Work Text:
“And he waits and waits, night after night and year after year, for the chance to see his shooting star once more. He writes down the stories he wants to tell the star the next time it comes to visit the sky, of the people he’s seen and the places he’s been. He writes until his breathing is labored and the ache in his wrists becomes impossible to ignore. He writes until one night, he closes his eyes for the last time, and the shooting star blinks through the sky.”
– Shinchō Magazine. Original short story written by Akaashi Keiji.
__
Akaashi suspects that the choices he made when he was 14 set him down the path he’s on today, although he can’t be too sure.
When he was in middle school, he got into the habit of writing letters that would never be sent. His literature teacher had encouraged him to try it, just this once, Akaashi-kun, you never know. At first, he found the whole act of it to be a bit needless: hand-writing a letter in the era of emails, addressing it to someone who would never see it, and sealing it in an envelope to be placed in a nondescript box under his desk. But before he knew it, the words tumbled out of the blue ink of his pen, slowly at first, and then rapidly, frantically, as if they would die unless they made it onto the page.
Akaashi wrote, and wrote, and wrote. Sometimes to his teachers, or his parents. Sometimes to himself. Sometimes to the Akaashi of the future. In high school and through college, he continued this little habit, although these letters became addressed with increasing frequency to Bokuto Koutarou.
Out of the many thoughts that fell under the rather large umbrella of “Bokuto Koutarou,” most of them were said aloud. “Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, his breath heaving after three laps around the area surrounding their school. “Not everyone on the team has your stamina, and if you continue to believe so, I will throw up over your shoes.” Bokuto had squawked, indignant and a little abashed, before stopping the team for a much-needed rest.
“Bokuto-san, the correct usage of this English phrase for your assignment is to step into someone else’s shoes , not step on someone else’s toes . That’s an entirely different meaning.” Akaashi circled the difference in the two words with a blue pen, before writing the meanings down on the next line. Both his kanji and his English were impeccable, in short, clean strokes, firm without room for error. Bokuto told him so, and then laughed when Akaashi replied without missing a beat, “If you spent more effort writing your own notes instead of frantically copying Shirofuku-san’s, your handwriting would be the same.”
However, there were also thoughts that were too– too much, too close to Akaashi’s heart, that he could never work up the courage to say. He kept those in the letters that he tucked away.
Bokuto-san, he wrote, scrawling and with trembling hands, every time I see you play I am reminded how lucky I am to stay in your orbit. Another day, another letter. Bokuto-san, there are times where I make myself sick, the way that jealousy will bubble up inside of me alongside admiration. It’s putrid, and irrelevant, but I cannot stop myself from feeling envious of the people around me–especially those who have managed to chase their passions and dreams, like you.
When Bokuto graduated, Akaashi brushed off the cherry blossom petals from Bokuto’s shoulders with his left hand. That night, he bent his head over his desk and wrote, Bokuto-san. I like you. I like you so much that I do not know what to do with myself. I like you so much that I want to stay by your side, and I like you so much that I am letting you go .
In the grand scheme of things, Akaashi would say that he writes in moderation.
And for the most part, out of the things he chooses to say, Akaashi is honest with Bokuto. Brutally so, at times–Bokuto’s words, and not his own.
But there have been times where he faltered in this, too. “No, it’s not too far,” Akaashi said as he ran his palm up and down Bokuto’s back the night before he moved to Osaka. “We won’t be separated by that much.” “I’ll be sure to keep in touch, Bokuto-san,” he said, hoping that Bokuto could parse out the words left unsaid in the spaces in between: Please don’t forget about me. “Work is a little busy,” he admitted with some trepidation, “but nothing I can’t handle.”
__
The good thing about being acquaintances with former literature majors in his university is that most people are free enough to show up for dinner and drinks. Akaashi rarely has the time to go to these informal department alumni events, but this week Udai Tenma had bestowed upon him a small miracle by turning in his pages on time. So after work, he heads out to the agreed upon restaurant to meet up with a few college friends.
