Chapter Text
The day of the fight comes far too quickly, a dark cloud capping the end of an anxious week. Akaashi is wrapped in dread, trying his best to distract himself with work and failing miserably. He moves through Friday evening like a wraith, doomsday countdown running in the back of his mind.
Bokuto needs to leave early to prepare, and the air between them is thick, making any movements stilted and unsure. When it’s time for him to go they hover at the door for an awkward stretch of silence before Bokuto finally snaps. He pulls Akaashi in by his shoulders, murmuring gentle platitudes that Akaashi can’t process.
It's only as Bokuto’s pulling away, turning his head to walk toward the door, that Akaashi jolts into action. He stumbles forward, muscles jumping, acting on the strongest impulse of his terrified heart.
“Bokuto-san!”
He crashes into Bokuto with tidal force, a concentrated wave of desperate emotion that washes away the awkward hesitancy. He digs his fingers into Bokuto’s arms, nails biting into the skin. He pulls him close, shoves his face into his neck, breathes in the heady scent of him.
“You won’t lose,” he says fiercely. He can taste the salt of his own tears on Bokuto’s throat. “Promise me you won’t.”
Bokuto presses his face into Akaashi’s hair, speaks into it as he hugs him even tighter. “I promise, Akaashi.”
The club is buzzing with excitement when Akaashi makes his way in.
A mere handful of weeks have passed since he first walked through these doors, but it honestly feels like a different life. He’s been changed—is changing—under Bokuto's steady care. Bokuto’s smile, his voice, the comforting weight of his hand have been emotional catalysts and Akaashi’s dull life a willing reagent, sparking something new and beautiful from the reaction. Colours are brighter, food tastes better, air itself is easier to breathe with Bokuto nearby.
Tonight, Akaashi heads straight for Kenma’s usual seat. He's too anxious to drink, too pent up to engage in any small talk; he just needs to sit and wait for things to begin.
He scans the room for Kenma, but only sees the Miya brothers huddled by the bar, watching the room as they chat, and the usual flock of fans restlessly pacing the floor.
The energy inside is palpable, loud and frantic, cranking Akaashi's heart rate higher with every passing second. Everyone is talking about the fight: who they think will win, how long they think it will last. Money changes hands all over the club, and Akaashi thinks he’s going to be sick.
He digs his nails into his palms and tries not to hate everyone around him.
He tunes out their discussions, trying to ignore the fact that they can stand here, casually betting on Bokuto without a care for how the outcome of this fight might impact him. Without a care for his safety—reducing him to a source of mindless entertainment. They’d love to see him bleed, love to see someone so powerful brought low.
It’s no use trying to fight it; Akaashi hates them all.
And still, he sits. He waits. He breathes and watches and tries his best to calm his racing thoughts. He thinks of Bokuto, smiling. Bokuto, cooking. Bokuto, in his life for such a short time and already his favourite person.
Akaashi is so preoccupied with waiting that he doesn't hear the even click of approaching footsteps. He doesn’t notice someone slip into the seat beside him until a low voice is already purring in his ear.
“Hello, Akaashi Keiji.”
Kato.
He looks otherworldly in the dim light of the club, shadows accentuating the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the deep brown of his eyes. He’s beautiful and he obviously knows it, tilting his mouth up in a way that is clearly meant to be seductive. It’s a calculated display—one that many men would love to have directed their way.
Akaashi looks at him and sees him for what he is: a monster.
“Kato,” he replies cooly, immediately looking back toward the ring. Men like Kato thrive on attention—hate when they don't get it—and Akaashi wants nothing more than to see him squirm. He may not be able to hurt him, may not be able to get him back for everything he’s done to Bokuto, but he refuses to give him the satisfaction of rising to his taunts.
“I hope Koutarou’s ready.” Kato’s tone is bright and conversational as he leans back to show off the long line of his throat. Perfectly at ease. “They tell me you’re a doctor,” he adds, words sharpening along with his smile. “That you nursed our dear Koutarou back to health.”
