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Akaashi knows tickets to the Olympic opening ceremony must be hard to come by. He knows they must be worth tens of thousands of yen, if not in the hundred thousands. They are, undoubtedly, the most sought after tickets in the whole world at that particular moment.
Though Akaashi thought he might be lucky enough to get one.
A few months back, when Bokuto called him in joyous hysterics, to break the news he had been selected for the national team; Akaashi thought he might have a chance. A chance to be a part of something historic and spectacular — to be in that arena, under floodlights and fireworks, to celebrate his boyfriend’s once-in-a-lifetime moment. To cheer, clap, and cry among a group of Bokuto’s select friends and family in the nosebleeds, where Bokuto would look like a little ant in the distance, but present all the same.
But Bokuto never offered him a ticket.
Akaashi never asked. He could never be so presumptuous or pushy. He wasn’t even sure if Bokuto was given tickets beside his own seat. Furthermore, Akaashi could have looked into buying one himself. He had a little money stashed away and something as momentous as the opening ceremony of the Tokyo Olympics was plenty enough reason to dig deeper into his pockets. But as the ceremony approached and the subject was never broached between them, an insidious thought took hold in Akaashi’s head:
Maybe Bokuto didn’t want him there.
Akaashi thought they were doing fine. Bokuto had been at nonstop practice for months with little time to spare, but their relationship felt steady when they finally saw one another again. They talked, laughed, kissed, and were intimate the same amount. But they did see less and less of each other the closer the games came. Bokuto turned Akaashi down for meals left and right with dramatic apologies, swearing to make it up to him in the future.
But he seemed to have plenty of time to spend with his teammates at socials, charity events, and sponsorship soirees — places to which Akaashi had no access.
Being with Bokuto felt like grasping the tail of a comet; like being hitched to a bright, shooting star hurtling toward greatness at the far reaches of the galaxy. It was exciting being along for the ride; to be in the circle of professional sports with a fraction of the pressure. Akaashi loved Bokuto’s charisma, warm spirit, and innate magnetism. But he wasn’t the only one who loved it. Bokuto had a noticeably growing number of fans and admirers as the world took notice and his success grew.
And Bokuto loved the attention.
After games, he would spend close to half an hour taking pictures, signing autographs, and accepting gifts from doting strangers while Akaashi would patiently wait on the sidelines, watching the man he loved glimmer and shine. It didn’t bother him. Akaashi was not the jealous type. But it did…give him pause.
Bokuto Koutarou, soon-to-be Olympic athlete, had prospects that had never been available to him before. More exciting, rich, talented, influential prospects. Akaashi, ever the pragmatist, wouldn’t fault his boyfriend if idle thoughts of breaking it off with his less-than-exciting high school sweetheart were creeping in on him. It would shatter Akaashi into a million pieces, but he would manage.
He would manage.
Maybe, Akaashi wistfully considered, it’s time to let go of the comet.
So when Akaashi makes his way down the street of a busy downtown sector of Tokyo on the night of the opening ceremony, he already has it in his mind that he and Bokuto are in the final stretch.
After the games are over, Bokuto will probably end their relationship. So Akaashi has to enjoy the time left, even if Bokuto isn’t with him most of the time.
Akaashi walks under the gleam of street lamps and colorful pub signs, tucking his arms and backpack close to his body as he wades through the throngs of people. Through canvas curtains and small store front windows, Akaashi catches glimpses of patrons piled into bars with temporary and new television screens, watching the pre-broadcast before the ceremony. He bumps shoulders with more foreigners and travelers than he ever noticed in the area before, cataloging the different languages he hears as he moves through the crowded, live-wire street.
He slips left into a narrow, but well lit alleyway, accidentally bumping his head on a paper lantern as he shuffles around a trio of drunk Americans. The further down the alley he goes, the quieter it gets. He passes a string of cramped eateries frequented only by locals and salarymen, until he reaches his destination.