There, Akaashi’s former upperclassman gives him a book she had read recently. Well, this is the time of the internet, so she emails him her illegally downloaded file. “It’s a good read,” she says with an encouraging smile. He scans the title– Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood – and frowns slightly. Non-fiction isn’t nearly as captivating to him as poetry or literature are, and he tells her as such with a slight incline of his head.
She laughs, slapping him hard once on his shoulder, and then once more for good measure. “For some reason, I get the feeling that this one will be of interest to you,” she replies. The look in her eyes is knowing, and a little unsettling, so he gives his thanks before heading out of the restaurant to take the train back home. The psychosocial concept of emerging adulthood seems to center around Americans in their twenties, with five distinct shared characteristics. He squints and reads onward with a faint line between his eyebrows.
I. Identity exploration
When Akaashi is offered the position of manga editor instead of working in the literature department, he wants to scream. The interviewer stares down at him with a corporate smile plastered onto his face, but Akaashi sees the truth in his eyes. That must suck for you, but you’ll take this job, won’t you? You have no other choice.
Akaashi wants to scream, and slap away the interviewer’s proffered hand, but he doesn’t. He takes the other’s hand and bows, plasters on his own corporate smile, and says, “I’m looking forward to working with this company.”
__
During his lunch break, Akaashi absentmindedly finishes an onigiri and begins to write two lists on the back of a spare flier. Things I like on the left side, and Things I am good at on the right. He pauses for a moment. On the right side: Communicating with other people. Being organized. Literature analysis. Cleaning. Editing.
On the left: Volleyball. Eating good food. Reading. Bokuto Koutarou. After a beat, he crosses out the name with dark blue ink. How embarrassing.
Akaashi thinks for a few seconds, tapping the pen against the paper, before penning the last item: Writing.
He had briefly considered putting that in the right column as well, but the fairly recent rejection from the literature department still stings. If he was a genius, or even worked harder, maybe he could have been accepted. There’s no point dwelling on the past, however, so he simply underlines the final item twice before capping his pen.
Akaashi presses the fingers of his hands together one at a time. Pinkies first, then up to the thumbs, and back again. In time with the movement of his fingers, he times his breaths. In and out. In, and out. He closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself.
The timer on his phone goes off. Akaashi opens his work laptop again.
__
There is no time these days. Gone are the evenings where Akaashi could add letter after letter to his ever-growing box, or pen down a short story during winter break. There is no winter break anymore, just the endless monotony of adult life that he finds himself stumbling through. There are no more free evenings, either, because those are reserved for doing the dishes that somehow accumulate even though he rarely has the time to cook, for messaging his artists, bending over backwards for his superiors, and refreshing his email.
There’s no time anymore, Akaashi thinks, to do the things he thinks he loves. Even if there is, he no longer has the energy to write, to bring up things that were born from his chest and the hollow of his throat. It’s not like he’s forgotten how to write–that would be a type of problem more reserved for Bokuto back when they were in high school.
But he skirts around the issue, and knows it, too. Even if he had the time, he’s not sure if he could write. Writing would mean that he would have to actually confront his rejection, and confronting his rejection would mean he would have to stop running away from his future.
Akaashi rubs the indentation that his glasses leave on his nose bridge and opens up an old thread on his email.
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your draft deadline
Udai-sensei, I am writing again to remind you that–
__
For all the things that Akaashi doesn’t tell Bokuto, there are twice as many things he does talk to the older man about. They’re best friends, after all. Best friends where one side has been hopelessly in love with the other side for the past several years, but best friends, regardless.
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says one night at dinner, “I’m not sure you’re the best person to confide in about this.” He takes a sip of water while Bokuto scoffs in exaggerated outrage. “But I was wondering if you had any tips on becoming more of a ‘normal’ adult.”
If Bokuto had feathers, he would be preening them right now. “Well,” he replies while peering studiously at the menu, dragging out the word until it becomes unrecognizable, “as your former upperclassman and an extremely normal ace, I would first ask what brought this on?”
Underneath the table, Akaashi wrings his hands. “When I’m at work, I want to come off as more capable. For the artists, I want to be someone that they can rely on. Ergo, normal.”
“Since when have you been normal?” Bokuto lifts his head up to stare into Akaashi’s eyes, bright and young and old all at once. “You’ve always been a bit of a weird one, haven’t you?”
