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In retrospect, he can’t believe he made such a stupid mistake.
Akaashi Keiji isn’t given to making stupid mistakes. Sure, he screws up sometimes – messes up an equation in calculus, misquotes a passage in Japanese, passes Bokuto the ball when he’s in one of his most useless moods – but he rarely makes stupid mistakes.
So even he is surprised when, upon finding Bokuto sleeping like a child on the floor of the clubroom in his uniform, he reaches out gently and cups one curved cheek in his hand. Bokuto’s face is soft and warm, his cheek with the silken texture of flour-dusted mochi. He doesn’t wake, just sighs slightly and rolls towards Akaashi.
Akaashi who, motivated by gods only know what insane impulse, takes a photo. A photo of him caressing Bokuto’s sleeping face. He could be a character in a Shakespearean play, one of the ones who is ultimately ruined by his own tragic flaw.
Akaashi’s tragic flaw, in case it’s not obvious, is the unrelenting and impossible catch in his heart caused by his loud-mouth, over-emotional, brainless lug of a captain.
The fact that after tucking his phone away he gives Bokuto a dig with his foot and an unimpressed stare does nothing to lessen the twinge in his chest.
***
It’s lunch break and Akaashi’s sitting in class eating his bento and looking over some short vids on his phone from their most recent practice session. He noticed some inconsistencies in Tatsuki’s serve and wanted to have a few minutes to watch it and figure out what’s bugging him.
He’s just finished watching the last video when he slides to the next image and is unexpectedly confronted with Bokuto’s sleeping face, his own hand caressing the Ace’s cheek. His stomach flips, his insides suddenly wriggling like a nest of grass snakes, while his skin is suddenly scorching. He could probably cook an egg on it, fry it to dust.
Just over his shoulder, there’s a clicking sound. Akaashi immediately presses the power button and swivels. Just behind him, leaning over his desk and grinning like a jackal, is Seto Daisuke. Seto is not too big, not too tall, and not too smart, but he excels at casual cruelty. Akaashi feels like someone’s wrapped his heart in barbed wire and pulled.
“Well,” purrs Seto. “Isn’t this sweet?” And he shows Akaashi the picture of him, bent over his phone showing the picture of Bokuto’s sleeping face. It’s all he can do to keep a bland expression, falling back on years of practice.
“It’s nothing,” he says, tone dismissive.
“Oh, is it? So you’d be okay if I just sent it around to a few friends? Maybe posted it on Line, and in the guys’ bathroom? Oh and of course in the Volleyball club room. Your teammates should know about your… preferences, shouldn’t they?”
He can feel the barbed wire slicing into him, ripping, piercing. His mind flies through the reactions – the stares in the hall, the jokes, the threats, the bullying. The expressions on the team’s faces.
The expression on Bokuto’s face.
His hands clench. “Don’t,” he says, biting the word out. It tastes hard and waxy in his mouth, the roundness of it disgusting. “Please.”
“We-ell. I might be convinced not to. Depends, really.”
Akaashi grits his teeth. “On what?”
“On how hard you’re willing to work. Y’see, I’m a busy man. And this,” he motions to the stack of exercise books on the corner of his desk, “this takes up a lot of my time.”
“And?”
“And so if you do them for me, I could be persuaded not to upload this picture to every local social media site around.”
Akaashi looks at the books. English, Japanese, Math, Biology, Physics. All at the advanced level. He and Seto are in the university track classes. It takes him almost two hours every night to do his homework, after practice. Even copying directly out of his own books, adding in all these extra pieces will add more than an hour a night. “For how long?” he asks. Not that he needs to. He knows the answer.
“Until I say so,” says Seto. “Not a bad deal, is it? I save you from becoming a social leper, and let’s face it, probably being iced out of the team, and all you have to do is copy out some work.”
They’re both perfectly aware that there isn’t actually a choice here. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” says Seto. Akaashi looks at him, and he prompts, “That’s your line, Akaashi. Say it.”
“…Thank you,” he grits out. Seto smiles.
“What a good little pervert. Here you go.” He picks up his exercise books and drops them in Akaashi’s lap, several slipping off onto the floor. “Oops. Better take care of those. Or else… well, you know.”
He gets up and, whistling, makes his way out of the room.
Akaashi bends to pick up the fallen books.
