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It didn’t start out this way. Then again, when does it ever? It was never meant to spiral into this; this obscene task he puts on himself every Friday night. He never meant to stoop this low. He was pretty sure, somewhere back at the beginning of the college year, of all the college activities he had forced himself to partake in (thanks to his usually raucous crowd of friends), above all, he would not break the law. He knew he could never be the perfect student, as no one was perfect, but Lord could he try. He was usually known for being a level thinker, clear headed, logical; it’s what it had gotten him this far in the first place.
Sadly, there is one thing no one tells you before you enter the ivy covered halls (or just dust and brick, in his case) of whatever establishment you decide to entrust your tertiary education to; college is a bitch. Its long hours of studying. Even longer hours of stressing. Single digit hours of sleep (sometimes negative hours of sleep), skipped classes, instant ramen every meal and lack of drive to do anything else once you actually find a spare moment for yourself.
Then when your done with that, there’s the added stress of every other real-world responsibility that you filed into the back of your mind and buried under mountains of homework so you wouldn’t have to think about them except, woops, now the rent’s due, you’ve got no job and you can’t go another week without paying unless you like living on the streets.
Akaashi sighs dejectedly. No, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Going to great lengths to get money was already hurting his pride, but he wondered how he had managed to exhaust all his options to bring him to this point. His parents had stopped sending him money, telling him to get a job before calling again. They didn’t understand, though, he wasn’t jobless for lack of trying. It was so easy for them to say ‘you’re just not looking hard enough’ when both of them have already had steady jobs for the past twenty-five years. It’s not exactly easy trying to convince someone to hire your sorry ass when you have no availability, credentials or even experience.
Akaashi sighs again.
They mean well; they do. But it sure would be nice if they’d bend, just this once, so the next time they were sending him money it wasn’t because he needed bail money.
One last sigh, and his dark eyes were scanning the room.
For all intents and purposes, he could be earning a lot more by doing a lot worse. Though this little endeavour he always found himself doing had a higher risk of getting caught. Which had only happened to him once, and he had managed to convince the cops it was all a misunderstanding before scurrying out of the crowded mall before anyone else with a missing wallet seemed to recognise him.
Though once he barely avoided being eyed suspiciously by an old woman, who accused him of loitering around her handbag for no apparent reason. Luckily, what looked like the woman’s granddaughter came over to apologise, assuring him she was suspicious of everyone. Akaashi had to curse at his luck on that one, as it hadn’t been the old lady’s purse he had ben after.
Catching on now?
Akaashi pick-pockets. Hit and miss. Miss and grab.
It was six weeks ago (or there around) when Akaashi had first stumbled upon the ‘fundraising scheme’. Standing in line at a coffee shop, gazing unhappily at the floor, thinking about all the things he’d rather be doing than the assignment he had put on hold to venture out into the cold for a coffee he couldn’t really afford, when he noticed the wallet of the person standing in front of him. It was brown. Old. Probably in desperate need of replacing. But it was thick. Either with cards, with change or with cash, Akaashi couldn’t guess, but it stirred his already desperate brain into a whirlwind of possibilities.
It was already practically falling out of the man’s back pocket. Bulging out, more like. Trying to escape its prison. He was already short two weeks on rent. His parents already pissed at him for asking for so much as it was. Already beyond humiliated at the amount of jobs he had applied (and been rejected) for.
But surely someone would notice? Someone would see him reaching out and taking it? Or the man would feel the weight difference and turn around, where Akaashi would be caught in the act? It wouldn’t work. There were better ways to get money. There were other ways of making ends meet.
And just like that, that man’s wallet was no longer there, but deep inside Akaashi’s coat pocket, only adding a few extra grams to his side but feeling like a one tonne car had been crammed into the small space. Akaashi left, not wanting to risk what would happen when the man ordered at the counter, only to realise he had no means to pay.
Sure enough, Akaashi had struck gold. The man had obviously never heard of a bank account, bills upon bills crammed into the tiny folder that was falling apart in his hands as he counted them. Thirty thousand yen in total.