If Konoha were here, he would definitely make some comment about how he’s landed in an alternate timeline where Akaashi and Bokuto’s personalities have swapped. But he isn’t, so Akaashi can only blink at Bokuto in shock for a few seconds before bursting out into laughter.
“I guess you’re right, Bokuto-san.”
II. Instability
He joins a mixed yoga and pilates class, half to stay in shape now that he’s stopped playing volleyball, and half because the breathing exercises are more helpful than he’d like to admit. It is–fine. It is fine, and forces him to get up early on Saturdays, which is acceptable enough in Akaashi’s list of things he will and won’t do, so long as he gets to sleep in on Sundays.
He tells Bokuto about this new development over a phone call one afternoon, and stares at his phone screen in worry when the other responds with a hacking cough. “Are you okay, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with slight concern. “It sounded like you choked on something. Were you trying to eat and talk at the same time again? I thought you had fixed that habit after Meian-san scolded you.”
Some thumping, and then Bokuto’s voice strangles out through the phone, “It’s all good! I’m fine, I’m fine. But, wow, yoga! That’s cool, Akaashi. Did you have to buy new clothes for your classes?”
Akaashi hums in affirmation, and then asks again if Bokuto is okay when he hears another strangled squawking noise.
Routine is good. Routine is calming, and what he’s used to, and yoga is kind of a hobby to him, which is also supposedly a thing he needs to check off to achieve mental stability. He could exercise and be productive in his work. Eating, sleeping, and seeing his friends are a work in progress, but he has it under control.
Everything is under control. He’s fine.
__
Akaashi exits his supervisor’s office with as blank of an expression as possible. His coworkers cast furtive glances at him when they think he doesn’t notice. It would be too much of a pain to engage in conversation, so he feigns obliviousness and sits back down at his cubicle.
Although his mouth is set in a straight line, his eyes carefully lowered to his desk to reveal nothing, he can’t stop replaying their conversation in his mind.
“You’ve done excellent work so far, Akaashi-san.” His manager locked his sickly pale fingers together and smiled with too many teeth. “I know that you had initially applied to the literature department here, but you have quite the ability to handle our rowdier artists. I’m looking forward to what you have to offer in the future.” When Akaashi tilted his head down silently in polite deference, he smiled wider. “And, well, things don’t always go according to plan in life, do they?”
There’s still several hours left before the end of the workday, and Akaashi fights off an incoming yawn. He opens up his laptop again.
Things don’t go according to plan. You’ve failed. You’ve done excellent work so far. What do you have to offer in the future?
Absent-mindedly, Akaashi presses two fingers against his wrist until the tendons quiver. Under the thin skin, a pulse flutters wild and with abandon. His heart beats fast, and his wrist drums alongside it. He imagines briefly that the pulse is visible to the people around him, the skin of his wrist jumping. Or worse yet, it would beat so fast and somehow spill out, an arterial spray over horrified onlookers. They would say dispassionately, “Wow, the poor kid. Couldn’t get a grip, huh?” as he bled out. He wraps the rest of his fingers over the runaway wrist until it turns white from the pressure. Get a grip.
III. Self-focus
This weekend, Akaashi is over for dinner at Bokuto’s apartment. They order takeout, and it’s peaceful. Almost too peaceful, which is why when Bokuto says out of the blue, “Have you ever thought about quitting your job?” Akaashi takes it in stride.
He breathes in.
“I don’t have the luxury to quit,” Akaashi replies carefully, “At least, not right now.”
Bokuto frowns. “Whenever I see you think about work, you seem so unhappy, though. Even if you’re not saying anything, I can tell. You get a little crease, right here,” he reaches over to poke the spot between Akaashi’s eyebrows, “and you think that you’re hiding it well, but I can read your face, ‘Kaashi!”
“If I quit, then that means I’ve failed.” Akaashi places a slice of cucumber on Bokuto’s plate before reaching for the last piece of meat.
Bokuto engages in a brief chopstick battle for the meat. But where he has strength, Akaashi has the foresight to predict his moves, and it’s over before he knows it. He shrugs at his loss. Akaashi’s been looking a bit thin lately, anyways. “Weren’t you the one who taught me how to do a rebound in volleyball? I mean, can’t you just try again?”