***
He’s not ready for practice to come around, but it does all the same just like every day. Time’s an asshole that way. After cleaning duty Akaashi makes his way across the schoolyard to the club building, hurrying in the hope that he’ll be first in and first out.
He’s half right – he’s the first to arrive. He dumps his bag and strips hurriedly, letting his clothes pile on the floor without bothering to fold them, and pulling on his shorts. He’s just reaching for his shirt when the door opens. He turns and sees Bokuto enter.
Of course it’s Bokuto. Of course it is. Somehow, in some way, he’s clearly given Fate the finger.
“Yo, Akaashi!” Bokuto salutes as he steps in, his bag casually over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Bokuto has a physique Akaashi never will, broad shoulder and a wide chest and frankly obscene thighs. He’s an athlete through and through, beautiful in his strength.
If the picture gets out, it will ruin Bokuto every bit as much as it ruins Akaashi. And he’s done nothing wrong.
“You okay?” asks Bokuto, and he realizes he hasn’t replied. He turns away and leans down to grab his shirt.
“Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
“In a hurry? You’re usually Mr. Tidy! Remember that time you bawled out that first year for not putting away his tie neatly? His tie! You’re such a hard-ass, Akaashi. It’s your fault that he quit, you know.”
Akaashi closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. “Probably,” he agrees, pulling his shirt on. He turns and finds Bokuto stripped to his briefs, all muscle and smooth skin. His throat closes up, so tight it’s painful, the sheer act of breathing difficult.
Maybe he’ll choke to death and die here in the club room. That would solve everyone’s problems, really. Well except for Seto, who will probably flunk out of the advanced course and good riddens.
Bokuto gives him a curious look and Akaashi actually does stop breathing, feeling his face growing hot. Is he staring? Is something showing? Does he know?
“No, no, you’re supposed to say, ‘He was doomed to failure, Bokuto-san, he ran straight into the wall after missing a receive.’ Although I totally did that once, but that’s different because I’m a volleyball god. Ha ha!”
“Right, sure,” chokes out Akaashi. “He was doomed to failure. I’ve – got to go. There’s some stuff I have to review.” He pushes past Bokuto and slams the door open. Yamato and Haruki are just coming down the walkway. “See you,” he says, and leaves.
“Well okay bye then!” shouts Bokuto from inside the club room. Akaashi slips past Yamato and Haruki, muttering a reply to their greetings, and heads to the gym to find something – anything – to keep him occupied.
***
Practice surprisingly goes pretty much as normal, which is a blessing because Akaashi spends most of it feeling like he might be hit by a truck at any moment. He only messes up two serves, though, which isn’t unreasonable and coach doesn’t comment on it. After practice he drags his feet putting the equipment away in the hopes that the other guys will finish up and go home, but Bokuto somehow manages to break a shoe lace (how?) and is meandering around the gym trying to fix it until Akaashi can’t reasonably draw out his work anymore.
Which means that, once again, they’re alone in the club room to change back into their uniforms. Yeah, screw you too, Fate.
“You were quiet today,” says Bokuto, sitting on the floor and eating an after-practice snack.
“I’m quiet every day,” replies Akaashi.
“Yeah, but usually you’re, like… concentrated. You only talk to point out mistakes, or good moves. Today you just weren’t talking at all.”
“I’m sorry,” says Akaashi. “Maybe it was an off day for me.”
Bokuto looks up at him, his expression wide and innocent. “Akaashi having an off day? Is such a thing possible? You look like you could never make a mistake. I’ve seen your school work, you know. It’s alarming how neat your writing is. And on the court, you’re always focused.”
“Of course I make mistakes, Bokuto-san. Sometimes… sometimes big mistakes.” His voice almost catches and he swallows and turns away. “Anyway. It was just that. An off day. Please don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” says Bokuto, brightly. Akaashi blinks and looks back over his shoulder.
“Okay?”
“Mm.” Bokuto’s pulling his pads off. “If you say so, it must be true.”
Akaashi’s mouth is drying out. It feels like someone emptied a sachet of seaweed desiccant in it. “I’m not – that isn’t – please don’t just trust people like that, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto grins. “This isn’t people. This is you, Akaashi. You’re my setter. You know me best. Of course I trust you.”
