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Chapter Text

Bokuto Kōtarō had faced many challenges in his twenty years of life.

He'd learned to hit a volleyball spike from the back row. He'd survived his freshman year roommate who microwaved fish at 2 AM. He'd even managed to mostly figure out how to do his own laundry without turning everything pink (that had only happened twice, and the second time wasn't even his fault).

But sitting in Coach Yamiji's office, watching the man's face get progressively redder as he waved around a piece of paper, Bokuto realized he might have finally met his match.

"A D minus, Bokuto. A D minus."

"I know, Coach, but—"

"Do you know what happens if you're failing a class?" Coach Yamiji leaned forward, and Bokuto resisted the urge to sink lower in his chair. "You don't play. University policy. No exceptions."

The words hit harder than any spike to the face. "But we have regionals coming up—"

"Then I suggest you figure out how to pass Introduction to Literature, because right now, you're looking at sitting on the bench for the rest of the season." Coach dropped the paper—Bokuto's last essay, covered in red ink like a crime scene—onto the desk between them. "I'm not losing my best wing spiker because you can't write an essay about symbolism."

Bokuto stared at the paper. In his defense, how was he supposed to know the green light in The Great Gatsby wasn't just a regular light? It seemed pretty straightforward to him. Green means go. Gatsby wanted to go see Daisy. What else was there to say?

Apparently, a lot. At least according to Professor Takeda and his five pages of notes explaining everything he'd gotten wrong.

"I'll fix it," Bokuto said, injecting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. "I'll get my grade up, Coach. I promise."

Coach Yamiji sighed, and his expression softened slightly. "I know you will, kid. You've got two weeks to get that grade to at least a C, or I have to bench you. University policy," he repeated, almost apologetically. "Talk to your professor. See if there's extra credit. Get a tutor. Do whatever you have to do."

"Yes, sir."

Walking out of the athletics building, Bokuto pulled out his phone and immediately FaceTimed Kuroo.

His best friend's face appeared on screen, hair as chaotic as ever. "Yo! What's—why do you look like someone killed your puppy?"

"Worse. Coach is gonna bench me if I don't fix my lit grade."

"Dude. How are you failing literature? You literally just have to read stuff and have opinions."

"It's not about having opinions!" Bokuto groaned, dodging around a group of students on the quad. "It's about having the right opinions. Apparently, I can't just say 'this book was sad' and call it analysis."

Kuroo laughed, the bastard. "Okay, okay. So get a tutor. They have that peer tutoring thing at the library, right?"

"I guess? I don't know, man. I've never needed a tutor before." Probably needed one, but he’d always managed to…well, manage.

"First time for everything. Come on, it can't be that bad. Some cute girl will probably volunteer to help you, and you can charm your way through Shakespeare or whatever."

Bokuto highly doubted it would be that easy, but he didn't have many other options. "Yeah, alright. I'll check it out."

"That's the spirit! Let me know how it goes. And hey—you've got this. You're Bokuto Kōtarō. You don't give up."

That was true. He didn't.

Twenty minutes later, Bokuto stood in front of the Academic Success Center on the third floor of the library, staring at a bulletin board covered in flyers about study groups and tutoring services. He'd already been inside once to fill out some kind of request form, and now they'd told him to wait while they "matched him with an available tutor."

He was starting to think this was a mistake. Maybe he could just... read the books harder? Watch YouTube videos about symbolism?

"Bokuto?"

He turned around.

And forgot how to breathe.

The guy standing there was probably the prettiest person Bokuto had ever seen in real life. Dark curly hair, sharp features, eyes the color of the ocean on the postcards his mom sent from her beach vacations. He wore a simple black sweater and jeans, carried a worn leather messenger bag, and looked like he'd walked straight out of one of those artsy independent films Kuroo was always trying to get Bokuto to watch.

"Uh," Bokuto said intelligently. "Hi?"

