Chapter Text
Akaashi leans against the wall of a grungy, underground club, waiting for Kenma. He's heavy with exhaustion, eyes fighting to stay open, and already wants to leave. He's been running on four hours of sleep a night since he started his surgery block, and even more tense than usual—restless, irritated. Wishing he could feel any way but blankly numb.
It doesn't help, being packed tightly amongst strangers, eyes watery with cigarette smoke.
The atmosphere is buzzing, hot and heavy with the promise of violence. Someone offers Akaashi a drink, their mouth curling up in a smile as they catch his eye, and he turns it down with a sharp flick of his head. He can't remember the last time he took someone up on such an offer; he can't remember the last time he wanted to. He pushes off from the wall, scanning the crowd for Kenma's bleached hair.
Kenma is the closest thing he has to a best friend, and the architect of all his worst decisions. He’s certainly the only person who could lure him to a place like this, baited with the promise of something interesting.
He finally spots Kenma across the room, hunched low and peering up at some guy with messy black hair, all long limbs and feral smile. Akaashi’s heart picks up, but Kenma looks surprisingly relaxed—even interested.
Akaashi walks over slowly, catching the end of their hushed conversation as he navigates around the sweaty mass of bodies.
“Bo’s ready for this,” the man is saying, his fingers resting just shy of Kenma's neck—a statement. Akaashi is sure Kenma's leaning into it, angling his body so that his skin just brushes the edge of those long fingers.
“Keiji.” Kenma's voice is quiet, assured. “You're here.” He waves a hand behind him as he turns away. “Kuro was just leaving.”
The man grins, but doesn't protest, melting into the crowd as Kenma leads Akaashi to a more secluded area above the ring.
“Don't,” Kenma warns as soon as Akaashi catches his eye. “I don't want to hear it.”
They settle into their seats, finally separated from the throng. The air is still heavy, charged, but Akaashi feels like he can breathe a little easier. As always, Kenma attracts many looks, but is given a wide berth. With black-haired Kuro gone, nobody else even gets a second glance.
The music pulses and Akaashi watches Kenma signal for a drink. As soon as a glass is placed in his hand, the music shifts to something faster, pounding and urgent. The crowd—clearly experienced enough to know what this change means—hushes, anticipation building as they scramble to find a place to settle.
There's a ripple from across the room, and a door opens to a rush of frantic cheering. The crowd folds inward in a chaotic tide, people desperate to try to catch a glimpse of the fighters.
This is Akaashi's first time at the fights, but it's obvious that this is an especially enthusiastic greeting. The room is frenzied; a sea of sweaty bodies, waves of hoarse screams.
Akaashi doesn't understand the appeal, not really. To him, the fights are all brutality, no beauty. Each hit is nothing more than a possible injury, another problem that he doesn't have the desire to solve. He's been long inured to blood and bones, well attuned to the violent potential of the human body. It doesn’t excite him in the least.
He'll stay long enough to placate Kenma, and that's it.
The wild adulation rises to a fever-pitch as the fighters finally rush into the ring, and then falls to dead silence as they turn to face one another. The tension is palpable, ripe with the sharp-edged potential of a raised knife, a brewing storm.
Distracted by the rapid shift of the crowd, by the money that changes hands as more people take their seats, Akaashi doesn't look toward the ring until he hears the bellowing roar of an announcer. At his shout of “BOKUTO KOUTAROUUU!” the crowd fractures. It's a percussive impact, a thundering crash—the loudest they've been so far.
Akaashi's eyes flicker toward the ring, spotting a broad expanse of tattooed skin as Bokuto Koutarou raises his arms to work the crowd. The artwork is exquisite—an owl in flight, wings outstretched and talons poised for the kill—and covers the entire breadth of Bokuto's back.
An unexpected jolt of heat hits Akaashi, spreading fast as he follows the curve from impossibly wide shoulders to perfect biceps. He hasn’t felt desire in so long that this sudden rush leaves him dizzy.
Bokuto turns, a bright smile on his face as everyone cheers.
His hands are wrapped in tape, but Akaashi's eyes are drawn to his knuckles, split open and bruised, a violent history written into skin. He has the absurd urge to press them to his mouth—to explore, to taste.
Akaashi can feel Kenma's eyes on him, and is determined to give nothing away. He crosses his legs, propping up an elbow so that he can rest his chin in his hand.
“Don't they wear gloves?”
“Not here.” Someone approaches and whispers in Kenma’s ear before scurrying away. Akaashi’s not entirely sure what Kenma’s role is at this club, but it’s obvious that he’s someone of consequence. Someone not to be trifled with.
Akaashi watches Bokuto's body move under the lights—the leonine grace, the obvious power—and tries not to shiver. He tips his head toward the ring. “I suppose that’s your Kuro’s ‘Bo’?”
Kenma bristles—or as close as he ever comes to bristling—and cuts his eyes at Akaashi. “He’s not my Kuro.” He pauses, nodding slowly as Bokuto’s eyes catch him in the crowd. “But yes, that’s him.”
Bokuto approaches his opponent. The man facing him is big, but unremarkable. Akaashi’s eyes slide right over him, his face forgotten in the time it takes him to blink. He doesn't have Bokuto’s definition, his sheer presence.