Akaashi turns, face carefully impassive. “I am a physician,” he confirms. “And yes, I've been helping Bokuto-san.”
“Oh.” Kato’s grin widens further as he leans into Akaashi’s space. “He must be so grateful.”
Kato’s hand falls to Akaashi’s thigh, and a lifetime of sitting still through lectures and dinner parties and stilted family holidays has given Akaashi ample experience in feigning polite disinterest. Kato’s fingers twitch and Akaashi feels a small rush of satisfaction.
“He’s so good at gratitude,” Kato croons, his fingers squeezing. “Breakfast in bed, the sweet little pet names.” He pauses, draws out the silence until it vibrates between them, charged and unstable. “A very enthusiastic mouth.”
The flare of anger is instant, instinctual. Akaashi's tension is an automatic response, the tightening of muscles something he can’t stop despite his best efforts.
Kato’s teeth flash in the darkness—an expression of triumph. “Ah,” he says, all false surprise and undisguised delight. “Well you’re far too pretty for Koutarou to resist,” he continues, as if he’s an expert. As if Bokuto is some sort of unthinking, lust-driven animal. “So what's holding you back?”
He pulls his hand back, rests it under his chin and smiles at Akaashi as if they’re old friends. “Don’t tell me you're being noble.” He snorts. “Let me assure you, Koutarou is no—”
“Don't,” Akaashi says quietly, “try to act like you know anything about him.”
Kato’s eyes narrow, something harsh and ugly lurking behind the twist of his mouth. “Oh, but I am the one who knows him.” Kato's voice lowers to a whisper, a sibilant flick of tongue and teeth. “Your sweet Bokuto-san, so accommodating, so eager to please, is only half the story. And I know it all, Akaashi Keiji.”
Kato’s eyes are feral, liquid black and bottomless.
“I know him wild and unrestrained. I know him bruised and bloodied, begging for just one more fight. This is why people like you won’t ever truly understand him.”
Kato draws back, lets his eyes dip, low and lazy, the fire draining from his voice.
“You think Koutarou needs sweet words and gentle touches, when what he actually needs is danger. The thrill of violence, the passion in it.” Kato spreads his arms, gestures out at the buzzing crowd. “When I offered him this fight, he didn’t consider walking away. Not even for a second.”
He leans back, legs sprawled and mouth curled, the picture of hedonistic delight. A man unused to challenge, with absolute confidence in his power.
Akaashi smiles politely.
“What you offered was an ultimatum disguised as a choice,” Akaashi says, his voice steady. “You took advantage of him when he was vulnerable, which is what you've always done, isn’t it?” He glances out at the crowd, at the people gathered to see Bokuto at his best. “You didn't see him ‘wild and unrestrained’, you saw him hurting , and you went for blood.”
He cuts his eyes at Kato, feels a thrill when he sees the anger lurking there.
“You’re pathetic.”
Kato’s hand snakes out, quick and deadly as a viper. His nails dig into Akaashi’s forearm, his grip like a vice. “I think you should watch your tongue, Keiji-kun.”
Akaashi doesn’t twist or struggle, doesn’t dare break eye contact.
“I’ve been very friendly so far,” Kato says, and Akaashi breathes through the pain. “I’d hate for that to change.”
There’s a small movement, the swish of a light step against the ground, and Akaashi looks up to find Kenma standing there, his eyes fixed on Kato’s hand.
“Keiji,” he greets, voice as soft and unhurried as ever. His eyes don’t shift until Kato loosens his grip. As soon as he pulls his hand back, Kato offers Kenma a bright smile.
“Kozume-san,” he says as he rises. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Kenma nods, slipping into the seat beside Akaashi. “The fight is about to start.”
“Indeed.” Kato bows to the pair. “Enjoy your night, Kozume-san. We’ll continue our conversation later, Keiji-kun.”
