Chapter Text
It is a Wednesday when Akaashi’s heart bleeds onto the streets of Tokyo, because Bokuto is hammering in the final pegs to the crooked landscape that is his life. He is sitting in his white shirt and it is stained mahogany, and he does not want to talk about this, because his watch reads 13:01, signaling that his next class is in twenty-nine minutes. Bandaging open wounds is an inconvenience, and the sticky pools around their calves are beginning to turn Akaashi’s slacks into a deep maroon.
“Anyways,” Bokuto drawls, and Akaashi cannot understand how Bokuto does not notice the mess beneath. He wonders if there’s a half-silvered mirror between them. “Osaka isn’t too far away. We’ve been there before, don’tcha remember?”
Akaashi nods, mechanically and forcefully. He watches as the steam rises from the slit in his coffee cup, a welcome distraction from the golden hue of Bokuto’s wide eyes. “I remember.”
The Osaka Prefecture lies to the southeast of the Hyōgo Prefecture; Akaashi knows this only because it was home to Inarizaki, a powerhouse school from his days at Fukurōdani. That had been several years ago - now, Akaashi is nineteen, and the fleeting memories of a teenage boy’s first trip to nationals feel faroff and distant. Slowly they become woven with the tangible future of Bokuto in a MSBY jersey.
“I can always come visit you!” Bokuto says, interjecting Akaashi’s thoughts. He looks excited, a little hopeful, and his stare twinkles like the Little Dipper. “Osaka’s only about three and a half hours away by train, ‘Kaashi.”
Akaashi tries not to think about how that ¥14,700 to Osaka is his grocery money.
“Tsum-Tsum got accepted too, so it’s not like I’m gonna be alone. Don’t gotta worry about me, Akaashi.” Bokuto sticks out his thumb in what Akaashi believes is a sign of positivity. “You got Kenma and Kuroo here too, so you’re not by yourself either.”
Except neither match the level of rapport Akaashi feels within Bokuto’s proximity. It’s a selfish realisation, one that’s followed by a wave of nausea. Akaashi swallows it with hot coffee on an already burnt tongue. “I suppose you’re right,” he relents after a moment. A but hangs in the air, though Akaashi says nothing of it. There’s no need to bring Bokuto down to his own level of triviality.
Bokuto is busy drumming his fingers, looking akin to a dog that’s been offered the scraps from its owner’s plate. “When you come to Osaka, we can go check out the beaches. I’ll take you to all the cool places I find when I’m there.” Bokuto’s grinning now, lips splitting wide across the expanse of his face. “And even when I’m not around, I’m gonna be taking photos for you. We gotta pick a day, or y’know, two, to call every week.”
It’s hard not to find Bokuto’s enthusiasm contagious. Akaashi feels the beginnings of a smile dawn upon his lips, staring across at the rosiness now touching his friend’s cheeks. “That sounds nice, Bokuto-san. But please don’t let me cause you to stray too far from your duties. I’m sure it’s difficult managing your time.”
“I’m not gonna be playing all the time.” Bokuto leans his chin against an open palm. “So you don’t gotta act like I’ll have no time. I sure hope I get some good games though. You’re gonna come watch, right? I’ll try and see if they can get you tickets! Like, maybe I can say ‘this is my best friend and you gotta let him in for free, ‘cause I wouldn’t be this good without him’ or something.”
And here it is, the root of the root and the crux of Akaashi’s existence, unfolding throughout his chest and running wild through his veins. Because no matter how hard he tries to drown it, it resurfaces like monsters of old: Bokuto’s words are a lyrist’s hands against the strings of his heart, thrumming his love sweetly.
Akaashi thinks he can defeat tyrants and fight giants if it means hearing Bokuto sing I love you.
He laughs into the air, soft and gentle against his lips. “If you say so. I’ll be there to watch you, Bokuto-san.”
The alarm that sounds next comes from Akaashi’s phone, deep within the confines of his back pocket. When he looks, he reads thesis marks 15 minutes.