Akaashi almost feels sorry for him.
“Will he win?” Akaashi aims for nonchalance, but the edge of Kenma’s lips turn up with the question.
“I told you,” he says, the brief flicker of his eyes proof of his triumph. “Interesting.” He waits just long enough for Akaashi to feel a pulse of annoyance, then nods. “He’ll win.”
Before Akaashi can reply, the bell sounds.
Bokuto springs into action and Akaashi’s entire focus shifts. All thoughts of Kenma’s knowing gaze, of the oppressive weight of all these bodies, of his numb fatigue are wiped clear.
The entire room brightens, his senses sharpen. Everything fades away, leaving only Bokuto.
And Bokuto is breathtaking.
He’s too good for this place, that much is instantly clear. He moves with careful precision, a beautiful dance that leaves his opponent frustrated and floundering. His hits are clean, bright snaps that Akaashi is barely able to follow.
There’s the thud of rapid hits, crimson arcs of blood, but Akaashi doesn’t blink, can’t look away from Bokuto’s wild grin. He’s a shining star in the darkness of this pit; too bright by half and utterly alive.
Akaashi wonders what desperate choices must have brought him here.
Bokuto’s opponent makes a final lunge—a foolish gambit that has Akaashi's heart racing, his stomach churning as he grips his chair.
Bokuto evades it easily, harnessing the momentum and ending the match with a single punch. His opponent drops and the room explodes with sound.
Akaashi’s entire body lights up, a tide of emotion sweeping through him, and then he’s out of his seat, screaming wildly along with everyone else.
Kenma’s small grin spreads into a knowing smirk as he places a hand on Akaashi's shoulder, drags him back down to his seat.
“Should I text Kuro?” His eyebrow raises and Akaashi knows it’s useless to feign ignorance. “Bokuto loves meeting his fans.”
Part of Akaashi—the spiteful, stubborn part—wants to turn Kenma down. To walk away with his pride intact. Instead, his gaze is pulled toward the ring, to where Bokuto’s arms are still raised, his body glistening with sweat.
“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking against the dry expanse of his throat. “Yeah, that would be fine.”
Kuroo, like most people, materializes out of nowhere the moment Kenma texts.
Kenma doesn’t acknowledge his arrival, barely looks up from his phone as he makes introductions. “Keiji, Kuroo Tetsurou; Kuroo, Akaashi Keiji.”
“Keiji-kun, Keiji-kun.” Kuroo's face is bright, teasing, all sharp angles and leering eyes, but his body is tuned only to Kenma. “Who exactly did you bring for me, Kitten?”
“Someone smart enough to know how to kill you and get away with it.” Kenma doesn't even look at Kuroo as he speaks, which does absolutely nothing to deflect his attention; in fact, it only seems to spur him on.
“Oya?” Kuroo looks toward Akaashi with renewed interest, his smile stretching impossibly wide.
“I'm a medical resident,”' Akaashi clarifies, unwilling to be a participant in this odd, convoluted foreplay.
“Well, Sensei—” Kuroo gives an exaggerated bow, his eyes surreptitiously scanning the emptying building as he moves. “I guess I'll have to be on my best behaviour.”
A slow trickle of people come and go while they wait; Kuroo hovers near Kenma, his body tensing whenever anyone gets too close.
With the adrenaline from the fight mostly worn away, Akaashi is left cold and washed out, twitchy and irritable. That rush of energy that had pushed him, made him malleable to Kenma’s scheming, has been exhausted. He’s nothing now but a bag of half-worn thoughts, stitched together by the unforgiving twine of his anxiety. He needs sleep, needs quiet. Needs to try to prepare for the gruelling week he has ahead of him.
He shifts to Kenma, eyelids threatening to drop, even as he stands. “I think I should go.”
Kenma glances at his phone, frowning up at Kuroo when he realizes just how much time has passed.
“Now, Keiji-kun,” Kuroo says, “have some patience. You can't break my bro’s heart like this on such a big night. Believe me,” he gives Akaashi another exaggerated once-over, “he’s gonna want to meet you.”
Before Akaashi can answer, there’s a sudden crash from the back of the club. Raised voices ring out, and Kuroo immediately steps in front of Kenma.
A familiar shape coalesces in the dark shadows: Bokuto Koutarou. His voice, so bright in the centre of the ring, is thick with anger. Akaashi can’t pick out what’s being said over the sudden ringing in his ears, but it’s obvious that whatever argument they’re having is escalating quickly.
Kuroo waits for a short nod from Kenma, springing into action the second it’s given.
“Come on.” Kenma grabs Akaashi's arm, trying to pull him toward a side door.
Akaashi, heart galloping, digs in his feet and yanks his arm away. Acting purely on instinct, he races after Kuroo, stumbling blindly through the dark, unfamiliar space, not slowing until he sees a shock of grey and black hair.
It’s an obvious ambush, with Bokuto fighting off three men while Kuroo takes care of a fourth.
Neither one of them notices Akaashi as he slides into view. Unfortunately, they also don't notice a fifth attacker—slighter than the others, dressed in black—slowly edging along the wall. Tucked against the flat of his palm, blade glinting in the hazy light, is a knife.