Onigiri Miya has a charming, unassuming store front with teak wood facing and a long black and white banner stretching across the roof overhang. A chalk sandwich board sits outside and advertises the ‘Go Go ‘Tsumu’ and ‘#1 Ace Aran’ specials during the Olympic season. A hanging sign on the glass door is flipped to ‘Closed’ and a piece of paper taped below elaborates: For Private Party. But the entrance gives way at a gentle push. The bell above Akaashi’s head jingles.
The interior is small, with just barely enough square footage for two tables and a four person countertop, but the space is inviting. The light is warm and the walls are clean save for a handwritten menu board, a MSBY poster, and a framed Inarizaki team picture hanging near the cash register. A conspicuous house plant sits in the corner — a gift from a friend, perhaps.
Furthermore, the bite-sized onigiri shop is fully occupied and abuzz with excitement. At least a dozen people have gathered to chat, eat, and drink before watching the opening ceremony together. Akaashi recognizes some familiar faces from high school. Kita Shinsuke, Suna Rintarou, and other alumni of the Inarizaki High School volleyball team huddle around a table together in the corner closest to the front window. A few of them greet him and raise their beer glasses his way. Akaashi nods in return, politely.
“Yo. About time ya got here. I saved prime real estate fer ya.”
Miya Osamu stands behind the counter, black cap on his head, and waves to Akaashi with an easy smile. After a chance meeting during a Jackals and Adlers game, they have become an unlikely pair of friends. He and Osamu have a similar rhythm; a generally calm and collected way of being. That, combined with a shared experience of being in close proximity to giant personalities (i.e. Bokuto and Atsumu), Akaashi and Osamu find plenty to talk about. Akaashi finds the free and cheap onigiri a plus, too.
Akaashi walks up to the empty seat at the counter. It really is prime real estate, he’s the closest to the screen and the closest to the food. “Sorry, got a little held up at work,” he apologizes, shucking the backpack from his shoulders.
“A likely story,” Osamu grins.
“I’ve never experienced so much foot traffic getting here.”
“Yeah, it’s been crazy all day. I’ve never had to explain what umeboshi is so many times. Non-stop tourists. But my English is gettin’ better as a plus.”
Akaashi settles down at the counter with a sigh and glances up at the screen. A newscaster with a microphone stands in the middle of the frame, backdropped by a big open arena, and explains some minute details about the stage design. Spectators with neon light sticks surround the arena and Akaashi wonders what it sounds like; if the excited crowd or the inspirational orchestra music is louder.
Osamu waves his hand. “Ya want the usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Osamu busies himself behind the counter and leaves Akaashi to the awkward task of greeting his neighbors at the counter. They are high school friends of the Miyas; a little shy and one of them clearly has a crush on Osamu, but they are perfectly nice. Akaashi figures being at Onigiri Miya with a small, enthusiastic, and emotionally invested crowd is better than being at home alone, eating instant noodles, and watching on his phone.
Osamu places a rectangular plate with three onigiri and a frosted glass of beer in front of him.
“Thank you,” Akaashi says with a polite nod.
“No problem. If you want a second Sapporo, drink that one fast. Those leeches over there will drain my supply by the time we get halfway through the alphabet,” Osamu says, jutting his chin toward the Inarizaki table.
“We heard that!” calls a voice.
“Leeches!” Osamu declares with a smile.
Akaashi rotates the pint glass a few times on the lacquered counter, enjoying the coolness against his palm. Then, without thinking too much about it, he lifts the beer to his lips and gulps down most of it in a few big mouthfuls. The carbonation stops him before he can finish it off. He sputters and coughs a bit, quickly covering his mouth with a nearby napkin.
“Whoa. I was half jokin’, ya know?” Osamu says, eyebrows raised. “I can run out an’ get more Sapporo. And I got plenty of Asahi.”
“Oh. Of course.” He smoothes the napkin out on the counter, suddenly very self conscious. “Sorry, it’s just been a long day. A long week. I’m a little eager to unwind, I guess.”
“Ya got some big deadlines or somethin’?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
In seventeen days, the best relationship of my life will end, Akaashi thinks, if you can call that a deadline.
“Were you able to call Atsumu today? Or was he too busy?” Akaashi asks, fishing for information as well as making pleasant conversation.