Akaashi wanted to feel guilty. Wanted to feel horrible and sick and ridden with the need to return the money before it was too late. Wanted his hands to be shaking at the very least. But no. He only felt relief. Sweet, sweet relief wash through his fingers still grasping the money, his eyes stinging from the sensation he hadn’t felt in so long.
It was addicting.
Akaashi returned the rest of the wallet to the coffee shop, using a false name when they asked, so the man could at least have his identity back. After that, Akaashi was always on the look-out for more careless people like him. If anything, he told himself, he was doing these people a favour.
That old woman, carelessly leaving her purse on the seat beside her while reading the newspaper. The guy who wore too tight jeans, and that horrid, leather vest. The fat man sitting in the mall food court, falling asleep over his food, his wallet sitting on the tray for anyone to take; let alone a pale boy with suddenly very active fingers.
They needed to learn, he told himself, not to leave such valuable items out and about for anyone, mostly him, to take.
Akaashi learnt the rules of the trade very quickly, referring to the internet and Youtube videos for friendly advice from others who had found themselves in the same situation. He even joined a forum on a website devoted entirely to the hobby (hobby, he told himself, not crime), that he accessed from an internet café three blocks from his university.
Crowded places were better; more people meant more distractions and even more targets. Don’t take cards, they’re too easy to trace. Cash is easier and no one ever remembers exactly how much they had on hand anyway. Don’t return the wallet to anywhere in particular, drop it randomly where you took it from, leave it for fate to decide how it gets back to its owner, if it ever does.
Above all, do not hesitate. Don’t sit before your target, wondering if you’ll get away with it. Make your movements slow but purposeful. Keep your hand still and steady. Remember; fear has a smell.
Akaashi made sure to keep his target areas to a wide range. From grocery stores (usually always a hit there), to parks (harder to manoeuvre) and shopping centres in general (though he had to be careful of the security). But the best place to let his fingers play?
Night clubs.
No one could shout warnings if they happened to see; it was usually too dark to see anyway. Most people carried cash to make paying for drinks faster. And besides, only those who had the money to spare in the first place came to such places. Which brought Akaashi here, on a Friday night, glancing over the various bobbing heads and sweating limbs, trying to find a viable target to bring his night to a close.
He had already come up with two thousand three hundred and forty-five yen; more than enough to get him through the week. But before wrapping up his little midnight adventure, he wanted just one more. One more to tie it all up. He felt lucky. Really lucky.
“I’m telling you! He was over two metres tall! Blocked without moving! Even my straight couldn’t get past him!” Loud, boisterous; Akaashi could hear him from where he stood in the corner, surveying the bar for his next target. There he was. Hair that gave him a headache, eyes that burned, clearly defined hips clad in dark denim, studded with various belts, forearms that could break concrete; and an ass to match (which, thankfully, is where his wallet resided). He was also distracted. Having an animated discussion with his counterpart, eyebrows furrowed, fists clenched, sweat dripping down his neck as he tried to relay the story as accurately as possible, with as much fever as possible.
He was perfect.
Keeping his movements slow and calculated, Akaashi moved through the crowd, ducking through the dance floor to make his entrance seem less obvious. Approaching the bar, he eyed the wall of alcohol behind it, just above the man’s crazy hair. Akaashi leant against the wood. His eyes scanned the menu above the row of drinks on display, though not taking any of it in at all.
Akaashi shifted his gaze to the guy’s ass, noting the tell-tale sign of the wallet he had spotted earlier, straining against the back pocket of his jeans even under the blue and red sports jacket. His left hand went in, his face only slightly turned now. His fingers poised, deftly lifting up the hem of the man’s jacket, feeling the material brush his knuckles as he felt along the ridge of the leather wallet underneath.
“Dude, you’ve earned the keen eye of someone staring at your ass.”
Akaashi quickly withdrew his hand, just in time as the man whipped around to give him the most glowing look Akaashi had ever seen anyone wore. It was then that, even under the ever changing colourful lights the club had to offer, the tell-tale logo of the University of Tokyo Men’s Volleyball Club emblazoned on his jacket made itself apparent. Great. He had almost stolen from someone who, if he had been caught, could’ve beat the crap out of him and had all other eleven team mates to help.
