Chapter Text
Bokuto Kōtarō had faced many challenges in his twenty years of life.
He'd learned to hit a volleyball spike from the back row. He'd survived his freshman year roommate who microwaved fish at 2 AM. He'd even managed to mostly figure out how to do his own laundry without turning everything pink (that had only happened twice, and the second time wasn't even his fault).
But sitting in Coach Yamiji's office, watching the man's face get progressively redder as he waved around a piece of paper, Bokuto realized he might have finally met his match.
"A D minus, Bokuto. A D minus."
"I know, Coach, but—"
"Do you know what happens if you're failing a class?" Coach Yamiji leaned forward, and Bokuto resisted the urge to sink lower in his chair. "You don't play. University policy. No exceptions."
The words hit harder than any spike to the face. "But we have regionals coming up—"
"Then I suggest you figure out how to pass Introduction to Literature, because right now, you're looking at sitting on the bench for the rest of the season." Coach dropped the paper—Bokuto's last essay, covered in red ink like a crime scene—onto the desk between them. "I'm not losing my best wing spiker because you can't write an essay about symbolism."
Bokuto stared at the paper. In his defense, how was he supposed to know the green light in The Great Gatsby wasn't just a regular light? It seemed pretty straightforward to him. Green means go. Gatsby wanted to go see Daisy. What else was there to say?
Apparently, a lot. At least according to Professor Takeda and his five pages of notes explaining everything he'd gotten wrong.
"I'll fix it," Bokuto said, injecting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. "I'll get my grade up, Coach. I promise."
Coach Yamiji sighed, and his expression softened slightly. "I know you will, kid. You've got two weeks to get that grade to at least a C, or I have to bench you. University policy," he repeated, almost apologetically. "Talk to your professor. See if there's extra credit. Get a tutor. Do whatever you have to do."
"Yes, sir."
Walking out of the athletics building, Bokuto pulled out his phone and immediately FaceTimed Kuroo.
His best friend's face appeared on screen, hair as chaotic as ever. "Yo! What's—why do you look like someone killed your puppy?"
"Worse. Coach is gonna bench me if I don't fix my lit grade."
"Dude. How are you failing literature? You literally just have to read stuff and have opinions."
"It's not about having opinions!" Bokuto groaned, dodging around a group of students on the quad. "It's about having the right opinions. Apparently, I can't just say 'this book was sad' and call it analysis."
Kuroo laughed, the bastard. "Okay, okay. So get a tutor. They have that peer tutoring thing at the library, right?"
"I guess? I don't know, man. I've never needed a tutor before." Probably needed one, but he’d always managed to…well, manage.
"First time for everything. Come on, it can't be that bad. Some cute girl will probably volunteer to help you, and you can charm your way through Shakespeare or whatever."
Bokuto highly doubted it would be that easy, but he didn't have many other options. "Yeah, alright. I'll check it out."
"That's the spirit! Let me know how it goes. And hey—you've got this. You're Bokuto Kōtarō. You don't give up."
That was true. He didn't.
Twenty minutes later, Bokuto stood in front of the Academic Success Center on the third floor of the library, staring at a bulletin board covered in flyers about study groups and tutoring services. He'd already been inside once to fill out some kind of request form, and now they'd told him to wait while they "matched him with an available tutor."
He was starting to think this was a mistake. Maybe he could just... read the books harder? Watch YouTube videos about symbolism?
"Bokuto?"
He turned around.
And forgot how to breathe.
The guy standing there was probably the prettiest person Bokuto had ever seen in real life. Dark curly hair, sharp features, eyes the color of the ocean on the postcards his mom sent from her beach vacations. He wore a simple black sweater and jeans, carried a worn leather messenger bag, and looked like he'd walked straight out of one of those artsy independent films Kuroo was always trying to get Bokuto to watch.
"Uh," Bokuto said intelligently. "Hi?"
"I'm Akaashi Keiji. I'll be your tutor for Introduction to Literature." His voice was quiet, composed, and did things to Bokuto's brain that probably weren't helpful for academic success. "The coordinator said you need to raise your grade significantly in the next two weeks?"
"Yeah. Yes. Two weeks. Literature." Bokuto was going to kill Kuroo for that "cute girl" comment, because this was so much worse. This was so much better and worse at the same time.
Akaashi's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes looked almost amused. "Why don't we find a study room and you can show me what you're working with?"
"Right. Yeah. Study room. I can do that." Bokuto followed him through the library, trying very hard not to stare at the way Akaashi moved—graceful and deliberate, like he'd thought about every step before taking it.
