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Akaashi wakes up to the sound of cabinets opening and closing.

“Kaashiiiii,” Bokuto says, voice trailing through their apartment from the kitchen, “do we have more coffee filters, or am I supposed to invent something? ‘Cause I totally can.”

Akaashi doesn’t open his eyes. “In the cabinet above the microwave. Behind the extra mugs. The ones you bought because you said they ‘felt lucky.’”

“They are lucky,” Bokuto says, and then, triumphantly, “Oh! There they are.”

Akaashi smiles into his pillow. He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling they’ve been meaning to repaint for three months, and listens to Bokuto move around the apartment. Bokuto hums while the kettle heats, off-key and unbothered. Akaashi tracks the sound without thinking, breathing in the scents of coffee, detergent, and something faint that can only really be described as Bokuto.

They’ve been doing this since high school. Different kitchens, different apartments, same choreography. Back then, it was Bokuto’s parents’ place on the weekend, then a cramped dorm room with a window that wouldn’t open and Kuroo third wheeling, then a series of apartments chosen less for quality than for proximity. It’s a dance that Akaashi has grown intimately familiar with.

The kettle clicks off. Bokuto’s humming stops. Footsteps cross the apartment, then pause.

“Keiji,” Bokuto says again, voice closer now, softer. “Do you want eggs? Or are you in a toast mood?”

Akaashi considers this, eyes still closed. “Toast.”

“Jam?”

Akaashi opens one eye. Bokuto is standing in the doorway, hopeful, already holding the bread. Akaashi sighs, fond and resigned.

“Sure,” he says. “Strawberry.”

Bokuto grins and turns back to the kitchen, triumphant. Akaashi lets his eyes close again, listening to the scrape of the toaster lever, the soft clink of a knife against a jar, the familiar rhythm settling into place around him. Bokuto always talks to himself while he makes breakfast, commentary looping from the relative virtues of jam brands to the moral failings of the toaster, and Akaashi always listens, eyes closed, tracking the sound the way he tracks rain against a window.

When the mattress dips, he opens them just enough to see Bokuto balancing the tray with exaggerated care, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Akaashi shifts instinctively, clearing space without being asked. Bokuto sets the tray down and brushes Akaashi’s hair back, pressing a quick kiss to his temple as Akaashi takes the mug, warm and steady in his hands. He lets himself settle back against the pillows. Bokuto stays on the edge of the bed, one hand braced behind him, watching Akaashi over the rim of his own mug.

“You’re staring,” Akaashi says, after a moment.

“I’m waiting,” Bokuto replies. “You make that face when there’s an update.”

Akaashi exhales, amused. “You’re impatient.”

“You’re withholding,” Bokuto counters. “Go on. What’s the newest update with the Iwaizumi drama?”

Akaashi exhales, faintly amused. “You’ve been promoted to stakeholder, now?”

“You made me one,” Bokuto says. “You can’t just say ‘my coworker has a long-standing situationship he’s publicly pining over’ and not expect me to be all in.”

Akaashi lifts the mug again, mostly to hide his smile. “Well, it’s escalated.”

Bokuto’s eyes light up. “Yes.”

“Oikawa’s started leaving things,” Akaashi says. “On the desk. Nothing important, just enough that he has to come back.”

Bokuto presses a hand to his chest. “Ooooo. The lingering return.”

“Exactly,” Akaashi says. “Yesterday, it was his charger. Today, it was a pen he definitely did not need.”

“And Iwaizumi?” Bokuto prompts.

“Oh, he’s noticed,” Akaashi says. “But he’s ignoring it. Pretending like the entire library can’t see the way he moons over Oikawa as soon as he turns around.”

Bokuto groans, delighted. “That’s awful. I love it.”

“I love that they think no one’s noticed,” Akaashi says.

Bokuto laughs, soft and pleased, then finally looks away, attention drifting to the tray like he’s remembering it exists. He takes another sip of his own coffee, thoughtful for about half a second. Akaashi lets himself watch a moment longer before breaking the silence.

“What about you, Kou? Plans for today?”

“Oh,” Bokuto says, brightening. “Yeah! Practice later. Class before that. Hinata wants to lift, but I might pretend I didn’t see the text.”

Akaashi hums. “Healthy.”

“Oh! And then,” Bokuto adds, like it’s an afterthought, “there’s a party.”

Akaashi pauses. “There is?”

“Mm-hm,” Bokuto says, nodding. “The women’s team is throwing a birthday bash for someone. Not sure who, but Inunaki’s girlfriend said we were welcome to come. Something about needing more people to justify more alcohol.”

Akaashi chuckles, setting his mug down carefully. “Do you want me to come?”

“Duh,” Bokuto says immediately. “You’re my forever plus one. Come with me.”

It’s not a question. Bokuto says it like he already knows the answer. Akaashi watches him for a moment, then reaches for his toast again.

“What time?” he asks.

Bokuto grins. “Lateish.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate,” Bokuto counters. “We can leave whenever you want, though. But it should be good. Hinata’s coming, and Kuroo said he’d try and stop by with Kenma.”

Akaashi considers this, already slotting the night into place. “Okay,” he says.

Bokuto’s smile softens. He leans in and bumps their shoulders together, careful not to upset the tray.

“Nice,” he says. “I can pick you up after practice, then?”

Akaashi nods, taking another bite of toast and letting the morning settle again, warm and unhurried. Bokuto grins, pressing another kiss to Akaashi’s hair before bounding off the bed.
Akaashi chews thoughtfully, listening to Bokuto move around the apartment again, already loud, already bright, moving through their apartment in search of his volleyball bag. He takes another sip of coffee and files the evening away, mentally noting the variables: noise, alcohol, proximity, and people who thought they were being subtle.

He smiles into his mug. Perfect.

There will be something to notice later. There always is.

The party is already loud when they get there. There’s music bleeding from a speaker that’s too small for the room, overlapping conversations, the clink of cups meeting and parting. Someone has opened a window even though it’s cold, which does nothing but make the air smell like beer and outside at the same time.

Bokuto’s holding court in the living room, arms flung wide and solo cup sloshing, already mid-story. Akaashi threads his way through the crowd with practiced ease, two drinks in hand, already planning for the moment Bokuto’s inevitably doesn’t survive the night.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Bokuto says, whatever hellish concoction in his cup sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he gestures, “it was definitely out.”

“It was in,” Atsumu says immediately. “Yer just mad ’cause ya lost.”

“I was robbed,” Bokuto insists.

Akaashi stops half a step behind Bokuto’s shoulder, and Bokuto leans back without looking, his shoulder brushing Akaashi’s chest for a fraction of a second before he surges forward again. Akaashi adjusts automatically, shifting the drink in his left hand so it doesn’t spill.