Bokuto notices the notification and glances up, eyes round. “Do you have to go?” he asks, innocence dripping into his voice, saccharine sweet.
There’s a moment of silence where Akaashi nearly says no. But the cafe feels like the beginnings of a battleground, one in which he knows his heart will lose. So instead he fixates Bokuto with a tilted smile, haphazardness written upon his face. “My thesis,” he explains. “I need to get my marks back. I analysed artificial intelligence and humanity; there’s a lot to discuss about what it means to be human.”
A little ah! escapes Bokuto’s lips, and he nods along. “You told me about that, yeah! I remember now!” Standing abruptly, he reaches for his cup, nearly knocking it in the process. “Do you want me to walk you? I gotta get back to my place anyways, and your campus is just along the way-”
“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi interposes with a short breath. “It’s fine. I’ll message you when I’m done.”
Akaashi mercilessly ignores the way Bokuto’s bottom lip juts out in a pout. “Yeah!” he says, hands on his hips. “Don’t worry about it! Go get those marks, ‘Kaashi. You’re gonna do fantastic.”
"Thank you."
Akaashi waves, and the action pulls the strings of his heart along with it. He pretends not to notice as he turns away.
𓅓𓅓
Akaashi’s watch reads 16:04 when he steps into the parking lot. Class has ended, and there’s a folder tucked under his arm that houses the contents of his dissertation. His supervisor had only skimmed the pages, and it’s apparent in the shallowness of their documented comments; there’s a disgruntlement settling in Akaashi, one that nags in his ear and whispers sour words of defeat. It threatens to eat him alive, overbearing amongst Akaashi’s realisations of mediocrity.
He tucks it neatly amongst the contents of his bag before the nausea overwhelms him.
In his hand, several notifications from Bokuto dance across his screen. The sudden lighting of his phone is a welcome distraction.
Bokuhoot: HEY
Bokuhoot: was thinkinj abt how i am moving
Bokuhoot: i want to do something. with u :) <3
Akaashi stares as the texts arrive in succession. There’s a warmth in his gut, settling low and spreading like fire in a hearth. His eyes focus intently on the mundane characters that have come to form a smiling face; Bokuto’s charm is a medicinal remedy for curing gloomy thoughts, whether Bokuto himself realises it or not.
Boarding his bus, Akaashi quickly texts back.
Kaashee: What did you have in mind?
Bokuto responds with lightning speed, and there’s an image that crosses Akaashi’s mind of him in bed, with his stomach pressed to the futon. It’s nearly time for dinner, but knowing Bokuto, he’ll be waiting on takeout to ring up his apartment. He’d never been upstanding when it came to culinary expertise, an endearing trait that leads Akaashi to fondly recall burnt pans and smoke alarms in sore ears.
Bokuhoot : so i was thinking
Bokuhoot : wht if we made a bucket list
Bokuhoot : nd we tried to complete it in 4 weeks???
Bokuhoot : ur term is done in a week anyways and then we can have all the free time we want :))
A lump forms in Akaashi’s throat. It sticks as if he’s swallowed raw honey, and suddenly he’s thankful for the shifting tide of bodies, if only for the chance at a moment’s respite. A bucket list - everyone had one of those, didn’t they? What was his?
The gears in Akaashi’s mind whir as they come up with possible solutions to a question he cannot answer. He wanted to graduate university; did that count as a bucket item? Most bucket lists were improbable activities. Studying and commuting for four years of his life didn’t seem improbable, considering he’d already completed two of them.
His bag presses against the side of the bus, digging into the curve of his lower spine. Akaashi rubs at his nose and pushes his spectacles higher. Bucket lists had to be exciting. Akaashi was decidedly anything but.
Kaashee: I don’t think I have a bucket list.
Kaashee: What would be on yours?
Akaashi stuffs his phone in his pocket before he can watch Bokuto reply. He taps his index and thumb together nervously. This is where they divide, stark in their contrasts. If Bokuto is the sun, bright and warm and explosive, then Akaashi feels as if he is the moon: cool, calculating, and an enigma. Bucket lists felt like the whims of a nine-year-old, but Bokuto is turning twenty-one, with a wide array of dreams and goals to attain. Akaashi just wishes he could fit in a similar vein.