Kenma raises an eyebrow, but Akaashi waves the concern away, redirecting his attention toward the ring.
Just like last time, the crowd has quieted in preparation. Tension stretches across the darkened room, the press and grind of body on body building to a frenzy. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, ripe with heat and sex and the metallic tang of blood.
Akaashi’s ears start to ring, his heart rate soaring higher and higher as the announcer struts into the ring. The crowd erupts into rapturous applause as the fighters make their way on stage. Akaashi, however, freezes. His body floods with cold terror, the corners of his vision fuzzing to grey. His mouth is dry as he watches Bokuto pump his arms in the air.
Bokuto looks up almost immediately, and Akaashi fights to school his gaze into something calm. He tries to soften the line of his jaw, to force his mouth into a smile.
Bokuto winks, and Akaashi’s eyes well with tears. He’s going to be okay, Akaashi tells himself. He has to be okay.
Kuroo gathers Bokuto into the corner, head dipping down by his ear to whisper what Akaashi hopes are some fucking phenomenal words of encouragement. He checks the tape wrapped around Bokuto's hands, and Akaashi wants so badly to be down there. He just needs to touch Bokuto once—needs to place hands to skin, to confirm the solid, reassuring warmth of him.
He would walk into that ring for him right now, without a second’s hesitation, if he was allowed. He’d face anyone, take whatever hits he could, if it meant keeping Bokuto safe. As that isn’t an option, he does the only thing he can: be present. He’s here, and he’ll keep being here for as long as Bokuto needs him.
For as long as Bokuto wants him.
Any time Bokuto worries about being alone, he’ll look up and find Akaashi looking right back.
The bell sounds.
Unlike the first fight, this one starts slow. The oppressive weight of Akaashi’s anxiety builds, spreading from chest to throat to fingers. Bokuto circles his opponent, and Akaashi's pulse jumps. Bokuto weaves slowly in and out, testing the waters, and Akaashi's lips go numb.
The other fighter—Kiryuu—is the first to go on the offensive. He presses forward hard, but Bokuto is right there to block.
Akaashi knows nothing of boxing, but he’s an expert in bodies and he can see the way that Bokuto is shielding his injured side. The way his movements are just a beat too slow. Unfortunately, Kiryuu picks up on the same thing. He goes in heavy at Bokuto’s midsection, every jab precisely placed. Bokuto keeps up—for about twenty seconds.
Akaashi can see when it becomes too much.
He’s so attuned to the shift of Bokuto's body, so used to watching it bend and flex, that he can tell when the first real punch lands. Bokuto tries his best to mask the pain, but Kiryuu is good enough to know when he’s struck true, and he doesn’t relent. He delivers another short series of jabs to the abdomen, forcing Bokuto back.
Bokuto’s working as hard as Akaashi’s ever seen him, but he raises his arms too slowly and finds himself on the end of a massive strike. The hit lands right on Bokuto’s cheekbone, snapping his head back so quickly Akaashi can barely discern the angle.
There’s an instant of overwhelming terror, a split-second that has Akaashi thinking this is it, but Bokuto doesn’t fall. Instead, he spits blood into the ring, not letting his hands drop an inch. He shuffles back, and the graceful movement of his feet is still a sight that takes Akaashi's breath away.
His face is swelling quickly, and blood runs from the knuckles of his right hand, splattering the ring.
Akaashi can't move. His terror is a living, breathing thing. It yowls within him, scratching at his throat, his chest, the backs of his legs. He grips his chair with a white-knuckled intensity, clenches his jaw hard enough that he can hear the scrape of tooth against tooth.
Bokuto doesn’t slip, but he does miscalculate in his movements, not accounting for the change in his posture, the weight of his foot on his injured side. Kiryuu takes immediate advantage, and the subsequent hit rocks Bokuto backward, sending him into the ropes.