“I felt the line,” Bokuto adds. “Like, spiritually.”

“That is not a thing,” Atsumu says.

Hinata laughs, loud and unguarded, then turns like he’s only just remembered Akaashi exists. “Hi, Akaashi!”

“Hello, Hinata,” Akaashi says easily.

Hinata beams. He’s definitely feeling the effects of the jungle juice the women’s team had put out, Akaashi thinks. “Bo’s been telling this story for, like, ten minutes.”

“It takes time to explain injustice,” Bokuto says solemnly.

Akaashi offers Bokuto the fresh drink without comment. Bokuto accepts it seamlessly, barely breaking eye contact with his audience.

“See,” Bokuto says, immediately energized. “He gets it.”

Akaashi hums. “You could call it that.”

Bokuto grins at that, bright and pleased, the expression lingering just long enough to register before he turns back to the room, already mid-motion.

“So anyway,” Bokuto continues, undeterred, “next set—”

“Hold that thought,” a familiar voice cuts in, amused and unapologetic. Bokuto whips around, grinning wildly, droplets of liquid flying everywhere. Atsumu curses as some lands on his shirt, waving a hand in disbelief before heading off to presumably find napkins.

“KUROO! My guy!” Bokuto exclaims, blissfully unaware of the mess quickly forming around him.

Kuroo slips into the circle with a grin, already holding a drink of his own. He bumps shoulders with Bokuto in greeting, easy and practiced. “You’re loud,” he says fondly. “I could hear you from the entryway.”

Bokuto laughs at that, hand clapping Kuroo on the back. Akaashi reaches out just in time to save the new drink from meeting its end on the living room floor. Kuroo grins over Bokuto’s shoulder at him.
“Akaashi, my man. Always a pleasure.”

Akaashi smiles back at him as Bokuto returns to sling an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder. “Kuroo. Glad you made it.”

“Was almost a near miss. Traffic was awful. And Kenma couldn’t be moved.”

“Streaming?” Bokuto guesses immediately.

“Streaming,” Kuroo confirms. “I suggested he take a break. He suggested I leave.”

“Sounds about right,” Akaashi says.

Kuroo laughs. “Right? Anyway—” He glances around the room, a brief, evaluative sweep that stops just short of scrutiny. “Did I miss anything important?”

Bokuto opens his mouth, but Hinata beats him to it. “He was robbed.”

“At volleyball,” Bokuto adds, vindicated.

Kuroo hums, like this is information he can work with. “Tragic.”

Bokuto, reinvigorated, launches into another retelling, volume and conviction intact. Akaashi stays close, attention drifting, eyes tracking who moves, who lingers, who looks like they might leave and doesn’t. That’s when Hinata spots them.

“Oh!” he says, sudden and bright. “My friends.”

Akaashi follows his gaze to the doorway. He recognizes them from Hinata and Bokuto’s games, faces from the stands. Yamaguchi stands just inside, scanning the room until he spots Hinata, relief lighting his face as he waves. Tsukishima is beside him, taller, expression already unimpressed, like he’s recalculating whether this was worth it at all. Akaashi is mildly surprised that he was convinced to come at all.

“I’m gonna say hi,” Hinata says, already backing away towards the crowd.

“Have fun,” Bokuto calls after him, waving.

Hinata weaves through the crowd with practiced enthusiasm, disappearing toward the crowd where Yamaguchi has already headed. Tsukishima leans down to say something to Yamaguchi before heading in the opposite direction towards the kitchen. Akaashi watches Kuroo clock them from the corner of his eye.

He doesn’t react immediately. Just glances. Once, then again, almost like his attention is snagging despite himself.

“Hey,” Kuroo says, easy, already shifting his weight. “I’m gonna grab another drink.”

Bokuto barely looks at him, too invested in what appears to be a distant chanting of his own name. “Kitchen has jungle juice. But it’s strong, so exercise caution.”
“No promises.”

Kuroo slips out of the circle, drifting toward the kitchen like it was always the plan. Akaashi tracks him automatically, notes the way his path intersects with Hinata’s, with the narrow space near the counter, and where Tsukishima has settled with a drink.

Interesting, he thinks.

He doesn’t focus on Kuroo for too long, though. Behind him, he hears a ripple of laughter, and then the chanting grows closer, Atsumu returning with a wild look in his eyes to grab at Bokuto’s arm. Akaashi doesn’t have to be observant to recognize how this will end, and a small part of him is kind of looking forward to it.

“Be careful Bo,” he says calmly.

“When have I ever done anything to warrant that concern!” Bokuto protests, already several steps away as Atsumu drags him towards the middle of the room on a mission.

Akaashi takes a measured sip of his drink and exhales through his nose, a smile pulling at his mouth as he turns to follow them.

By the time they get home, Bokuto has reached the stage of being drunk where everything feels very important. He kicks his shoes off in the entryway and misses the mat entirely, then stares at where they landed like he’s considering apologizing to the floor. When Akaashi steps around him to lock the door, Bokuto immediately latches on, arms wrapping loosely around his waist, chin dropping onto his shoulder with a satisfied hum.

“We need to debrief,” Bokuto says earnestly.

Akaashi snorts. “You say that every time.”

“And every time,” Bokuto says, nodding with conviction, “I’m right.”

Akaashi unlocks himself from Bokuto’s grip with practiced efficiency and steers them further inside. The apartment is quiet, no residual ringing in his ears, no bass bleeding through the walls, just the low hum of appliances and the distant city settling back into place. Bokuto drifts toward the couch, then drops onto it with a dramatic sigh when he finally manages to land on it.

“Okay,” he says as he sinks further into the couch cushions. “Go.”

Akaashi pauses near the kitchen. “Go where?”

“With the information, Keiji,” Bokuto says, like Akaashi is being deliberately obtuse. “You’ve been holding onto it all night. I can tell.”

Akaashi exhales, amused despite himself. He grabs a glass of water, sets it on the coffee table within Bokuto’s reach, and watches Bokuto take exactly one responsible sip before abandoning it entirely.

“Well, something did come up while you were wandering off,” Akaashi says mildly.

Bokuto blinks. “I wandered off?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Bokuto considers this. “I thought you wandered off.”

“I was next to you.”

“Huh,” Bokuto says. “We should work on our object permanence.”

Akaashi sits, close enough that Bokuto immediately leans into him, arm sliding around his waist like this is the most natural configuration in the world. Bokuto’s head tips against his shoulder, weight settling, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of Akaashi’s shirt.

“So,” Bokuto says, not giving in. “Debrief. From when I wandered off.”

Akaashi exhales. “You’re insatiable.”