He’s off the bus by the time he checks his phone again, grabbing his apartment card in the process. There are several texts waiting for him, each as sporadic as the ones prior.
Bokuhoot : ofc u have a bucket list!!! everyone has one
Bokuhoot : like petting a shark. or mayb going bungee jumping
Bokuhoot : one of mine is trying every ice cream flavour u know
“Hah.” A puff of air releases itself from the confines of Akaashi’s lungs, and a smile begins to tug faintly at his lips. It feels like such a Bokuto thing to choose for a list, that Akaashi can’t help but feel some semblance of gentle yearning. Even now, he can feel his fingers itching to agree to such an absurd proposal. Bokuto is moving, and they have four weeks left together. What more can Akaashi say except yes, when his heart cannot stop its fluttering?
Kaashee: So like wanting to see the biggest bookstore. I understand.
Kaashee : Okay. Let’s do it.
There are a few more texts exchanged, and each from Bokuto is followed by a string of exclamations. Bokuto’s enthusiasm leaves Akaashi’s chest squeezing pitifully, and the rise of fresh emotions he feels is nearly overbearing. It’s almost as if they’re within the same proximity; if Akaashi closes his eyes, he can imagine Bokuto waiting on the other side of his door.
Except he’s left in the quiet intimacy of his apartment. He removes his loafers at the genkan before standing in the meager hall that serves as a kitchenette. There’s a cold kettle on one of his back burners. Akaashi fills it and places it back onto the stove, and the sound of water boiling fills his ears.
The flat isn’t much, but it’s what he can afford in downtown Tokyo. A door to Akaashi’s left leads to a room that serves as both a bedroom and a living space, a sole shelf in the corner playing home to faded novels. Behind him is the single bathroom, complete with toilet, sink, and a shower that ends with bruised heads and quiet curses in the mornings.
He hangs up his jacket, smoothing its creases. The kettle blows, loud and jarring amongst the peculiar silence of Akaashi’s apartment. He grabs a tea bag and places it in an already used mug, before pouring the water and letting it steep.
The steam rises in the air, blanketing his senses with scents of jasmine.
Without thinking, Akaashi reaches for his phone, staring down at the screen. The last of Bokuto’s messages stare at him. He closes his texting app.
There’s a widget shaped like the handset of a telephone. When he clicks on it, a list of numbers pop up on his display. Akaashi scrolls momentarily before tapping one, inserting the phone between his ear and shoulder.
On the other end, a steady ringing can be heard. Akaashi counts five intakes of air before the receiver picks up.
“Hello?”
A gentle sigh of relief. “Hi, Kenma.”
The television that plays faintly in Kenma’s background goes silent. “Hey.”
Akaashi gnaws on his bottom lip, sensitive skin already chewed raw from incessant teeth. “Bokuto-san got accepted for the MSBY Jackals fall lineup. He’s leaving at the end of August.”
There are no utterances of how are you, or what was your day like? Instead Kenma reaches through the screen and grabs hold of Akaashi’s jugular, as quick as a bullet fired from its barrel. “You don’t want him to go.”
“No,” Akaashi says. “That’s not it.” His fingers play piano against his wrist, tapping blue veins like individual keys. “I like the feeling I get when Bokuto-san is at his best. I want him to go.”
His tea is done steeping. It’s hot on his tongue, rich and welcome. Meanwhile, Kenma’s voice is static on the other side. “Are you going to explain?”
This is what Akaashi finds comforting about Kenma; their relationship is not built on careless small talk or useless inquiries. Each conversation is swift and coursing, and no detours are taken along the way. It feels reminiscent of driving along a straight road, easy and simple with no faults in sight. It helps distract him from the ugly leviathan that is his festering anxiety.