Kuroo moves forward, towel at the ready, but Bokuto waves him away with a shaky hand. He staggers, then moves forward. He barely manages a couple of steps before Kiryuu sends him rocketing back. Blood sprays from a gash on his injured cheek, and Bokuto falls to a knee.
Akaashi’s vision swims, the world narrowing to a single vivid point. The rest of the room falls away, no sound but the frantic rush of his own blood, the pounding of his heart. He watches Bokuto gasp, finally unable to hold in his pain, and he swears he can feel the echo in his own chest.
The truth of the matter is that Akaashi knows that this is only a fight. He knows that Bokuto should have turned Kato down, should have waited, should stop and walk out of the ring right now. But Akaashi also accepts that forfeiting a match is something Bokuto would never do. Winning this fight means more than a perfect record, more than a tally on a bookie’s sheet. Bokuto wants this, needs this, will be devastated if this is how it ends for him: on the floor, in a match Kato organized solely to punish him.
And so without thinking, without stopping to pause for a single second, Akaashi leaps to his feet. He towers over the other spectators, wraps his hands around his mouth and screams, “KOUTAROU!!”
Bokuto’s head snaps up as the crowd starts to buzz, everyone turning to see who’s yelling. Akaashi doesn’t wilt, doesn't tremble, doesn’t fade. He just meets Bokuto’s gaze, stays with him in an instant that tumbles out into infinity.
It’s an instant that says everything Akaashi doesn’t have time to scream.
I’m here.
I’m watching.
I believe in you.
Bokuto smiles, and it’s a wild and feral thing. Blood stains his teeth and his ragged breaths pull in along his ribs, building to a full-body shudder. His eyes blaze, his drive reignited. He roars as he leaps forward, and the crowd goes wild, matching his energy.
He’s a wonder. He’s determination and grit, a controlled violence that sweeps through the ring with the fierce power of an untamed storm. He falls on Kiryuu like a clap of thunder—heavy, inescapable.
Unstoppable.
Akaashi, still standing, watches as Kiryuu tries to push him back. It doesn’t work. Bokuto lands hits to the body, the chest, the face.
He is relentless.
But even now, Akaashi can see the humanity in him. Can see the beauty, the restraint.
He is not Kato’s monster.
Akaashi watches him with awe, with pride, with hope—but never with fear.
Akaashi’s breath catches as Bokuto makes a final punch. He knows, even before it lands, that this is going to be it. That Bokuto’s going to win. He starts pushing at the crowd around him, struggling to break free. He shoves and elbows, is fiercer than he’s ever been as he charges toward the ring.
He watches Bokuto land that final blow, watches Kiryuu fall to the ground. The crowd erupts, and still Akaashi runs.
Bokuto doesn’t scream. He doesn’t pump his arms or celebrate his victory. He merely raises his eyes, searching for Akaashi.
Akaashi yells, moves faster. He clocks the exact second Bokuto sees him, watches as he crawls through the ropes and jumps. They’re running toward each other now, the crowd parting as people catch on.
Blood runs from Bokuto’s cheeks and tears stream down Akaashi’s face. The room shifts and dips, the entire universe collapsing in on this moment—this one unforgettable, perfect moment. There’s no time to slow.
They collide, a riot of colour and heat and relief and joy.
Bokuto catches Akaashi, absorbs the shock of his impact, softens it the way he softens all of Akaashi's roughest edges.
And before Bokuto can speak, can let go, can whisper Akaashi’s name in that tender way that brings him to his fucking knees, Akaashi pulls him closer. He melts into his warmth, ensures that there is no place where their bodies don’t touch. Then he tips his head up, wraps his arms around Bokuto’s neck, and presses their lips together.
The world goes silent in the wake of their kiss.
Bokuto’s arms tighten, lifting Akaashi off the ground, spinning him. He pulls him closer, closer, closer, deepening the kiss, stealing Akaashi’s breath. He pulls away far too soon, smiling far too softly for someone who’s just been nearly knocked unconscious.