"I'm Akaashi Keiji. I'll be your tutor for Introduction to Literature." His voice was quiet, composed, and did things to Bokuto's brain that probably weren't helpful for academic success. "The coordinator said you need to raise your grade significantly in the next two weeks?"

"Yeah. Yes. Two weeks. Literature." Bokuto was going to kill Kuroo for that "cute girl" comment, because this was so much worse. This was so much better and worse at the same time.

Akaashi's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes looked almost amused. "Why don't we find a study room and you can show me what you're working with?"

"Right. Yeah. Study room. I can do that." Bokuto followed him through the library, trying very hard not to stare at the way Akaashi moved—graceful and deliberate, like he'd thought about every step before taking it.

They ended up in a small room with a table, two chairs, and a window overlooking the quad. Akaashi set his bag down and pulled out a notebook that was covered in neat tabs and sticky notes. Meanwhile, Bokuto dumped his backpack on the table with considerably less grace, and several crumpled papers fell out.

"So," Akaashi said, sitting down and folding his hands on top of his notebook. "Tell me about your class. What are you reading right now?"

"Uh, we just finished Gatsby and we're starting The Catcher in the Rye. But I've also got to revise my last essay if I want to bring my grade up."

"May I see it?"

Bokuto winced but pulled out the massacre of red ink that was his essay. He handed it over and watched Akaashi's face carefully for signs of judgment.

To his credit, Akaashi's expression remained neutral as he read through it. His eyes moved quickly over the pages, and occasionally he'd pause, tilt his head slightly, and then continue. Bokuto found himself cataloging these tiny movements—the way Akaashi's eyebrows drew together when he reached a particularly bad section, the way he absently tapped his pen against his bottom lip while thinking.

Finally, Akaashi looked up. "I see."

"That bad, huh?"

"It's not... bad," Akaashi said carefully. "Your writing is clear, and you obviously understood the basic plot of the book. The issue is that you're summarizing instead of analyzing. You're telling me what happened, but not what it means."

"But how am I supposed to know what it means? I'm not F. Scott Fitzgerald. Maybe the green light really was just a light."

For the first time, Akaashi's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. It was tiny, barely there, but it transformed his entire face for half a second. Bokuto felt his heart do something gymnastics-worthy in his chest.

"Fair point," Akaashi said. "But literary analysis isn't about reading the author's mind. It's about making an argument based on evidence from the text. You notice patterns, you find supporting quotes, and you build a case for your interpretation."

"Like... solving a mystery?"

"Essentially, yes."

Bokuto leaned forward, interested now. "Okay. I can work with that. I like mysteries."

"Good." Akaashi pulled out a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. "Let's start by going through your essay paragraph by paragraph. I'll show you where you could push your analysis deeper."

And just like that, they fell into it. Akaashi was patient—surprisingly patient—and he had a way of explaining things that actually made sense. He didn't make Bokuto feel stupid for not understanding symbolism, and when Bokuto made a good point (which, okay, didn't happen super often, but it did happen), Akaashi would nod and say "That's exactly right" in a way that made Bokuto want to make more good points.

An hour flew by. Then another.

"We should probably stop here," Akaashi said eventually, checking his phone. "You've got a good foundation to start revising. Can you work on the first two body paragraphs before our next session?"

"Yeah, definitely." Bokuto hesitated, then asked, "When is our next session?"

"When works for you? I'm relatively flexible."

"Are you free Thursday afternoon? I have volleyball practice in the morning, but I'm done by two."

Akaashi made a note in his planner—an actual physical planner, Bokuto noticed, not just a phone calendar. "Thursday at two-thirty works. Same room?"

"Perfect."

They packed up their things, and Bokuto held the door open as they left the study room. In the library's main area, Akaashi paused.

"Bokuto, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, anything."

"Why volleyball?" Akaashi's gaze was curious, not judgmental. "You're clearly very dedicated to it."