Akaashi murmurs, “I’ll think about it,” and almost means it. “But I still have my parents to worry about.”
The other tilts his head in confusion.
“My parents had wanted me to go into engineering, like my older cousin,” Akaashi rattles off as if it has been ingrained into his brain a thousand times. Maybe it has. “I failed to follow their wishes and majored in literature in university instead, and then failed a second time when I was unable to receive an offer for the literature department. I cannot afford to fail a third time and lose my job, and I mean that literally, because if I do then I’ll have to move back in with my parents and disappoint them yet again.” He bites out the end of his sentence and wants to take off his glasses so he can pinch the bridge of his nose, but holds back.
“Wow, Akaashi.” Bokuto rubs the back of his neck and makes a thoughtful expression. “I didn’t know all of this was weighing on you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t come to me with your problems.”
Akaashi shoots his gaze up from where he was staring at a particularly misshapen piece of tofu. “It’s not like that, Bokuto-san. I shouldn’t have worried you with my own issues.”
“This isn’t about what other people expect out of you, or what you should do,” he replies. “It’s not even about me.” Akaashi carefully smooths out his expression, but Bokuto catches the way his index finger twitches in response, giving him away. “See, I could totally see it on your face! But it’s not about me, Akaashi.”
“Then who is it about, Bokuto-san.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he laughs, as if Akaashi had just told him a particularly funny joke. “It’s always been about you! Who cares about everyone else, Akaashi? What do you want to do?”
IV. Feeling “in-between”
For the past five years, Akaashi had thought that he was too mature for his peers. They had all fallen victim to childish fancies, said things that they couldn’t take back after the words shot off their tongues. He hadn’t been like that–no, he had been under control. He held his tongue and pressed his lips together before he gave away to the world something that was entirely too close to his heart. He didn’t know everything–that was impossible– but he knew a lot. More than others, even.
And then he turns twenty three and he feels more unsure than he has ever been. How childish he had been, sixteen and believing himself to be the protagonist of the world. As he takes the train to work in the morning, one person among thousands, it’s hard to believe he would ever be anything more than a side character, much less a well-functioning adult.
He is twenty three years old, working as a manga editor. It’s fine, but it certainly isn’t his dream job. It’s just his job. He goes to work in the morning, and leaves late at night, and then goes home to his apartment to keep working. He’s a child masquerading as a capable adult, swathed in business casual clothing. The pay is fine, but he’s left with so little energy that he hasn’t written anything substantial in the past several months. It’s not a dead-end job by any means, and he admits that there are times when he finds his work satisfying, if not fulfilling.
But is it what he wants to do? Is he the person at twenty three that he had envisioned himself to be when he was seventeen? The answer to both of these questions is the same. It sits too heavy on his tongue, so he swallows it whole every morning so it can fester behind his ribcage instead of falling out for the world to see.
At what point is he supposed to relate more to growing old than growing up?
__
Having gotten accustomed to dealing with troublesome individuals throughout the majority of his high school and university years, the learning curve for being an editor has been less steep than Akaashi initially expected. He answers emails in the morning, speaks to Udai-sensei throughout the day, and revises his drafts in the afternoon. Because he has yet to master the skill of meal prepping, in the evening, he stops by the convenience store to buy onigiri, or a sandwich if he is feeling particularly magnanimous towards his body’s cells desperately screaming for more nutrients.
Tonight is slightly different from most nights during the week because Bokuto is supposed to call, as he does every Thursday. At 9 p.m, Akaashi crawls into bed and waits. At 9:08 on the dot, his phone lights up with a photo of the two of them, a selfie Bokuto had haphazardly taken while the two were biking over summer break. The majority of the image is taken up by Bokuto’s blurry face and broad smile. In the bottom right corner, Akaashi is there, too, following behind, as he always is.
Akaashi picks up. “Bokuto-san,” he starts, and then asks, “are you alright? Your face looks a bit red.”
Bokuto jerks as if startled, even though he was the one to initiate the video call. “Akaashi! Hey, sorry I’m late.” He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “You know I never ever in the history of my life get nervous, but I guess I’m a little, teensy bit nervous right now.”