“Akaashi,” he whispers, and Akaashi’s legs tremble. It’s as devastating as the kiss, as the press of Bokuto’s hands to his waist. So much care, so much tenderness; they’ve always been there, in the way that Bokuto says his name.
He presses their lips together again.
Then a third time, and a fourth, until Bokuto has to pull back once more to wipe the tears from Akaashi's cheeks.
“Akaashi,” he whispers again, a confession only the two of them understand. “Let's go home.”
They walk straight out of the club.
The crowd parts for them, only the very bravest getting a warning from Bokuto to back up whenever they get too close to Akaashi.
By the time they make it to the apartment most of the adrenaline has left Akaashi's system, but he doesn’t feel drained.
He feels alive.
Bokuto’s hand hasn’t left his, and the slow movement of his fingers across Akaashi’s wrist lights up the rest of his body, has him floating. He brushes his own fingers across Bokuto’s split knuckles, raises them to his lips to kiss.
He grabs a first aid kit and slowly, methodically, cleans each cut. He follows up every swipe of antiseptic with a gentle puff of air, blowing on the cuts until Bokuto grabs him and pulls him in for another kiss.
They take their time, moving from cheek, to lip, to hand. By the time Bokuto has been patched up, Akaashi’s lips are red and swollen, Bokuto's eyes dark and full of promise.
“Should we,” Akaashi says, swallowing against the rush of giddy anticipation. “Should we go to bed?”
Bokuto’s hand is shaking as he leads Akaashi toward the bedroom. They move slowly, going back and forth as they peel off layers.
Bokuto treats his body with the exact reverence Akaashi would have expected. Every brush of his fingers is confident, purposeful, entirely devoted. Bokuto tucks a hand behind Akaashi's neck as he kisses him deeply, licks into his mouth, whispers gorgeous into his skin.
He takes care of Akaashi, makes him forget everything outside this moment. Akaashi meets him halfway, opens up for him.
Gives him somewhere safe to land.
When Akaashi wakes the next morning, Bokuto is already up. Akaashi stretches, pleasantly sore and perfectly warm, and Bokuto drags him backward until they're slotted together, back to chest.
He snuffles at Akaashi’s neck, kisses the sensitive skin until Akaashi squirms. Until the heat pools in his gut and he’s hard enough that it hurts.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Bokuto whispers, his fingers running along Akaashi’s stomach, just skirting around his erection.
Akaashi allows himself to be doted on, burrows deeper into the blankets as Bokuto explores his body with singular determination. He’s nearly dizzy with lust, whimpering whenever Bokuto’s hands dance right past the exact place he wants to be touched.
Bokuto, clearly enjoying himself, is lightly sucking at the tips of Akaashi’s fingers, just about to press mouth to wrist, when he freezes. “Akaashi,” he says, voice choked with horror. “Did I do that?”
Akaashi glances at his forearm and sees livid, finger-shaped bruises—a parting gift, from his talk with Kato. Bokuto’s face ripples between fear and anger as Akaashi relays the story. Tears well up as he runs his thumb over Akaashi’s bruises, falling on Akaashi’s arm as he leans down to press a kiss to the mottled skin.
“He had no right,” Bokuto says, an apologetic note to his voice that has no business being there. “Akaashi I’m—”
“Hey.” Akaashi leans in, smooths the furrow from his brow. “Don't even think about it. What happened was Kato’s fault. He made the choice, he’s responsible for it.”
“You can’t go back there.” Bokuto tucks Akaashi into the dip of his shoulder, buries his nose in his hair. “He’s too dangerous, too unpredictable.”
Akaashi laughs, biting a little at Bokuto's bare chest. “Yeah,” he says with a snort, “I wonder what it feels like to worry that he’ll hurt someone you care about.”