Bokuto broke into a grin. "Because it's the best sport in the world. There's nothing like being in the air, and you're watching the ball, and everything else just disappears. It's just you and the court and your team. When you get the perfect spike, when everything connects exactly right—" He stopped, realizing he was probably rambling. "Sorry. I get kind of excited about it."

"Don't apologize." Akaashi's expression had softened slightly. "It's nice, hearing someone talk about something they love."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Bokuto forgot what he was going to say next.

"Right. Well. Thanks for today, Akaashi. Seriously. You made this way less painful than I thought it would be."

"You're welcome. I'll see you Thursday."

Bokuto watched him walk away, weaving through the tables and shelves until he disappeared down the stairs.

Then he pulled out his phone and texted Kuroo: so about that cute girl

The response came immediately: ???

it's not a girl

DUDE

his name is akaashi and i think i'm in trouble

DUDE!!!

He was in trouble.

—

Bokuto had rewritten his first body paragraph seven times.

Seven. Times.

This was unprecedented. Usually, he wrote essays in one sitting the night before they were due, submitted them with a prayer to whatever god protected struggling college students, and tried not to think about them again until grades were posted. But here he was on Wednesday night, sprawled across his bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, agonizing over a single paragraph about symbolism in The Great Gatsby.

"Bro, are you okay?"

Bokuto looked up to find his roommate, Konoha, staring at him with genuine concern. "You've been working on that essay for three hours. I didn't even know you could focus on anything besides volleyball for three hours."

"I'm fine. Just... trying to do it right."

"Uh-huh." Konoha smirked. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your hot tutor, would it?"

"Akaashi's not—I mean, yes, he's—that's not the point!" Bokuto felt his face heat up. "I just want to show him I actually listened to what he said. That's normal. That's what you're supposed to do when someone's helping you."

"Sure, man. Whatever you say." Konoha went back to his own laptop, but Bokuto could see him still grinning.

Whatever. Bokuto turned back to his paragraph. Akaashi had said to make an argument and support it with evidence. He'd said to go deeper than just what happened. Bokuto read over his work one more time, made a few final tweaks, and decided that if this wasn't good enough, at least he'd tried his best.

He showed up to the library on Thursday at 2:25, which meant he was early for possibly the first time in his academic career. The same study room was available, and he set up his stuff, bouncing his leg nervously while he waited.

Akaashi arrived at exactly 2:30, because of course he did.

"Hi," Bokuto said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. "I did the paragraphs. Both of them."

"That's good." Akaashi set his bag down and pulled out his chair with that same careful precision he seemed to apply to everything. Today he wore a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and Bokuto tried very hard not to stare at his forearms. When did forearms become interesting? Since when was that a thing?

"Can I see what you've written?"

Bokuto pulled up the document on his laptop and turned it toward Akaashi, watching his face as he read. This time, he was ready for those little details—the way Akaashi's eyes tracked across the screen, the slight furrow that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating, the way he absently tucked a curl behind his ear when it fell forward.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes, Akaashi looked up. "This is much better."

"Really?"

"Really. You're building an argument here, using specific quotes as evidence. This sentence—" he pointed at the screen, "—where you connect the green light to Gatsby's inability to let go of the past? That's exactly the kind of analysis Professor Takeda is looking for."

Bokuto couldn't stop the huge grin that spread across his face. "Yes! I mean, it took me forever to figure out how to word it, but I thought that made sense."

"It does." Akaashi pulled the laptop closer, and Bokuto caught the faintest hint of something—cologne? detergent? whatever it was, it was subtle and clean and made him want to lean closer. "There are a few places where we can strengthen the transitions between ideas, but overall, this is solid work."

They spent the next hour going through the paragraphs line by line. Akaashi had a way of explaining things that made Bokuto feel capable rather than stupid, and somewhere along the way, Bokuto realized he was actually enjoying this. Not just because of Akaashi (though that was definitely a factor), but because literature was starting to make sense in a way it hadn't before.