Bokuto takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with Akaashi again, and his heart clutches tightly. “Akaashi, I wanted to tell you that I–” He’s cut off by several rowdy voices clamoring over each other, gradually increasing in volume before one of his team members enters his room.
“Bokkun,” Miya Atsumu sing-songs, slinging an arm over Bokuto’s shoulder. “C’mon, the rest of the team is waiting for ya.”
He hasn’t noticed that Bokuto is calling Akaashi. Bokuto looks like he’s about to tell him off for it, but before he can open his mouth, Akaashi says, “You should go with them, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto’s eyes flit back and forth between the rest of the team members waiting in the hallway and Akaashi on the phone. Having finally realized that he had walked in on the middle of a conversation, Atsumu makes a rather horrified face as Hinata whispers-shouts for him to get out of the room, already, it’s not a good time, Atsumu-san! Bokuto’s own face contorts in an interesting expression halfway between frustration and something else Akaashi can’t place, so he repeats himself firmly.
“I’ll call you back another day, then?” Bokuto asks eventually, a little shyly. Akaashi keeps his face as straight as possible and wishes him a goodnight before hanging up.
He lets his phone fall onto his bed and closes his eyes. It’s not a good time. The rest of the team is waiting. Akaashi turns onto his side, feeling inexplicably very young and very old at the same time. It’s not a good time. They’re waiting for Bokuto.
When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of a figure, walking away, their back straight and turned towards the long, long path in front of them.
The next day, Bokuto messages Akaashi with a series of crying emojis and apologies with several exclamation marks. Neither of them mention the words that he left unfinished. Akaashi continues to work and avoid meal prepping. Time presses onward, unrelenting.
V. Possibility/optimism
After working on it in bits and pieces over a period of several months, Akaashi submits a short story to a small literary magazine about a boy who waits to meet a shooting star. Surprisingly, they accept it for publication, so he allows himself to read it aloud to Bokuto one evening when he’s staying over in Osaka for the weekend. His voice is soft and clear, carrying over the emptiness of Bokuto’s apartment and the distant sounds of the city.
“Wow, Akaashi,” Bokuto says after he finishes. “This is, like, really, really good!” Akaashi says nothing in response. The tips of his ears feel warm, and he rubs his fingers protectively over them.
Bokuto’s eyes follow the small movement before he adds on, “It was such a good love story, Akaashi!”
Akaashi frowns, a thin line forming between his eyebrows. “Romance wasn’t meant to be the primary theme of this story,” he begins, the words forming slowly and unsure in his mouth. “I had intended for it to be about the transience and impermanence of human life, and an ode to nihilism. It was supposed to be a tragedy.”
“No, it was definitely a love story, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto makes several large, incomprehensible gestures with both hands. “A tragic love story, but a love story. I mean, isn’t it so amazing how the main character waited for the comet all this time?”
Akaashi hums. “You don’t think that it’s a lesson in futility?”
“Nothing about love is ever futile, even when it’s fleeting,” Bokuto says. For a moment, Akaashi shoots his eyes up to stare at Bokuto’s expression.
“Wait, did I use the word fleeting correctly?” The moment bursts in the evening air.
“You did,” he replies slowly. “You were correct.”
Had he ended up writing about love, even unintentionally? Had his love for his own star managed to leak through onto the pages? Sure, there were a few ideas he took from his own life when he had written the story, but was it so– so obvious?
“I mean, I always knew you were really good,” Bokuto continues, completely oblivious to the rather complicated series of emotions Akaashi was undergoing, “but you always told me I couldn’t read what you wrote, and I wanted to respect that, but Sarukui used to tell me you did really well on your essays in high school!”
“That was then, and this is now,” Akaashi says, still unsure.
“Well, sure,” Bokuto waves his arm, “but what I’m trying to say is that you’ve always been good, but this is even better than I could have imagined!”
Akaashi smiles, small and satisfied. “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I still have a long way to go.”
“Well of course you do, ‘Kaashi.” Bokuto blinks, as if confused. “Don’t we all? Isn’t that what makes doing it so exciting to begin with?”