“You love it.”

Akaashi doesn’t deny it.

“Kuroo left right before,” he says. “Went to the kitchen.”

“Ohhh,” Bokuto says, drawing it out. “Yeah. I noticed that.”

“Really? You seemed pretty busy chanting your own name.”

“Multitasking,” Bokuto replies. “What about it?”

“He didn’t come back.”

Bokuto lifts his head slightly, interest sharpening. “He what?”

“He didn’t come back,” Akaashi repeats. “At least not before we left.”

Bokuto’s mouth curls into something delighted. “Okay. That’s suspicious.”

“There was yelling,” Akaashi adds. “Do you remember that?”

Bokuto freezes. “Yelling.”

“Not party yelling,” Akaashi clarifies. “Specific yelling.”

Bokuto’s grin spreads slowly. “It's coming back to me.”

“Down the hall,” Akaashi continues, thoughtful. “Female voice. Upset. Repeating herself.”

“About what?” Bokuto asks, already vibrating.

“Something about a bed,” Akaashi says. “And boundaries. Possibly shoes.”

Bokuto dissolves into laughter, collapsing sideways against Akaashi. “He got caught.”

“That’s my working theory.”

“Oh my god,” Bokuto says, wheezing. “No wonder he vanished.”

Akaashi allows himself a small smile.

“And,” he adds. Bokuto lifts his head again, eyes bright with renewed interest. “Hinata’s friends?”

“Yeah?”

“There seems to have been some overlap in exit timelines.”

Bokuto sits up straighter. “Oh.”

“Kuroo went to get a drink. He didn’t come back. And Hinata’s friend, the tall blonde one-”

“Tsukkibadaduh."

“Yeah. Sure. He was in the kitchen around the same time."

“Oh,” Bokuto repeats, reverent. “Oh, that’s very oh.”

Akaashi shrugs. “Hinata came by later to ask us if we had seen Tsukishima. Apparently, he made a quick exit, too.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto says, awed. “This is everything.”

Akaashi tilts his head slightly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I love this,” Bokuto presses his face into Akaashi’s shoulder, laughter muffled. “I love it when you gossip. Really gets me going.”

Akaashi huffs a quiet laugh.

Bokuto’s energy ebbs then, as quickly as it had flared. He slumps back against Akaashi, arms looping around him again, face tucked into the crook of his neck, on the verge of sleep.

“Good debrief,” he murmurs.

“Adequate,” Akaashi replies, threading his fingers through Bokuto’s hair again. “You were loud tonight.”

“I’m always loud,” Bokuto replies. “Did I embarrass you?”

“No.”

Bokuto smiles into his shoulder. “Good.”

Akaashi reaches up, smoothing Bokuto’s hair back from his forehead, fingers moving automatically. Bokuto hums, content.

“You did do a keg stand,” Akaashi adds.

“I did. Was I good?”

Akaashi considers this. “Technically impressive. Ill-advised. Very on brand.”

Bokuto laughs, collapsing back against him. “Worth it.”

Akaashi hums, amused. “I thought so too.”

Bokuto laughs again, soft now, and settles back in. Akaashi’s phone buzzes against the couch. He glances down, unsurprised.

Kenma:
kuroo is an idiot
​
Akaashi smiles.
​
Akaashi:
Elaborate.
​
There’s a pause. Then:
​
Kenma:
met some guy at a party
immediately got too confident
attempted to hook up
failed epically
​
Bokuto squints at the screen, already grinning. “Is that Kenma?”
​
“Yes.”
​
Another message appears.
​
Kenma:
i have known him since we were six
this is not growth
​
Akaashi’s mouth twitches.
​
Akaashi:
Was there yelling involved?
​
There’s a longer pause this time.
​
Then:
​
Kenma:
yes
​
A beat.
​
Kenma:
someone was very upset about her bed
​
Bokuto loses it, laughter bubbling out of him until he has to bury his face against Akaashi’s shoulder.
​
“Oh my god,” he wheezes. “You’re totally right.”
​
Akaashi sets the phone aside, amusement lingering as he lets Bokuto settle back in, still smiling like the night hasn’t quite worn off yet.

Kenma’s dorm is quieter than it has any right to be on a weekend.

There is some sound, technically speaking: a steady hum of a computer fan, the soft click of buttons, and a tinny burst of someone else’s voice coming through a headset. Still, it’s controlled in a way Akaashi finds immediately soothing. Even the lighting seems deliberate: desk lamp angled down, monitor glow contained, curtains half-drawn like Kenma had negotiated with the outside world earlier and given in to the human body’s need for some minuscule amount of sunlight.

Bokuto, predictably, looks like he’s struggling.

He sits on the edge of Kenma’s bed like it might launch him into space, one knee bouncing, hands folded in his lap in a heroic attempt at restraint. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the monitor, then to the snack pile on the desk, then back to Akaashi, like he’s waiting for someone to give him permission to behave normally. Akaashi sits next to him, ankles crossed, posture easy. He watches Kenma with quiet interest.

Kenma hadn’t looked up when they’d arrived. He’d simply reached one hand out toward the mini-fridge without turning, retrieved a can, and slid it across the floor at them with the accuracy of someone who has done this many times before. Bokuto had stopped it with his foot on reflex. He has it in his hand now, turning it over and observing it with intensity, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s allowed to open it.

“Don’t shake it,” Kenma says, still staring at the screen.

“I wasn’t going to,” Bokuto replies quickly, offended.

“You were thinking about it,” Kenma says.

Bokuto opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Akaashi’s mouth twitches with controlled laughter.

Kenma finally glances over at them, eyes half-lidded with mild acknowledgment. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Akaashi says.

Kenma nods once, satisfied, then taps his keyboard again. On-screen, a character darts behind cover. Bokuto leans forward, invested despite himself. “Is that the new update?”

“No,” Kenma says. “That was last week.”

“It looks different.”

“It’s darker.”

“That’s cool,” Bokuto says sincerely. “You’re so cool, Kenma.”

Kenma blinks slowly. “Thanks. I guess.”

Akaashi watches the exchange like it’s an old routine. When Kenma’s character dies, he finally turns away from the screen, reaches under the bed, and pulls out a second set of controllers. His eyes flick briefly to Akaashi before he turns back to the console.

“He’s checking in.”

“At the front desk?” Akaashi asks, just as Bokuto blurts, “Wait, who?”

“Kuroo,” Kenma says, staring at Bokuto like the answer should’ve been obvious. He looks back at Akaashi. “And yes. Because he doesn’t live here.”

Bokuto winces. “Rookie mistake. I just have Hinata let us in through the back.”