He couldn’t run. He had been spotted. But he also hadn’t been caught. There was still a way around this. A way Akaashi could take home his winnings, keep from anyone else finding out, and get an extra reward in the process.
“Hi,” Akaashi spoke, his voice slightly lilted and his eyes heavily lidded, his entire being taking on a flirtatious stance.
“Hey, hey, hey yourself!” the man chided. Akaashi suspected he wasn’t even shouting to be heard over the music, just his regular indoor volume being more than enough. But this man’s golden eyes had already done a once over Akaashi’s lithe frame, a crooked smile gracing his already aggressively aesthetically pleasing features, approval deep in his irises.
Akaashi couldn’t help but return the look. This man was certainly one of the more attractive men he had dared to use the ‘distraction’ method on before.
“So you play for the Tokyo team?” Akaashi moved closer, pressing himself up against the man, keeping hope and desperation thick in his voice as he spoke. “I’ve always loved volleyball; even played a little myself in high school.”
“Ho, ho, ho, really?” the man said, arching his back forward only slightly, right into Akaashi’s little bubble that he had set up for them. The man raised a white eyebrow. “Which position?”
“Setter,” Akaashi replied instantly, chirpily, being sure to erase any doubts this man might have that he was only saying such things to suck up to him. Which Akaashi would’ve anyway; it just helped that it was true.
“Oh? It’s too bad you didn’t keep going. You could’ve set to me. I’m a wing spiker after all.” This man was eager. Obviously far too interested in Akaashi for his own well-being.
Akaashi smirked up at him, leaning in even further. He smelled good. For someone who worked out for a living and was now in a place as humid as this club, sweat making his neck and forearms slightly damp, he smelled really good. Like mowed grass or that new car smell. Something inorganic. But Akaashi realised he liked it, a lot.
It was setting his nerves on fire and making his fingers reach up to brush over the man’s jacket collar, soft and clean under his fingers.
“I’m Akaashi.”
He tried not to flinch at his mistake. He hadn’t meant to use his real name.
“Bokuto.” Akaashi liked he didn’t reply in a way that made it seem as though Akaashi should’ve known that. He wasn’t full of himself like Akaashi had sort of expected. Another point for him; the over-the-top, obnoxious types were the hardest to tolerate while Akaashi played damsel.
“Like the owl?” Sliding in even closer, Akaashi was surprised there was even space left between them to close, but now here they were, pressed chest to chest, Akaashi’s neck slightly sore from holding his position so long, his fingers still lightly grasping Bokuto’s collar. This wasn’t how Akaashi had expected to end the night; but who was he to complain.
“Exactly like the owl,” Bokuto emphasized by motioning to his hair with his eyes. Akaashi glanced up, noticing the horned features Bokuto’s hair seemed to represent. Akaashi wasn’t sure whether giggling would offend him or not, so he simply reached a hand up to run it through the straight-spiked strands behind the man’s ear.
“I like it,” he answered simply.
“Good,” Bokuto replied.
With Bokuto’s golden eyes studying his features, Akaashi no longer just felt lucky, he felt brave.
He slid his hands back down Bokuto’s neck, moving past the collar this time, over thick pectorals that were clearly defined even in the barely-there lighting of the club. Akaashi’s fingers slid down, down, down, until they were resting on Bokuto’s hips, pulling them together now.
“Just grab his ass already. Trust me; he wants it.”
Bokuto’s face turned from flirtatious to murderous faster than Akaashi could comprehend. Glancing behind him, Bokuto flipped his friend a choice finger with a ‘shut up, Kuroo’ before grabbing Akaashi’s wrist and dragging him away. Akaashi let out a laugh as Bokuto led him onto the dance floor, into the crowd, away from prying eyes, but somewhere they could be infinitely closer.
“Not exactly what I call private,” Akaashi muttered to himself, following Bokuto’s lead and looping his arms over the man’s broad shoulders. “But I’ll take it.”