Bokuto shuffles back, cups Akaashi’s face with both hands. “You’re right,” he says, voice dripping sincerity. “I’m sorry for putting you through that.”
Akaashi flushes, as undone by this genuine contrition as he was by any lingering touch. “What if,” he says, heart picking up as an idea forms. “What if neither of us has to?”
It’s silent for a long moment—long enough for Akaashi to start to panic—and then Bokuto deflates. “You’re right,” he says, voice small. “It’s probably time for me to move on from fighting.”
“No, Bokuto-san!” Akaashi’s voice is loud enough that Bokuto visibly startles. “I meant, what if there’s another option? One that doesn't have you fighting for Kato. One that could get you back on the professional track?”
Akaashi can admit that he doesn't know anything about boxing. He doesn’t know the rules, doesn’t know the stats, doesn’t know the game. But he knows Bokuto Koutarou. He’s known from the first time he saw him fight that he’s something special—something apart.
He was born to be a star.
“Akaashi, you can't—I can't just go back. I’m not at that level anymore, I'm—”
“You’re amazing,” Akaashi interrupts. He pulls Bokuto close, looks him right in the eye as he speaks. Watches as he starts to flush—a gorgeous pink that starts on the bridge of his nose and fans outward. He can’t help himself—he has to kiss it.
“Koutarou,” he says, tucking a smile behind his hand as the blush deepens. “If anyone can come back, it’s you. If anyone can put in the work, it’s you.”
He moves his hands down, threads his fingers through Bokuto's and pushes himself up until he's hovering above him. “I told you I believe in you,” he breathes, dipping down to rub his nose just under Bokuto’s ear. “And I meant it.”
“Akaashi.” His name comes out as a plea, as supplication. “It’s not just about that. I don't even have an apartment—”
“Keep staying with me,” Akaashi murmurs as he kisses Bokuto's neck, wet and lingering. “I can’t let you go, not now.”
Bokuto shifts, his breathing turning erratic. Ragged. “And the training. The kind of coaches, the gym time—”
“I bet Kenma would sponsor you.” Akaashi licks a stripe up Bokuto’s neck, heat spreading as he feels him shudder. “That’s why I came that first night,” he adds, letting his arms go loose, settling himself against the long lines of Bokuto’s body. He feels the hardness of Bokuto’s cock and rocks himself against it. “He told me you were interesting.”
Bokuto whimpers, says something that might be another strangled Akaashi.
Akaashi rolls his hips, biting down on Bokuto’s neck as he moves. And he’s sure that he has other points to make, other facts to bolster his case, but everything is lost the moment Bokuto gives in.
Akaashi’s words, his thoughts, everything dissolves as Bokuto’s hands find his hips.
As Bokuto’s mouth finds his throat.
As Bokuto’s body moves to meet him.
They eat breakfast in bed, Akaashi throwing out all rules and any concerns about hygiene the moment that Bokuto's callused fingers push the first pieces of a peeled mandarin between his lips.
They kiss through this too, long and sticky-sweet, each brush of tongue feeling like the very first.
When they finally finish, Akaashi bullies Bokuto into taking the first shower, then stays in his own until the last of the hot water runs out.
He finds one of Bokuto's sweaters hanging from the back of his door and slips it over his head, shivering a little as he catches his reflection. Despite their similar height, the fabric swallows him, hiding any proof of the boxers he’s wearing underneath. He imagines how Bokuto might feel seeing him in his clothes. Imagines him slipping a hand underneath the bulky fabric, scraping his nails against Akaashi’s warm skin.
He makes his way to the living room, only to find Bokuto stretched out on a sofa, reading a book of poetry. He’s so engrossed by the pages that he doesn’t notice Akaashi until he’s already settled at his feet. When he does realize he looks up, soft smile at the ready.
“This is really beautiful, Akaashi.” He flips to the next page, then glances back at him. “It reminds me of you.”