“Hm,” Kenma says, unimpressed. “Kuroo needs friends like that.”

Akaashi snorts. “He has you.”

Kenma reaches behind the TV console. “Exactly.”

They wait.

Kenma scrolls through menus, cursor moving with efficient familiarity. Bokuto switches characters twice, then a third time, then abandons the controller altogether and flops back onto his hands.
“This is taking too long,” Bokuto announces.

“It’s been thirty seconds,” Kenma says.

“Exactly.”

The door swings open without warning.

“KENMA,” Kuroo blurts, halfway into the room already. “Guess who I just saw.”

Kenma doesn’t look up. “I can take a guess.”

“What does that—” Kuroo stops short, finally noticing the room. “Oh. You’re all here.”

Akaashi lifts a hand in greeting, as Bokuto sits up, delighted. “Hey!”

Kuroo points between them. “Okay, no, wait. This changes things. Because I need to tell you something. About the party last weekend.”

Akaashi fights to keep his face neutral. Bokuto, meanwhile, looks almost giddy with anticipation from his seat on the floor, legs crossed, controller forgotten in his lap.

“Oh?” Bokuto says. “Is it about yelling?”

Kuroo pauses. “—No.”

“A bed?” Bokuto tries again.

Kuroo squints at him, suspicious. “Why would it be about a bed?”

Akaashi clears his throat softly. “You met someone.”

Kuroo exhales, already losing ground. “I met this guy. At the party. And things got a little—”

“Heated,” Bokuto supplies helpfully.

“Okay, now hold on,” Kuroo says, pointing. “I didn’t say heated.”

Akaashi tilts his head. “Tsukishima, right?”

Kuroo stares at him like he’s just grown a second head.

“…How,” Kuroo says slowly, “do you know that?”

“You have a type,” Akaashi replies calmly. Kenma snorts.

Kuroo throws his hands up. “Fine. Yes. Tsukishima. We talked. We flirted. There was—” he gestures vaguely, “something heated adjacent that may have occurred.”

Bokuto beams. “Knew it.”

“And then,” Kuroo continues, “it kind of… ended not ideally.”

Akaashi hums. “The yelling?”

“Yes,” Kuroo admits, shamefully. “There may have been yelling.”

“About a bed,” Bokuto adds.

Kuroo’s shoulders slump. “Why does everyone know about the bed?”

“She was kind of loud when she was yelling about it,” Akaashi supplies.

Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Anyway. I thought that was the end of it. Embarrassing, sure, but survivable.”

“And,” Akaashi prompts.

“And then guess who checked me in tonight?”

Bokuto’s eyebrows shoot up. “No.”

Akaashi lets himself smile this time. “Tsukishima.”

Kuroo points at him, accusatory. “You need to stop doing that.”

“I didn’t know he worked here,” Bokuto says, delighted. “That’s new information.”

“I didn’t know either,” Kuroo says miserably. “I walked up to the desk, and there he is. Professional. Calm. Wearing the stupid little badge.”

Bokuto is clearly invested at this point. “Oh my god. Did he say something?”

“No,” Kuroo sighs, dejected. “He handed me the visitor badge and told me to enjoy my night. Like a normal person. Like nothing happened.”

Kenma finally sets his controller down and looks at Kuroo. “You survived?”

“Barely,” Kuroo mutters.

Kenma picks his controller back up. “Good. We’re playing.”

Bokuto perks up immediately. “Yes!”

Kuroo blinks. “Wait—what?”

“You’re here,” Kenma says. “You’ve unloaded. Now you play.”

Bokuto shoves a controller into Kuroo’s hands. “You’re Mario.”

“I don’t play Mario.”

“You do tonight.”

Kuroo looks down at the controller, then up at the three of them. His shoulders relax despite himself, a reluctant laugh escaping.

“You’re all awful,” he says.

Kenma presses start, and the opening sequence begins. “I know.”

Akaashi arrives early to the game on purpose. He’s found that if he arrives before the bleachers fill, before the noise swells into something layered and unruly, he has his pick of seats and a better chance at unobstructed views of his boyfriend in his element. He takes a higher row, one of the colder seats near the center, and sets his backpack at his feet, jacket folded neatly beside him.

Below, the team is already warming up.

Bokuto is impossible to miss, always loud and larger than life in a way that comforts Akaashi after years of it. Even now, halfway through a stretch that looks more theatrical than functional, he’s narrating something to no one in particular, voice echoing up toward the rafters. Atsumu answers from across the court, sharp and amused, and Bokuto grins back at him, excited.

Akaashi watches the rest of the warm-ups fondly. Bokuto jumps, lands, laughs at something that clearly did not warrant laughter, then jumps again like gravity is a suggestion he’s chosen not to follow today. Then he glances up, eyes sweeping the stands, finding Akaashi almost instantly. His grin sharpens, brighter somehow, and he raises a hand in a dramatic wave.

Akaashi lifts two fingers in return, smiling softly. Bokuto nods, satisfied, and turns back to the court like that was all he needed.

Footsteps approach from the aisle.

“Um—Akaashi?”

Akaashi looks up to find Hinata’s friend, Yamaguchi, hovering a few steps away, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression polite but hopeful. Tsukishima stands behind him, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Is it okay if we sit here?” Yamaguchi asks, looking a little intimidated. Akaashi shifts slightly, making room.

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” Yamaguchi says, relief immediate. He drops down beside Akaashi, leaning forward eagerly to peer at the court. Tsukishima hesitates a fraction longer before sitting, careful to leave a respectable amount of space between himself and everyone else.

“We’re here for Hinata,” Yamaguchi explains, like this might not be obvious. “They started already?”

“Warm-ups,” Akaashi says.

Yamaguchi nods, relieved. “Good. Hinata said not to be late, and then followed it up with six exclamation points, so I panicked.”

Below them, Hinata spots the stands and immediately starts waving with both arms, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Bokuto notices a second later and mirrors him without hesitation, pointing emphatically like he’s discovered them all over again.

“They really feed off each other,” Yamaguchi says fondly.

“Yes,” Tsukishima says. “That appears to be the problem.”

Akaashi huffs out a laugh as the whistle blows, sharp and final, cutting through the chatter. Warm-ups condense into structure. Players rotate into position. The noise settles into something purposeful.
Akaashi folds his hands loosely, eyes tracking the court. The game starts fast. Bokuto is relentless at the net, voice carrying across the gym in bursts of encouragement and commentary. A few points in, movement flickers in Akaashi’s peripheral vision. Someone steps into the aisle, pauses, then drops into the space beside him with casual familiarity.

“Oh,” Akaashi says, glancing sideways for a second before returning his attention to the game. “You made it.”

Kuroo grins, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Barely. Kenma refused to move.”