"Okay," Akaashi said, making a final note. "I think you're in good shape to tackle the next section. How are you feeling about The Catcher in the Rye?"

"Haven't started it yet. We're supposed to have the first five chapters read by Monday."

"It's a very different book from Gatsby. Holden Caulfield is..." Akaashi paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "...an acquired taste for some readers."

"What about for you?"

"I appreciate what Salinger was trying to do, even if Holden's narration can be frustrating." Akaashi leaned back in his chair, and there was something more relaxed about him now than at their first session. "He's supposed to be frustrating, though. That's part of the point."

"Deep," Bokuto teased, and was rewarded with another one of those almost-smiles.

"It's literature. Everything's supposed to be deep."

"See, that's the problem. Sometimes I think people just wrote books because they had a story to tell, you know? Not everything has to be a metaphor."

"That's fair. But even when authors aren't intentionally creating metaphors, readers find meaning in patterns. That's part of what makes literature interesting—the conversation between the text and the reader."

Bokuto propped his chin on his hand, watching Akaashi talk. He liked the way Akaashi's voice got a little more animated when he discussed books, how his hands moved slightly when he was explaining a concept. "You really love this stuff, huh?"

Akaashi blinked, as if surprised by the question. "I... yes. I suppose I do. Is that strange?"

"No! Not at all. It's cool. I like hearing you talk about it." Bokuto realized what he'd just said and quickly added, "Because it helps me understand it better. For class. Obviously."

"Obviously." Was that amusement in Akaashi's tone? It was hard to tell. His expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes seemed softer.

"What's your major?" Bokuto asked, genuinely curious. "Literature, I'm guessing?"

"English Literature with a focus on contemporary fiction. I'm a sophomore."

"So I’m a year ahead. I'm a junior. Sports management major, which probably explains why I'm not great at the whole symbolism thing."

"There's nothing wrong with being more practically minded. Not everyone needs to analyze the curtains."

Bokuto laughed. "The curtains?"

"It's a joke in literary circles. Students always complain that English teachers read too much into things—'the curtains were blue because the author liked blue, not because it represents depression.'" Akaashi's lip quirked. "Though sometimes the curtains really are just blue."

"And sometimes they're not?"

"And sometimes they're not."

There was a comfortable pause, and Bokuto found himself not wanting to end the session. He checked his phone—they'd been working for nearly an hour and a half. "Hey, do you want to take a break? I could grab us some coffee from the café downstairs. My treat, for all the help."

Akaashi hesitated, and for a moment Bokuto thought he'd say no. But then he nodded.

"Sure. Black coffee, please."

"Seriously? Just black? Not even sugar?"

"I like the taste of coffee."

"You're kind of intense, you know that?" Bokuto said it with a grin to show he meant it as a compliment.

"I've been told that before."

Bokuto jogged down to the café, ordered a black coffee for Akaashi and some caramel monstrosity for himself, and made it back to the study room in record time. When he opened the door, he found Akaashi had moved to the window, looking out at the quad below. The afternoon light caught in his hair, and Bokuto had to remind himself to breathe normally.

"One black coffee for the intense literary critic," he announced, handing over the cup.

"Thank you." Akaashi accepted it and took a sip, and something in his posture relaxed further. "This is good."

They ended up not doing any more work on the essay. Instead, they stood by the window and talked—about classes, about campus, about nothing particularly important. Bokuto learned that Akaashi was from Tokyo, that he lived in the off-campus apartments on the east side, that he had a cat named Biscuit who apparently had a vendetta against closed doors.

"A cat named Biscuit?" Bokuto couldn't help but laugh. "That's adorable."

"My roommate named her. I wanted something more dignified, like Miyamoto or Yasunari."

"After writers?"

"You're learning." There was definitely a hint of warmth in Akaashi's voice now.
Bokuto told him about volleyball, about growing up in Fukurodani and deciding to go to university here for their athletics program, about how his serves used to be terrible until he practiced for an entire summer and finally figured it out.