It takes Akaashi’s brain a moment to register exactly what he's seeing. He’s used to managing panic, to making split-second decisions that can alter a person’s life, their chance of survival. But he’s also used to control: the reassurance of algorithms, the safety of a team, there to make up for his mistakes. Here, he’s completely alone. Untested and unsure. His heart skyrockets, chest tight with anxiety as he tries to think of something—anything—that he can do to stop such senseless violence.
He keeps moving, but knows that it's too late. The man's nearly on top of Bokuto, pulling his arm back and—
“BOKUTO-SAN!” Akaashi screams, possibly louder than he ever has in his life. His voice cracks, throat burning with the effort. “LOOK OUT!”
Kuroo’s eyes widen as he realizes what’s about to happen, but he can't move quickly enough.
The knife arcs toward Bokuto, who, thanks to Akaashi’s warning, twists just in time. Unfortunately, he can’t completely deflect the blow, and Akaashi watches in horror as the sharp blade disappears, buried in Bokuto's side.
Kuroo roars, enraged, and the small man flees.
The last man standing gives Bokuto a parting shove, slamming his head into the concrete wall. He goes down hard, blood pooling on the floor far too rapidly for Akaashi’s comfort.
Akaashi drops down, horrified to find that the knife has been dislodged. “Fuck,” he breathes. “No, no, no.”
He presses hands to the wound, quickly shucking out of his cardigan so that he can use it as a makeshift compress. Caught up in the familiarity of the routine, he actually settles. He forgets, for a second, whose side he’s pressed against.
“What?” Bokuto slurs, trying to push himself up. “What’s—”
“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi snaps, groping for Bokuto’s pulse as he maintains pressure on the wound. “Get him to stop moving.”
Kuroo drops to the floor, his skin ghostly white, no trace of his smug self-assurance remaining.
“Fuck.” Akaashi looks down to find Bokuto's large golden eyes looking right at him. They’re hazy and unfocused, but they manage to track Akaashi’s movement well enough. “You're gorgeous."
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi scolds. “Stop talking, you have to stay still.”
“Am I dead?” Bokuto tries to move again, but after a quick glare from Akaashi, Kuroo manages to pin him in place.
“Stay. Still,” Akaashi repeats, his mind cycling through everything that could possibly go wrong. His brain is nothing but an endless list of poor outcomes. The blood seems to be slowing, at least.
“Whatever y’say, beautiful,” Bokuto mumbles, and Akaashi tells himself that this is not the time to feel flattered. Bokuto is clearly delirious.
Kuroo laughs—a high, hysterical sound that grates against Akaashi’s frazzled nerves. “Bo, you smooth bastard. Stop trying to flirt while you’re bleeding to death.”'
“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi hisses, fear making him furious. “Shut. Up.”
They’re distracted by the sound of footsteps.
Akaashi looks up to find Kenma flanked by several men in dark suits. They surround Bokuto quickly, but wait for further direction before moving.
Akaashi is nearly dizzy with relief. He’s too grateful to even wonder where Kenma managed to find these men—or why they’re so blindly obedient. “Did you call the ambulance?”
“No ambulance.” Kuroo’s voice is still shaky, but firm. His eyes flicker toward Kenma, something there that Akaashi isn’t able to decipher. “Next option?”
Akaashi is about to interject, to let Kuroo fucking Tetsurou know that there is no next option , when Kenma snaps a finger at his men. “Get him in my car.” He turns to look at Akaashi. “Keiji, you’ll come with us.”
'Come—' Akaashi splutters. “Kenma, no. He needs a hospital.”
“He needs a doctor,” Kenma says flatly. “And you’re a doctor.”
Sweat prickles all over Akaashi’s body, and he shivers as a draft pushes through the room. He cannot believe that this is happening. He should just pull out his phone and call the ambulance himself. Bokuto is going to die and it will be all his fault. “I’m a resident!” Akaashi tries to correct, begging his friend to see sense. Desperate for him to understand. “Kenma this is—”
“You’re getting in the car.” Kenma's voice is hard, his tone final. He’s always been a reasonable man, has always seemed to care about what Akaashi had to say. But tonight, he’s like a different person. Tonight, Kenma walks away from the scene with absolute confidence that everyone will follow, leaving Akaashi to consider just how dangerous his friend actually is.
“Careful, careful.” Kuroo guides Kenma’s men with Akaashi stumbling after, his hand still pressed to Bokuto’s side. His sweater is soaked through now, blood making it heavy and difficult to grip.
Bokuto groans, eyes fluttering with every small jostling of his body, but he doesn’t fight.
“Do you have supplies at your house?” Kenma’s voice is clipped, abrupt, and Akaashi nods reflexively.
“I think so,” he says. “Some practice sutures…” He tries to picture his apartment, the small mound of supplies he hasn’t yet cleaned off his table. “Saline, bandages.”
It’s not nearly enough.
But Kenma gives the driver the address and that’s it: decision made.
All choices removed, Akaashi folds, slumping back against the seat with his hand still pressed to Bokuto’s wound. He stares out the window, watching the lights blur into a watercolour haze as they race across the city, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do next.
