Work Text:
It was the summer that Bokuto turned eighteen.
“It’ll only be a couple hours, Akaashi!”
“Don’t you have summer homework?” Akaashi splashed his face with water from the outdoor faucet.
“Shirofuku will help me."
“No, I won’t,” she sang, passing out the fluffy white towels. Bokuto planted his face into the crisp cotton. Akaashi wiped away his sweat, roughly swiping at the back of his neck. The rest of the team mingled closer to the gym doors. Bokuto and Akaashi had been the last pair for the running drills up the slow slope, which was prime opportunity for Bokuto to advance his awe-inspiring proposal.
“Think about it. How often do these festivals happen?” he argued through the thin towel.
“Annually. This isn’t even the only festival this summer.” Akaashi turned indifferently. “Take someone else. I have homework.”
“Yeah, but it’d be more fun with you! And why spend a night stuck doing homework when you could be having lots of fun with your senpai? Be realistic, Akaashi!”
“Regrets can haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“That’s too realistic, Akaashi!”
If Akaashi was still considering the issue, he’d at least look annoyed. But the gaze in his eyes was distant and apathetic. Bokuto’s awe-inspiring plan to attend the summer festival together had failed to inspire any awe. It was fine, really. Bokuto trotted to the rest of the team. He could always ask Komi, or Konoha, or Washio, or even Saru. But the proposal faded from the verge of his tongue, and he slowed down his pace. For some reason, if it wasn’t Akaashi, then it didn’t have a point. The curious sensation swept over him, like a soft tingling from his chest. But rejections from Akaashi were common, and he settled for leaping into the gym to restart the summer practice.
After the afternoon’s heat swell dwindled, Bokuto ducked into a bookstore to buy a prep book and prove everybody wrong. When school swung back into session, he’d be the one with the tower of books and all the right answers for his homework. ‘Oh, Bokuto, I was so wrong about you,’ Komi/Konoha/Washio/maybe Saru would say, begging for his scholarly advice.
But summer had an intoxicating magic. It was the smell of tar, peeling off the road, and smoky aroma drifting across the streets. It was the stiff air conditioning hitting the dense humidity, and the shopkeepers splashing water over the ground. Crossing the way through the shopping district, he could hear the fans whirring against the buildings, wafting the scent of grilled fish, and feel the suffocating heat coil around him like a predator. In the gap between school sessions, the summer felt like the short indrawn breath before words were spoken. Summer magic. Like anything could happen.
Summer magic was precisely the reason that Bokuto found himself browsing the manga section instead of the prep book section. It was the only explanation why a good student like himself would be so enthralled in the actions of struggling sports players, posed dramatically on the covers beneath the wrapped plastic. But before he could pick a sport, his phone rang. He swiped the green button instinctively.
“It’s Bokuto,” he said.
“Yes, I know.” It was Akaashi, but it didn’t sound like Akaashi. It sounded like Akaashi, but it also sounded like Akaashi was fondly amused. Bokuto tilted his head, trying to incline further into the mysterious sound.
“Akaashi, hey! Did you need something?” Bokuto stepped out of the bookstore, where the heat settled over him again.
“Not really. Just…” Akaashi inhaled softly. “About tonight. I changed my mind about the festival. I’ll meet you at the school gates in an hour.”
“Hey hey! So you’re finally admitting that the great Bokuto was right after—” The little click of the line resounded in his ear when Akaashi hung up. But still, Akaashi had agreed, and Bokuto hummed happily to himself. He’d been planning to go alone, but going with Akaashi would be more fun. And that strange sensation tickled again, like there was no point if it wasn’t Akaashi.
He idly swiped to see if his call with Akaashi lasted longer than a minute, which would have broken the magnificent old record of thirty seconds. His log reported the last call had been from an unknown number. Maybe Akaashi had switched phones.
Bokuto shrugged and tucked the phone into his pocket. No time to think, like always. He had a fun evening with Akaashi ahead of him.