“That’s not surprising,” Akaashi says. “He hates crowds.”

“And stairs,” Kuroo adds. “And effort.”

Akaashi hums in agreement, attention already drifting back to the court. Next to him, Yamaguchi perks up like he’s just remembered something.

“Wait,” Yamaguchi says, leaning forward slightly. “You’re Kenma’s friend.”

Akaashi feels the shift before he sees it. Kuroo’s attention sharpens, interest flickering to life. He glances over, eyebrows lifting, mouth already curving into something amused.

“Depends on why you’re asking,” Kuroo says. “I have absolutely nothing to do with whatever Kenma does online.”

Yamaguchi exhales like this confirms something he’s been fearing. “He’s my resident,” he says, tired already. “Or—technically—he’s supposed to be.”

“Ah,” Kuroo says, nodding once. “He’s ghosting you.”

Yamaguchi sighs, shoulders slumping. “He never answers his door. Or his phone. Or his emails. I’m starting to think he exists purely on a conceptual level.” He pauses, then adds, dejected, “I sent him three follow-ups. One of them even had bullet points.”

Akaashi watches Kuroo’s expression soften.

“That’s brutal,” Kuroo says. “You tried your best.”

“I really did,” Yamaguchi says. He hesitates, eyes flicking briefly toward Tsukishima before returning to Kuroo. “Could you— I don’t know. Tell him to respond? Even a thumbs-up emoji would count at this point.”

Kuroo considers it, gaze drifting not to the court, not to Akaashi, but briefly, unmistakably, to Tsukishima. Akaashi notes it, tucks it away for his Bokuto debrief later.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kuroo says finally, smiling again. “No promises. He fears responsibility.”

Yamaguchi manages a weak laugh, relieved enough to take the answer. Tsukishima says nothing, posture rigid, eyes fixed firmly on the court like none of this concerns him.

Akaashi hums quietly, attention returning to the game, but his awareness lingers on the exchange. On the court, Bokuto lands a point and immediately turns, arm shooting up toward the stands as he shouts something incomprehensible but unmistakably triumphant. Hinata waves back with both arms, enthusiasm unchecked, nearly colliding with another player in the process.

Yamaguchi laughs despite himself. “They’re having fun.”

“Yes,” Tsukishima says. “Someone should stop them.”

Akaashi hears the smile that Tsukishima doesn’t allow himself.

Kuroo watches the exchange for a moment, attention lingering on the court longer than necessary before he looks back at Tsukishima. “You came all this way for him?”

Tsukishima hesitates—barely. It’s subtle enough that most people would miss it. Akaashi doesn’t.

“He was… insistent,” Tsukishima says.

Kuroo’s expression shifts, just a fraction. The grin softens, edges rounding. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

Tsukishima looks away.

Akaashi follows Yamaguchi’s gaze as it flicks between them, curiosity sharpening into something more deliberate, like a puzzle piece sliding closer to place. Tsukishima stiffens, shoulders tightening, as if he feels it too.

“Do you two… know each other?” Yamaguchi asks.

“No,” Tsukishima says immediately.

“Yes,” Kuroo says at the same time.

The silence that follows lands heavily, brief but unmistakable. Yamaguchi stares at Tsukishima, disbelief plain on his face. Akaashi has to look back at the court to keep his expression neutral, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“We’ve met,” Tsukishima amends, stiffly. “Briefly.”

“Memorably,” Kuroo adds.

Tsukishima shoots him a look sharp enough to cut. Kuroo raises both hands in surrender, smile still firmly in place, like this is a game he’s enjoying far too much.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m behaving.”

“That’s debatable,” Akaashi says, eyes still on the court, unable to control the mirth in his voice.

Kuroo turns toward him, grin widening. “I’ll take it.”

“That wasn’t approval.”

“Still counts.”

Akaashi shakes his head, letting the noise of the game reclaim his attention. The game tightens as it goes, momentum pulling back and forth in quick, sharp exchanges. Bokuto scores off a brutal angle that shouldn’t work and grins, shouting encouragement at Hinata that borders on nonsensical. Atsumu feeds him another ball immediately, trusting him to finish it, and Bokuto does. Akaashi tracks the play without thinking, breath syncing to the rise and fall of the rally, tension bleeding away with every clean point. This, he thinks distantly, is what Bokuto looks like when he’s exactly where he wants to be.

It ends in a win.

Hinata makes a beeline toward their group, waving wildly at the stands, enthusiasm spilling over into his stride. Bokuto follows suit, pointing emphatically like he’s discovering them all over again, voice carrying across the court and up into the bleachers.

“You came!”

“Yes,” Akaashi calls back. “You did well, Bo.”

Bokuto laughs like that’s the best response he could have hoped for, shoulders loosening as the noise settles into celebration.

“Food after!” he shouts. “Everyone’s invited!”

Hinata pumps a fist. “Food!”

Kuroo stands, stretching easily, like he’s been waiting for the excuse to move. “Sounds like a plan.”

Akaashi rises as well, already gathering his things with quiet efficiency, slipping his jacket on without looking.

“I’m going to go before Bokuto decides waiting is optional,” he says mildly.

“Good call,” Kuroo replies. “He gets destructive when hungry.” He turns toward Yamaguchi and Tsukishima. “Meet you guys there? I’m thinking the place across from North Campus.”

“Yeah, of course!” Yamaguchi says immediately. “See you guys there!”

Akaashi nods once, eyes already on Bokuto as he vaults the barrier with unnecessary flair, grinning like the night is just beginning.

Bokuto insists on driving like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“I parked closer,” he says, already jingling his keys. “And I’m hungry.”

Kuroo opens his mouth, probably to offer otherwise, but closes it again after Bokuto is already halfway across the lot. Akaashi adjusts his bag on his shoulder and follows, noticing how Kuroo lingers a step behind them, phone forgotten in his hand.

Bokuto’s car is very him. Akaashi relishes in the Bokuto-ness of it all, slightly too loud, faintly smelling like citrus air freshener and sweat. Bokuto tosses his gym bag into the trunk, hops into the driver’s seat, and immediately starts fiddling with the music. Akaashi takes the passenger seat without comment. Kuroo hesitates outside the car for a second, then climbs into the back.

“Legroom?” Bokuto asks, already backing out as soon as Kuroo had managed to fit his lanky body into the back of the car.

“I’ll survive,” Kuroo says.

“That’s the spirit.”

Bokuto pulls onto the road with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted his ability to get from point A to point B. For the first few minutes, the conversation is harmless. Bokuto narrates the game like Akaashi hasn’t just watched it. He reenacts a point with one hand on the wheel, voice rising and falling dramatically.

