bokuto doesn't cry. not that akaashi knows, at least. he's never seen him. bokuto just - goes still. so, so still his edges start to fade against the dim room and akaashi fears he'll disappear if he blinks.
so akaashi stares. this golden, beautiful boy sitting so still in the middle of his room he may as well not be there. and akaashi sighs, because he knows what this is about and knows what to do and say and he always, always knows. so akaashi moves. because if he doesn't, he'll cry too.
bokuto only ever goes still for a reason. and even though akaashi hates seeing him like this, there's a tiny part of him that still wishes -dumbly, stupidly, earnestly- it was because of him.
but it's not. so keiji swallows and rubs shoulders and makes tea. stays so so still beside him until bokuto starts breathing again. until he empties his (probably) already cold tea and asks him to toss for him. until keiji sighs and gets his volleyball and keeps the memory of what just happened inside the little box where it belongs, ready to be touched only once it all happens again.
and it was okay. he could manage the stillness and the silence and the inexistence of tears. he could hug his knees and stare at walls, picking his fingers until they bleed. it was okay.
until, of course, it was not.
bokuto's lips were soft. it was the first thing that came to mind when he kissed him for the first time. the second was the magnitude of the mistake he was making, were he to let this happen. and the third: the realization of how little he cared either way. he stopped thinking after that, only bokuto and his so very soft lips and his own bleeding hands looking for his neck and hair and anything, everything he could touch.
bokuto didn't cry, not that keiji knew. he stopped staying still too.
so keiji waits. plays his part, bandages himself up. learns what to do, when. of course he does. he always does.
starts reading this new edge of bokuto like another novel to dissect. learns where to find it, what it means. never ever fails. and so, when he comes home, just one look is enough to know what is wanted of him. a movie partner, a keen listener. a uno rival. a hug. a soft hand on his even softer hair. a pair of lips, ready to be kissed: a source of warmth.
keiji knows best than to call himself a lover, despite of how much every bone in his being wants to. he knows, deep in his heart of hearts, who koutaro was really kissing. he does not let himself forget it.
(he can't believe he let himself forget it)
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washing machine heart // akaashi keiji x mitski flavoured pain
Fanfictionkeiji knows best than to call himself a lover, despite of how much every bone in his being wants to. he knows, deep in his heart of hearts, who koutaro was really kissing. he does not let himself forget it. (he can't believe he let himself forget i...