Somehow, the words hurt more than Seto’s threat, than the anxiety and the shame of extortion. He looks down at his school uniform and, buried under it, his phone. He wants nothing so much as to stomp his heel on it, as to throw it out the window and see it shatter on the ground. And then maybe just to toss himself out after it.
“Right. Yeah,” he says.
***
Naively, at first he thinks this might actually be doable. After all, he only has to do the work once, the rest is copying. An extra hour a night maybe, which is hard when he already only gets seven hours of sleep with evening and morning practices most day, but not impossible.
However, what becomes clear very fast is that Seto is going to milk this power for all he’s worth. It’s not only their regular class assignments that he foists off on Akaashi. It’s also take-home tests, labs, and written assignments. And while Akaashi can copy straight answers from his own homework, longer responses and interpretations have to be re-written so that they’re not accused of copying. Which means he’s now doing two independent sets of homework. And if he lets Seto’s slack, well, there’s always the photograph. If he lets his slack, then he can kiss his chance at university goodbye.
Akaashi is bright, and he’s diligent.
And the very last thing he wants in this world is to see Bokuto’s face if those pictures are exposed to the school. If he realizes that his trusted setter has a disgusting, perverted crush on him, has been touching him in his sleep.
So he sucks it up and he works. And works. And works.
***
“Oi, Akaashi. You’re serving. Akaashi.”
He blinks out of his thoughts – a swirl of reflection on the English lesson and despair at the Bio lab and trying to remember how many times Haruki has rotated out this game – to find Tatsuki staring at him. “You okay?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes – fine.”
“You seem like your concentration is slipping a little. Try to remain focused.”
“Right – yes. I will.” He grabs the ball and trots off to the back line. The whistle blows and he steps forward and tosses the ball.
Is it two pages of reading for English tonight? Or three? He can’t remember what Sensei said, and –
His fingertips touch the ball and his hand bends backwards, painfully. The ball spirals off behind him, struck with too much underspin. He winces. The ball hits the ground and the whistle blows. He feels his face heating up, his body already hot with sweat, his stomach suddenly roiling.
“Oi, Akaashi, you okay?” Bokuto trots over and grabs his wrist, bending it back and forth like a rubber toy. The heat in his cheeks is cranked to scalding; he snatches his wrist back.
“I’m fine. Sorry. It was just a mis-serve.”
He hands the ball off to Akinori and moves out of his way, the point lost. He can feel eyes on him – Tatsuki, Bokuto, coach. Shake it off. Shake it off.
***
He’s running, chasing a sprinter wearing Nekoma’s outfit, a baton in his hand. He has to catch the baton, has to grab it, or else – or else. He just has to. They run out from the track and onto a beach, waves crashing in the background. Ahead of him the runner – wearing the Fukurodani uniform now, a cell phone in his hand, stops. It’s Bokuto, Bokuto who turns to him and raises the phone.
“Akaashi-kun? Akaashi-kun!”
Akaashi snaps awake, jerking up from where he was sleeping with his head on his desk. He stares at the blackboard, at the foreign writing on it, for a minute before he remembers. He’s in English, fourth period.
“Akaashi-kun, I know not everyone enjoys Alice, but I hope it’s not putting you to sleep.”
Around him, the class titters. He looks down. “Sorry, Sensei.”
“Fine. Pick up from the top of page 35.”
He looks down at the book that’s open in front of him, and tries to concentrate on the letters. “‘It’s no good going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then,’” he reads in English.
“And what do you think that means, Akaashi-kun?”
He closes his eyes, tries to think. His head is full of noise but no words, just roaring blankness. “I think… I guess…” he can’t think of a single thing. The more he tries to grasp at thoughts the deeper the blankness becomes, blank blank BLANK. His heart is pounding, sweat breaking out beneath his uniform. He feels shaky.
“Akaashi-kun?” prompts the teacher.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, sensei – I feel sick. Can I go to the nurse’s room?”
She looks at him, eyes narrow. “Alright. Just for the period, though.”
He stands, chair scraping on the floor. His legs are trembling against the insides of his trousers. “Thanks, Sensei,” he says, and leaves.
He spends the period in the nurse’s room napping, and feels better afterwards. For a while.
***
Akaashi usually eats in the classroom, but Seto eats behind him and he can’t bear the sounds of the boy chewing and slurping his milk. He takes his lunch outside and eats under a tree, the food strangely tasteless, the world a little dull, like someone syphoned out some of the colours.