It’s fitting, Akaashi thinks dazedly, that Bokuto would be pulled in by poetry.
Bokuto is poetry, in motion and in practice. He is the gasp of sustaining breath between stanzas, the rising swell in every ode. Ruination and salvation. Difficult to capture, impossible to forget.
“Just listen,” he says, voice a little hesitant, nose scrunching as he dives into the first line.
Akaashi’s heart bursts with affection, buoyant and full.
“I am a boy, having never known love,
Who has suddenly fallen from the summit…”
Of course it would be Takahashi Mutsuo. How fitting that Bokuto would choose this volume, out of everything on his shelf. The poetry that saved him, read by the man who brought him back to life.
He wants to fall back, to let Bokuto’s voice wash over him, but he cannot. The emotions sparked are too big—the enormity of what he feels too immediate—for him to stay in place. He slips a hand under the sweater, pulling his boxers down, then crawls over Bokuto, settling a leg on either side of his body, revelling in the way his voice cracks.
He doesn’t break eye contact for a second as he peels Bokuto’s boxers down, feverish with the need to press their bodies together again.
“One day,” Bokuto continues, swallowing audibly as Akaashi dips lower, grinding their hips together. “Like a pallid face—” Bokuto groans as Akaashi plucks the book from his hands, guiding them instead under his borrowed sweater. “—Akaashi, I want to know how it ends.”
“It’s okay,” Akaashi soothes, tugging on Bokuto’s bottom lip with his teeth, sucking in air as Bokuto’s hands creep higher on his chest.
He wonders if it will always be like this—this frantic desire. This overwhelming need. Carefully, he lines up their bodies, moans as Bokuto’s hands turn greedy, grasping. Finally, he leans in, mouth tingling with anticipation. His body a taut wire, ready to be plucked.
“Its tree will rustle under the painful light,” Akaashi whispers into Bokuto’s mouth, feeding him those precious words. Eager to have them tasted, swallowed, shared.
He gasps as he sinks slowly down on Bokuto’s cock, tears pricking at his eyes, his entire chest caving under the sweet pressure. His body opens for Bokuto easily, accepts him like a gift. Heat builds between them, and Akaashi pours everything he feels into the final words of the poem: everything that Bokuto has given him, everything he wants to give in return. The sum of all his devotion.
“For I desire as much space inside me,
For light as space for shadow.”
Four years later:
Akaashi twists his wedding ring as he waits, a nervous habit that’s evolved over the past two years that he can’t seem to kick. The arena is filled with screaming spectators, flags waving and voices cheering, but he doesn’t hear a word.
He’s waiting.
Then, from out of the tunnel, comes the person he’s been waiting for. At the front of a sea of red, the Japanese flag gripped tightly in his hands.
Akaashi Koutarou.
Akaashi’s eyes well with tears, and he just catches the announcer’s introduction. The stadium erupts with cheers for their Olympic hopeful, but Koutarou is steady, strong. He carries the weight of their expectations lightly; he’s worked hard, knows he’s ready.
And amidst the screaming crowd, there’s only one face he’s looking for. One person he needs to see. One person he knows will always be there.
Their eyes meet for the briefest instant, but it’s enough.
Koutarou already knows how proud Akaashi is, how strongly he believes in him. Koutarou smiles, and in it Akaashi sees years of love, of tender care. He sees the smile that saved him, the smile that sustains him. The smile he would walk through fire to preserve.
He raises his ring to his mouth to kiss it and knows that in a few short days, as he’s weighed in for his first match, Koutarou will raise his own hand and kiss the tattoo that’s inked into his finger.
And then he’ll do it again, and again, and again.
He’ll do it before every match, and then he’ll do it on the podium, with the whole world watching, as they lower a gold medal around his neck.
He’ll do it with the whole world cheering, smiling the sweet smile that still brings Akaashi to his knees, and then he’ll look up, and they’ll find each other through the chaos.
The way they always have, and always will.