Then it was just loud, out-of-date, techno music filling their ears, spreading through their limbs and moving their bodies to the beat. Bokuto was a good dance partner, keeping his eyes on Akaashi and his hands on his hips, swaying them both to a rhythm that was easy but not exhausting. Akaashi, was happy to get into it, pulling their chests tighter together as the music seemed to get a little louder, enveloping them in a world all their own.
Bokuto was staring at him with a thirst Akaashi recognised well, if only because he knew his own face was wearing a very similar expression. God, this man was far more than just aesthetically pleasing. He was hot enough that Akaashi could feel himself burning underneath his golden stare.
“You really can put your hands on my ass if you want,” Bokuto whispered into his ear, Akaashi unable to comprehend how he had even heard him over the thrumming bass. Akaashi only smiled, doing just that.
Bokuto gave him a toothy grin, leaning back in so his lips were grazing Akaashi’s neck, his hot breath sending shivers down Akaashi’s spine.
Upon feeling the pert ass of the athlete before him, Akaashi suddenly, vividly, remembered why he had even been flirting with him in the first place. But now that he was here, his hands where they were, it all seemed too easy. He just needed to seal the deal.
Soft lips were suddenly on his and there were hands on the small of his back, pressing them closer to each other. Bokuto had his head tilted, giving them both the most opportune angle to lock their lips together in a fierce, searing kiss, the likes of which Akaashi was pretty sure he had never felt before in his life.
He should’ve guessed Bokuto wouldn’t just be eager, but aggressive too, if his hair had anything to say about it. He was more teeth and tongue than anything, nipping continuously on Akaashi’s lips, tongues clashing when Akaashi ventured in. There was a rough hand in his hair, holding his head vast to Bokuto’s, though why he would want to break away at all was anyone’s guess.
Akaashi’s fingers rubbed, making it seem as though he only wanted a better feel of the gold mine underneath his hands (which wasn’t entirely untrue either) but really lifting up Bokuto’s sport jacket, beginning to pry the thick wad of leather out of the denim pocket.
He could feel it coming loose, could feel it giving way, ready to pop out and right into Akaashi’s hand, all he needed was one more good twist and…
“Oh, fuck me,” Akaashi felt himself mewl, letting out a breathless whisper of pleasure as he felt Bokuto’s thigh give a good, hard grind up into his crotch. Then Akaashi’s fingers were wired into Bokuto’s hair, pulling those sinful lips against his as he continued to dry hump his mind into a frenzy on Bokuto’s strong thigh.
“I’m game if you are,” came Bokuto’s harsh voice against his ear, his voice croaking from having been busy sucking the air out of Akaashi’s lungs.
Akaashi’s back hit a wall. When had Bokuto managed to maneuverer them out of that mass of heaving bodies? How had he gotten here without noticing? Why couldn’t he think straight? Or get more than ‘so good’ and ‘harder’ to fall from his lips? What had he been meaning to do with his hands beside shove them under Bokuto’s shirt and scrape his fingernails down that positively Adonis-like chest?
Then Bokuto’s teeth were on his neck, licking and sucking and biting and breathing, leaving impressive marks already that would surely flourish into bruises come morning. Akaashi’s dress shirt was open. His pants undone. Bokuto’s thigh still between his legs, making him harder and harder as the minutes crawled by.
Akaashi felt hot. So hot. Too hot. Like he was going to explode if he didn’t get someone to touch him right now. Lord help the universe if that someone wasn’t the volleyball player currently leaving a wet spot under his right ear.
“H-hot,” Akaashi stammered, slamming their mouths back together again and letting Bokuto pick him up off the floor.
“You’re pretty delicious yourself,” Bokuto moaned against his wet and swollen lips.
It did occur to Akaashi that they were, technically, still in public. He wasn’t sure how private this corner was, or even if it was a corner and not some random hard surface Bokuto had discovered to slam Akaashi against and ravish senseless. Akaashi was really okay with either. But if they wanted to take this further, Akaashi realised they’d have to separate, get somewhere private, and start again.
Starting again? Getting under Bokuto’s roaming hands and devious smile all over again? Didn’t really seem like a chore at all at this point.
“-kuto! Bokuto!”
Someone was calling his partner’s name, and surprisingly, it wasn’t him.