Akaashi exhales softly, and opens the door to his little bedroom. He sets his mug on the coffee table and takes a seat on the carefully made futon. His legs ache from the day’s activities. “I just don’t want everything to be wasted.” There’s a silence on the other end, deafening enough to make Akaashi shut his eyes tightly. “I don’t think it will. But it’ll be different.”
Kenma says nothing. Both of them know Akaashi has more to say.
“I think it’s funny,” he admits after a long, quiet moment. “Bokuto-san used to be so dependent; I fear it’s me that relies too heavily now.” Brief recollections of Bokuto at Fukurōdani cross his mind: Bokuto under a desk, Bokuto beaming, Bokuto asking for praise and Bokuto dancing in the gym. He’s still the same man that Akaashi had fallen in love with at age fourteen, but there’s been a subtle change in their relationship. Akaashi feels like he’s about to go supernova.
Kenma’s voice pulls him free from the anchor he’s tied around his ankle. “I think that’s you overanalysing,” he states bluntly. “You’re going to start pulling away indirectly if you keep thinking that way.”
“Mm.” Akaashi makes a soft noise of indecisiveness. He lifts his hand and rubs circles against his temple. “He wants to build a bucket list.”
There’s the shifting of bedsheets from the other end, and then Kenma’s voice sounds clearer than before. “A bucket list? What, like things he wants to do with you?”
A rosy blush spreads like spilled paint across Akaashi’s cheeks. He’d failed to think of it in such a context, though now Kenma’s words are in the open, climbing down his throat and choking him from the inside. His heart begins its silent march towards giving out entirely.
“I assume,” is all he says.
Kenma hums. “What were his plans?”
Akaashi shrugs to himself, shoulders falling limply. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
For as much as Akaashi wishes he knew Bokuto, the truth is that he does not. He’s certain that no one does, not even Bokuto himself; they’ve been conjoined at the waist for five years and yet Akaashi feels as if he’s taken only his first step on the moon. A bucket list with Bokuto could mean any number of things.
“I’m sure it’s something inane,” Kenma interjects. “He’d jump out of a plane without a proper parachute if it still ensured survival.”
A quiet laugh slips free from between Akaashi’s lips, eyes folding at the very edges. The image is as easy to conjure as it is to slice warm butter, and he imagines Bokuto’s toothy grin as he points to the ground below. Aghaashi, he’d butcher, look how high up we are!
Akaashi has never once been able to explain the warmth that overcomes him in these moments. Bokuto’s impression still drifts in Akaashi's vision, even as he murmurs his agreement into the phone and the conversation titters on. There’s a snapshot of his adolescence then, of summer evenings spent in the field outside his house and sweat on the back of his neck; Bokuto would sit next to him with his untied laces, and the occasional brush of their thumbs were as varied as the breeze that blew the strands of grass beneath them. It’s then that he’s able to pinpoint the exact same heat, in a way so pleasurable that it feels like glowing embers in his gut. Everywhere Akaashi turns, there are thoughts, and memories, and reminders of Bokuto’s existence.
When he finally speaks, it’s filled with a mirthful fondness that seeps into the air and wraps itself like a knitted scarf around Akaashi’s shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds like Bokuto-san.”
𓅓𓅓
It’s Friday when Bokuto shows up at Akaashi’s apartment. He knows this, because there’s four precise knocks on his door, followed by a muffled shout of, “‘Kaashi! Hee-ey! Open up, I brought food!” Through the little sliver of glass, he watches as Bokuto lifts his fists in the air, showcasing several reusable bags from the marketplace down the road.
The door unlocks with a click. Akaashi situates himself in front of the white frame, looking up at Bokuto’s face. In place of a greeting he says, “You’re going to upset the neighbours again, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto trumpets a hearty laugh, and it hits its target. Akaashi’s ribs are the constricting bars of a prison cell. “Nah, they love me, Akaashi! Didja see the way that lady let me pet her dog last time?”
Moving out of the way, Akaashi watches as Bokuto sets his shoes down. There’s something heartachingly domestic about white sneakers touching toes with brown loafers, in a way that leaves Akaashi wanting more than just evenings spent on opposite sides of a couch.
