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2014-12-25
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one part intentionally, two parts not

Summary:

It starts out two weeks before Christmas, innocent and unexpected, with a silly coffee mug. Until Akaashi finds himself staring at a sleeping Bokuto and oh, oh.

Notes:

Written for Haikyuu Secret Santa 2014.

I could apologise for writing another bokuaka that is too sweet and too sappy, but I would have to feel actually sorry for that. (I don't.)
Alternatively, I have too many silly so silly domestic bokuaka headcanons and I need them to stop. Preferably soon, before I perish from ALL THE FLUFF in my head. (Just kidding, I'm already writing the next one.)

And can we all take a moment to thank jar for taking care of some of the more cringe-worthy sentences so swiftly.

Merry Christmas (and other holidays) to Ana and everyone else! May the bokuaka fall on us all, in massive amounts.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

It starts out with something so innocent as a mug. A simple white coffee mug, with a cartoonish owl face staring with its exaggerated eyes, large 'hoot hoot' printed above it in a childish scrawl. It sits alone on top of the leftmost counter in Keiji's tiny kitchen.

Bokuto-san's mug.

Well, technically, Keiji bought it, on a silly unexplainable whim while looking for essentials for his new apartment. Bokuto dropped by his place later that day, to check out everything was good and safe for Akaashi, naturally. He ended up staying the night, of course, because he had to make sure it was safe at night too and what if there are robbers, Akaashi, or ghosts. In the morning, he drank milk with coffee brewed freshly by Keiji from that very same mug, nearly dropped it twice as he sleepily nuzzled Keiji's cheek.

And now, almost five months later, the thing has apparently been dubbed 'Bokuto-san's' even in the safe confinements of Keiji's own mind.

Hints of nagging uneasiness begin to crawl up Keiji's spine at that and he narrows his eyes in a subtle glare, but the mug does not give him the answers it undoubtedly holds.

“Akaashi, Wol won't talk even if you give him your scary stare,” Bokuto says in all seriousness as he strides into the kitchen, and Keiji wouldn't be surprised if that's because he has actually tried talking to it himself. Just like he isn't surprised that Bokuto has named an owl on a cup (that isn't even his).

There are snowflakes on Bokuto's scarf and Keiji shivers in his t-shirt at the memory of the front door opening with a blast of cold, then closing loudly with Bokuto's apologetic hiss. He raises an eyebrow at an armful of paper bags that Bokuto places carefully on the small kitchen table.

“Ornaments,” Bokuto explains as he shoves his right hand into one of the bags. “Mostly,” he adds in what Keiji guesses is an attempt at being mysterious.

Keiji does not mention that they have bought more than enough already, along with the Christmas tree yesterday—once Bokuto learned that Keiji did not own any decorations let alone a tree, there was simply no stopping him. But Keiji supposes it's fine as he watches Bokuto dig deeper into the paper bag, so concentrated on his task his tongue sticks out a little. Bokuto's dorms don't allow any major decorations and his roommate, according to Bokuto himself, is a real life Grinch. “Really, Akaashi, even his fingers looks the same!” Keiji highly doubts it, but he has never met the man to know for sure so he lets Bokuto do his comical impersonations and rolls his eyes when Bokuto bursts out laughing halfway.

Bokuto's face lights up and he produces a fancy looking packet of hot chocolate mix. One Keiji recognizes instantly.

“It's your favourite, right?” Bokuto looks so earnest, so expectant and Keiji feels warm, too warm as he takes the gift offered with moment's hesitation. “Thank you, Bokuto-san,” he nods, strangely embarrassed. He fumbles with the packet a little, unsure, then places it carefully on the counter to his left.

Bokuto is moving for a hug before Keiji can get any more weird and Keiji stops him before they can touch. He glances pointedly at Bokuto's checkered scarf, now a disgusting mix of wet and wool from the melted snow. Bokuto pouts, takes it off and throws it on the hook. He misses by an inch. Keiji lets himself be hugged anyway, for a bit longer than usual perhaps, until Bokuto attempts to plant a kiss on Keiji's collarbone.

His nose is unbearably cold and Keiji lets him know it.

“Warm me up?” Bokuto says, eyebrows doing an exaggerated suggestive wiggle.

Keiji regards him with a very unimpressed look, pulls away and puts the kettle on.