He eats quickly so he can have some time to veg, which he seems to need more and more. He’s having a hard time focusing, is losing track of details. Worse, he’s going blank more often, his mind empty and his body sweaty and hollow. Every week is more of a struggle.
He closes his eyes, just for a minute, lets his head fall back against the tree trunk.
“You look like you’re starting to crack up.”
He snaps upright, eyes opening. Seto’s standing above him, grinning. “You know, you don’t have to keep going if it’s so hard. I wouldn’t want to force you.”
“Please go away,” he says, voice strained.
“I just want you to know, Akaashi. You can back out any time. Maybe it would be better that way. Maybe your beloved captain deserves to know how you think about him. Maybe I should tell him.”
His heart vaults into his mouth, thick and tender; it’s like holding a swallow on his tongue, all warmth and delicacy. “Please,” he says.
“Aren’t you polite, now. Is that how you are with him? Do you beg him for favours? Do you dream about sucking his dick?”
He flushes, hot and embarrassed and appalled. “No!”
Seto stares down at him from on high, all arrogance and amusement. “No? Don’t lie to me. I bet you want him to fuck you, I bet you’re panting for it underneath that nice prim and proper mask. Aren’t you?”
“You’re wrong – that’s not it. I’m not like that.”
“No? What are you like, Akaashi? You just like to touch other boys while they’re sleeping, is that what you’re like?”
His throat is thick with shame, his back damp with sweat. His heart is pounding in his ears, so fast. “You’re wrong. I’m not – it was just – it was a mistake.”
“A mistake, huh? Hm – should we ask him?” Seto’s looking past Akaashi, towards the school. Akaashi scrambles to his feet and looks over to see Bokuto walking around the corner, hands in his pockets, all exuberance as usual. Seto raises a hand. “Bokuto-sempai!”
Akaashi grabs him, heart pounding so hard he can hardly hear. “No – please – Seto, I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
Akaashi swallows, then nods.
“Quarterly tests are next week. Take mine for me – use my name and number. I’ll use yours.”
Akaashi gapes. “What – but…”
“Bokuto-sempaaai~” calls Seto, again. This time Bokuto spots them and waves, changes direction towards them. “Well?” says Seto. “We can end this right now, you know.”
“No. No. I’ll – fine. We’ll do it.”
Seto smiles. “What a good boy. You know Akaashi, I used to respect you. But actually, you’re really pathetic, aren’t you?” He turns to Bokuto, smiling. Akaashi feels sick, his guts churning, bile in his throat. “Bokuto-sempai, Akaashi was just saying you’re going pro next year. Is that true?”
“Of course! As one of Japan’s top 5 Aces, what else could be expected of me? And after we win Nationals this year…”
Akaashi plasters on a fake expression of interest and listens while Bokuto enumerates his plans post-high school. It goes without saying that none of them include his pathetic, disgusting, love-sick vice-captain.
***
Practice is brutal. Day after day he struggles to keep up his performance, and day after day he can feel it slipping. Everyone seems to be staring at him all the time, and whenever his teammates assemble in groups he feels like he can hear his name on their lips. They’re getting into fall and the weather is cooling but he’s sweating profusely, and he no longer feels the easy confidence he used to have in his body. He gets shaky, he makes mistakes. Sometimes it feels he’s watching himself from the outside and he’s trying to move but it’s like he’s underwater, the drag of the air immense. Coach tells him to speed it up, to concentrate, to bring his energy. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. But he can’t find it, it’s not there. All there is is emptiness.
He’s benched once.
Then again.
Then again.
“Akaashi-san.”
He opens his eyes from where he’s sitting on the sidelines, head against the wall. Shirofuku is there, looking down at him, concerned. “Uemura-sensei wants to talk to you,” she says.
Akaashi hauls himself to his feet, his body tired. He crosses the gym and slips out under the net to head to the school building.
Uemura is their teacher advisor; she used to advise the girl’s team but they recently hired a full-time coach so she switched over to supporting the boy’s team and coach Yamiji. She teaches third year math, and is tough but fair. Today she’s sitting at her desk, but she rises when she sees him and escorts him through to the small room used for student counselling. Akaashi grits his teeth.
There are two chairs there facing each other, she sits in one and motions him to the other one.
