Chapter Text
The Japan U17 Volleyball camp changing rooms smell like they always do: leather and jockstraps. Wakatoshi can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the ambient funk because it never smells like this at Shiratorizawa. Their managers think it’s beastly, and he happens to agree.
He looks around the room, where the best and brightest volleyball players in the country are assembled for the international tournament coming up. Wakatoshi knows most of the faces from past interactions and the rest from research.
As usual, he checks the locker assignment sheet posted on the corkboard and directs himself to his allotted space. However, his allotted space has already been occupied.
“Excuse me,” Wakatoshi says, his frown not irritated so much as confused. "This is my locker.”
A head bobs up from being nearly engulfed in an enormous equipment bag, and there’s a giant grin plastered on his face. A face Wakatoshi recognizes from his own scouting of his national teammates. Name: Bokuto Koutarou, School: Fukurodani Academy, Position: Wing Spiker, Specialty: Cross-spikes.
It takes a moment for Wakatoshi to notice the streaky black and white hair, but when he does, he can’t look away. Painfully rigid points protrude from each side of his head, and Wakatoshi has to squelch the urge to flick at them with his fingernail.
Wakatoshi doesn’t realize that Bokuto is speaking until about the third ‘hello~’. Blinking away his random musings, he reiterates, “This is my assigned locker, Bokuto-san. If you don’t know which one is yours, please check the chart.”
Bokuto merely laughs, a sound which dominates the small room. “Lighten up, will ya!” He punches Wakatoshi softly on the shoulder. “I just said I’m your next door neighbor, and I’ll be out of your way in a sec.”
Absently rubbing at the spot Bokuto hit, Wakatoshi frowns. He isn’t looking forward to sitting next to this loud, weird guy for two weeks, but he isn’t willing to cause discord on the team by throwing a tantrum about his locker assignment. “Thank you,” he says instead.
As promised, Bokuto’s things are, albeit precariously, shoved into his own adjacent locker, allowing Wakatoshi to sit on the bench and unpack his own gear. He neatly hangs his practice jerseys from the hooks in the back, sets his meticulously laundered athletic supporter and kneepads (both black and white, as requested, since he is required to wear them here) on the shelf above, and places his court shoes atop his neatly folded bag at the bottom.
When he’s finished and closes up his locker, Wakatoshi notices Bokuto eyeing him strangely. “You’re a neat guy, aren’t ya, Ushiwaka?”
Wakatoshi feels a momentary flash of irritation towards Oikawa for coining that particular nickname during an interview before schooling his tone and replying, “If you don’t hang them properly, they don’t dry and start to smell."
Bokuto looks at him like he’s spoken in some other language besides Japanese before bursting into loud, cloying laughter. “Don’t worry, man,” he says once his laughter subsides to a soft clatter against Wakatoshi’s nerves. “I can stink enough for both of us.”
Wakatoshi holds back a shudder before slipping back off the bench and heading towards the orientation meeting, wondering how long these next two weeks are really going to be.
At least Bokuto’s skills as a player don’t disappoint, even if he, as promised, delivers a particularly unholy smell courtesy of his strangely long kneepads. The stench lurking in Bokuto’s locker, however, could trump that of a dumpster fire. Whether it was the shoes, the bag, the jock, or just some lurid combination thereof, Wakatoshi didn’t know, but there is over a week left in the training camp and he doesn’t know if he’s going to survive.
As Bokuto typically takes his time and is amongst the last to leave after practice, Wakatoshi waits until most of their teammates filter out of the room before sitting on the bench next to Bokuto, who is busy texting.
“Bokuto,” Wakatoshi starts. “Your locker. It smells.”
Wakatoshi cringes inwardly at the words that tumble out of his mouth, as well as the pinched look on Bokuto’s face upon hearing them. Scratching at the nape of his neck, Bokuto’s head hangs as he mutters, “Well, um, sorry. I guess I didn’t notice.”
The hurt in Bokuto’s tone makes Wakatoshi want to run from the room and from any possible confrontation because of it. He doesn’t, though, because he is the one who started it. “I apologize. It was rude to bring it up.”
Bokuto shakes his head and throws Wakatoshi a weak smile. “Nah, it’s okay. Akaashi — he’s my setter and sort of my best friend! — is always reminding me to air out my bag and wash it more often. I guess I just, um, forget.”
There is a momentary tingle of amusement as Wakatoshi harbored and summarily dismissed the thought of either of his setters mothering him in such a fashion. However, this does not dispel the need to survive the next week next to Bokuto in relative harmony.
With a sigh, he pulls out plastic bag from his locker, full of items he had been saving for the second leg of camp, and hands it to Bokuto. “Try these.”
