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In a moment of rare, exhaustion spurred resignation, Bokuto treads into a coffee shop
***
“How often do you come for this?” Bokuto whispers to Suga, and then looks to the groups of people—people who all seem to know each other well, “How often do all of you come for this?”
Suga’s dimples peek out from his cheeks, “Often. I couldn’t really tell you what it is. He’s just—,” he tilts his eyes to Akaashi, who plucks silent notes from a blue-shaded guitar, “—special, y’know. Or, you’ll hear, I guess.”
“Cool,” Bokuto mumbles, brain caught on a previous conversation, “and about that word—?”
And then Akaashi starts to sing.