“Yeah, for two seconds,” Osamu says over his shoulder, already filling a new pint glass from the tap. “Called him around lunch when I thought he might be settled in at the dorms. Asked him what the situation was like — if his head was exploding yet — and he just said ‘there’s a lot of hot, fit people’.” The twin shrugs with a chuckle.
Akaashi finishes the rest of his beer. Lots of hot people. Great.
“Your brother has his priorities set.”
Osamu places a full glass in front of Akaashi and shakes his head. “Aw, nah. ‘Tsumu’s ‘bout as whipped as they come. His lookin’ is harmless.”
“I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”
“It’s on the downlow at the request of his keeper.”
“I see,” Akaashi nods, “Did he say anything else? The Olympic village must be an exciting place to be.”
“He said somethin’ about lots of sponsored gear and swag. And that the dorms were nicer than he thought they would be. But then they had to run off to a photoshoot so he cut it short.”
“Hm.”
Akaashi pushes the empty glass off to the side and goes for the second pint, food untouched.
“You call Bokuto?”
“No,” he easily lies. He definitely called and Bokuto definitely didn’t answer. “Been hectic today and I figured he would want to just enjoy the moment with his team. I’ll call him tonight, maybe. If the ceremony doesn’t go too late.”
Akaashi can see Osamu’s judgment in his periphery. The twin crosses his arms and regards his friend at the counter with half lidded eyes. “Sure,” he says. Akaashi is grateful he doesn’t press the matter anymore. “Eat, or else yer gonna get too drunk too fast.”
Akaashi picks up a rice ball. “I’m not going to get drunk.”
“Uh-huh.”
Akaashi takes a bite of the onigiri and the taste of salted salmon is familiar and comforting. Much better than lonely, instant noodles.
“Say, what kind of drunk are ya?” Osamu suddenly asks.
Akaashi’s eyebrows furrow. “What does that mean?”
“Like, how do ya get when yer drinkin’?” he elaborates, “Are you a happy drunk? Angry drunk? Silly drunk? ‘Tsumu’s the type that wants to hump anythin’ that moves. Kita over there just sits in a corner and giggles to himself. Me? I can get aggressive. Not fightin’ per say, but I’ll talk yer ear off about politics. What’s yer flavor of drunk?”
“...sad drunk, I think.”
Plus he’s a real lightweight. So Akaashi is a real hit at parties.
“Oh man, that’s the worst,” Osamu says.
“Which is why I’m not going to get drunk,” Akaashi reiterates.
“Alright, I’ll cut ya off if I see — ”
“Oi! It’s starting!”
Akaashi’s gaze goes to the television screen. He watches as a well crafted introductory video begins to play. It’s something inspirational and heart-rending, about overcoming the odds and coming together despite hardship and differences. People running, playing their sports, looking very cool, and sweating. Lots of sweat. In an attractive, hard working sort of way. The video has that signature, Olympic attraction: the ability to make a person feel incredibly emotional about a bunch of strangers and believe in the message of worldwide unity. Whoever the designers or writers are, Akaashi must commend them. He has a sizable lump in his throat and blinks through glossy eyes.
Then, he sees Tokyo.
A ring-shaped arena lights up among the glittering, city skyline and fireworks explode from the rim in a whirling spiral. It’s spectacular. His city has never looked so exciting. Akaashi recognizes his tall office building in the corner and he swears the boom from the fireworks shakes the windows of Onigiri Miya. Though the rattling could have come from the thunderous applause at the Inarizaki table.
Akaashi watches, transfixed, his pint glass cradled in both hands, as the program unfolds. The storyline is poignant and graceful; delivery powerful but minimalist. At other times, odd and esoteric. In between scenes and segments, Akaashi sneaks sips but still won’t touch his food.
He wonders how Bokuto is watching the ceremony. As the last country to enter the arena, they’ll be waiting someplace else, surely. Akaashi imagines the team huddled together in front of a screen: Hinata and Bokuto bouncing off the walls, Ushijima and Kageyama stone faced, and the parental Yaku Morisuke telling everyone to calm down despite his own nerves. Akaashi wonders what Bokuto is feeling. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to experience that thrill and excitement for something in his own life. Though, considering Bokuto’s extreme emotional scale, probably not.