"You must be very dedicated," Akaashi observed.

"When I care about something, I go all in. That's kind of my thing." Bokuto met Akaashi's gaze and held it for a moment longer than necessary. "Actually, speaking of volleyball—we have a game on Saturday. Seven PM at the athletics center. You should come."

Akaashi blinked. "To watch you play?"

"Yeah! I mean, no pressure or anything, but it'd be cool if you came. We're playing against a really good team, so it should be an exciting match." Bokuto tried to sound casual and was pretty sure he was failing. "Plus, then you'd understand why I can't fail lit and lose my spot on the team. You could see what all the fuss is about."

"I don't know much about volleyball."

"That's okay. I can explain it. Or, well, you'll probably just figure it out by watching. It's not that complicated—we hit the ball, they hit it back, first to twenty-five points wins the set."

Akaashi took another sip of his coffee, and Bokuto couldn't read his expression. Finally, he said, "Alright. I'll try to make it."

"Really?"

"Really. But I'm not promising I'll understand what's happening."

"That's fine! That's totally fine. I'm just—that's cool. Thanks." Bokuto was definitely grinning like an idiot now and didn't care. "You won't regret it. I'm going to play so well. I'm going to get, like, twenty kills. Maybe thirty."

"I don't know what that means, but I'll take your word for it."

They finished their coffee and packed up their things. As they walked out of the library together, Bokuto felt like he was floating. Akaashi was coming to his game. Akaashi was going to watch him play. This was fine. This was totally normal. Tutors came to their students' games all the time, probably.

"Same time next week?" Akaashi asked when they reached the library entrance.

"Yeah. Tuesday work for you? I should have the rest of the revision done by then."

"Tuesday's good." Akaashi shifted his bag on his shoulder. "Have a good practice tomorrow."

"Have a good... rest of your day," Bokuto replied, which sounded lame even to his own ears, but Akaashi just nodded and headed off across the quad.

Bokuto watched him go, then pulled out his phone and texted Kuroo: EMERGENCY

what happened

akaashi is coming to the game saturday

...that's your emergency?

KUROO. HE'S COMING TO WATCH ME PLAY.

bro you are down HORRENDOUS

I KNOW

this is amazing. i can't wait to meet him

you're not going to embarrass me right

....

KUROO

no promises

Bokuto groaned and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Saturday couldn't come fast enough—and also, maybe it could wait a little longer, because now he had to actually play well in front of Akaashi, which suddenly felt more pressure than any championship match.

Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.

Chapter Text

Akaashi Keiji did not go to volleyball games.

He went to libraries. He went to coffee shops with good lighting and quiet corners. He went to the occasional poetry reading or film screening. He did not go to loud, crowded athletic events where people screamed and sweated and cared far too much about whether a ball landed inside or outside arbitrary lines on a floor.

And yet, here he was on Saturday evening, standing in front of his closet trying to decide what one wore to a volleyball game.

"You're overthinking this," Kenma said from where he was sprawled across Akaashi's bed, not even looking up from his Nintendo Switch. "Just wear jeans and a sweater. It's not a fashion show."

"I'm not overthinking anything. I'm simply trying to decide between two identical black sweaters."

"Uh-huh." Now Kenma did look up, his cat-like eyes far too knowing. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your new tutoring student, would it?"

Akaashi felt his neck grow warm. "Bokuto mentioned the game. It seemed polite to attend."

"Right. Polite." Kenma's attention returned to his game. "That's why you've changed your outfit three times."

"Twice."

"I was counting the shirt you put on before I got here."

Akaashi gave up and grabbed the sweater on the left—a dark charcoal grey that Kenma had once said made his eyes look particularly blue. Not that it mattered. This was simply a matter of supporting a student's extracurricular activities. Completely professional. Completely normal.

He was absolutely lying to himself.