It’s easier than Akaashi thought it would be to get Bokuto into his apartment. It’s late enough that they’re shielded from most prying eyes, and Kuroo takes all of his weight as they hustle quietly toward the elevators, murmuring nonsense to him as if he's merely drunk.
They lay him out on Akaashi's bed—the sofa doesn't have enough space for a proper exam—and then make room while Akaashi stumbles around, gathering supplies. His hands shake as he plucks sutures from the surface of his table and unopened packets of gloves from his work bag. Every noise is magnified in the quiet stretch of his apartment, every movement scrutinized by the collection of people he’d never expected to host. Kenma sends his henchmen away with a practiced wave of his hand, and Akaashi has an entire book of questions that will need to be asked another day.
At least half of Akaashi's anxiety evaporates when he slips his stethoscope under Bokuto's t-shirt and hears the sweet sound of air sweeping in and out of both lungs—a pneumothorax is unlikely. He peeks at his trachea, perfectly in line, and breathes a little easier still.
Unfortunately, that relief is short-lived. The moment he cuts away Bokuto's t-shirt, hands shaking as he wields thick kitchen scissors, the slippery wave of dread comes crashing back.
Bokuto's chest is a tapestry of bruises, mottled and swollen, stained a violent black and purple.
A host of possibilities, each worse than the last, flash through Akaashi's mind: flail chest, splenic rupture—shock. He should have demanded they go to a hospital, should have dug his feet in and refused to move. He skims his hands along Bokuto’s ribs gently, holding his breath as he probes for any catastrophic breaks.
He glances up to see Kuroo’s face, sees his own fear reflected back. His eyes narrow as he spits, venomous. “I told you he needs a hospital.”
Kuroo’s expression hardens, but a simple touch from Kenma has him backing down.
“Is there anything life threatening?” Kenma’s voice is calm, but Akaashi is sure there's a hint of fear behind his eyes.
A laugh bubbles up, explodes out Akaashi in a strangled half-snort. “I could probably tell you, if I could order an ultrasound, some x-rays—” Bokuto groans, bringing a large hand up to rub at his head, "—and a CT scan.”
“Keiji.” Kenma’s tone doesn’t shift, but the tension in the room mounts. Kuroo, in particular, seems directly attuned to Kenma’s mood, and for the first time, Akaashi wonders if he might be in danger.
“Keiji,” Kenma repeats, and there’s a thread of sympathy this time.
Akaashi runs a hand through his messy hair, defeated. “I don’t—I don’t think so.”
He glances at the knife wound, far shallower than he’d initially thought, and slowed now to nothing more than a trickle. “I think it looks worse than it is.”
Kenma nods, then settles back to watch in silence as Akaashi quickly completes the rest of his trauma sweep. When Akaashi points, he grabs a couple of towels to act as makeshift drapes, handing them over without a word.
Transferring his practice suture kits to the small table beside his bed, Akaashi quickly washes his hands and pulls on a new pair of gloves. He blocks out any thoughts about the sterility of the wound, reminds himself that people receive trauma care in the wild, surrounded by dirt and debris, and still manage to survive. He needs to focus on the things he can change.
“Thank you.” Kenma’s voice is quiet as he settles in next to Keiji, ready to hand him any supplies he might need. “I owe you for this.”
“Just—” Akaashi's hand trembles as he lifts his needle driver. “Just tell me why. We can’t we just—”
“They’re going to be looking for him,” Kuroo interrupts. He’s slumped down to the floor now, looking up at the bed with dull eyes. “They’re probably sweeping the city hospitals right now.”
“So what?” Akaashi whips his head around; whether he cares for Bokuto or not, Akaashi doesn't have nearly as much patience for Kuroo as he does for Kenma. “We just let him die in my apartment instead?”
“He’s not going to die.” Kenma speaks as if the universe itself bends to his will.
Perhaps it does.
Akaashi nods. He’s got a lifetime of experience capitulating to the demands of others. If nothing else, life with his parents has taught him when pushing back is futile, has helped him perfect the art of giving in. “We need to wake him.”
Bokuto’s too close to consciousness to get the rest of this done safely. Akaashi just witnessed a full display of his physical prowess: if Bokuto lashes out, Akaashi will be the one in need of a hospital.
“I’m supposed to be practicing on bananas, so there's no numbing agent.” Akaashi pauses, swallows past his nausea. “It’s going to hurt.”
“He can handle it,” Kuroo says, voice certain. “He’s definitely had worse.”
Akaashi isn’t sure how that’s supposed to make him feel better. He’s not even sure how to answer, so he just waves Kuroo up from the floor to take a place on the other side of the bed.
“Bo, buddy.” Kuroo shakes Bokuto’s shoulder gently. “Time to wake up, big guy.”
Bokuto groans, and Akaashi prepares a cotton swab with saline. He’s already abandoned any hopes for sterility, but he can at least give the wound a perfunctory cleaning.
“That’s it,” Kuroo says brightly, and Akaashi looks up to find Bokuto staring straight at him.
This time, his startling golden eyes are focused—clear.