Akaashi smiles to himself and leans his cheek into his hand, finding his face warm against his palm. He’s glad everyone (including Osamu who has snuck over to the Inarizaki table) is sitting behind him and can’t see his alcohol flush.
The parade of athletes begins and interest shifts. With nearly two full hours of nothing but countries walking, there’s less to be excited about. Osamu mills around, giving refills to everyone from a large pitcher. He gives a sideways, knowing look to Akaashi as he fills his glass for the third time and Akaashi just avoids his eyes.
On occasion, someone points out a country they think the restaurant should cheer for.
“Oh! I have a friend from Norway! Go Norway!”
“Chile, oh, I love Chile. Has anyone else been to Torres del Paine?”
“My sister is studying abroad in Belgium!”
The group unanimously applauds Canada and the Philippines, among others.
Anticipation grows as they near the final stretch. Akaashi feels restless, fiddling with his fingers and speaking less and less to his neighbors, afraid to miss the moment. He kind of wants to call Bokuto, though he knows he won’t answer. He checks his phone, doesn’t see any messages, and suddenly feels very sorry for himself. Which is probably the beer’s fault. His limbs are loose and he’s starting to get a little light headed.
“Here they come!” someone exclaims.
Akaashi turns his body toward the screen and adjusts the glasses sliding down his nose.
Clad in bright red and white, Team Japan enters the stadium. There are many, all waving and smiling, but Akaashi’s eyes search for a shock of white and silver hair. He can’t find Bokuto. But behind him — over the regular applause in the shop — the Inarizaki team is going berserk. They all holler and point and Akaashi finally figures out why.
Leading the pack is Ojiro Aran, Japan’s national flag in hand, shoulders square and walking proud. His expression is confident and calm, completely unfazed by the lights and attention. The flagbearer duty seems natural and easy to him.
“Call it what ya want — a diversity ploy, pandering, I don’ care — just look at him! That’s our Aran!”
“Handsomest flagbearer I’ve ever seen!”
“Aran! Aran! Aran!”
The love and pride radiating from that table warms Akaashi’s chest. He glances over his shoulder and they all have their clapping hands up in the air. A few of them have stood up and are jumping up and down. But at the end of the table, closest to Akaashi, is a quiet Kita Shinsuke. He’s saying everything in his head and heart with a reverent, lovestruck look on his face. His eyes are wide, lips wound in a tight smile, and his attention never leaves the screen.
It’s like someone has held up a mirror. Akaashi probably makes that same face whenever he looks at Bokuto. How embarrassing.
“Hey, hey, hey! Over here!”
Bokuto’s voice sounds different over broadcast, but it’s still unmistakeable. The catchphrase almost gives Akaashi a heart attack.
One moment, the camera travels smoothly with the team, the next: it’s just Bokuto. He doesn’t even give the cameraman a choice. The spiker rushes right up to the lens and he’s glowing under the limelight. His beaming, infectious, handsome, infuriating smile is there for the whole world to see; eyes wild and shining. He has an arm swung around the infinitely more collected (but appropriately excited) Hoshiumi, practically dragging his fellow teammate.
Akaashi scoots to the edge of his seat to get closer to the screen.
“Yer boyfriend’s big head is in the way,” Osamu gripes from the other side of the room. But he sounds like he has a smile on his face.
Bokuto waves with so much gusto it almost looks violent. After that, Akaashi expects the camera to move on. He’s gotten his five seconds of fame and there’s a whole team to highlight. But Bokuto’s energy must be so magnetic and infectious, the program feed stays fixed on him.
“Wish you were here with me!” Bokuto exclaims, out of breath, “God, I wish you could see all this, ‘Kaashi!”
Akaashi’s heart stops and he thinks he might actually just pass out right there on the onigiri counter.
“It’s fucking crazy — oh, oops,” Bokuto catches himself and slaps a hand over his own mouth.