Instead of voicing such dreams, Akaashi clears his throat. “Shibata-san is not my only neighbour. However, I am sure she would appreciate seeing you again.”
“Yeah?” Bokuto asks, eyes brightening. “Maybe I’ll bring her over one of my buns.”
A gentle slope curves its way across Akaashi’s lips. The kitchenette is narrow enough that standing beside Bokuto leaves their shoulders touching, and he can feel the smooth brush of skin against skin whenever Bokuto unpacks more groceries. There are canned drinks and sweets for later, which Akaashi can only anticipate Bokuto eating most of; he’d never been one for confections.
Bokuto has gotten him something else. “Look at what I picked up for you!” he crows triumphantly. Akaashi watches as he digs his grubby hands into a bag, before producing several finely wrapped onigiri. “Spicy tuna mayo, umeboshi, and salmon. They look pretty tasty, huh? Want one?”
Akaashi feels a genuine grin spread across his face. “You didn’t need to get all of this food,” he says, fighting the rising urge to snatch one from Bokuto’s hands.
“Nah, you don’t have to play coy, Aghaashi. I know you want one.” Bokuto waves the spicy tuna-filled onigiri in front of Akaashi’s eyes, canines flashing deviously. “Take it.”
Humming in consideration, Akaashi finally gives in and reaches for the ball of rice. He must have lost some sort of competition, because Bokuto utters a triumphant hoot before scooping up the rest of their food and waddling in the direction of the bedroom.
Unwrapping his onigiri, Akaashi takes a large bite. The spices hit his tongue immediately, flavourful and hot and pleasantly enjoyful. “B’ku’o-san,” he manages from around his mouthful, “paper ‘nd pens are in m’ drawer.”
Bokuto shoots a thumbs up and opens Akaashi’s bedsides drawer. There’s a bottle of Zoloft and a few scattered knickknacks, as well as a small stack of paper and assorted pens. He grabs a wad from the pile before sitting on Akaashi’s couch with a thud. “Gotta be honest, I didn’t think you’d be so onboard with this bucket list thing. I’m really excited though, y’know? I got lots of ideas.”
Akaashi sits down next to him. “There are four weeks left with you in Tokyo. I would like to make the most of them.”
With an ease that seems almost practiced, Bokuto shifts closer and drapes an arm across Akaashi’s shoulders. “Yeah? Then that’s what we’re gonna do!” He’s close, so close, and from this angle Akaashi can feel warm air stir the ends of his hair. Bokuto’s breath smells like barbecued pork, half-eaten steamed bun forgotten in his hand; it’s nearly enough to make someone reach with their tongue between teeth and say, here, let me try.
With a sharp intake of breath, Akaashi shoves another wad of rice into his mouth and hastily scratches Bokuto’s Bucket List on the top of their first page. “Give me an activity,” he says. “One that isn’t trying every ice cream flavour.”
Bokuto grins. He leans down to peer at the paper, and the movement causes his arm to pull Akaashi with him. “I’ve thought about this a lot. I wanna hike an entire mountain, and pet a shark.”
The pen hovers over the piece of a paper. Akaashi stares blankly at the table, before shifting his line of sight to an animated Bokuto. “Where are we going to get a shark, Bokuto-san? That seems highly improbable.”
Tapping his finger against his chin, Bokuto hums loudly. His brows draw down, heavyset on his forehead and familiarly endearing. Akaashi wants to lift his thumb and smooth the wrinkled indents they leave. “Keep it on the list. We’re gonna find some way to make it happen!”
With a sigh, Akaashi scribbles down hike an entire mountain and pet a shark. “Any others?” he asks.
“Uh huh. Be in two places at once, break a world record, learn to play the harmonica…”
Nodding along, Akaashi writes down each suggested activity. It’s almost comedic to see play the harmonica next to break a world record, but Akaashi supposes it’s the easiest activity Bokuto’s conjured yet. “Some of these are impossible. How are we going to break a world record in four weeks?”