“Tetsu?” His nose scrunches in confusion, and Akaashi’s heart clenches in a distinctly unprofessional manner.
Bokuto blinks, owl-like even before he adds in a little head tilt. “What—how hard did they hit me?”
“I'm right here, idiot.” Kuroo laughs as he presses his forehead down into Bokuto’s, whispering something that Akaashi can't catch.
“Ah.” Bokuto flushes, but doesn’s move his eyes from Akaashi for a single second. “That makes sense.”
Akaashi clears his throat. He fights the urge to be brisk, tries to inject some of the open sympathy that seems to come naturally to so many of his classmates. “Bokuto-san.”
The flush on Bokuto’s face deepens, and Akaashi fights to keep his voice steady. “My name is Akaashi Keiji, and I’m about to stitch your side.” He holds up the driver, taking a steadying breath. “It’s probably going to hurt quite a bit.”
Bokuto laughs, then immediately winces. “It already hurts. I’m guessing you don't have any shochu?”
“No.” The words are out before Akaashi thinks of gentling his tone. “I don’t.”
“Right.” Bokuto nods, hissing in a breath as it tugs at his wound. His voice dips lower. “Well, please take care of me, Akaashi Keiji.”
Akaashi nearly fumbles the driver. He ignores Kuroo’s stupid smirk and steadies his hands. “Stay still, Bokuto-san,” he warns, and then gets to work.
Bokuto does surprisingly well. It has to hurt, but he barely twitches. Akaashi honestly thinks that staying silent is the hardest part for him.
It’s also easier to be near Bokuto like this. While he’s focused on the sutures, Akaashi can pretend he’s any other person. The second he’s finished, that protective illusion evaporates.
“Wow, Akaashi!” Bokuto’s voice is loud in the confines of the bedroom. “You're amazing!”
“They’re simple sutures, Bokuto-san.” He peels off his gloves and flicks them into the trash can beside his bed.
“Amazing,” Bokuto repeats with a smile, staring at Akaashi as if he’s the only person in the room. Akaashi feels a little dizzy, caught under the weight of that look.
“Okay, Casanova.” Kuroo, finishing up a hushed conversation with Kenma, leans over to swat Bokuto lightly on the shoulder.
“Kenma’s got an ID on the guys who jumped you, but they don't have any particular affiliation. You gonna tell us what the hell that was about?”
Bokuto turns his head, mumbling something into Akaashi’s pillow. Then, realizing what he’s done, he pops up, face flushed crimson.
Akaashi, trying to hold onto the vestiges of his shattered dignity, tries to erase the image of Bokuto's face pressed into his pillow directly from his mind.
“Bo, you need to tell me.”
Kuroo’s voice cracks, and Akaashi can see Bokuto crumbling. His colour, just starting to improve, leeches away under the pressure of his friend’s insistence.
“Kuroo-san.” Akaashi steps between them. If he’s going to be forced into this role, people are going to have to listen to him. “Bokuto-san needs to rest. Whatever questions you think you need to ask him can wait until later.”
There’s a brush of heat against his hand, and Akaashi looks down to find Bokuto's fingers resting against his wrist.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. He glances back at Kuroo. “He told me to throw the fight.”
“What?!” Kuroo springs forward, and Akaashi instinctively throws an arm out to push him back. Kuroo’s not as big as Bokuto, but he’s fit. Akaashi has to dig his feet in, put intention behind the motion. Kuroo, not expecting any resistance, collapses, anger falling as quickly as it had risen, his head thunking dully against the wall. “Bo, you promised you would tell me if he came near you again.”
Bokuto crosses his arm, his face clouded and petulant. “I’m a grown man, Kuroo. I don't need you to fight my battles.”
“This is worse than we thought.” Kenma’s voice snaps the band of tension growing between Bokuto and Kuroo. “This isn’t something that’s going to disappear overnight.”
Kenma turns to Akaashi. “Keiji, I hate to ask this of you, but—”
“No.” Bokuto’s voice is quiet—and far more intimidating for it. “Kenma, I’m not bringing anyone else into this.”
“He’s already in it,” Kenma snaps.
Bokuto, to Akaashi's horror, tries to rise from the bed.
“I’ll walk out of here myself,” Bokuto threatens, his hand clutching at his abdomen as he tries to push himself forward.
“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi hurries forward, but Bokuto falls back against the headboard without any intervention. “You need to rest!”
Akaashi turns to Kenma, fatigue and frustration making him bold. “Just tell me what you want.”
“He needs somewhere to stay. I'll take this one—” Kenma waves a hand at Kuroo “—but it's better if they’re separated.”
“Fine.” Akaashi is tired enough to agree to almost anything if it means finally getting to go to bed. “Someone needs to check on him in the morning, anyway.”
“I'm fine.” Bokuto’s petulant growl is undercut by an intense groan of pain, earning him a glare from every person in the room.
“Fine, fine.” Bokuto shrinks under the negative attention. “I just don’t think it’s fair to bring your friend into this,” he mutters.
“Oh we'll have a conversation about fair,” Kuroo spits back darkly, “as soon as you're well enough that darling Keiji-kun won’t try to stab me for talking to you.”