Akaashi blinks twice in silence before shifting on the couch to face away from him and stare at the wall.
“Your fans will be pleasantly surprised to find out that your antics during interviews and in YouTube videos bely the rather mature attitude that you’ve had these days, Bokuto-san.”
“Thanks, I think? Wait, what do you mean by that?”
Akaashi smiles.
“‘Kaashi, what do you mean by that,” Bokuto wails.
__
Bokuto-san
> so have you decided to quit the manga department?
> and apply to the literature department again i mean
> or another literary magazine!! the world is your clam
Read 8:17 pm
I thought about it for a while. <
But I think for the time being I’ll stick with manga. There’s still more work to be done, at least. <
I spoke to one of my coworkers, and she put me in contact with someone from a local literary magazine. <
But I’m starting to enjoy my work more as time goes on. <
In the meantime, I’ll continue writing in my free time. <
> :D
Read 8:23 pm
:) <
__
It’s a small but certain happiness for Akaashi when Miya’s Onigiri opens up a branch in Tokyo. He orders a set of three to-go with his very adult-looking credit card and then fumbles with the plastic bag like an amateur 20 minutes later as he inserts the ticket into the Shinkansen turnstile while simultaneously juggling his phone.
It’s a three hour trip from Tokyo to Osaka, so he halfheartedly does some work on the train so he can make the most out of his bi-monthly weekend visit to see Bokuto. He responds to some of Udai’s messages with his right hand and eats two out of three of the onigiri with his left.
By the time he gets to the other’s apartment, the sun has been in the sky for several hours. He knocks only once before Bokuto swings the door open with a grin and an “Akaashi! You’re here!”
“I’ve been over at this time every other weekend for the past few months, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi responds drily and steps around Bokuto to take off his shoes. By habit, Bokuto wordlessly takes his backpack off his shoulders and moves it to his kitchen counter.
“I brought you one of Myaa-sam’s onigiri from the Tokyo branch.” Akaashi hands him the plastic bag. “They had a grand opening yesterday, so they’re doing limited edition flavors.”
Bokuto gasps and snatches the onigiri from his hands. “You did? Thanks, Akaashi! You’re the best.” With wonder, he opens the packaging and sets the plastic on the dining table.
Akaashi turns around to hang up his jacket so Bokuto doesn’t see the way his cheeks flush. “It’s nothing, Bokuto-san.”
“What flavor is it? It smells so good!”
He smiles indulgently. “Try for yourself, and tell me what you think.”
Bokuto inhales half of it in a single bite and chews with vigor, as he tends to do with all things in his life. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Please finish chewing, Bokuto-san.” He closes his mouth for a few seconds longer, and then tries again.
“It’s yakiniku, isn’t it! Akaashi, did Myaa-sam put beef tongue in this?”
Akaashi nods and absentmindedly plucks a stray grain of rice from the corner of Bokuto’s mouth. “You’re correct, Bokuto-san. The store was running out of them by the time I got to the register, but I managed to get one for you, and two umeboshi for myself.”
“You did? I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
“No, it was actually a very simple process. I am happy to hear that you’re enjoying the flavor.”
“Still,” Bokuto sets the remaining half of the onigiri on the plastic bag and grins. “Akaashi, I like you.”
Akaashi freezes. Has he been found out? What had given him away? “I like you as a friend, too, Bokuto-san,” he finally grits out. He can fix this.
“What? No!” Bokuto shakes his head furiously, as if he needs to force the very thought that he could only like Akaashi as a friend out of his mind. “No, I mean I’m in love with you! I want to be with you, Akaashi!”
Akaashi says, “Oh,” and then, in a rush, “I like you too.”
The words are finally out. When he was younger, there were days where he imagined how much more free his chest would feel, having finally confessed to Bokuto about his feelings. And there were days where he thought that since he had carried the words with him for so long, if there ever came a day where he would tell Bokuto his feelings, they would leave him empty, a space carved out of his chest.
In the end, he had never figured out what the correct answer was, because he held his tongue at Bokuto’s graduation before the two went their separate ways.
But now this. Akaashi digs his fingernails into his palm and turns to rest his forehead against Bokuto’s front door. He’s overthinking.