Bokuto breaks into a beaming grin, as bright and as warm as the July sun. “It’s not impossible, ‘Kaashi. You just gotta believe that we can do it.” He punctuates his words with a large thumbs up, an action when combined makes Akaashi’s cheeks flush.
This is what loving Bokuto is like, in its simplest form: sun-stained smiles and five years worth of subjection to a craving so absolute that it fills every pore and duct. It’s the understanding that Bokuto’s hands cradle Akaashi’s heart so tenderly, whether he knows it or not; it’s enough to capsize ships and ignite dynamite, with its target centred left of Akaashi’s sternum. In the end, he’s reduced to a boy of fourteen, whose first sighting of a star is a spiker poised several feet above the ground.
“Okay,” he says, “got it.”
It’s two hours later when they finish. Their list is a mess of words and phrases, with crossed out lines (“Wait, Akaashi, scratch that, it’s too boring!”) and underlined words (“This one is important, Akaashi. You gotta make sure we remember it.”). It’s difficult to distinguish between what’s been planned and what’s been forgotten, though Akaashi manages to pick out the ones that haven’t been marked by lines or crosses.
BOKUTO’S BUCKET LIST
- Hike an entire mountain
- Pet a shark
- Break a world record
- Learn to play the harmonica
- Go cliff diving
- Be in two places at once
- Go skydiving
- Try a national dish from every country
- Get matching tattoos with someone
- Kiss someone unexpected
- Become an extra in a television or movie production
- Try every flavour of ice cream
- Pull off a successful slam dunk
- Say “I love you” to someone
- Dye hair the colours of the rainbow
- Learn to ride a horse (and joust!)
- Try riding a unicycle
- Hold an alligator
- Try standup comedy
- Become viral on Youtube
He stares at the list. There’s a feeling there, lodged in his throat. It threatens to choke Akaashi on his own worthless yearning, eyes glued to the words I love you. Part of him wants to tear the list apart - the other wants to clasp hands over Bokuto’s god-cut cheeks and have him say it out loud.
Instead, he reaches for an open can. The carbonated drink is harsh on his tongue, bittersweet and deserved. It forces its way down his throat and curdles his insides. When he turns, he sees -
Bokuto.
Bokuto, who has somehow fallen asleep on the edge of Akaashi’s loveseat. He’s in the limelight like this, with hair still crisp from dried gel and the indents of fabric against his shaven cheek. There’s spit on the lower half of his chapped lip, and long lashes that stretch out towards the ceiling hung above.
What an awful thing, Akaashi thinks. What a soft, delicate, human thing it is to be in love with Bokuto.
Akaashi stands. The apartment is quiet. Bokuto’s presence is like a record on loop, playing a tune so familiar and old that it feels like home. It makes Akaashi want to open the windows from the twenty-second floor and drink in the sounds of Tokyo’s streets, as if spring water against parched lips.
He throws empty wraps and forgotten bags in the garbage. The whine of the can’s lid shutting is racacious against the backdrop of silence.
In the bedroom he untangles one of his sheets. It’s standard cotton, white, and it accentuates Bokuto’s hair when Akaashi drapes it across him. Beneath, he barely stirs; his fingers lie against the loveseat’s arm. Akaashi’s hands are so close to his. Bokuto’s hands are so close to Akaashi’s.
He moves to the futon. Tucks himself underneath the sheets. It’s twelve AM in Tokyo, and Akaashi is taking his second step on the moon.
𓅓𓅓
At nine AM Akaashi wakes to Bokuto gone and the door left ajar. A kettle whistles from the other room, and a cabinet slams shut.
He stands up, muscles bunched and vision blurry. Reaching for his glasses, Akaashi settles them against the slope of his nose and heads out into the kitchenette. He’s greeted by Bokuto in yesterday’s clothing, caught red-cheeked steeping tea and sundrenched by the Japanese sun outside his window. “Akaashi!”