Akaashi thinks of everything he’s been through tonight. Of Kuroo’s knowing smirk and his cutting glances. “I won't make any promises,” he finally says.
“Okay.” Kenma pulls Kuroo out from the wall, typing rapidly on his phone as he moves. “That’s settled, then?”
Akaashi realizes that this is his out. His final chance to say no to having this stranger—this beautiful, obviously dangerous, stranger—in his home. Alone.
“Settled.” He glances toward Bokuto, who’s clearly fighting to remain still, and his eyes narrow. “As long as Bokuto-san is actually going to listen when I tell him to rest.”
Bokuto smiles, all sharpened jawline and wide, sparkling eyes. It would be a devastating blow for someone far stronger than Akaashi.
“Of course,” Bokuto says easily. He’s clearly feeling better, if the way he glances up in false contrition is any indication. He crosses his heart, mouth curling into a teasing grin. “Anything you say, Akaashi. I am yours to command.”
Akaashi pushes Kuroo and his horrible laugh right out the door without a second thought.
As soon as it’s locked, he gives himself twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to breathe, to safely compartmentalize, to shield himself against the power of Bokuto Koutarou and his blinding smile.
He takes twenty seconds to pull himself together.
When the time runs out he forces himself back into motion. As long as he’s moving, he can ignore this obvious lapse in judgement; he can ignore the frantic racing of his thoughts.
He wonders, shivering slightly as he pours two glasses of water—one for himself, one for his new houseguest—if he’s just made the worst decision of his life.
Bokuto is asleep by the time Akaashi gets back to his room. He’s kicked the blankets off, and the t-shirt Akaashi snipped through is hanging in two pieces on either side of his chest.
Akaashi leaves the water on the bedside table, along with some painkillers, and retreats to the sofa. He’ll make Kenma get antibiotics tomorrow—along with another doctor. Someone better versed in back-alley brawls. Someone who doesn't have to worry about licensing and regulations.
Someone who doesn’t look at Bokuto’s chest and immediately think I need that in my mouth.
He doesn’t bother making up the sofa—just strips off his sweaty clothes and collapses on top of a throw blanket—but as soon as he’s horizontal his fatigue evaporates. He shivers through the adrenaline washout, jaw clenching and headache building, his brain refusing to focus on anything but Bokuto Koutarou. The way he’d looked when he fought. The fluidity of his movements. The beauty beneath his power.
It seems impossible that someone like him could come out of a place like that.
Before he can second-guess himself, he opens his phone and quickly types Bokuto’s name. Unsurprisingly, there are hundreds of hits. He clicks the first article, his heart pounding as he waits.
When it finally loads, Bokuto's face takes up the entire screen. He can't be anymore than seventeen, and he looks goofy. Silly and young, fitted in actual boxing gear and smiling broadly enough that it looks painful.
RISING STAR OF JAPANESE BOXING, reads the headline.
He swipes the window closed before he’s tempted to read further.
Panicked, he then deletes his entire browser history, and immediately feels like an idiot—Bokuto can’t even access his stupid phone. And it's not like he was doing anything wrong; anyone would want to know more about a strange man sleeping in their bed.
Groaning, he throws the phone onto the floor, then rolls up on his side. He does every breathing exercise he can think of, every mindful meditation activity he’s ever recommended to a patient.
None of them work; despite his fatigue, he remains awake for hours. And when he does finally drift off, it’s to thoughts of Bokuto Koutarou.
In the morning he feels marginally more human. Frequent call shifts have made him used to broken sleep, and he’s managed to get an entire five hours in a row.
He checks on Bokuto, who’s now starfished across the bed and snoring softly, but doesn't wake him.
Kenma agrees to antibiotics, but completely rejects the idea of a new doctor. The drop off—handled by a bored teenager Akaashi has never seen in his life—takes place almost immediately and any further attempts to call go straight to voicemail.
He’s wrestling with how long he should let Bokuto sleep when there’s a series of thuds from his bedroom. He sprints across the apartment, opening the door to find his lamp and last night’s glass of water on the floor.
“Bokuto-san!” He grabs a towel and runs toward the mess. “You really shouldn’t be trying to get up!”
He picks up the glass, reaching over to place it back on the table, only to realize that he’s ended up on his knees directly at Bokuto's feet.
“I—” Bokuto’s voice is raspy with disuse, his hair in complete disarray. His lips are chapped and he’s removed the torn shirt, exposing the full expanse of his shoulders. “I wondered if I had dreamt you,” he finally says.
Akaashi can feel his face burn. He looks down, remembering too late that he’s at direct eye-level with Bokuto’s crotch. He jumps to his feet, hurrying across the room to grab his stethoscope.
“I am, unfortunately, real,” he answers once his heart rate is under control. He presses the stethoscope to Bokuto’s chest, depending on the reassuring familiarity of the physical exam to steady him. “Now take a breath.”
Bokuto doesn’t listen, spinning instead so that he can see Akaashi directly.
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats, teeth gritted in embarrassed frustration. “I don’t know if you remember, but one of the conditions for staying here was that you listen when I tell you to do something.”
The heat, never fully resolved, starts to creep back up his neck.