It was still afternoon when Bokuto arrived late at the school gates. Akaashi was standing there, but he wasn’t standing there. He was—Akaashi, Bokuto knew that. But he seemed different. Akaashi stood straighter and had a more knowing presence, but it wasn’t exactly that. When Bokuto saw Akaashi, he felt like a store he had known since childhood had closed down and a modest office had moved into its place. It was that emptiness, that unfamiliarity. Akaashi stood by the school sign, but it felt different.
But it was still Akaashi. He wore the same simple t-shirt and shorts, and he had the same incline of his head when he was slightly impatient. Bokuto could never mistake the reserved expression on his face. This was definitely Akaashi, except when he wasn’t. But the heat wavered like water, and Akaashi’s figure shimmered in the mirage. The strict line of his mouth curled and his eyes softened at the sight of Bokuto. It was almost like he was happy to see Bokuto, which was impossible. When Bokuto reached him, Akaashi touched him on the elbow with two delicate fingers. Akaashi opened his mouth, reconsidered, and spoke again with more definition.
“Bokuto-san,” he said instead. “You’re late.”
“Just a little!”
“Half an hour.”
“What’s half an hour between friends!” Bokuto slung his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders. “So you’re finally admitting that the great Bokuto was right after all, huh?”
“You don’t need to finish your sentence from the phone call.” Akaashi turned away. “Shall we go?”
It was definitely Akaashi with his quiet voice. Bokuto bounded ahead, already excited for the festival. The strange feeling about Akaashi wore off and he ran three steps ahead. The empty streets transformed into makeshift stalls with billowing banners. More people crowded the streets, and Bokuto twisted to avoid the trailing children who trotted quickly after their parents. Someone was shouting about their prime chicken, selling at a low, low price. Bokuto tried not to drool while he listened to the sound of crisp grills and smelled the frying meat.
“Akaashi! Let’s eat! Wait, no, I want to play a game! Wait, I want to eat!” Bokuto grabbed his hair, overwhelmed by the tantalizing decisions.
“Calm down,” Akaashi said. “We have time before the fireworks.”
“Smart, Akaashi!” When he was around Akaashi, he felt like the festival could be viewed in an orderly fashion, and not consumed all at once in a whirlwind of frenzied desperation. Akaashi already wandered to a stall, where rows of vivid plastic masks peered out from the metal grate.
“Want me to buy you one?” Bokuto asked, bending to match the empty gaze of a Hello Kitty mask.
“They’re fairly cheap.” Which wasn’t an answer, but Akaashi picked up an owl mask. “And they remind me of a story I heard a long time ago.”
“What kind of story?”
“A ghost story.”
“I’m not scared!” Bokuto said defensively. Akaashi gave a trademark exasperated stare. But though his mouth smoothed into a straight line and his eyes narrowed, a sense of amusement lurked behind the slight irritation. That had never happened before.
“Of course not,” Akaashi said, in a pandering tone, “But it’s not a scary story. A bit sad, maybe. Someone once told me that spirits can put on a disguise and mingle with humans.”
“Really?” Bokuto twisted his head to the chattering crowd. His eyes locked onto a young boy who was picking his nose. The boy stared at him. Bokuto drew himself up, chest puffing out, to show he wasn’t afraid of the potential spirit. But his staring contest broke when Akaashi pulled him away, the new purchase of his owl mask already pulled over his face.
“What time do you have to go back home?” Bokuto asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What about your homework?”
“Homework?” Akaashi hesitated in his step. “Oh. I finished.”
“Let me copy it, Akaashi!”
“We’re not in the same year.”
Which was a shame. But even if Akaashi was in the same year, he’d still be in the smart class and Bokuto couldn’t copy off his homework. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Akaashi was younger. He had an air of composed maturity and he was always good to the underclassmen. But Bokuto liked the passionate side of Akaashi, too, the one where he stayed late at practice and darted across the court to receive the ball with all his power. There were so many good sides to Akaashi. Being around him was always the best fun. The evening sky was fading into the background of the festival, and orange lanterns had begun being lit. Bokuto could still make out the elegant line of Akaashi’s neck and the mess of hair beneath the thin string of the mask. Behind Akaashi, stalls of games stretched across the street front.