Akaashi follows in suit and slaps his hand over his forehead. Bokuto’s sisters are going to give him hell for that one.
“ — wait, wait, wait! I gotta —I got somethin’ I wanna say! It’ll take just a second and I won’t swear again, honest!”
Akaashi chances to look again. Bokuto is all but wrestling (gently) with the camera operator, causing the picture to blur and making a damn fool of himself, and Akaashi is surprised the person in charge of the broadcast isn’t cutting to another view.
“Would you just — Wait — I just gotta — ”
Akaashi presses his palms to his cheeks, unbelieving of what he’s seeing.
The image on the screen evens out, Hoshiumi has disappeared, and Bokuto's face and the sparkling lights in the stands behind him are all Akaashi can see. He’s clearly holding the lens steady with two hands and the point-of-view feels as if Bokuto is grasping him by the shoulders directly. He’s got a manic, overjoyed look on his face. Like a child that has been presented with so many toys they don’t know where to start.
“‘Kaashi, I’m at the Olympics!” the white haired spiker hollers, “Also! I think I wanna marry you!”
Akaashi’s jaw drops open.
Behind him, someone drops their spoon on the floor with a clatter.
Someone chokes on their beer.
“Yeah, I think I wanna spend the rest of my life with you! That’s nuts! I don’t have the ring yet, but I’ll get you whatever you want! Anything you want! Anything! Woo! This is crazy!!”
Akaashi’s glasses slip back down to the tip of his nose.
Bokuto then runs away, presumably to catch up with his team, as if he hasn’t just put his heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. It’s apparent he’s operating on pure adrenaline and a little out of sorts. So Akaashi should take what he’s just said with a grain of salt. A marriage proposal isn’t something one should just blurt out at a moment’s notice. It’s possible Bokuto will come down from his high, realize how foolish he was, and fall into one of his depressive modes.
But Akaashi has also been with Bokuto Koutarou long enough to know he always means what he says.
Akaashi’s whole body is burning so hot, his glasses fog. He takes them from the bridge of his nose and wipes the lenses down with shaky hands. That’s when he realizes the restaurant has gone dead silent.
His stool creaks when he turns to look. Everyone is staring at him with varying levels of expectation, anticipation, and thinly veiled excitement.
Words escape him.
“Bokuto-san knows how to make an impression, doesn’t he?” Kita says, breaking the silence. He’s the least reactive of the group.
Akaashi nods, quickly downs the rest of his drink, and murmurs, “I need some air.”
He grabs his phone and initially heads for the front door, feeling the effects of alcohol the moment he stands. But when he sees people milling around outside, he doubles back. He probably looks wandering and lost. “Mind if I —?” He points toward the kitchen door.
“Sure, ya, go ahead,” Osamu nods, a look of concern on his face.
Fully aware of everyone’s eyes watching him, Akaashi goes around the onigiri counter, through a curtained doorway, and into the kitchen. It’s a straight shot to the backdoor between the grill and the piles of rice.
The back door leads out to an even smaller alleyway than the public route. It’s quiet and a bit dim, but there’s a few plastic cartons for Akaashi to sit on under a warm colored porch light and that’s all he really needs. He sits. The night air has cooled. It’s quiet and calm. He breathes in deep.
He might need to throw up.
No, wait.
Maybe.
No, he’s fine. It’s just nerves.
Akaashi does what he does best: he overthinks.
What will I even say when we speak next? How could I broach the topic? I can’t text a response, that would be rude. But answering via phone call also seems lackluster. Did Bokuto-san even mean what he said? Maybe he’ll take it back. What do I do then? Are we going to break up anyways? But what if he means it? How will I even answer?
He thinks and thinks and thinks. His head feels heavy as it lulls back against the wall and it’s clear he should have stopped drinking half a pint ago.
Osamu comes to check up on him and Akaashi assures his friend that he’ll be fine — he just needs some space to sort out his thoughts. Which he does for quite some time. But then, he hears the distant thunder of fireworks from the stadium, signaling the end of the opening ceremony and he knows he has to make at least one decision before Osamu returns a second time and asks him to go home for the night.