“Medically,” he adds quickly, moving the cold stethoscope from Bokuto's chest to his back. “You have to listen to my medical advice.”
Bokuto manages to stay still for a full fifteen seconds.
Akaashi uses the time wisely, peering at his wound. It looks just as expected: gross, but no worse.
“I’m sorry,” Bokuto says, suddenly contrite. “For the trouble.”
Akaashi waves the apology away, busying himself with the meds and a new glass of water. “Take these,” he orders.
Bokuto swallows obediently, smiling sweetly as his throat bobs. Akaashi leaves without a word.
Akaashi’s sanity manages to hold, but only because Bokuto sleeps for the rest of the day. He wakes up only for brief, groggy spells and is on his best behaviour. But by the next afternoon, it’s clear that he’s willing to risk permanent injury if it means getting out of bed.
“I’m not good at staying still,” he says sheepishly, feet already bouncing against the floor.
Once Akaashi gives him permission to wander, he makes rounds of the apartment. With the exploration comes a constant stream of chatter.
“You have so many books, Akaashi! Do you have a favourite? Which ones do you think I’d like? You can't expect me to exist on soup, Akaashi! Let's order meat. Kuroo told me meat’s important when you lose blood. Don’t look at me like that, Akaashi! I don't bleed that often! Do you think you should be drinking another cup of coffee, Akaashi? Your eye kind of looks like it’s twitching.”
Though he has a rare natural exuberance, as more time passes Bokuto’s patience with being examined wears thin. By the end of the weekend, even a simple blood pressure measurement has him irritable and pouty.
“Has anyone ever told you that you worry too much, Akaashi?” He sighs as Akaashi takes his temperature for the third time that day. “I have a strong constitution—my mom always said so. Plus, I’ve gotten into way worse scrapes than this.”
“Getting stabbed is not getting into a scrape, Bokuto-san. It’s a life-threatening injury.” He reaches out to smack Bokuto’s fingers, which are slowly creeping toward his poorly-hidden snacks. “I told you to stop stretching for things. You’re going to irritate your stitches.”
Bokuto stuffs his fingers in his mouth, a hundred times sulkier about the small tap than his knife wound.
Akaashi tucks a smile into the crook of his arm—it won’t do either of them any good if Bokuto realizes how effective that pout really is.
“Y’know, you’re kind of mean, Akaashi,” Bokuto says loftily, stealing a snack as soon as Akaashi’s back is turned. He tries to hide the crunching with an incredibly unconvincing fake cough. “You should really work on your bedside manner.”
When Akaashi leaves at five o’clock Monday morning, Bokuto’s still happily snoring away. He knows that he should probably be worried about leaving a stranger alone in his home. He should be overthinking—fretting—but instead, he spends his entire work day missing Bokuto’s company.
He pre-rounds with all the enthusiasm of a zombie, wondering what time Bokuto is going to wake up. He checks on post-op patients with detached efficiency, hoping that Bokuto’s wound isn't giving him any trouble. He writes notes, reports critical blood values, and scrubs in on surgery with the same meticulous yet unenthusiastic care he’s shown for the last four years.
Except now, as the day comes to a close, Akaashi actually finds himself looking forward to going home.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto greets him at the door like a puppy, all pent up energy and boundless enthusiasm. Akaashi’s traitorous heart swells, and he ignores the urge to reach out and touch.
He can't remember the last time someone touched him with anything resembling affection.
Bokuto’s the type who would have his hands all over the person he’s dating, Akaashi is sure of it. He’s the most tactile person Akaashi's ever met. He melts into even the simplest touches, pressing into Akaashi when he’s tending to his injuries. He shivers at even the most perfunctory contact, pupils dilating and his breath catching when Akaashi’s fingers slip along his wrist to check his pulse.
And he puts his hands. On. Everything. He brushes his fingers along the spines of Akaashi’s books, plucks pieces of fruit from the bowl just to roll them between his palms, traces patterns into every throw pillow when he’s supposed to be sitting still.
He knows it’s inappropriate, but Akaashi can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have those hands on him. He imagines how poorly he would fare in trying to reciprocate.
It’s ironic that Bokuto, surrounded by violence, can be wired for such tenderness, while Akaashi, who’s supposed to devote himself to the care of others, has none.
“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi bows his head slightly as he greets him, then walks slowly around the house to put his things away with Bokuto half a step behind.
“Kuroo wants to know if he can come over.” Bokuto bounces in place as he talks; Akaashi doesn't understand how it doesn’t hurt.
“Bokuto-san, you’re pulling at your stitches.”
Bokuto stills, then grabs Akaashi's hand and shoves it beneath his t-shirt. “It’s basically healed, Akaashi!”
Bokuto's skin is warm, but a quick glance assures him that there’s no infection, sutures still safely in place. It’s just him, apparently: warm, happy, affectionate.
Everything that Akaashi is not.
“It’s healing well, Bokuto-san,” he concedes, and Bokuto blossoms under even that small bit of praise. “Tell Kuroo-san to come over before it gets too late.”
Kuroo arrives alone an hour later, his hair just as messy and his voice just as annoying as the night of the fight. If he's trying to be subtle as he peers around at Akaashi’s apartment, he’s failing miserably.