“Balloons!” he said. Akaashi slowed down, accommodating for Bokuto’s pushing his way to the stall. The yo-yo balloons stayed still in the tub of water, and Bokuto crouched down.
“You won’t get a single one,” Akaashi said, but he bent down as well. He had an elegant way of bending his knees, resting his hands on his thighs.
“Don’t be pessimistic, Akaashi. I’ll buy you a try, too!”
Bokuto’s paper fishing line broke on the first try, but Akaashi successfully fished out three balloons in rapid succession. It was annoying. It was super, super annoying. Bokuto screwed up his face and watched Akaashi artfully cast his line, the hook catching onto the loop of the water balloons. Bokuto couldn’t see Akaashi’s face behind the mask, but the enraptured gaze of his eyes told the story. Akaashi collected his winnings, the yo-yo balloons swinging from his hand.
“Are you sulking?” Akaashi asked. His soft voice mingled with the crowd’s murmurs, but the lilted note of amusement lingered in his question. Akaashi never sounded amused. Akaashi could sound exasperated and angry, but this amusement was new. Bokuto squeezed his fists against his shorts. He liked it. The hot feeling swelled in his chest, burning fiercer than the summer humidity. He liked hearing Akaashi’s quiet pleasure, rich in his subtle voice. He wanted to hear more.
“I’m not sulking,” he said. The frustration of losing to Akaashi’s skill had fallen away.
“Good.” Akaashi held out his balloons. “They’re heavy. You’ll break them, but hold onto them.”
Bokuto did break all three balloons in rapid succession, but all accidentally. Akaashi didn’t appear to mind. Lovely fabric, graced with flowers and cresting patterns, began to bloom in the growing crowd. He worried about losing Akaashi in the mass, but a firm hand pressed along the small of his back. Akaashi trailed behind him, leading him to the food stalls. Bokuto could feel the kind warmth of his touch even when Akaashi occasionally pulled away. His body absorbed the heat, sensitive to the way Akaashi occasionally brushed against his shoulder and elbow.
It was a summer evening. The night had dropped down like a suffocating cloak, though electric light still illuminated the plastic banners with their bright characters. The heat felt like a distinct being. Yet the flames of the grills only attracted more customers to the stalls and the savory scents wandered through the night. Bokuto’s festival meal bonanza began with a heavily decorated chocolate banana, bright sprinkles liberally dotting the top.
“I’ll buy you one, too, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, pulling out his wallet.
“It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”
Bokuto paused, finger slipped into his pouch. He furrowed his brow and tried to recall the last time Akaashi wasn’t hungry.
“I was snacking when I was studying,” Akaashi said, arms crossed. “I ate a lot of—chips. Please don’t worry about it, Bokuto-san.”
Never. Akaashi was never not hungry. Bokuto slowly lowered his wallet, but Akaashi caught his wrist in his hands, stopping the motion. He could feel the tough tips of Akaashi’s fingers, the slight coolness of Akaashi’s temperature, the strength of his grip. He could even smell the brisk scent of Akaashi’s soap.
“Don’t worry about it,” Akaashi repeated, his businesslike annoyance returning. “Eat what you like. But don’t blame me if you spend too much.”
“Well, okay. But you can eat some of mine.”
“Will you have any to spare?”
“Of course, Akaashi!” But Bokuto had already eaten most of his banana when he recalled his vague promise to Akaashi.
A few streets away, the dancing had started. Over the crowd’s din, he could hear the clapping and cheers scattered between the resounding thumps of the drums. With every beat, his bones rattled inside him. A group of laughing adults surged through, and Bokuto almost lost sight of Akaashi through their waving paper fans. He tried to tell Akaashi to stick close, but even his voice was lost into the crowd. Ruefully, he thought he’d probably never hear anything Akaashi said.
But Akaashi hooked his fingers into Bokuto’s hand. His motion was smooth and practiced, fingers sliding down his wrist and locking his fingers into the slight gaps. His hand was warm. This had never happened before, but Bokuto liked it. He really liked it. Akaashi glanced at the thrumming stalls with indifferent eyes. Bokuto squeezed his hand.