“Bokuto Koutarou!” A hand slammed down on Bokuto’s shoulder, wrenching him from Akaashi’s grasped and twisting him around. “We gotta go!”
It was the man from before, thumbing to something over his shoulder. Both Bokuto and Akaashi glanced over his shoulder to see some sort of riot taking place, blue and black jackets lining the edge of it.
“Oikawa ticked off the bouncer again. We’re getting kicked out.”
“Are you fucking with me?!” Bokuto cussed, exasperated, wisps of hair having escaped from his do, courtesy of Akaashi’s curious fingers.
“Wish that I was. I almost got the cute bartender with the horrible regrowth to come home with me!”
Akaashi had fixed his pants, shirt and hair by this point, though he was internally screaming, cursing whoever this ‘Oikawa’ was to the fiery pits of hell; and not the good kind that Akaashi had been planning to drown in only moments before.
Bokuto turned back to face him, apology written all over his face.
“It’s ok,” Akaashi held up a hand as understanding, wanting very much to not understand at all.
Bokuto came closer one last time, melding their lips together for a farewell kiss, gentle and sweet and taking Akaashi’s breath away all over again.
Then Bokuto was taking his hand, placing his lips to Akaashi’s palm, eyeing him with intent as he did. He slipped a sharpie out of nowhere (what else did he keep in that back pocket?) and scribbled a number on Akaashi’s wrist.
“In case you ever feel like continuing.” A wink and a knowing look later, and Bokuto was disappearing with his friend into the crowd, the bulge of his wallet in his back pocket catching Akaashi’s eye as he left.
---
“Why Bokuto? Why did you feel the need to buy another owl figurine?”
“I have my reasons.”
“I want them in writing. They go on the lease. From now on you’re only allowed to buy owl figurines according to the reasons you set. No, to the reasons I set. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, mum…ow ow OW!! Akaafee! Lebbo ob my cheefs!”
Akaashi relented, watching Bokuto rub his now red cheeks with his palms. Akaashi could only sigh, looking over at their now full book case. A book case full of tiny owl figurines, ceramic or otherwise, that Bokuto had collected over the years. That book case had been for books, by the way, which now Akaashi had nowhere to put.
“What am I going to do with you?” Akaashi muttered, glaring at the newest addition to the collection. It was only a small one, but Akaashi had quickly learnt that even the small owls could be used as weapons in Bokuto’s collection; weapons of mass space absorption.
“I bought it as a celebration present for us!” Bokuto was still rubbing his cheek, but now having the decency to look at least a little bad for what he had done. “Because we’re moving in together…it kind of looks like us…don’t you think?”
Akaashi looked again, feeling red rise in his own cheeks. The figurine was two owls, one slightly bigger than the other, nuzzled together on a tree branch. Their eyes were shut in content as they slept next to each other, feathers ruffled and beaks almost touching. Akaashi admitted; it was adorable, and if it wasn’t for the sheer number of these figurines Bokuto had, he would have happily smiled at the present Bokuto had presented him.
“I can take it back if…”
Kissing was always a good way to shut Bokuto up. It had been back then and it was even now. There was a clatter as a pile of empty packing boxes fell over beside them, having been kicked out of the way while Akaashi scrambled on top of his boyfriend of now four years.
When they parted with a wet sound, Bokuto’s eyes were glazed over and his cheeks were a warm pink, not the irritated red from before. His arms were tight around Akaashi’s waste, just where Akaashi liked them.
“So we can keep it?”
Akaashi sighed happily.
“Just this once, I will forgive you. But no more owls.”
He went back to kissing his boyfriend, delighting in how Bokuto whimpered and whined underneath him, wanting very much for the clothes to disappear and the kissing to continue far beyond lips and tongue.
“I don’t need anymore; I have the only owl I’ll ever want right here,” came Bokuto’s sweet voice, brushing their noses together as he spoke, panting slightly.
Akaashi blushed harder, kissed deeper.
“Oh, just fuck me,” was all Akaashi could whisper as he began to push Bokuto’s shirt up his stomach.
“I’m game if you are.”