It’s not like there’s anything to see. Akaashi’s apartment was purchased by his parents, decorated by his parents, and is pleasing only to his parents. Refusing to make their loaded gift into a home may be the lowest form of rebellion, but it's all he’s got.
At least the furniture they picked is comfortable.
Kuroo takes a seat next to Bokuto, but keeps his hands firmly to himself when he notices Akaashi’s disapproving stare. “Okay, I’ve got some good news and bad news.” He leans back into Akaashi’s sofa, his shoulders gently tapping against Bokuto’s.
It would be nonsensical to resent Kuroo over so small a thing, and so Akaashi doesn't. He stays completely quiet and still, calmly awaiting the news.
“Good news is that Kenma did some poking around and it looks like you’re in the clear. Kato—” Akaashi doesn't recognize the name, but he makes careful note of it, “—feels like you've made up for the win. He’s not going to make any more trouble for you. It’s safe to go back.”
Akaashi is not sure he’s ever disagreed with a statement more, but he knows it’s not his place to interject.
“Bad news,” Kuroo continues, “is that the apartment is trashed. It’s probably going to take some time to find a new one.” He hesitates. “I’m staying with with a...friend—”
“Bro, just say you're staying at Kenma’s.” Bokuto stretches out as if he’s going to tussle with Kuroo, but then sees Akaashi's stern face and thinks better of it.
“There’s room for you there if you—”
“You can continue to stay here, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi has never been more thankful for his medical training—for the gift of speaking without giving any indication of his true feelings. “I have lots of space. And plus,” he adds sharply, cutting off Bokuto’s little celebratory dance. “Someone responsible needs to keep an eye on you.”
Kuroo’s visit is short-lived, likely because every time he brings up the club or the fights, Akaashi gets just a little closer to gifting him his own stab wound—and he’s not afraid to let his irritation show.
“You need to at least make an appearance,” Kuroo says to Bokuto, leaning back as Akaashi attempts to push him out of the apartment. “You need to let them know they can’t keep you down!”
Akaashi, who feels like he’s been fighting for his life trying to keep Bokuto down for any period longer than fifteen minutes, actually slams the door at that last sentence.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, bro!” Kuroo’s footsteps scurry quickly away from the apartment, and Akaashi rounds on the person who might actually listen to him.
“Bokuto-san,” he says, brandishing a thermometer and motioning for Bokuto to sit back down on the sofa. “You can’t actually be thinking of going back there already?”
He pops the thermometer into Bokuto’s mouth, forcing him to take a couple of seconds to think on his response. Bokuto endures, but as soon as the thermometer starts to beep, he catches Akaashi's wrist.
“Look,” he says, showing off the normal reading. “All good.”
He places the thermometer on the floor beside them, then leans forward, getting right in Akaashi’s space. He’s too close to ignore—close enough to scramble Akaashi's already jumbled thoughts.
“Akaashi, look at me.”
At this moment, there’s none of the pouty, chaotic Bokuto Akaashi has experienced so far. He looks focused, steady. In complete command of the room. This is the Bokuto from the club—the Bokuto he saw in the ring.
The Bokuto who knows exactly what he wants—and how to take it.
“You’ve taken such good care of me,” Bokuto says, all low, rumbling voice and intense sincerity.
It hits Akaashi in the gut, a raging heat he’s desperate to sink into. He looks on, mute, unable to manage anything more complex than breathing.
“But I have to do this.”
Bokuto wraps both his hands around Akaashi’s, looks him right in the eyes.
Akaashi’s breath catches, and he knows that Bokuto understands exactly what he's doing.
“Fine.” Akaashi breathes, the warmth from Bokuto’s hands making him dizzy. “But I'm coming with you.”
Bokuto’s face twists, but Akaashi cuts him off before he can respond.
“I trust you when you say this is necessary,” he says, trying to ignore the way that Bokuto’s thumb is now tracing circles on the back of his hand. “But I don’t trust you to take care of yourself.”
“Kuroo will—” Bokuto starts, but Akaashi silences him with a single look.
“I trust him even less,” he says darkly.
“Fine.” Bokuto’s thumb pauses, then moves to the thin skin of Akaashi's wrist.
Akaashi has studied anatomy extensively, but nothing he's ever learned can explain the way he feels that touch through his entire body.
“Though while we’re making demands,” Bokuto says easily, “if I’m going to be staying here, you need to take your bed back.”
Akaashi feels shivery, floaty—hazy enough that he almost nods his assent without a second thought.
Almost.
“No, absolutely not.” In his alarm, he pulls his hand away; the loss is staggering. “You’re still injured, Bokuto-san. You cannot sleep out here.”
Bokuto reaches out and gingerly touches beneath Akaashi’s eye. His palm cups Akaashi's face as he explores the bruised skin.
“And you’re exhausted,” he says, voice firm. “You were up before the sun today, Akaashi. You need your rest too.”
Akaashi’s body must be prioritizing adrenaline over oxygen, because instead of arguing, instead of offering up one of any number of perfectly reasonable arguments, he just nods decisively.
“Well then,” he says, leaning into Bokuto’s touch. ”I guess we’ll both take the bed.”