“Akaashi-kun, I’ll speak bluntly. Several of your teachers have come to me with concerns about your performance in class. Coach Yamiji has also noted your lack of focus and increasing struggles on the team. Is there something that’s bothering you?”
He swallows and shakes his head. “No.”
“Akaashi-kun… Fukurodani’s volleyball team is extremely competitive. We excel nationally because of it. But the strain it places on students is not for everyone. Especially for those in the university track. I understand from Coach Yamiji you are not currently considering a future in volleyball. Given that, I think you need to consider stepping back to focus on your studies.”
There’s something tight in his chest, like a knot, like a bundle of wire. It’s heavy and hot and it’s rubbing against his sternum, the pressure uncomfortable. He digs his thumb into his chest, trying to smooth it away. “I know I’ve been underperforming, but… but I really want to continue on with volleyball. It’s very important to me.”
“I know that you all feel extremely emotional about the team, and attached to your club. But Akaashi-kun, you can’t place three years at the start of your life against the chance of a good career. You need to be realistic. Frankly, it’s clear you can’t stand the strain of both rigorous academic demands and a national-track club. Wouldn’t you rather step back on your own terms?”
His hand skids against his chest. “Are you saying you’re going to kick me off the team?”
“No. But if your performance doesn’t improve you will be removed from the starting line-up. And I think that would be a real blow for you, Akaashi-kun. This way you would be in control. Please think about it.”
He closes his eyes. “I’ll consider it. Thank you, sensei.”
She rises. “Why don’t you go home for the night. Think it over.”
***
Akaashi doesn’t go home. He goes to the clubroom and changes, but the idea of going home to decide whether or not he can continue on the volleyball team… he just can’t face that. He finds himself sitting under a tree instead, watching the gym. Night’s fallen, the lights a buttery yellow and glowing in the twilight, a beacon of warmth and joy.
He loves it so much, loves it more than almost anything else. Akaashi is quiet and serious, and he doesn’t have a lot of friends. He enjoys hard work and he enjoys academic analysis, but the passion he feels for volleyball is so different. It’s not analytical, isn’t analyzable. It’s boundless and unrestrained and almost scary in how intense it is, how utterly unlike his usual calm competence his feelings about it are.
And Bokuto… Bokuto is practically an embodiment of all of those things. Bokuto who is so unlike him, who wears his heart on his sleeve and feels everything so deeply and who appreciates Akaashi in a way no one else ever has. His captain is intense, and passionate, and yes at times exceedingly brainless, but he brings out feelings in Akaashi that no one else ever has.
He pulls out his phone and swipes through to The Photo, still not deleted. He stares down at it, at Bokuto’s sleeping face, at the slight smile Akaashi’s caress brought to his face.
A tear falls on the screen, then another.
Akaashi rolls into a ball, face pressed to his knees, and sobs.
***
He doesn’t know what wakes him. But when Akaashi wakes it’s dark and his body is heavy with sleep and stiff from the firm earth beneath him, smelling of grass and dirt.
Outside. He’s outside. And it’s dark because it’s who-the-fuck-knows how late, and he’s fallen asleep at school. He sits up, spine popping.
“Oh, hi,” says Bokuto, out of fucking nowhere, and Akaashi almost has a heart attack. He spins to see the team captain sitting on the grass beside him, playing a game on his phone.
“Bokuto-san?”
“Yep.”
“What time is it?” he checks his watch feverishly – it’s after ten. “Shit, why didn’t you wake me up?”
“’Cause you looked tired. You look tired a lot, Akaashi. You been sleeping okay? If you’re having nightmares about Nationals, you can just chill, ‘cause I’ve totally got this.”
Nationals. Just like that, he remembers the meeting with Sensei.
Frankly, it’s clear you can’t stand the strain of both rigorous academic demands and a national-track club. Wouldn’t you rather step back on your own terms?
They want him to quit. He should quit, and get away from Bokuto before he ruins his reputation.
The idea of quitting feels like someone ripping his heart out of his chest.
“Akaashi? You okay, man?”
Akaashi looks at Bokuto, all innocence and indulgence and trust, and feels his world crumbling. “I don’t think I am,” he admits, shakily. “Bokuto-san… Sensei wants me to step off the team. And I think – I think she’s probably right.”
