Chapter Text
The ball slams down onto the court like a bolt of lightning. Your eyes dart to the ref, awaiting his signal hungrily; it’s all of eternity packed in a second while you ask,
in or out?
Win or lose?
The whistle blows—
Welcoming. That’s the word.
Bokuto-san’s eyes are very welcoming.
It’s a nice quality for an upperclassman to have; Akaashi hadn’t expected his first year in high school volleyball to be all that remarkable, but those expectations changed with a single wide-eyed glance. (Remarkable’s a good word, too; Bokuto-san’s spikes are sometimes quite remarkable, and his eyes are welcoming.)
The other upperclassmen are certainly kind. (But not, say, generous, like Bokuto-san.)
Akaashi’s teammates make him laugh. (But he doesn’t find them amusing, really. Not like Bokuto-san can be.)
So,
welcoming eyes. Remarkable skill. Naturally generous. An amusing spirit.
All in all, there could be far worse qualities in a teammate.
“Scary! It’s like you’re a mind-reader, Akaashi!”
Akaashi blinks slowly, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat cooling on his brow. “How do you mean, Bokuto-san,” he says, reaching for their water bottles resting beneath the bench.
Bokuto gives a decisive nod. “Yes, I will stay late to practice more spikes with you. I’m glad you asked.” His smile reaches his golden eyes, even stretches to the tips of his spiked silvery hair.
Akaashi straightens, holding his and Bokuto’s water bottles very close to his chest. Then, extending Bokuto’s out, he replies: “I didn’t ask.”
Bokuto happily takes the water bottle while Akaashi makes a mental amendment; no, he hasn’t asked,
but he was about to.
Akaashi lifts his own bottle to his lips. “Scary,” he echoes softly, taking a light sip, while Bokuto nods through big gulps.
Akaashi writes in short, neat strokes.
He writes notes for an upcoming history test.
He writes to-do lists, and grocery lists, and secret lists just for himself.
He writes down significant dates in a modest journal, though there are never many (but there are at least a few).
He writes beginnings to stories that he doesn’t quite know how to end.
He writes “Hello Bokuto-san” on a paper passed his way, one that has “Hey Akaashi!” scribbled out in messy blue ink.
In Akaashi’s first year of high school volleyball, they lose some games, but win far more. He shouts encouragements from the bench with his fellow underclassmen who expect the same as he does, more or less—to spend a season watching wins from this side of a long painted line.
But it’s like Akaashi blinks, and he’s crossed the line with very little resistance, which is... odd, isn’t it? He’s only a first year, and an unexceptional one at that. He’s no maverick, no star, and he tells his coach as much. His concerns are waived with ease, apparently, because just like that, he goes from itching to toss, to tossing. He isn’t cheering Bokuto’s name anymore—he calls it, which is so much more direct, so necessary. In fact, Akaashi prefers it: “Bokuto-san!” he shouts (shouts!),
and those eyes meet his again, bright, alive,
welcoming.
In Akaashi’s first year of high school volleyball, they lose some games, and win far more, but his favorites are always the ones he plays in, regardless.
“What else do you like, Akaashi.”
Akaashi looks up from his homework a few moments late, only just hearing the question. “What else do I like,” he repeats plainly.
Bokuto stretches his arms across the tabletop and over their many loose papers and textbooks, poking at Akaashi’s writing hand playfully. “Yeah, I’m making a little list in my head. Food is at the top.”
Akaashi’s brow wrinkles. He didn’t know Bokuto-san made lists. “I like plenty more things than food, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto grins wickedly. “Does that put me at the top, then?”
“That’s bold, Bokuto-san. Even for you,” Akaashi murmurs with an accusatory point of his mechanical pencil. He returns his focus to his homework, pretending he can’t feel the flush running up the back of his neck.
“Okay, ignoring that!” Bokuto chirps, sitting up straight. He holds a hand up and counts along his fingers; “There’s volleyball, summertime—“
“Summertime,” Akaashi quickly interjects, his brow wrinkling again. He stills his writing hand. “How did you come to that conclusion.”
Bokuto blinks. “You hate the cold, Akaashi!” His voice is loud and nearly cracks, likely at the weight of how very obvious this has to be, this must be, that Akaashi likes summertime—
which he does, admittedly.
Akaashi attempts to carry on with his homework again, though he’s lost his place in the textbook.