Bokuto looks at the strange assortment of items in the bag — two small pouches, one larger pouch, and two short blocks of wood — and quirks a brow. “What, um . . .” He sniffs the inside of the bag and hums in surprise. “These smell kinda nice.”
Wakatoshi nods. “They’re to freshen your gear.”
Tilting the bag every which way as he inspects the contents, Bokuto asks, “What do I do with them?”
This draws a slight smile from Wakatoshi. “Empty your locker.” When Bokuto complies by yanking out his bag, which is crammed full of his sweaty gear, Wakatoshi begins to understand the smell. “Take everything out.”
When Bokuto dumps the contents of the bag on the floor in a soggy heap, Wakatoshi chuckles. “Leave your bag under the bench.” After Bokuto does as he’s instructed, Wakatoshi organizes Bokuto’s locker in the same way he has his own before picking up the plastic zipper bag and opening it.
“For your shoes,” he says as he plucks out the two small pouches and puts them into Bokuto’s shoes. “For your kneepads,” he continues, indicating the wood blocks as he slides them into the leg holes. Finally, he takes the larger pouch and points at Bokuto’s disturbingly dingy-looking athletic supporter. “That goes there.” I’m not touching that, Wakatoshi thinks to himself. Not for anything.
Bokuto has no such compunctions. He admires the newly organized locker and inhales deeply. “What’s in those things, anyway?”
“The shoe inserts are baking soda, tea, and orange peel. The wood blocks are soaked in tea tree oil. The other one is baby powder and baking soda.” I’m not saying it, either.
“Cool!” Bokuto pokes at the cotton pouch inside his left shoe. “Does your mom make you use them, or do you just buy them.”
Wakatoshi chews on his bottom lip, not sure if this is meant to be a joke. “I make them,” he says finally.
Eyes widening, Bokuto grins and throws an arm around Wakatoshi’s shoulders. “That’s awesome! I barely know how the washer works.”
There is no stopping the amused twitch at the corners of Wakatoshi’s mouth at the sight of Bokuto’s excitement. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t talked to anyone so genuinely earnest about anything besides volleyball for a while. But despite his dismay at Bokuto’s rancid locker, Wakatoshi can’t help but admire his fellow spiker’s enthusiasm.
Slipping out of the awkward embrace that Wakatoshi feels has lasted a moment or five longer than necessary, he nods towards Bokuto. “See you tomorrow.”
As he opens the door, Bokuto calls, “Wait!” He fruitlessly tries to brush the many wrinkles out of his street clothes. “I noticed an ice cream place on the way in. You wanna go get some?”
“I don’t eat dairy,” Wakatoshi says curtly, a split second before realizing his tone might have been somewhat rude.
Bokuto laughs loudly. “Dude, your name literally means ‘cow’. How do you not eat dairy?”
“I’m allergic.”
His mouth in an O, Bokuto nods solemnly. “It’s a bitter fate, my friend.” He strides across the room and claps Wakatoshi on the shoulder. “I heard people are lactose intolerant because humans aren’t meant to drink milk past infancy. Evolution or something. Whatever.” He nudges his elbow into Wakatoshi’s rips with more force than the latter feels is necessary. “But don’t worry, man. Most places have soy milk ice cream in stock, and if not, there’s usually other stuff.”
Wakatoshi blinks at Bokuto, curious as to whether this strange boy is trying to curry his favor or if he is legitimately this gregarious. He had planned on running a few miles before and after dinner and doing some weight training, but the almost puppy-like expression on Bokuto’s face affects him in ways he can’t begin to understand.
With a grunt, he says, “Fine,” as he follows an excited Bokuto down the street and absorbs the other’s waves of chatter about anything and everything. Some of it in lurid detail.
The place does, indeed, carry soy ice cream, and as he examines his green tea cone, Wakatoshi can’t help but think this has been nice. Bokuto is louder than he likes, but honesty and guilelessness oozes out of his strange new companion and Wakatoshi can’t help but find it refreshing. Not as refreshing as that first chilly drag of his tongue on his ice cream, but it’s a start.
At the end of camp, Wakatoshi has three things: a spot on the national team starting roster, an affinity for green tea soy ice cream, and a Facebook account. One of those things he has earned on his own, but the other two are largely due to the efforts of one Bokuto Koutarou, who has taken it upon himself to be Wakatoshi’s first Facebook friend, first message, and first person to mention him.
And, he thinks as he reads his first wall post from Bokuto for the fifth time, he might have a fourth thing from all of this: a new friend.
Wakatoshi doesn’t think he minds this side effect much at all.