“And then Atsumu sets it like this—and I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah,’” he punctuates the sentence with a sharp turn. “And BOOM.”

“I was there,” Akaashi reminds him gently.

“I know,” Bokuto says. “But this is the director’s cut.”

Kuroo laughs from the back, easy and reflexive. Akaashi lets it go on just long enough that Kuroo gets comfortable.

Then he asks, calmly, “So. You and Tsukishima?”

Kuroo’s laughter cuts off mid-breath.

The car keeps moving. Bokuto stays quiet, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. He doesn’t say anything. Akaashi knows he’s listening anyway.

“What about him?” Kuroo asks, aiming for casualness and missing by a mile. There’s a beat of silence that stretches just long enough to become noticeable, and Akaashi turns his head to look pointedly back at him, unimpressed.

Kuroo exhales, leaning back like he might disappear into the upholstery if he tries hard enough. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’ve been back to the desk?” Akaashi asks, not accusatory. Just factual.

Kuroo’s jaw tightens. “Once.”

Bokuto glances at the rearview mirror, eyebrows lifting, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Ok,” Kuroo amends after a beat. “A few times.”

“For what?” Bokuto asks, gently.

Kuroo snorts. “Would you believe me if I said just visiting my dear friend Kenma?”

Akaashi turns in his seat, just enough to look at him properly. “Probably not.”

Kuroo closes his eyes. “Yeah. Figures.”

“He was working?” Bokuto asks.

“Of course he was working,” Kuroo says. “He’s always working.”

That earns him a look from Akaashi.

Kuroo catches it and rolls his head back against the seat. “I… may have gotten Kenma to find me the desk schedule.”

Akaashi sighs, long and drawn out. Bokuto makes a turn, and Kuroo lets his head tip back against the seat, staring at the ceiling like it might offer absolution.

“In my defense,” he says, “it wasn’t supposed to turn into a thing.”

Akaashi waits.

“It just kind of… did,” Kuroo continues. “I stop by. He’s there. I sign in. We exchange exactly four sentences. Sometimes five if I’m being annoying.”

Bokuto hums, sympathetic. “You’re always being annoying.”

“Thank you,” Kuroo says. “Anyway. It’s been, like. A couple of weeks.”

Akaashi’s eyebrows lift. Just slightly. “Multiple visits,” he says.

“Multiple,” Kuroo confirms. “Enough that he stopped asking for my ID. And that Kenma is annoyed with me.”

Bokuto tsks from the front seat. Kuroo exhales, dragging a hand down his face. Akaashi doesn’t react. He’s found he can get more out of Kuroo with silence than with anything else.

“At first it was normal,” Kuroo continues. “Sign in. Some poking. He’s fun to rial up.” He snorts. “I thought maybe we were… easing back into something that I could work with.”

Bokuto hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to the rearview mirror again. “And then?”

“And then I tried to apologize,” Kuroo says.

Akaashi’s attention sharpens. Just slightly.

“For the party,” Kuroo clarifies. “For the whole—” he gestures vaguely, “situation.”

Bokuto winces. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “I figured that maybe it would move things in a more positive direction if I cleared the air. Said my piece. Let him decide if he ever wants to acknowledge me again.”

“And?” Akaashi asks.

Kuroo leans his head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. “He said I didn’t need to.”

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” Bokuto offers carefully.

“One would think,” Kuroo replies, tone downtrodden. “But he said it like it never happened. His exact words were that ‘nothing occurred.’ ”

A pause.

“And then he told me to have a good night.”

Bokuto makes a low, sympathetic noise. “Ouch.”

Kuroo lets out a laugh that’s more air than humor. “I keep thinking maybe next time he won’t pretend I’m a stranger who happens to know his name.”

Bokuto drums his fingers on the steering wheel, thoughtful. “He’s pretending real hard, huh.”

“He’s very good at it,” Kuroo says. “It’s impressive, honestly. I admire the commitment to the bit.”

Akaashi tilts his head. “You’re not discouraged, though?”

Kuroo closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m discouraged. I’m just not… done.”

That does it. Akaashi looks at him properly now, studying the slump of his shoulders, the way his hands curl loosely in his lap like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“This isn’t just a hookup,” Akaashi says.

Kuroo sits forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees. “This is ridiculous.”

“It is,” Akaashi agrees. “But not inaccurate. You actually like him.”

Bokuto smiles, small and knowing, as he parks the car. “Yep. You’re down bad, buddy.”

Kuroo groans. “Are you two a team now?”

“Yes,” Bokuto says immediately. “Always. You should know this by now.”

Akaashi lets himself smile also. He turns back around, gathering his things as Bokuto turns the key in the ignition, the engine coming to a stop.

“You don’t have to do anything about it,” he tells Kuroo. “But you should stop pretending it’s nothing.”

Kuroo huffs, something quiet and unsettled there. “Yeah.”

Bokuto hops out, already bouncing across the parking lot towards the entrance of the restaurant. “Great! Food. Now.”

Akaashi follows, the night settling around them.

The place across from North Campus is loud and greasy, as always. Bokuto shoulders the door open and immediately becomes a problem for the host stand. Akaashi looks on apologetically.

“Table for six, please!” Bokuto says, holding up his hand like this is a negotiation. “The rest of them are on the way.”

The host tells them it’ll be a few minutes. Bokuto nods gravely as if this is a personal insult he will endure with honor, then turns and scans the room with intent.

“Oooh, look!” he says to Akaashi, pointing. A booth in the corner, half-hidden behind a potted plant and a pillar. It’s not the best table in the place, unless you want a view of the entrance and the kitchen, and the entire room without anyone having a clean view of you. Akaashi mentions this, but Bokuto’s mind is already made up.

Hinata bounds through the doors, the rest of his crew tailing behind him. Akaashi watches as Bokuto angles their group toward the table, not pushing, just suggesting with enough confidence that Hinata and Yamaguchi are smiling and nodding like it was their idea all along. When the host returns, Bokuto is already smiling at her like they’ve been friends for years. “That one?” he asks, gesturing, as if it’s a reasonable suggestion rather than a request.

She looks at the booth. Looks at the crowd. Sighs, faintly, and leads them over.

Bokuto slides in first, then pats the seat beside him without looking. Akaashi takes it, as he always does, and Bokuto shifts instinctively to make space, shoulder brushing Akaashi’s with a familiarity. Hinata, Yamaguchi, and Tsukishima file into the seats across from them, and Kuroo drops in next to him, stretching his legs out under the table like he’s trying to occupy as much space as possible. The table wobbles when Bokuto leans forward, elbows planted, already flagging down the server. Akaashi reaches out without looking and steadies it, fingers curling around the edge just in time.