Bokuto wears happiness like it was made for him. He cuts himself a hole in the sky, fills it with loud laughter and honey-dipped eyes. He’s a canine that snags on tight lips and dyed hair that fades near its roots, and he’s broad shoulders and kind hands and tea that’s just shy of being perfect. When Akaashi steps close and takes the mug from him, it tastes like bittersweet recollections of a sweaty locker room and the squeaking of shoes against a gymnasium floor. It’s an adolescence spent in longing and a bedroom ceiling painted with invisible stars.
“Bokuto-san,” he says, and it sums every thought and every word he now reflects upon, “this tea is delicious.”
The genuine grin Bokuto wears feels so heartachingly intimate that Akaashi breaks eye contact. “Yeah? That good? I still remember what you like. I had to try and get it right myself.” Bokuto stands tall and proud, and Akaashi doesn’t miss the way his chest rises with prideful satisfaction. It’s so comically Bokuto that Akaashi feels its dagger puncture his breastbone and collapse his lungs.
He struggles for purchase, for a tether, for something to anchor him to whichever seabed he’s drifting far from. “I would say you passed.”
The kitchenette is suffocating. Akaashi turns for his bedroom. Bokuto trots after, at his heels like a stray cat. “Nah, don’t gotta compliment me that much. It was nothing, really!” A preening hand runs through tangled locks.
“Then I won’t.” Akaashi sits on the bed, reaches into his drawer, and presses two pills to the end of his tongue. They slide down his throat with ease. He closes the bottle.
There’s a whine of protest from Bokuto, one that Akaashi ignores in favour of reaching for the bucket list. He’s forgotten most of its contents by now, though clearly Bokuto hasn’t, because he perks up from across the room.
“I was thinking about that!” Bokuto exclaims. He launches himself from the loveseat and sits himself on Akaashi’s futon, until his chin is leaning over a slender shoulder. “I think we should start one today. I wanna get my hair dyed.”
Pausing, Akaashi scans the list until he sees dye hair the colours of the rainbow. Frowning, he looks over at Bokuto, and then to the mess of hair above him. “Ah, I mean … if you can find a hairstylist open today, I’ll accompany you.”
Bokuto rises. There’s a look in his eyes that’s canny of him, one that Akaashi has always compared to that of a predator in the vicinity of its prey. When his friend grins, it’s perverse. “I was thinking more along the lines of you doing it, ‘Kaashi-”
“No.” Akaashi interjects by straightening his spectacles and dropping the list onto his bedsheets. “I have no room for that. We’re not doing it.”
“We’re not?”
The Akaashi residence, located on the twenty-second floor of Tokyo Heights, is not ideal for two men. It is especially not ideal for two men who are six feet tall. The shower stall cramps one body, and only one into it, and the sink is positioned so precariously that there are mornings spent with bruised abdomens. The idea of dying Bokuto’s hair in it is preposterous, and the pout that takes hold of Bokuto’s face does not waver Akaashi’s opinions. It is why he stands firm in his beliefs when he says, “No. We’re-”
“-never doing this again.” Tight-lipped and smelling of both peroxide and ammonia, Akaashi flexes his hands. He’s standing in the shower stall, shoulders hunched as Bokuto sits in front of him, directly situated to face the mirror. They’ve been waiting for the dye to process, impatience laced throughout the room.
Bokuto looks up. His hair is a mess. It hangs in broken strands, and so far Akaashi can’t tell whether his job as a temporary stylist is working or not. He’s never done this, has never even considered dying his own hair, and the realisation that he’s inflicting this inexperience onto someone else should make him feel insidious. Instead, he feels only a tender ache, because Bokuto is shooting him a beaming smile. “You say that, but look at you. You’re smiling, ‘Kaashi.”
He’s right. There’s a pain in Akaashi’s jaw, thrumming through his facial muscles from working stretched lips. He struggles not to touch his mouth; his hands are still clad in latex gloves. Whatever magic Bokuto possesses, it leads to Akaashi’s sharp edges growing soft in the muted light. He feels himself choke on his own elation, raw and unadulterated.