- - -

“Come with me,” Bokuto says after their dinner—a quick and effortless takeout ramen that he ordered while Keiji was taking a shower. Because apparently tree decorating is a lot more exhausting and time consuming than Keiji has imagined. He's never done it before; or was too young to remember if he ever did. Not that he can imagine his efficient father ever spending the time less decorating and more singing cheesy Christmas carols and getting tangled in the multitude of colourful LED lights.

Bokuto dries his hands with the kitchen towel and tosses it carelessly on the dishes they just washed, now drying next to the stove. “To my parents, I mean.” He looks ridiculous in his Santa hat and with some leftover suds from the dish water still sliding down his bared forearms, yet at home in Keiji's cramped kitchen all the same.

Two weeks of his winter break, that's how much time Bokuto has promised his family this year. Just like the year before. (All that Keiji remembers from that particular holiday is studying for his entrance exams and then being dragged to silly dates with Bokuto.)

But Bokuto hasn't been home in a while due to his internship this semester and unlike Keiji, is lucky enough to be done with his finals already. Keiji himself is not leaving to Tokyo until the day before Christmas Eve, to attend the annual formal Christmas party hosted by his parents. Perhaps stay a few days, to wish them a safe trip to Europe on New Years. Perhaps apologise for refusing to go with them so adamantly.

“Maybe next year,” Keiji says. The words surprise him, because they are not a lie.

Bokuto doesn't ask if it's a promise or just something Keiji says to get Bokuto off his back. He just watches Keiji, with his head cocked slightly. Keiji doesn't know what Bokuto's looking for with such unreadable face, but he must have found it because he ruffles Keiji's hair (despite the sour look it gets him), looks entirely too senpai-ish for someone who wanted to dress as a sexy cupid this past Halloween, and saunters off to shower.

Keiji finishes tidying up the kitchen, hangs the towel Bokuto used to dry his hands in its rightful place and switches off the lights. He stops to look at the Christmas tree sparkling cheerfully in the corner of his bedroom. It's pretty, Keiji thinks, despite the unexplainable feeling of something still growing in his stomach, making him restless.

He nurtures no illusions: he will miss Bokuto these coming two weeks. Terribly so, he suspects. But life is not a badly written romance drama and Keiji knows that some part of him is thrilled at the prospect of some time alone.

The clock glares midnight and Keiji sighs. He sets the alarm on his phone—early, because Bokuto didn't bring his travel bag with him and the trip to their university dorms takes time even outside of rush hour. Keiji only hopes Bokuto has at least packed already.

When Bokuto comes back from the shower, Keiji is already in bed. Bokuto's skin is flushed with heat, but the droplets of water dripping down his neck are cold and Keiji makes a face when they touch him as Bokuto slides under the covers. Bokuto smiles sheepishly and makes no effort to release his hold on Keiji, spooning him closer still, until it's hard to breathe and far too hot under the blankets.

Warm hands slide under Keiji's shirt and his gasp in the silence of the nights makes Bokuto smile against Keiji's skin. But his kisses feel distracted, worried, not enough, not like Bokuto-san.

Keiji tugs at Bokuto's hair, hard, and pulls him up, looks into his eyes and glares. Bokuto blinks in confusion, then erupts in a hushed, intimate laughter, and rains down tiny kisses all over Keiji's face, along his jawline, down his throat.

He touches Keiji like's he's made of finest china and looks at him like he's the eighth wonder of the world. With such sincerity, such marvel. Keiji shudders at the feeling of being the centre of all that attention, undivided, of Bokuto's relentless energy focused solely on him.

“Keiji?”

He shakes his head, takes a shaky ragged breath, drowns his moans with Bokuto's lips. His spine arches like a bow, as high as he can possibly go, and he pulls at Bokuto for closer, harder, more.

And as always, Bokuto gives his all.

- - -

Bokuto takes the early train next morning. He whines and pouts and tempts Keiji with all sorts of things but Keiji does not relent, only rolls his eyes and pushes a muffin into Bokuto's mouth.

The train departs and Keiji's chest does not feel any lighter.

The following days go by in a blur. Keiji passes all of his exams, catches up on sleep and TV shows, meets with some of his university friends to celebrate the end of the term, gets a live feed of Bokuto's daily life via frantic text messages and late night phone call.