“We’re gonna need a lot of food,” Bokuto says confidently. “Like… a lot.”

The server nods, unfazed, dropping menus down on the table. Bokuto doesn’t even look at his, mouth already running.

“Fries,” he says immediately. “Two baskets. Maybe three. And burgers. And whatever that thing is.” He points vaguely at the chalkboard behind the bar.

“That’s not a menu item,” Akaashi says, already reading. “That’s an apology for running out of wings.”

“Still,” Bokuto says. “I respect it.”

Akaashi orders quickly, efficiently, already anticipating what Bokuto will steal off his plate. Hinata orders something fried and goads Yamaguchi into getting milkshakes with him. Tsukishima orders last, tone flat, eyes never leaving the menu.

Kuroo orders like he’s trying not to look at Tsukishima while being acutely aware of where he is in relation to him. Akaashi watches the choreography of it with quiet interest. Bokuto slaps his hands together as the server disappears toward the kitchen, energy snapping back into place like a switch has been flipped.

“Great game, by the way,” he says, already leaning forward. “Seriously. Hinata, that block in the third—”

Akaashi watches Hinata light up instantly, posture loosening.

“Right?” Hinata says, grinning. “I didn’t even feel tired until after.”

“That’s adrenaline,” Kuroo says easily. “It lies to you.”

“It makes you stronger,” Hinata shoots back, undeterred.

“It makes you stupid,” Akaashi says mildly, not even looking up from his drink.

Hinata laughs, unabashed, like that’s a perfectly reasonable addition rather than a correction. Akaashi feels Bokuto’s shoulder bump lightly into his own, the familiar, pleased kind of contact that says good one without needing words.

Yamaguchi grins, eyes flicking between the court replay still clearly running in his head and the players themselves. “It was really fun to watch,” he says. “You guys always look like you’re having the best time.”

“Because we are,” Hinata says immediately, like the idea hasn’t even needed consideration. “Way better than practice. Or class. Or—”

“Or studying,” Tsukishima cuts in, flat and precise.

Hinata winces, exaggerated. “Okay, yeah. That too.”

Bokuto points between Hinata and Tsukishima with exaggerated enthusiasm, like he’s outlining a very important diagram only he understands. Akaashi’s interest peaks. That is most definitely Bokuto’s planning face. Kuroo must sense it too, as his expression begins to turn slightly concerned.

“You should come out more, man,” he says. “Games, parties—”

Akaashi sees Tsukishima tense immediately, shoulders drawing in a fraction.

“—It’s all part of the experience,” Bokuto finishes, tone light, almost careless.

Akaashi knows better. He reaches for his drink before Tsukishima can respond, and decides that he’ll play along with his boyfriend’s scheme. “You say that like he doesn’t.”

Bokuto pauses, looking like he’s genuinely considering this to the untrained eye. Akaashi can see the gears turning in his head as he acts out his part, and it makes him stifle a laugh into his glass.

“I mean,” Bokuto says slowly, eyes flicking dramatically to Tsukishima, then back. “He doesn’t usually. That I know of anyway.”

Tsukishima exhales through his nose. Hook, line, and sinker, Akaashi thinks.

“I am sitting here.”

“Oh! Right.” Bokuto brightens, unbothered. “You came to the last party, too! That was cool.”

Akaashi watches Tsukishima’s fingers tighten around the menu, grip firm enough to crease the edge. Bokuto notices, too. Akaashi is sure of it, but he doesn’t stop.

“Oh!” Bokuto snaps his fingers, like he’s remembered something incidental. “Speaking of. It was too bad you left early, Kuroo.”

Kuroo stiffens next to him. He looks up at the ceiling, then at Akaashi. Akaashi smiles and shakes his head slightly.

“Some crazy shit went down with the libero’s girlfriend and some dudes in her room,” Bokuto continues easily. “And also, you missed my keg stand. Which was top tier.”

Yamaguchi freezes mid-reach for his drink. Tsukishima’s gaze drops instantly to the condensation on his glass, attention narrowing as if he stares hard enough, it might disappear.

“Left early?” Yamaguchi repeats, confusion sharpening into curiosity.

“Yeah!” Bokuto says brightly. “Like, right before things got—”

“Bo,” Akaashi cuts in, mild but deliberate. Tsukishima looks like he is about to burn a hole in the pleather seats of the booth. Bokuto glances at him, eyes bright, and Akaashi can almost see the mental calculation: how far is too far, how much is enough. In the end, Bokuto shrugs, conceding half an inch.

“What?” he says. “I’m just saying. He missed the yelling.”

Kuroo nods along too quickly, shooting Akaashi a thankful look. “I’ve heard enough yelling in my life.”

Unfortunately for him, the line lands sideways.

Akaashi feels it register before anyone reacts. Tsukishima’s shoulders jerk, his breath catching just enough to matter. He nearly chokes on his drink, coughing once before recovering, cheeks coloring faintly. Kuroo’s mouth twitches, just slightly, like he knows exactly what he’s done.

Yamaguchi stares at Tsukishima, then at Kuroo, then back again, expression slowly rearranging itself as something clicks into place he hasn’t decided what to do with yet.

“Oh well,” Bokuto says cheerfully, clapping his hands together as the server approaches with food. “There’s always next time for more yelling. Food’s here!”

Akaashi reaches for his hand under the table and squeezes. Bokuto squeezes back, looking down at Akaashi gleefully, clearly proud of his meddling. Akaashi shakes his head, laughing under his breath.

Akaashi gets home later than usual.

The apartment smells like garlic and something lightly scorched, which tells him two things immediately: Bokuto is cooking, and practice did not go long enough to fully exhaust him. He slips his shoes off quietly, keys landing in the bowl by the door with a soft clink.

“Keiji!” Bokuto calls from the kitchen, bright and unbothered. “Hey! Practice ended early!”

Akaashi rounds the corner to find Bokuto shirtless except for an apron that says World’s Okayest Cook, hair still damp, wooden spoon in hand like it’s a microphone he forgot to put down. There’s a brief moment where Akaashi just watches him. Admires the curve of his shoulders, how his biceps flex as he waves the spoon at Akaashi in greeting. Bokuto catches him looking and grins, like he knows exactly where Akaashi went.

“What?” Bokuto says, pleased. “I’m domestic.”

Akaashi hums. “You’re shirtless.”

“That’s part of the vibe.”

Akaashi sets his bag down and leans in to press a kiss to Bokuto’s cheek, quick and familiar. Bokuto turns his head at the last second to catch it properly, smiling into Akaashi’s mouth like he’s collecting it.

“Dinner?” Bokuto asks, already steering him toward the table with his free hand.