Bokuto continues listing, absolutely unflappable. “But that’s why you like jackets, too, you’re always asking me where mine is. You like… reading,” Bokuto says with some newfound import, his eyes widening at all the books in Akaashi’s bedroom. “A lot.” And now Bokuto gets up in one swift motion, swinging his arms about like he’s warming up for a spike. He approaches a bookshelf and peers at all the various titles, tilting his head like a dog might when they spy food in your hands.
Akaashi sighs. He closes his textbook gently. “Do you like reading, Bokuto-san?” he asks, more out of politeness than true curiosity, though come to think of it, it’s hard to imagine Bokuto choosing to sit still on his own accord.
“I like audiobooks sometimes,” Bokuto says, tossing Akaashi an affirming smile over his shoulder. “When I’m out for a run or something. It’s nice.”
Akaashi feels himself grinning, like he’s aced some sort of quiz. He idly wonders what kinds of stories Bokuto listens to on jogs around the neighborhood. Perhaps that’s why he offers this: “I like writing,” Akaashi says, and at Bokuto’s quizzical expression, he reiterates again: “I like to write.”
Bokuto’s smile can hardly fit on his face. “Top of the list?” he asks, rushing back to the table.
Akaashi thinks on this; “Top of the list,” he lies. “Why do you want to know these sorts of things, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto scrunches his face in very earnest concentration, tapping a thoughtful finger to his chin. “I find you…” he mulls, dragging out each syllable, and then, with a snap of his fingers: “Intriguing! Is that the word? Did I use that right, Akaashi?”
Akaashi’s face pinches again, this time to suppress a laugh. He opens his textbook and thumbs through the chapters; “That’s correct, yes.”
“Do you find me pretty intriguing, Akaashi?”
“Not particularly,” Akaashi lies again.
It’s the final set of the final game of his first ever season of high school volleyball, and Akaashi wanders into the storm.
Akaashi usually erred to observe Bokuto’s fits from a safe distance. The ace’s emotional outbursts swung like a leaden pendulum; Akaashi didn’t want to be blamed for sending them hurtling in the wrong direction.
Torrential, cataclysmic, petty, dire—
these were all fine words for Bokuto's moods.
(It’d only taken a little while for Akaashi to understand that he would never understand Bokuto Koutarou, not at all. Not even a little.
Though, he could still try to. He could try to understand.)
It’s probably adrenaline, the thing that makes Akaashi stomp Bokuto’s way—or his innate competitive streak, the fact that they’re tied up in a game they could have won ten minutes prior, no thanks to Bokuto’s pity parade.
(Akaashi doesn’t understand Bokuto Koutarou,
but he has his theories.
He wants to try.)
“So scary, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi mutters with a shake of his head, trying his best to sound blithe, off-the-cuff. Bokuto turns to Akaashi slowly, like he’s moving through mud, as Akaashi gives a shrug; “It’s like you’re a mind-reader.”
“Mind… wah? Akaashi?” Bokuto mumbles, arms hanging heavy.
Akaashi nods curtly. “Yes, I will toss to you for the breakpoint. I’m glad you asked.”
Konoha makes a small, choked sound from somewhere on the court behind him.
For several terrifying seconds Akaashi dreads that he’s made a grave miscalculation, judging Bokuto’s comically vacant stare. The ace is effectively catatonic, and the ref is readying his whistle, and oh god oh god oh god, this isn’t going to work at all, what was he thinking?! He gauges the potential damage this will wreak upon the team, how steeply the team morale will plummet after losing their last match of the season. They’ll ban Akaashi from the gym; he’ll likely have to homeschool, and become a recluse; he’ll have to change his name, too, and dye his hair, and sell all his possessions, and move overseas, and—
Bokuto laughs, his voice a little scratchy and high. (It sounds like a light piercing through darkness, if such a thing had a sound, Akaashi thinks.)
“That is scary, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, making a tight fist. He smiles, eyes bright (light in the dark). “I was just gonna ask.”
It takes a slow moment, but Akaashi smiles, too. It all feels a bit uncanny; something in Bokuto’s eyes really means it, really believes in their strange connection. He trusts that Akaashi’s already answered all of his many unspoken questions.
Or something.
(Some theories are stranger than others.)
They win the final set of the final game of his first ever season of high school volleyball, and Akaashi understands at least one small, but significant, thing:
Bokuto Koutarou is not a storm. He is a star,
though there is a fine line between the two.
(And an even smaller thing, still:
Bokuto is his friend,
which is at least a little bit significant.
Remarkable, even.)