He does.
A big, scary decision.
As if by magic, Akaashi’s phone rings the moment he makes up his mind. He eagerly fumbles for it in his pocket and is disappointed when Hinata Shouyou’s name appears on the screen. But he answers anyway. Whatever Hinata’s calling for, it will have to do with what Bokuto did on international television.
“...hello?”
“Akaaaaashi!” A familiar voice sings on the other line.
Akaashi starts. “Bokuto-san?”
“Yeah, it’s me! Sorry if you were expecting Shouyou!” he laughs.
“No, no, I’m glad that it’s you.” Akaashi has to make a conscious effort to get all the words and sounds right, but it feels like he’s talking around a handful of marbles in his mouth.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“Cool,” Bokuto says, hesitancy edging his tone, “I just wanted to talk to you. We got a sponsor party to go to tonight and it’ll probably go late.”
“Mm.” Akaashi’s hard-soled shoe slips against the pavement. He doesn’t have the attention span for this kind of leading up small talk. “That sounds very exciting. I hope you have a good time.”
There’s a pause on the other side.
“... ’Kaashi, have you been drinking?” Bokuto asks.
“... a little.”
“Ahhh, how could you go drinking without me? You never go drinking! I always ask, but you never want to!”
“It was a special night so I figured I’d have a couple beers.”
“Aw, man!”
“Don’t be upset. You’ve got an after party to go to. They’ll probably have drinks there.”
“But they won’t have Akaashi.” The pout in Bokuto’s expression is audible.
Akaashi’s heart melts.
“... no, I suppose they won’t,” he smiles to himself, like a lovestruck fool.
“...did you go drinking with someone?”
“No. I went to Onigiri Miya.”
Akaashi can sense Bokuto’s growing anticipation.
“Gotcha and...did you watch the ceremony?”
“I did.”
Bokuto pauses, then: “...are you mad at me for what I said?”
“No, Bokuto-san. I’m not.”
If he had said the opposite, Bokuto would have surely spiraled. Instead, Akaashi’s boyfriend becomes a different kind of whirlwind.
“Okay, good! It was just so crazy, ‘Kaashi! Being in that big stadium with all those people! I was just so excited that I just burst! We walked in and I just couldn’t stop thinking about you! How much I wanted you to be there. Because you woulda loved it! It was so cool! All the people and the lights and our friends! I was thinking I could just call you during the parade but then I realized I forgot my phone on the bus — ”
“ — Bokuto-san — ”
“ — Which is a big mess because the buses are for all the teams and not just ours, so that’s why I’m calling you from Hinata’s phone ‘cause I still have no idea where mine is — ”
He’s talking way too fast.
“ — Bokuto — ”
“ — So anyway, I thought maybe you’d be watching so I just grabbed that camera and I don’t think I was supposed to do that. Guy looked kinda terrified to be honest. But asking you to marry me was, like, all I could think about! More than the Olympics, more than volleyball, more than anything! It was like, I was standing in that arena looking at my future and the only thing that wasn’t right was that you weren’t with me! Ya know? Which is kinda my fault because I didn’t submit the ticket request form in time. How was I supposed to know there was a deadline?”
Akaashi gets another ‘Bokuto’ out, but he’s crying so much that the murmur is completely covered by Bokuto’s loud voice. He’s crying and drunk and so overwhelmed that he might just never recover. His hangover is going to be horrible.
“But then afterwards Hoshiumi told me that I’d made a big fool of myself. And that you were probably gonna be reeeeally mad at me for being so public and putting you on the spot. Which I didn’t even think about at all! So I’m sorry ‘Kaashi, if that made you uncomfortable. I just really wanted to ask you to marry me! I’ve been thinking about it for a while now but I’ve been real nervous and waiting for the right time. I dunno if that was the right time but — ”
“ — Koutarou,” Akaashi manages between sniffles and pathetic little gasps.
That stops Bokuto immediately.