"You know," Kenma said, in that deceptively casual way of his that meant he was about to say something uncomfortably perceptive, "it's okay to be interested in someone."

"I'm not interested. I'm being supportive."

"Akaashi. I've known you for two years. You don't do things you don't want to do. You definitely don't voluntarily go to sporting events unless you have a reason."

Akaashi pulled on the sweater and avoided looking at his roommate. "He's nice. Enthusiastic. It's... refreshing."

"And attractive?"

"That's irrelevant."

"So yes, then." Kenma saved his game and sat up. "For what it's worth, Kuro says Bokuto hasn't shut up about you all week. Apparently, you're all he talks about at practice."

Something warm and uncomfortable twisted in Akaashi's chest. "Kuroo is your boyfriend. He's biased."

"Kuro is my boyfriend, which means he tells me everything, which means I know that Bokuto 'can't wait for Akaashi to see him play' and thinks you have 'really pretty eyes' and asked Kuroo if he thought literary guys liked volleyball players."

Akaashi sat down on the bed, suddenly needing to not be standing. "He said that?"

"Among other things. Look, I'm not saying you have to do anything about it. But maybe stop pretending you're going to this game purely out of academic obligation?" Kenma's voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "You're allowed to like someone, Keiji."

"It's complicated."

"It usually is."

Akaashi checked his phone. 6:45. If he left now, he'd arrive right as the game started—not too early to seem overeager, not so late that he'd miss Bokuto's playing time. He'd calculated this carefully, which proved Kenma's point about overthinking, but he chose to ignore that.

"I should go."

"Text me if you need an extraction. I'll fake an emergency." Kenma was already back to his game, but he added, "Have fun, Akaashi. Try to actually enjoy yourself."

The walk to the athletics center took twelve minutes. Akaashi spent eleven of them trying to convince himself this was a terrible idea and one of them wondering if he should have worn the other sweater after all.

The gymnasium was already crowded when he arrived, the air thick with the sound of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls as the teams warmed up. Akaashi had never been to a university volleyball game before, and he was immediately overwhelmed by the noise, the energy, the sheer enthusiasm radiating from the students packed into the bleachers.

He found a spot in the middle section—close enough to actually see, far enough back to not be conspicuous—and pulled out his phone to look busy while he tried to figure out which player was Bokuto.

It didn't take long.

Number 4, black and gold uniform, currently jumping higher than should be physically possible to spike a ball with enough force that the sound echoed through the gym. Even from this distance, even among a team of athletic people, Bokuto stood out. He moved like volleyball was as natural as breathing, like his body understood the physics of the game on some instinctive level that didn't require thought.

Akaashi had known, objectively, that Bokuto was a good player. You didn't get threatened with being benched from a Division I team if you weren't valuable. But knowing it and seeing it were different things.

Bokuto was extraordinary.

The game started, and Akaashi quickly gave up any pretense of understanding the finer points of volleyball strategy. Instead, he found himself simply watching—the way Bokuto called for the ball with absolute confidence, the way he hung in the air for an impossible moment before slamming it down, the way his entire face lit up every time his team scored a point.

He was so alive out there. So completely, unselfconsciously joyful. It was magnetic.

"You must be Akaashi."

Akaashi turned to find a tall guy with perpetually messy hair grinning at him. He recognized him immediately from Kenma's photos.

"Kuroo Tetsurō," the guy confirmed, settling onto the bench beside him without invitation. "Kenma's boyfriend, Bokuto's best friend, and the person who's been hearing about you nonstop for the past week."

"I see." Akaashi tried to maintain his composure. "Should I be concerned?"

"Depends. Are you planning to break his heart?"

The question was asked lightly, but there was something serious underneath it. Akaashi met Kuroo's eyes. "I'm his tutor. That's all."

"Uh-huh. Is that why you're watching him like he's the only person on the court?"