Bokuto sends him photos of Kuroo-san and Haiba and epic snow fights, of late dinners with some of Fukuroudani graduates, of his little sister, a mountain of presents and even a couple of random videos of kittens.

Keiji sips his morning coffee from the owl mug and watches the snow flakes fall on the window sill outside, softly, gently, until everything is shapeless and white.

Inside, it's darker and peacefully silent. Keiji takes the serenity in, enjoys it fully for a moment. Then turns on the Christmas lights in his bedroom and watches them twinkle as they change colours, blink in and out of existence.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a sight of one of Bokuto's hoodies still thrown over the armrest of the couch, probably from their last movie night. Keiji supposes he should fold it and take it back to Bokuto's drawer but something stops him. Something that keeps churning in his stomach, restless, confusing, and doesn't leave him even after he boards the train to Tokyo.

- - -

He returns to Bokuto sprawled on the couch. The picture makes Keiji stop in his tracks, lean on the doorframe and just watch.

Bokuto tosses and turns, as he always does, until he settles into what looks like a very awkward position of limbs too long for such tiny couch and face tucked into the crack between the armrest and the pillow. He must have been waiting for Keiji, because a familiar bag full of Christmas presents has fallen on the floor and Keiji can recognize Bokuto's mother's famous gingerbread cookies, wrapped neatly in cellophane with a pretty red bow.

It's still and quiet in the apartment, too much so for Bokuto being there, but his presence is still there. It is both his sneakers toed off near the door and the smell of home cooked dinner wafting from the kitchen. It is his toothbrush in the bathroom and the smell of some fruity shampoo on Keiji's pillow. It is his silly smile and the “welcome home” that is both careless and earnest. It's the feeling of being home.

The realisation hits Keiji like a train and he bumps his head against the wall, soft enough to not wake up Bokuto.

- - -

When Bokuto finally wakes up, hours later when it's too dark outside to see, Keiji is sitting beside the coffee table, doing a poor job at reading a newspaper.

He raises his head at Bokuto's sleepy “hey”, takes in the disoriented, happy—always so happy—grin, tufts of soft hair falling over broad forehead... The warmth he feels in his chest is unbearable.

“Bokuto-san, would you like to move in with me?”

Bokuto freezes with his mouth open. He must have been about to say something, comes the belated thought. A moment of absolute stillness and Bokuto becomes a flurry of action and his arms begin to flail, his eyes open wide, his mouth snaps closed—

“Bokuto-san, are you pinching yourself?” Keiji asks, as if not standing in the middle of emotional internal hurricane himself.

“Shut up,” Bokuto starts heatedly but deflates like a balloon. His eyes dart nervously, and he opens his mouth a couple of times, but the words never leave his mouth and he keeps glancing back at Keiji.

Keiji understands. “It's not like you don't practically live here already,” he says. “You even have your own key.”

“That's—I—” Bokuto gives up and his lips curl into a pout. “I didn't meant to, it's just, the dorms are noisy and your TV is bigger and I miss you,” he mumbles under his breath.

Keiji stands up from the floor, stretches leisurely and stops abruptly as his eyes land on the empty coffee mug on the floor by the couch. He knows it's impossible, silly and ridiculous, but the owl seems to be grinning even wider than usual.

He looks up at Bokuto. “But I want you here, Bokuto-san.”

Startled, Bokuto's head shoots up and it takes him a couple of blinks to process the idea. He colours to the tips of his ears and presses a palm against his red face. “Keijiiiii,” he whines, losing all pretences of cool.

Keiji waits. His heart thrums in a crazy, wild rhythm but he hasn't felt this peaceful in weeks.

Bokuto peeks at him from between splayed fingers, eyebrows furrowing, relaxing, furrowing again. “Always?”

“Almost always,” Keiji concedes.

Bokuto lights up like the sun and Keiji is not at all surprised when that warmth envelopes him too, familiar arms gathering him in a hearty embrace, sharing. Bokuto nuzzles Keiji's neck, bumps his nose into Keiji's collarbones, and whispers okay. Then whispers again, and again for good measure.

Giddy, he kisses Keiji soundly on the lips, then pulls away to throw a fist in the air.

Keiji thinks of packing and unpacking. Of constant movement filling this quiet apartment. Of waking up to Bokuto's delighted face every morning.

He doesn't think of anything at all when Bokuto kisses him again.