“...Yeah?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
There’s silence on the other end and Akaashi knows the gears are turning in Bokuto’s head. Akaashi looks up at the starless sky. He can see just a strip of it, squished between the two buildings. The clouds glow a hazy purple from the city lights.
“Really?” Bokuto’s voice cracks.
“Really. Let’s get married,” Akaashi nods, tears streaming down his face.
A crash comes through, maybe something like a chair or a table, but it’s hard to tell. But Akaashi can tell that Bokuto is jumping up and down. He’s got the phone away from his mouth and he’s screaming ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! He said yes!’ A group of people cheers in the distance, someone says ‘Thank yer stars he didn’t break up with you, ya lucky bastard’, and that makes Akaashi laugh through his sobs.
“I’m gonna make you so happy, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto exclaims, voice clear again.
Wow, he still gives me butterflies.
“You already make me happy,” Akaashi answers.
“Man, I don’t even want to go to the party now! I wanna come see you!”
Akaashi shakes his head. He can’t let Bokuto see him tonight; all drunk and snotty and emotional. He needs time to prepare himself. Mentally and physically, because Bokuto is likely to jump his bones the moment they see one another next and it’s going to be earth shattering.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Akaashi reassures, “This is your night. Go be with your team. I’ll be around and I have work early tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go have fun.”
“You’re coming on Wednesday, right? For our first match?”
Stuck on being left out of the opening ceremony, Akaashi kept conveniently forgetting he had a ticket to Bokuto’s first game the whole time.
“Of course.”
“Okay, good! Oh, and, real quick, my management says not to talk to reporters. They think you’ll get a bunch of calls tomorrow, so just ignore them until they give up, I guess? Publicity manager is pretty mad at me.”
Akaashi chuckles. “Okay. I’ll lay low.”
“Ah! Gotta go! Transport’s here! ‘Kaashi — Keiji! — I love you! Okay! — Yeah, I’m comin’ — Bye, ‘Kaashi! I’ll text you tonight! Ah, wait I don’t have a phone — ”
“It’s okay, Bokuto-san, just go.”
“Okay, okay, bye, ‘Kaashi! I love you! Don’t change your mind, ‘kay? That was a promise! So you can’t take it back! Okay? Okay, bye! Bye!”
Akaashi can hear someone in the background saying ‘Wrap it up, lover boy’ before the call ends. He’s left in a dark, lonely alley once more; standing on the sidelines and waiting for Bokuto to come to him like he always does.
But Akaashi feels so full. So full it bursts from his eyes, nose, and voice in pathetic, happy crying. Tears stain the lapels of his tawny brown jacket and he wipes snot away with his sleeve. He feels silly for ever doubting; for even considering that Bokuto would leave him for the high life. Because that’s never who Bokuto was or is. At times, there is a chasm between them — when Bokuto leaves for games and adventures. At others, Bokuto is so clingy that he never leaves Akaashi’s side. Akaashi conveniently forgets about the latter often.
He cries because he’s relieved. He cries because he’s had too much beer. But, mostly, Akaashi cries because he gets to keep his comet. He will get to see the stars and be a part of Bokuto’s dazzling world for… well, forever if all works out according to plan.
What a life that will be.
When he emerges on the other side of his episode, the physical world around Akaashi is fuzzy. His long eyelashes are all clumped together and his head hurts from dehydration. He ruffles his hair. Water. Akaashi needs water.
He turns and Osamu is standing in the open doorway, arms crossed and looking mildly concerned.
“Wow, sad drunk really is the worst,” the twin says.
Akaashi shakes his head, slow and languid. He feels another bout of sobbing climbing up his throat. “This is happy drunk.”
Osamu’s eyebrows move up toward his cap. “Ya sure? Are congratulations in order?”
Akaashi nods.
“So am I gonna have to carry you home or is your crazy fiancé gonna come get you?”
The word ‘fiancé’ sets Akaashi off again.
—
The next morning, a hungover Akaashi wakes to a dozen texts and three phone calls from Bokuto. They are all garbled, full of dramatic wailing, and enough ‘I love yous’ to give a person cavities. He’s a happy drunk, through and through.