Eventually, the crowd washed them away into a side street further away from the festivities. The chanting became a softer background. Akaashi did not let go of his hand.
“Hey, I’ll win you something, Akaashi! The biggest one!” Bokuto pointed to where the prizes dangled beneath the advertising banner. Stuffed animals squished their faces against the plastic. The middling prizes, toy cars and coin banks, sat on a shelf below. Akaashi said something, but the noisiness hadn’t faded so significantly to hear him. Bokuto bent his head and Akaashi murmured into his ear.
“I can’t take that with me,” Akaashi said.
“But I want to win you something!”
“Win me that pointless thing the next time we come to a festival.” Akaashi considered the oversized doll. “The stuffing inside might be useful.”
“Don’t dissect it, Akaashi!”
They played a toy basketball game, where Bokuto spiked the tiny ball through the tiny hoop. Akaashi won first place at a molding game, artfully cutting shapes into the candy. The sounds had begun to recede in earnest and the crowd had thinned, but Akaashi still held his hand. Sometimes, he felt a strange fright that he might lose Akaashi in the crowd if he closed his eyes for too long, like he would blend into the shadows and disappear. Fresh relief washed over him every time he saw Akaashi was still standing beside him. It was a silly feeling. He had no reason to be apprehensive.
“Oh, shaved ice! I’m going to buy some,” Bokuto said. “Wait here, okay?”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
At Akaashi’s overwhelming enthusiasm, Bokuto huddled off to the stall. The machine whirred behind the old man of the stall.
“Having fun?” the old man asked, face creasing into a smile.
“Yeah! I came with my friend.” Bokuto took the plastic cup and spoon, fingers numbing against the icy perspiration. He was glad that Akaashi changed his mind. The festival would have been fun, but now it was super fun. He could show off all his great points in front of Akaashi.
“Keep a good eye on them,” the old man said. “There’re stories, you know. Spirits coming out, disguising themselves as human. They always fade away before morning.”
“He says that same thing every festival,” someone said with a laugh, mopping up the table. “Thanks for your patronage.”
Bokuto took off down the street to where he left Akaashi. The apprehension had returned. Akaashi wasn’t a spirit, but still. Still. He took a step, and another, and he expected to see only unfamiliar faces. But Akaashi stood by the alley, face covered in his owl mask, with his fingers folded together in front of him. Of course Akaashi wasn’t a spirit. Akaashi wouldn’t disappear before morning.
But Akaashi gently smiled at Bokuto, like he was enjoying the sight of Bokuto running around. Bokuto had never seen Akaashi so content. It was strange, but it wasn’t bad. He liked seeing Akaashi liking something.
“The trick is to eat shaved ice as fast as possible,” Bokuto told him, “if you want to avoid brain freeze.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Bokuto gobbled down the shaved ice, but apparently not quick enough to avoid the iciness in his head. He winced. Akaashi sighed, pulling a packet of tissues from his pocket. He expertly flipped open the plastic and drew out a tissue to dab at Bokuto’s mouth.
“I didn’t know you carried those around,” Bokuto said, managing to winch open his eyes.
“I’ve never used these for myself,” Akaashi started. A firework whistled into the air with a piercing shriek and burst into glittering colors. Bokuto grinned at him, but Akaashi only frowned. He leaned forward, touching Bokuto’s elbow.
“Bokuto-san,” he said, almost urgently. “If I wasn’t here, where would you go?”
“What?”
“If I wasn’t with you. Where would you go to see the fireworks?”
Akaashi stared at him like they were in a match, dripping with sweat and tense before the whistle. Bokuto didn’t look away. If Akaashi wasn’t there, which he was, he would have watched the fireworks. Or—not. Earlier, he had thought there was no point without Akaashi. Slowly, Bokuto stepped further down the road. Akaashi followed him, not questioning his sudden movement. The fireworks spiraled into the air, showering the sky with stars. The columns of smoke rose below the blooming flowers. Reds and yellows and greens and blues, and Bokuto stepped into the cool pathway of the forest.