“Dinner,” Akaashi agrees.

Dinner is simple. Pasta. Vegetables Bokuto definitely forgot to salt but had no problems dumping garlic into. They eat at the table instead of the couch, Bokuto perched sideways in his chair, knee hooked around the rung, talking with his mouth half-full.

“So,” Bokuto says, swallowing. “Your turn. Gossip. Please.”

Akaashi hums, setting his fork down. “Oikawa brought Iwaizumi coffee again.”

Bokuto freezes. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, there's no way that's casual,” Bokuto says immediately. “That’s intentional.”

“It was iced,” Akaashi adds. “Correct order. Extra cream.”

Bokuto slaps the table. “They’re either back together or one conversation away from imploding.”

“That’s my assessment as well,” Akaashi says. “Oikawa lingered. Iwaizumi accepted it without comment. They spoke for exactly four minutes.”

“And?”

“And Oikawa adjusted Iwaizumi’s sleeve before he left.”

Bokuto makes a wounded noise. “That’s domestic.”

“Or delusional.”

“Kaashi,” Bokuto says seriously. “That’s married behavior.”

Akaashi considers this. “It could mean they’ve resolved things privately.”

“Or,” Bokuto counters, “it could mean Oikawa's finally gone off the deep end.”

Akaashi nods. “Also possible.”

They eat for another minute in thoughtful silence.

Then Bokuto sits up straighter, eyes gleaming. “Okay. My turn.”

Akaashi lifts his gaze. “You have gossip?”

“I have intel,” Bokuto says. “You’ll never believe what Atsumu is up to now.”

“Oh?”

“He’s—” Bokuto pauses, grin widening. “Actually, no. You’re gonna die.”

Before he can continue, Akaashi’s phone buzzes.

Once. Then again.

Bokuto squints at it. “Kenma?”

“Yes,” Akaashi says, already unlocking the screen.

Kenma:
are you busy

Akaashi exhales.

Akaashi:
Define busy.

Kenma:
i am being kidnapped
kuroo is dragging me to a resident event
against my will

Bokuto squints. “Isn’t that… good?”

“Probably not,” Akaashi says, already typing. “At least for Kenma.”

Akaashi:
Is this about Yamaguchi?

A pause. Then—

Kenma:
yes
apparently i ‘owe him engagement metrics’

Bokuto laughs. “That’s fair.”

Kenma:
there are snacks
this is the only reason i am complying

Akaashi sets his bowl aside, invested. Bokuto shifts closer, chin propped on Akaashi’s knee. The phone buzzes again.

Kenma:
yamaguchi is here
he looks nervous
i feel bad

Akaashi’s fingers pause over the screen.

Akaashi:
You do not feel bad.

Kenma:
i feel conceptually bad

Bokuto nods solemnly, peering over Akaashi’s shoulder. “Wow. That’s growth.” Akaashi nudges him with his arm, huffing out a laugh as he does. Then, another message.

Kenma:
wait

A beat.

Kenma:
oh

Akaashi straightens.

Akaashi:
What?

Kenma:
he’s here

Bokuto looks on inquisitively. “Who’s there?” Akaashi shrugs as the next string of texts appears across his screen.

Kenma:
the guy
the tall one
glasses

Akaashi exhales slowly. “Tsukishima.”

Kenma:
i have the chance to do the funniest thing ever.

“Oh my god.” Bokuto breathes out. “He wouldn’t.”

Akaashi:
Kenma.

A typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Akaashi and Bokuto watch it flicker to life for what feels like an hour.

Kenma:
Too late.

Bokuto lets out a strangled laugh, somewhere between awe and horror. “He did.”

Akaashi closes his eyes for half a second, already bracing. When he opens them, Bokuto is grinning like he’s about to witness a controlled explosion.

Akaashi:
Kenma, what did you do?

The typing bubble pops up immediately this time.

Kenma:
i said
oh you’re the guy who got kicked out with kuroo

Bokuto howls. He collapses sideways against Akaashi, face pressed into his shoulder, laughter shaking his whole body.

“I KNEW IT,” he wheezes. “I knew he couldn’t help himself.”

Kenma:
yamaguchi has done a hard reset

Bokuto sniffles. “Poor Yams. He just wanted his paperwork done."

Kenma:
he’s pacing
he keeps pointing between them
like he’s narrating a true crime documentary

Another buzz.

Kenma:
kuroo looks like he’s deciding whether to flee or die on the spot

Akaashi’s mouth twitches despite himself.

Akaashi:
And Tsukishima?

Kenma:
annoyed
deeply
but not leaving

Bokuto sits up a little straighter at that. “Oh?”

Kenma:
wait

Akaashi straightens again. Bokuto grips his wrist this time, anticipation vibrating between them.

Akaashi:
Kenma.

Kenma:
kuroo is talking
he sounds nervous
this is unprecedented

Bokuto whispers, reverent, “He’s doing it.”

Kenma:
he just said
well i liked you.

Silence settles in the apartment, heavy and electric. Bokuto’s eyes go wide. “YES.”

Kenma:
he has now clarified this is present tense.
i told him just to ask him
instead of this weird stalking thing
but whatever

Akaashi lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Kenma:
tsukishima has responded
'you’re annoying.'

Akaashi:
Fair.

Kenma:
'and your hair sucks.'

Bokuto winces in sympathy. “Also fair.”

The typing bubble lingers. Bokuto barely breathes.

Kenma:
‘but i do like you.’
‘one date.’

Bokuto explodes off the couch like he’s just won a championship, arms in the air. “ONE DATE! I TOLD HIM! I TOLD HIM THAT’S ALL IT WOULD TAKE!”

Akaashi laughs openly now, warmth spreading through his chest as he watches Bokuto pace the living room, narrating the victory like he personally orchestrated it.

Kenma:
kuroo looks stunned
like he wasn’t emotionally prepared for success

Akaashi:
Was there yelling?

A pause.

Kenma:
yes
but happy yelling
mostly yamaguchi

Bokuto finally drops back down beside Akaashi, breathless and glowing, head tipping into Akaashi’s shoulder without thinking. Akaashi threads his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, grounding them both as the adrenaline ebbs. The phone buzzes one last time.

Kenma:
i would like to go home now
this is enough social interaction for the month

Akaashi smiles, soft and satisfied.

Akaashi:
You did well.

Kenma:
i know

Bokuto presses a kiss into Akaashi’s shoulder, still grinning. “Best dinner and best post-dinner entertainment ever.”

Akaashi hums in agreement, putting his phone down in favor of picking his bowl back up off the counter. He takes a bite, swallowing.

“Definitely. Now tell me what’s going on with Atsumu.”
​