Akaashi felt his carefully constructed composure crack. "I don't—"

"Relax, I'm just messing with you." Kuroo's grin softened into something more genuine. "Kenma says you're good people. That's enough for me. Just... Bokuto's a lot, I know. He's loud and enthusiastic and he feels everything at maximum volume. But he's also got the biggest heart of anyone I know, and he's terrible at hiding when he likes someone."

"I noticed," Akaashi said quietly.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. I'm going to do nothing about it."

"Why not?"

Because I can't, Akaashi wanted to say. Because I've spent two years carefully constructing a life where I don't have to think about this. Because wanting something doesn't mean you should have it. Because I'm not ready to be the person who wants this.

Instead, he said, "It's complicated."

"Life's complicated. Doesn't mean you should avoid living it." Kuroo stood up as the teams switched sides. "Anyway, I'm heading back to my seat. But for what it's worth, I think you should give it a chance. Both of you deserve something good."

He left before Akaashi could respond, disappearing into the crowd just as Bokuto rotated to the front row.

The game continued. Bokuto was on fire—there was no other way to describe it. He seemed to know exactly where the ball would go, exactly when to jump, exactly how to angle his arm to send the ball rocketing past the blockers. The crowd went wild every time he scored, and his teammates mobbed him with enthusiasm that he returned tenfold.

During a timeout, Bokuto scanned the bleachers. Akaashi saw the exact moment he found him—his entire face transformed, the smile so bright and genuine that Akaashi felt it like a physical thing in his chest. Bokuto waved, enthusiastic and unselfconscious, and Akaashi raised his hand in a small wave back.

The girl next to him giggled. "Is that your boyfriend? He's really good."

"No, he's—" Akaashi stopped. What was Bokuto? His student? Not exactly. His friend? Maybe. Something undefined and terrifying? Absolutely. "He's a friend."

"Well, your friend is really cute. And he hasn't stopped looking up here every chance he gets."

Akaashi had noticed. Every time there was a break in play, Bokuto's eyes found him in the stands. It should have been annoying, or distracting, but instead it made something warm and dangerous unfurl in Akaashi's chest.

The game went to five sets. Bokuto's team won by two points, the final kill coming from one of his powerful spikes that the other team couldn't even touch. The gymnasium erupted, and Akaashi found himself on his feet without meaning to, applauding along with everyone else.
He should leave. The game was over, he'd fulfilled his obligation, and he could text Bokuto some polite congratulations later. That would be the smart thing to do.

Akaashi had never been good at doing the smart thing when it came to matters that actually mattered.

He made his way down to the court level, where players and friends and supporters were mingling. He spotted Bokuto immediately—still flushed from exertion, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, surrounded by teammates who were all talking at once about the final play.

Their eyes met across the gym, and Bokuto's expression shifted into something incandescent.

He jogged over, and Akaashi was suddenly very aware of how different Bokuto looked like this—alive with adrenaline, breathing hard, eyes bright with the kind of joy that came from doing something you loved and doing it well.

"You came," Bokuto said, slightly breathless.

"I said I would."

"I know, but I wasn't sure if you'd actually—I mean, I'm glad. Did you see that last spike? The one that won the set?"

"I saw. It was impressive." Impressive didn't begin to cover it, but Akaashi's vocabulary seemed to have temporarily deserted him.

"I was so nervous. Like, more nervous than usual. Because you were watching and I wanted—I just really wanted to play well." Bokuto ran a hand through his hair, somehow making it even messier. "Was it okay? Did you have fun? I know volleyball isn't your thing, but—"

"Bokuto," Akaashi interrupted gently. "You were extraordinary. The whole team was, but you especially. I can see why your coach doesn't want to lose you."

The smile that broke across Bokuto's face was enough to make Akaashi forget every reason he'd carefully constructed for why this was a bad idea.

"There's a party," Bokuto said, the words coming out in a rush. "For the team and friends and whoever. It's at Kuroo's apartment—Kenma will be there too, actually, so you'd know someone besides me. You should come. If you want. No pressure."