Bokuto’s mouth actually drops open. Akaashi always thought that only happened in anime but it actually happens now, his hands falling away and the phone tipping into his lap. Then: “You what?”
“It’s just – I can’t really keep up with school work and I’ve been messing up everything and maybe it would just be better if I leave before I screw up your chances at Nationals.”
Bokuto reaches across, just like that, like there’s absolutely no barrier between them, and grabs his shoulders. “Akaashi, you are our chances at the Nationals! We can’t do it without you.”
He shrugs back, trying to pull away. “Of course you can. I’m just – I’m fine but I’m not a genius like Kageyama or a natural like Kozume. You and the rest of the guys can carry the team on your back for half a year.”
“Even if we could, we wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. You’re the only one who understands me, Akaashi. I need you – without you I’m just a dumb lug with a kick-ass cross who’s no good at tactics or self-awareness.”
“That’s what you have coach for.”
“I’ve had coach for three years! Look how much his lessons have stuck!” He refuses to let Akaashi pull away, still holding him. “What’s this really about? You’ve never had a problem before.”
Akaashi finally jerks back strongly enough that he yanks away, pushing Bokuto’s hands off him. “It’s – I – you shouldn’t put your trust in me, Bokuto-san. I’m not a trust-worthy person. Just… just let me go.”
He’s never seen Bokuto look like this before, like he’s had his dreams crushed right before his face, like he’s come to realise that all his ambitions are impossible, ridiculous. Akaashi wants to apologize, wants to take the words back, wants to grab his hands and promise him he’ll be there.
He doesn’t.
“This is just how it has to be, Bokuto-san. I’m sorry. Really – I’m sorry.” His voice wavers, and he knows he needs to leave, now. He grabs his bag and looks down for his phone. Doesn’t see it.
Then he realises it’s not Bokuto’s phone that’s in the captain’s lap. It’s his. “That’s… mine,” he says, mouth suddenly dry. Bokuto looks down slowly, face still shocked. He picks up the phone and holds it out.
Akaashi stares. “But – you were on this?”
Bokuto shrugs, confused. “Sure, I know all your passwords. You use Yoroshiku as your phone code.”
Akaashi grabs it and unlocks it. On screen is some dumb game he downloaded because Bokuto made him; he closes that tab and beneath it, still open from earlier, is The Photo.
For an instant, Akaashi thinks his heart may actually just explode in his chest, a victim to Seto and the weeks of stress and this man. “This – you saw this?” he hisses. Bokuto glances down at the picture.
“Oh yeah, sure. Cute pic – I look good asleep, huh?”
“You… look… good?” He swivels the phone so Bokuto can plainly see his hand, see him stroking his cheek. “This was me! I took this picture – without your permission! Of you – of me!”
Bokuto looks at him the way he looks at people trying to explain to him the crux of a piece of literary analysis. “Uh huh,” he says, uncertainly.
“Aren’t you – weirded out? Worried? Upset? It’s – it’s gross and gay and –”
“Akaashi, you’re way too uptight. It’s just us, right? You ‘n me. We’re like this, we’re anything, we’re everything.”
“We are not everything because everything implies that we’re in a relationship,” spits out Akaashi.
Bokuto blinks. “Huh. I guess. Never really thought about it like that. I just think I’ll share everything with you – whatever you are, whatever you want. If you wanna cuddle, we can cuddle, Akaashi!”
“Are you nuts? We are both boys and we are the captain and vice-captain of the team and – and –” he raises his arm to cover his face. “And why are you just saying this now?” His voice is shaky again, but not with despair this time.
There’s a pause. “You’re pissed,” diagnosis Bokuto.
“I’m confused,” corrects Akaashi. But then: “Actually, yes, I’m pissed, because I’ve sold my soul to cover up for that goddamn picture.” He lowers his arm and puts the phone down before he drops it. Bokuto is looking confused again.
“Huh?”
“Seto from my class took a picture of it; he’s been blackmailing me for the past month to do all his schoolwork for him, or he’ll post it everywhere.”
Bokuto blinks. Then, slowly, his face hardens. “That guy, the one who called me over last week at lunch, when you were all weird. Him?”
Akaashi shrugs stiffly. “Yeah.”
“And you’ve been doing all his schoolwork? That’s why you’re so messed up – how much’ve you been sleeping?”
“Not enough,” he admits.