They ended up in a small room with a table, two chairs, and a window overlooking the quad. Akaashi set his bag down and pulled out a notebook that was covered in neat tabs and sticky notes. Meanwhile, Bokuto dumped his backpack on the table with considerably less grace, and several crumpled papers fell out.
"So," Akaashi said, sitting down and folding his hands on top of his notebook. "Tell me about your class. What are you reading right now?"
"Uh, we just finished Gatsby and we're starting The Catcher in the Rye. But I've also got to revise my last essay if I want to bring my grade up."
"May I see it?"
Bokuto winced but pulled out the massacre of red ink that was his essay. He handed it over and watched Akaashi's face carefully for signs of judgment.
To his credit, Akaashi's expression remained neutral as he read through it. His eyes moved quickly over the pages, and occasionally he'd pause, tilt his head slightly, and then continue. Bokuto found himself cataloging these tiny movements—the way Akaashi's eyebrows drew together when he reached a particularly bad section, the way he absently tapped his pen against his bottom lip while thinking.
Finally, Akaashi looked up. "I see."
"That bad, huh?"
"It's not... bad," Akaashi said carefully. "Your writing is clear, and you obviously understood the basic plot of the book. The issue is that you're summarizing instead of analyzing. You're telling me what happened, but not what it means."
"But how am I supposed to know what it means? I'm not F. Scott Fitzgerald. Maybe the green light really was just a light."
For the first time, Akaashi's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. It was tiny, barely there, but it transformed his entire face for half a second. Bokuto felt his heart do something gymnastics-worthy in his chest.
"Fair point," Akaashi said. "But literary analysis isn't about reading the author's mind. It's about making an argument based on evidence from the text. You notice patterns, you find supporting quotes, and you build a case for your interpretation."
"Like... solving a mystery?"
"Essentially, yes."
Bokuto leaned forward, interested now. "Okay. I can work with that. I like mysteries."
"Good." Akaashi pulled out a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. "Let's start by going through your essay paragraph by paragraph. I'll show you where you could push your analysis deeper."
And just like that, they fell into it. Akaashi was patient—surprisingly patient—and he had a way of explaining things that actually made sense. He didn't make Bokuto feel stupid for not understanding symbolism, and when Bokuto made a good point (which, okay, didn't happen super often, but it did happen), Akaashi would nod and say "That's exactly right" in a way that made Bokuto want to make more good points.
An hour flew by. Then another.
"We should probably stop here," Akaashi said eventually, checking his phone. "You've got a good foundation to start revising. Can you work on the first two body paragraphs before our next session?"
"Yeah, definitely." Bokuto hesitated, then asked, "When is our next session?"
"When works for you? I'm relatively flexible."
"Are you free Thursday afternoon? I have volleyball practice in the morning, but I'm done by two."
Akaashi made a note in his planner—an actual physical planner, Bokuto noticed, not just a phone calendar. "Thursday at two-thirty works. Same room?"
"Perfect."
They packed up their things, and Bokuto held the door open as they left the study room. In the library's main area, Akaashi paused.
"Bokuto, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, anything."
"Why volleyball?" Akaashi's gaze was curious, not judgmental. "You're clearly very dedicated to it."
Bokuto broke into a grin. "Because it's the best sport in the world. There's nothing like being in the air, and you're watching the ball, and everything else just disappears. It's just you and the court and your team. When you get the perfect spike, when everything connects exactly right—" He stopped, realizing he was probably rambling. "Sorry. I get kind of excited about it."
"Don't apologize." Akaashi's expression had softened slightly. "It's nice, hearing someone talk about something they love."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Bokuto forgot what he was going to say next.
"Right. Well. Thanks for today, Akaashi. Seriously. You made this way less painful than I thought it would be."
"You're welcome. I'll see you Thursday."
Bokuto watched him walk away, weaving through the tables and shelves until he disappeared down the stairs.
Then he pulled out his phone and texted Kuroo: so about that cute girl
The response came immediately: ???
it's not a girl
DUDE
his name is akaashi and i think i'm in trouble
DUDE!!!
He was in trouble.
—
Bokuto had rewritten his first body paragraph seven times.
Seven. Times.
This was unprecedented. Usually, he wrote essays in one sitting the night before they were due, submitted them with a prayer to whatever god protected struggling college students, and tried not to think about them again until grades were posted. But here he was on Wednesday night, sprawled across his bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, agonizing over a single paragraph about symbolism in The Great Gatsby.
"Bro, are you okay?"