“Won’t you turn around, Akaashi?” Bokuto gently uncurls Akaashi’s fingers before grasping his wrist. “I feel like I’m always looking at your back, you know.”
Akaashi whips his head around. “I–that.” He falters. “If anything, I’m the one looking at your back.” He takes a deep breath, and it rattles in his ribcage. His pulse flutters, wild and with abandon–surely, surely Bokuto must be able to tell, with the way his fingers are wrapped around his wrist. Surely he must be able to see the way his heart beats through the thin skin.
“All this time, I have either been chasing you, or waiting for you. And I was doing just fine . I had made my peace with it,” he says. “And then, Bokuto-san, you have to go and tell me all of a sudden–” his voice cracks. “that you like me, before I could ever work up the courage to tell you first.”
Bokuto cocks his head. “Well, I always knew you liked me, sorta.”
Akaashi tries not to let his jaw hit the floor.
“And I guess I had always liked you too, ever since the first time you tossed to me, but it was hidden deep down in me, like super deep down!” Bokuto says as if he hasn’t just shattered one of the foundational beliefs in Akaashi’s worldview. “I had just always been thinking about my future, and what I wanted to do. But when I finally got it, all I could think about was how sad I was that you weren’t with me. I mean, you were, but not really, you know?”
Akaashi’s hands start to tremble, and Bokuto absentmindedly runs his free hand up and down the back of them. As if it is second nature to him. “And then just now it really hit me, how much I love you. I mean, you saved me one of Myaa-sam’s onigiri–even though they’re like your second favorite food ever–and you must have been so hungry on the long way here. It sounds silly, but it made me think about how you’re my favorite person. I want to be the one who you save the last onigiri for, and I want to save mine for you, too, and I want to be with you everyday forever, even if we’re far apart.”
Akaashi clenches his jaw. “Even though our schedules might not always line up, and there will be times that I won’t be able to make it to your games?”
“Even then, I’ll still like you, Akaashi!”
“Even if I don’t actually know what I’m doing in my life right now, and I’m almost always drowning in work?” Akaashi says, a little desperately.
“Even then, I’ll like you,” Bokuto repeats firmly.
“Three hours is far,” Akaashi says.
“I’ll come to you, too! We can switch off.”
Akaashi closes his eyes for a moment. “It’s not that easy.”
“Honestly, even I can navigate the Shinkansen.” Bokuto puffs out his chest a little, as if proud.
“Will it be enough,” Akaashi finally pleads, his voice thin and high. “Will it be enough just that we like each other?”
“What else is there that we need?” Bokuto’s smile is a little crooked, but confident, and his hand is warm where he’s still holding onto Akaashi’s wrist.
Akaashi slowly takes Bokuto’s hand from his wrist. Surely Bokuto must be able to feel his wild, racing pulse. For once, he cannot find it within himself to be embarrassed. He rests it against his chest, right above his heart.
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Akaashi fell in love for the first time with writing at the tender age of 14. He’s not sure when he fell in love for the second time with Bokuto–it would be remiss to claim that he fell in love at first sight, but he can’t deny that ever since then he hasn’t been able to stop chasing that star.
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VI. et. al
One morning, as Akaashi is brushing his teeth and squinting at his reflection in the mirror, he notices that the lines around the corners of his eyes are more pronounced than they had been in the past. Growing old creeps up on you, he thinks, and when he tells Bokuto this over the dining table during breakfast, Bokuto replies, “That just means I’ve done such a great job of making you laugh, Akaashi!”
He reads off the difference between crow’s feet and smile lines from his phone, which causes Bokuto to launch into a conversation about those crows, anyways, and he wonders how Tsukki is doing these days, which means they should really grab lunch sometime with Kuroo also.
After Akaashi hums in agreement, Bokuto adds on, “And I’d still love you when you're old and wrinkly like a prune, ‘Kaashi! We’re going to be 120 coaching our great, great grandchildren volleyball, anyways.”
He points out that it’s impossible to live that long, much less play volleyball at that age. Bokuto laughs, replying, “I knew you’d say that!” and Akaashi smiles, bright and pleased.