If Akaashi wasn’t there, there was no point to going to the festival. If Akaashi wasn’t there, there was no point in watching the fireworks. He didn’t understand Akaashi’s question, but he felt drawn higher into the mountains. The moon hung heavy in the air, bright enough to illuminate the jagged edges of the stone steps.
Summer.
The cusp of spring had already tumbled into the beginning of summer. The warmth stayed sticky underneath his shirt, even in the depth of night. Several fireworks flew into the air, fanning out in resplendent gold. The frazzled trails of smoke were stems to their blossoms. Bokuto climbed the steps. Behind him, Akaashi’s footsteps softly echoed. Bokuto wanted to play volleyball. He wanted to play volleyball this year, and the year after, and the year after. He wanted to play with Akaashi setting to him and his teammates laughing by his side. The training camp would start soon. He’d see Kuroo again. Maybe his hair had grown even wilder. Bokuto liked volleyball.
The air thinned higher on the mountain. The stone steps had turned into a dirt pathway. His shoes crunched over the fresh dirt and hard rocks. He brushed away the whipping branches and held them away for Akaashi to pass under. It was unusual, he thought, to see Akaashi out of school and practice. His life was filled with textbooks and homework assignments and chalk on his hands with wrong blackboard answers. He saw Akaashi everyday at practice, leaping and receiving and setting at practice. He saw Akaashi at lunch, too, and Akaashi was always hungry. But the festival was a spark of freedom, away from the high walls of their school. It was a different Akaashi, but still the same. He was pleased that Akaashi had agreed to come along. Being with Akaashi was natural and fun. It wasn’t like Akaashi was always nice, but he was always good to him.
The trail wound to a clearing beside a cliff. A faint building shouldered further into the forest. A thick tree had taken root in front and Bokuto stepped between its thick roots.
The city at night stretched beneath him. Tall office buildings turned into miniature lights and the festival lanterns were flickering fireflies. The familiar roadway was a river of churning gold, crackling with life. Bokuto steadied himself against the scratchy bark of the tree. The last of the fireworks fell away, booming into the night. The deafening quiet rushed against his ears, filling the sudden vacuum. His head ached in the sudden absence of sound and light, like his body was an echo.
The stars had fallen and scattered across the ground, embedded in the twinkling windows of the buildings below.
He had walked through the city’s streets. He had memorized the slight dent in the telephone pole and the meticulous chip in the chain link fence, the faded advertisement in the store window. The thin weeds broke through the brick walls and the web of wires crossed over his head. He had passed rows of stocky houses and small businesses with hand-drawn signs and towering schools and rumbling train stations and kind bakeries and flourishing boutiques and humble vending machines, and they were all small rows of light down below. Each memory was a small and radiant glow, a candle that he tried to cup in his hands. They had become distant and untouchable, something he could neither destroy nor protect, but he treasured the sepia burn fiercely.
The quiet passed through him.
He could barely feel the tether of his hand to the tree, his foot wedged against the roots. The insects chirped and hummed behind him, but his breath overwhelmed the other sounds. He was glad, suddenly, that Akaashi was there with him. This solemn moment was not like him. He was the fireworks and flames, the roar and the light. But this moment, this good moment, was something he wanted to enjoy with Akaashi.
“So this is a ‘more Keiji than Koutarou’ moment.” It sounded like Akaashi was speaking through a far away tunnel. Yet he only stood on the other side of the tree.
“What?” Bokuto blinked away from his reverie. He always prided himself on his night vision, but Akaashi’s visage blurred and wavered.
“That’s what you called it.” Akaashi shrugged. “In twenty years, they’ll tear down this tree and rezone the area. Residential, I think.”
The fresh wind stirred the heat.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, “Who are you?”
Akaashi didn’t move for a moment. Slowly, he raised his hands to the owl mask. He tugged at the string at the back of his head. Bokuto held his breath. He didn’t know what he expected. A void, perhaps. A horrible emptiness. A spirit’s face. Maybe an owl, maybe a fox, maybe an animal he’d never seen. But Akaashi took off his mask and it was still Akaashi. And Bokuto suddenly knew it could never have been anybody other than Akaashi, since it was always him by his side. Except he was smiling in a way Bokuto had never seen. Soft and kind.
