despite everything, they have found their way back to each other.
And this time?
This time, Akaashi won’t let go.