Bokuto looked up to find his roommate, Konoha, staring at him with genuine concern. "You've been working on that essay for three hours. I didn't even know you could focus on anything besides volleyball for three hours."
"I'm fine. Just... trying to do it right."
"Uh-huh." Konoha smirked. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your hot tutor, would it?"
"Akaashi's not—I mean, yes, he's—that's not the point!" Bokuto felt his face heat up. "I just want to show him I actually listened to what he said. That's normal. That's what you're supposed to do when someone's helping you."
"Sure, man. Whatever you say." Konoha went back to his own laptop, but Bokuto could see him still grinning.
Whatever. Bokuto turned back to his paragraph. Akaashi had said to make an argument and support it with evidence. He'd said to go deeper than just what happened. Bokuto read over his work one more time, made a few final tweaks, and decided that if this wasn't good enough, at least he'd tried his best.
He showed up to the library on Thursday at 2:25, which meant he was early for possibly the first time in his academic career. The same study room was available, and he set up his stuff, bouncing his leg nervously while he waited.
Akaashi arrived at exactly 2:30, because of course he did.
"Hi," Bokuto said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. "I did the paragraphs. Both of them."
"That's good." Akaashi set his bag down and pulled out his chair with that same careful precision he seemed to apply to everything. Today he wore a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and Bokuto tried very hard not to stare at his forearms. When did forearms become interesting? Since when was that a thing?
"Can I see what you've written?"
Bokuto pulled up the document on his laptop and turned it toward Akaashi, watching his face as he read. This time, he was ready for those little details—the way Akaashi's eyes tracked across the screen, the slight furrow that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating, the way he absently tucked a curl behind his ear when it fell forward.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes, Akaashi looked up. "This is much better."
"Really?"
"Really. You're building an argument here, using specific quotes as evidence. This sentence—" he pointed at the screen, "—where you connect the green light to Gatsby's inability to let go of the past? That's exactly the kind of analysis Professor Takeda is looking for."
Bokuto couldn't stop the huge grin that spread across his face. "Yes! I mean, it took me forever to figure out how to word it, but I thought that made sense."
"It does." Akaashi pulled the laptop closer, and Bokuto caught the faintest hint of something—cologne? detergent? whatever it was, it was subtle and clean and made him want to lean closer. "There are a few places where we can strengthen the transitions between ideas, but overall, this is solid work."
They spent the next hour going through the paragraphs line by line. Akaashi had a way of explaining things that made Bokuto feel capable rather than stupid, and somewhere along the way, Bokuto realized he was actually enjoying this. Not just because of Akaashi (though that was definitely a factor), but because literature was starting to make sense in a way it hadn't before.
"Okay," Akaashi said, making a final note. "I think you're in good shape to tackle the next section. How are you feeling about The Catcher in the Rye?"
"Haven't started it yet. We're supposed to have the first five chapters read by Monday."
"It's a very different book from Gatsby. Holden Caulfield is..." Akaashi paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "...an acquired taste for some readers."
"What about for you?"
"I appreciate what Salinger was trying to do, even if Holden's narration can be frustrating." Akaashi leaned back in his chair, and there was something more relaxed about him now than at their first session. "He's supposed to be frustrating, though. That's part of the point."
"Deep," Bokuto teased, and was rewarded with another one of those almost-smiles.
"It's literature. Everything's supposed to be deep."
"See, that's the problem. Sometimes I think people just wrote books because they had a story to tell, you know? Not everything has to be a metaphor."
"That's fair. But even when authors aren't intentionally creating metaphors, readers find meaning in patterns. That's part of what makes literature interesting—the conversation between the text and the reader."
Bokuto propped his chin on his hand, watching Akaashi talk. He liked the way Akaashi's voice got a little more animated when he discussed books, how his hands moved slightly when he was explaining a concept. "You really love this stuff, huh?"
Akaashi blinked, as if surprised by the question. "I... yes. I suppose I do. Is that strange?"
"No! Not at all. It's cool. I like hearing you talk about it." Bokuto realized what he'd just said and quickly added, "Because it helps me understand it better. For class. Obviously."
"Obviously." Was that amusement in Akaashi's tone? It was hard to tell. His expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes seemed softer.
"What's your major?" Bokuto asked, genuinely curious. "Literature, I'm guessing?"
"English Literature with a focus on contemporary fiction. I'm a sophomore."
"So I’m a year ahead. I'm a junior. Sports management major, which probably explains why I'm not great at the whole symbolism thing."
"There's nothing wrong with being more practically minded. Not everyone needs to analyze the curtains."