“It’ll be annoying to explain this to you,” Akaashi said. “Would you believe me if I said I came from the future, and that I fell asleep and woke up like this?”
“Yeah,” Bokuto said without thinking. “I mean, it makes no sense. None. But I’d believe you, Akaashi.”
And he did. This Akaashi had been acting differently, with a different gentle smile and different way of holding himself. He seemed even more mature than usual, which was impossible. But when Akaashi looked at him with his kind eyes and tucked hands, Bokuto felt like he was being cherished. All this future stuff didn’t make sense, of course. But the swollen heat and sweat dripping down his neck urged him to agree. Besides, it was still Akaashi, and he believed in Akaashi.
Akaashi smiled and sat down in front of the tree. Bokuto hastily dropped down to his knees, scraping his shin against a root. His hand brushed against the dry grass.
“In the future, we get married and grow very old,” Akaashi said, hands on his knees.
“Married!” Bokuto leaned forward, eyes wide. Married, to Akaashi. Married to Akaashi. He would be married to Akaashi. It sounded right, but his face flushed and his heart thumped in his chest. He had never imagined it, but he suddenly didn’t want anything else.
“We grow very, very old.” Akaashi smiled. “You tearfully told me that you regretted that I never came with you to this festival. I remember I stayed home that night. But you said that you watched the fireworks from a special place and you wanted to share that happiness with me. I’ll tell you now, as I told you before, that it’s a very foolish regret. You make me breakfast in the morning and hold my hand at night. Why would I need a festival to feel happy with you?”
“Married,” Bokuto repeated. He’d make breakfast for Akaashi in the morning. He’d hold hands with Akaashi at night. He blinked at the sprawling city.
“If anything, I think this is just my wish.” Akaashi leaned against him. “I wanted one more day with you.”
“I don’t get it, Akaashi.”
“I don’t want you to understand.” Akaashi smiled softly at him. “But I’ll tell you some other things.”
“Oh. Okay!” Bokuto straightened up. Akaashi felt like Akaashi, but the maturity had grown. All the rough hewn sides of Akaashi had smoothed out, and he felt more peaceful, more knowledgeable. Bokuto frowned and tried to act more mature. He refrained from picking his nose.
“If I’m away on a business trip, don’t bother to try to do the laundry. And I know you’ll be worried about the heat, but don’t spray me with a hose. When we get a new dishwasher, please treat the trays more gently. Our garden doesn’t need so much fertilizer. Don’t cry during your acceptance speech. And if I told you that my arm hurts, don’t hug me so hard. Don’t play in the snow drifts. If you get lost, we do own cell phones, so you don’t need to make an announcement. I know you’ll be excited to replace our cutlery, but don’t be so excited that we have to replace it again. If you accidentally break a light bulb, just tell me. Please think things through.”
“Wait, Akaashi, I’ll write it down. I’ll be a great hus… husband!” Bokuto patted himself down for a pencil, but when he reached his phone, Akaashi had gently placed a hand over his wrist. Akaashi’s fingers delicately curled over the inside of his palm.
“No. Don’t change a thing.” Akaashi laughed softly, though Bokuto couldn’t see his face through the night. “I don’t have any regrets about you.”
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said. “Is this sad?”
He felt, suddenly, like something lurking inside him had finally burst into the surface. He wanted to play volleyball for this year, and the next year, and the next, and the next, and the next. He wanted to stay by Akaashi’s side. But in the festival, he had seen the children in the afternoon, the laughing adults in the evening, and the old man at night. His heart, which had been light and glowing, settled with a dull ache.
“Why would you feel sad, Koutarou?” Akaashi smiled more sharply, eyes intelligent and mirthful. “This will the best summer you’ve ever had. Until the next summer, which will be even better. And the next, which is even better, and so on and so forth. You have so many best summers ahead of you.”