“Mm,” he hums in reply. “I’m thinking about you cleaning my bathroom afterwards. And buying me dinner. Yakitori, Bokuto-san?”
Gawking, Bokuto twists fruitlessly in his seat. Akaashi’s palms are firm against his head, keeping him fixed in place. “Hey hey! You’re acting like I wasn’t gonna clean up this mess. I didn’t think I was gonna hafta buy you food on top of that.”
As Bokuto pouts, Akaashi works the rest of the dye into his hair. There’s a jackal’s smirk on his lips when he bends down, tucking Bokuto’s hair behind a multicoloured ear. “You’re forgetting I went and purchased all this dye. Double that order.”
Bokuto’s shout of surprise is drowned out immediately by Akaashi turning on the faucet. Steam rises into the air, fogging lenses and making Akaashi rub at them with the crook of his forearm. Bokuto shifts in his chair until he’s straddling the back of it, thighs pressed firmly to either side.
“Tilt your head back,” Akaashi grunts. “My sink is stained enough as it is.”
Bokuto follows his orders wordlessly. The first drops of water against dyed hair leave an array of colours, and Akaashi is left to stare as a rainbow cries itself free from its confinements.
He reaches for the bottle of shampoo. Beneath him, Bokuto’s Adam’s apple bobs against the swell of his jugular.
Akaashi pretends not to notice.
The first touch of his fingers against Bokuto’s scalp are halting. They feel dainty, breakable, like china that threatens to shatter at the slightest brush.
“That feels nice.” Bokuto’s voice is quiet, foreign and preternatural. His breath is hot against Akaashi’s wrists. His skin is soft beneath his hands.
Akaashi’s pulse leaps fences, a deer that’s been startled by a stray gunshot.
He doesn’t respond to Bokuto. Bokuto says nothing.
Drying Bokuto’s hair takes less time than washing it. He shuts his eyes through the process, as if a child on the verge of sticking fingers into his ears. Akaashi watches through the mirror’s reflection. He needs to pull himself together.
He turns off the blow dryer. “I think,” he states, “we’re done.” He needs to pull himself together.
Bokuto opens his eyes, and Akaashi’s bathroom becomes host to an explosion of movements. Bokuto touches his hair, curling it around his index finger, thumbing it and pinching it and blowing it from his eyes. “Aghaasi!” he exclaims, and suddenly his mirthful infliction is back. “Look how cool this is! I gotta show Konoha and Washio.”
Bokuto pulls out his phone and the front camera lights up, showcasing Akaashi in the backdrop as he struggles to hold a worthwhile pose. Meanwhile, Bokuto shoots a customary beam; Akaashi feels his line of sight falter as he turns to stare.
He struggles for words. “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I’m sorry it’s not as great as you envisioned.”
“Nah,” Bokuto says, and the fanatical shake of his head leads Akaashi’s heart plummeting into the acidic confines of his stomach. “This is crazy. I love it. Look at this! I have blue there, and purple there, and, and, there are so many colours!”
Two things happen in succession: Bokuto stands, and then he grabs Akaashi’s wrists. His hands are solid, calloused and beaten from years of playing volleyball. They’re nothing like Akaashi’s, which have grown soft and round with the exchanging of sports for literature; his thumb connects with his index, and it feels suddenly like Bokuto is holding the universe within his enclosed hands.
Akaashi sucks in a breath. He wants to twist his wrists, wants to dismember himself and swap hands with the man who has never once touched a feathered pen or played the ivory keys of a piano.
“Really,” Bokuto says, “this is fantastic. It’s amazing!”
And for once, Akaashi wholeheartedly accepts the compliment.
𓅓𓅓
Bokuhoot : hey hey!!!
Bokuhoot : ik ur probably not awake
Bokuhoot : but i wanted to say thank u for today :)
Bokuhoot : my hair looks so cool u dont understand i keep touching it in the mirror
Bokuhoot : i almost burnt my food btw
Bokuhoot : i got hungry again when i got home
Bokuhoot : anyways
Bokuhoot : goodnight akaashi <3