Bokuto laughed. "The curtains?"
"It's a joke in literary circles. Students always complain that English teachers read too much into things—'the curtains were blue because the author liked blue, not because it represents depression.'" Akaashi's lip quirked. "Though sometimes the curtains really are just blue."
"And sometimes they're not?"
"And sometimes they're not."
There was a comfortable pause, and Bokuto found himself not wanting to end the session. He checked his phone—they'd been working for nearly an hour and a half. "Hey, do you want to take a break? I could grab us some coffee from the café downstairs. My treat, for all the help."
Akaashi hesitated, and for a moment Bokuto thought he'd say no. But then he nodded.
"Sure. Black coffee, please."
"Seriously? Just black? Not even sugar?"
"I like the taste of coffee."
"You're kind of intense, you know that?" Bokuto said it with a grin to show he meant it as a compliment.
"I've been told that before."
Bokuto jogged down to the café, ordered a black coffee for Akaashi and some caramel monstrosity for himself, and made it back to the study room in record time. When he opened the door, he found Akaashi had moved to the window, looking out at the quad below. The afternoon light caught in his hair, and Bokuto had to remind himself to breathe normally.
"One black coffee for the intense literary critic," he announced, handing over the cup.
"Thank you." Akaashi accepted it and took a sip, and something in his posture relaxed further. "This is good."
They ended up not doing any more work on the essay. Instead, they stood by the window and talked—about classes, about campus, about nothing particularly important. Bokuto learned that Akaashi was from Tokyo, that he lived in the off-campus apartments on the east side, that he had a cat named Biscuit who apparently had a vendetta against closed doors.
"A cat named Biscuit?" Bokuto couldn't help but laugh. "That's adorable."
"My roommate named her. I wanted something more dignified, like Miyamoto or Yasunari."
"After writers?"
"You're learning." There was definitely a hint of warmth in Akaashi's voice now.
Bokuto told him about volleyball, about growing up in Fukurodani and deciding to go to university here for their athletics program, about how his serves used to be terrible until he practiced for an entire summer and finally figured it out.
"You must be very dedicated," Akaashi observed.
"When I care about something, I go all in. That's kind of my thing." Bokuto met Akaashi's gaze and held it for a moment longer than necessary. "Actually, speaking of volleyball—we have a game on Saturday. Seven PM at the athletics center. You should come."
Akaashi blinked. "To watch you play?"
"Yeah! I mean, no pressure or anything, but it'd be cool if you came. We're playing against a really good team, so it should be an exciting match." Bokuto tried to sound casual and was pretty sure he was failing. "Plus, then you'd understand why I can't fail lit and lose my spot on the team. You could see what all the fuss is about."
"I don't know much about volleyball."
"That's okay. I can explain it. Or, well, you'll probably just figure it out by watching. It's not that complicated—we hit the ball, they hit it back, first to twenty-five points wins the set."
Akaashi took another sip of his coffee, and Bokuto couldn't read his expression. Finally, he said, "Alright. I'll try to make it."
"Really?"
"Really. But I'm not promising I'll understand what's happening."
"That's fine! That's totally fine. I'm just—that's cool. Thanks." Bokuto was definitely grinning like an idiot now and didn't care. "You won't regret it. I'm going to play so well. I'm going to get, like, twenty kills. Maybe thirty."
"I don't know what that means, but I'll take your word for it."
They finished their coffee and packed up their things. As they walked out of the library together, Bokuto felt like he was floating. Akaashi was coming to his game. Akaashi was going to watch him play. This was fine. This was totally normal. Tutors came to their students' games all the time, probably.
"Same time next week?" Akaashi asked when they reached the library entrance.
"Yeah. Tuesday work for you? I should have the rest of the revision done by then."
"Tuesday's good." Akaashi shifted his bag on his shoulder. "Have a good practice tomorrow."
"Have a good... rest of your day," Bokuto replied, which sounded lame even to his own ears, but Akaashi just nodded and headed off across the quad.
Bokuto watched him go, then pulled out his phone and texted Kuroo: EMERGENCY
what happened
akaashi is coming to the game saturday
...that's your emergency?
KUROO. HE'S COMING TO WATCH ME PLAY.
bro you are down HORRENDOUS
I KNOW
this is amazing. i can't wait to meet him
you're not going to embarrass me right
....
KUROO
no promises
Bokuto groaned and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Saturday couldn't come fast enough—and also, maybe it could wait a little longer, because now he had to actually play well in front of Akaashi, which suddenly felt more pressure than any championship match.
Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.