“But, Akaashi—”
Bokuto didn’t finish his plea. The plastic owl mask was slipped over his face, string snapping over his bristling hair. He could still see Akaashi through the eye holes. With the city as a backlight, Akaashi’s figure was covered in shadows. But he thought he could see something wiser in Akaashi’s gentle smile.
“Thank you for tonight, Koutarou,” Akaashi said.
Akaashi kissed him. Bokuto could feel the warmth of his lips and the brush of his hand on the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes and kissed Akaashi back, frantic and clumsy, desperate and wanting. His fists curled against his thighs and he leaned forward into him. But Akaashi kissed him with a deep calm. The warmth slowly faded away and the cooler night air settled on his neck. He didn’t open his eyes.
He listened to the quiet rustle of the branches.
The festival had ended by the time he climbed down the mountain. The first mellow rays of sunlight brimmed over the crevasses. He walked through the emptier streets, the stalls taken down plank by plank. The shopping distract with its unlit signs seemed like an empty school. His mind was blank, but his feet carried him down familiar roads. He found himself in front of Akaashi’s house. All the lights were off. He considered calling Akaashi on his cell phone, but that seemed disruptive. Instead, he searched for some pebbles to toss at Akaashi’s window. That was far less disruptive and more romantic.
“Why are you trying to throw a rock through my parents’ window?”
“Akaashi!” Bokuto spun around, dropping the rock back near the wall. He felt like crying to see Akaashi, the same as always, standing in the street. He wore a different shirt with a thin jacket. The look on his face, mingled exasperation and surprise, was familiar. Bokuto breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This was the familiar Akaashi. But he had to be vigilant and suspicious.
“Akaashi,” he said, “Are you hungry?”
“Not really. But I could eat.” Akaashi creased his forehead. “Why are you here, Bokuto-san?”
“I just wanted to see you. There’s nothing wrong with that!” Bokuto straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Did you run here? You’re sweating.” Akaashi pulled out a packet from his pocket and tugged out a tissue. He folded the tissue and dabbed at Bokuto’s forehead. Bokuto tried not to laugh, but a grin still worked its way onto his face.
“I didn’t know you carried those around.”
“I don’t typically use them, but it seems you always have a need.” Akaashi’s tone was caustic, but his touch was gentle. “But I suppose it’s good you happened to come here. I finished most of the summer homework. We can go to the next festival, if you still wanted to go.”
This was his Akaashi. Blunt, sharp-tongued, and always good to him. Bokuto wanted to go to the next festival with him. He wanted to go to all the festivals with him. The symphony of crickets constantly hummed behind him. Akaashi pulled out another tissue and quietly touched Bokuto’s neck. Bokuto clenched his fingers to the inside of his elbows.
“Akaashi,” he said, “Let’s get married.”
He expected Akaashi to be a little surprised. Maybe the stoic Akaashi would shout or drop his jaw or spin around. But Akaashi didn’t stop patting him, efficient and brisk. Still, Akaashi smiled. Soft and kind. Bokuto recognized that smile.
“First, let’s start with dating,” Akaashi murmured. Bokuto laughed.
“That’s great, Akaashi—!”
“Shh.” Akaashi placed a finger on Bokuto’s mouth, glancing around the neighborhood with annoyed inclined eyebrows. All the lights had been turned off, but the street lamps still illuminated the sepia bushes. Akaashi’s hand, as always, felt cooler than the humid air around them. The morning began to drench the streets with opalescent light. Akaashi swept his fingers over Bokuto’s jaw and tilted forward. His placid expression never changed, but he shifted forward in centimeters and inches, hesitant and dawdling. Bokuto closed his eyes.
In the summer that Bokuto turned eighteen, he received his second first kiss. He fumbled. Akaashi kissed too hard. Sometimes Bokuto only kissed the side of his mouth. Akaashi’s fingers clamped down over his jaw. But Akaashi’s mouth was soft and if he opened his eyes, he knew Akaashi would still be there. So he didn’t hurry, and took apart every brushing sensation, hands lingering on Akaashi’s sides, leisurely and thoughtful, kissing him clumsily and slowly.
After all, he still had the best summer ahead of him.