Bokuto puts his hands on Akaashi’s shoulders. This time he’s not grabbing, not demanding. This time his touch is light but his face is serious. “I’ll fix this,” he says, like he was a reliable senior and not the class clown. Akaashi swallows.
“I really think you should let me –”
“Akaashi. I’ll fix it. Stop worrying about this – right now. And stop even thinking about quitting volleyball. Okay?”
He wants so much to believe, to trust. His eyes slip closed as he considers, trying to find the strength.
Bokuto’s hand lifts and cups his cheek, one thumb brushing against the bone. His eyes snap open. Bokuto’s heavy-lidded eyes are bright, absolutely focused.
“You’re gonna stay, right?” And while he doesn’t say it, for the first time Akaashi can hear the words with me loud and clear.
Akaashi gives a weak smile. “Right.”
***
The next morning Akaashi’s sitting in class just before home room starts, when the door at the front of the room slams open. Akinori and Haruki march in, the class chattering quieting. “Yo! This is an announcement from the Boy’s Volleyball Club. We’re playing a game at Nohebi next weekend, spectators welcome. We’re going to the nationals this year so if you wanna get a good game for free, show up and bring your noise makers!” announces Haruki. “My teammate will give you directions!”
Akinori steps up and starts reading out the directions to Nohebi High in a loud drawl.
Akaashi, sitting in his chair, gapes at the announcement he absolutely did not authorize.
From behind him, without warning, comes a brash voice. “Wow, what an unruly second year, not to listen to his sempai’s announcement!”
Akaashi swivels to see Bokuto standing at the back of the class just behind Seto, holding his unlocked phone, which he clearly just snatched. He’s already going through it. Akaashi has just enough sense to realise that he snuck in the back door while Haruki was shouting.
“Hey – gimme – that’s mine, you –”
Bokuto’s eyes flash to him and for the first time in their two years together, Akaashi sees the threat of violence there. “Hmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows. At 185cm he absolutely towers over the seated Seto.
“It’s my phone,” mutters Seto, falling back. Bokuto’s eyes drop back to the screen for a moment, then lowers the phone and leans in close.
“There you go. Nice and clean. Wouldn’t want to have anything dangerous on there, like junk or viruses, would you? They can ruin more than your phone, you know. They can really mess up your life.” He reaches over Seto, his strong chest and bulging bicep close to the scrawny boy’s face, and places it carefully on the desk. “Be seeing you,” he says, and backs away.
Seto’s pale, his jaw working. He grabs his phone and scrolls through it, then closes his eyes.
“About the quarterly tests,” says Akaashi, still turned in his seat. “I’ll be writing under my own name. Luckily, I’ve had a lot of experience with the materials. I hope you’re feeling equally confident.”
***
It’s late. Akaashi lingered after practice – his first semi-decent practice in a couple of weeks – to tell coach he’s got his head back in the game and will be pushing himself to improve quickly. He’s on the chopping block, but if he can get back to his usual performance his spot on the starting line up will be secure.
Afterwards, when he goes up to the club room to change, only Bokuto is still there. He’s sitting in a strip of moonlight playing a game on his phone – really his phone, this time. He looks up when Akaashi enters, his face bathed in the blue/green glow. “Yo.”
“Hi.” He closes the door behind him and leans on it. “Bokuto-san… thank you.”
“For what?”
Akaashi blinks, and the captain continues: “For stopping a gross little perverted bully? You don’t have to thank me for that – I’d do it for anyone. For trying to keep you on the team? You don’t have to thank me for that – I’d do it for any of my teammates.” He puts down his phone. “For not giving a shit that you maybe are into me? You don’t have to thank me for that, either. ‘Cause I’d like it if you were, Akaashi.” He gets to his feet and steps over, looming above the setter.
For all his height and his bulk and his strength, Akaashi has never once been intimidated by Bokuto. And now… now all he wants is to be near him. “Are you sure? It’s –”
“I don’t think it’s gross, or weird, or anything at all. All it is is you ‘n me, right? How could that be wrong?” He reaches out with both hands this time, carefully cupping Akaashi’s jaw, and tilting his head up. He leans down and rests his forehead against Akaashi’s, his skin warm. “We’ve always worked together. You bring out the best in me.”
Akaashi raises his hands and rests them atop Bokuto’s. “That’s my line,” he says.