Akaashi knew what he should say. He should politely decline, go home, maintain the careful boundaries between tutor and student, between professional and personal. He should protect himself from whatever this was becoming.

"What time?" he heard himself ask instead.

"Around ten? I need to shower and change first, obviously." Bokuto gestured at his sweat-soaked uniform. "I can text you the address?"

"Alright."

"Really? You'll come?"

"I'll come."

Bokuto looked like Akaashi had just told him he'd won the lottery. "This is—that's great.That's amazing. I'll see you there!"

He bounded back to his teammates, turning once to wave at Akaashi before getting swept up in their celebration. Akaashi stood there for a moment longer, watching Bokuto laugh and joke with his team, so completely in his element.

Then he pulled out his phone and texted Kenma: I'm going to the party.

The response came immediately: oh?

Don't say anything.

wouldn't dream of it

Kenma.

have fun. try not to overthink. maybe let yourself want something for once?

Akaashi stared at the message for a long moment before pocketing his phone and heading
out into the cool evening air.

He was going to a party. For a volleyball player he was supposed to be tutoring. A volleyball player who looked at him like he was something special, something worth being nervous about, something worth playing well for.

Kenma was right. He was terrible at doing the smart thing.

But just for tonight, he could let himself be terrible at it.

—-

Akaashi had changed his shirt twice before leaving for the party, which was ridiculous. It was just a party. He'd been to parties before—quiet gatherings with fellow literature majors where they discussed books and drank wine and debated the merits of various translations. This would be fine. Completely fine.

The bass was audible from the street.

Kuroo's apartment was in one of the older buildings near campus, the kind that had probably been nice once but now mostly served as housing for students who didn't mind questionable plumbing and thin walls. Akaashi stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, seriously considering turning around and going home.

His phone buzzed: Kenma: you here yet?

Outside.

come up. i'm hiding in kuroo's room. we can hide together

Despite everything, Akaashi smiled. He climbed the stairs to the third floor, following the sound of music and voices to apartment 3C. The door was propped open, and he could see people spilling out into the hallway, red cups in hand, talking and laughing with the kind of easy comfort that came from being exactly where you belonged.

Akaashi did not feel like he belonged.

He slipped inside, navigating through the crowd of athletes and their friends. The apartment was packed—every surface covered with people or drinks or both. Someone had strung up lights that cast everything in a warm, hazy glow. A group was playing beer pong in the kitchen. Music pulsed from a speaker system that was definitely violating noise ordinances.

"Akaashi!"

He turned to find Kenma emerging from a bedroom, looking as overwhelmed as Akaashi felt. His roommate made his way over and immediately positioned himself so his back was to the wall—a fellow introvert's defensive position.

"This is a lot," Akaashi said.

"Kuroo's parties usually are. There's beer in the kitchen, and I think someone brought something stronger, but I've been sticking to soda." Kenma gestured with his own cup. "Bokuto's around somewhere. He was asking if you'd arrived yet."

"Was he?"

"Every five minutes." Kenma's expression remained neutral, but his eyes were amused. "You should probably go find him before he wears a hole in Kuroo's floor from pacing."

Akaashi scanned the room, trying not to be obvious about it. He spotted several volleyball players he recognized from the game, a few people who might have been from his Contemporary Fiction seminar, and—

There.

Bokuto was in the living room, perched on the arm of the couch, gesturing wildly while he told some kind of story to a group of people who were all laughing. He'd changed into jeans and a grey henley, his hair still damp from the shower, and he looked relaxed and happy and completely at ease in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in Akaashi's chest.

This was Bokuto's world. These were his people. And Akaashi was—what? The tutor who'd agreed to come to a party because he couldn't figure out how to say no when Bokuto smiled at him like that?

"Stop spiraling," Kenma said quietly. "I can actually hear you overthinking from here."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're doing that thing where you convince yourself you don't belong somewhere before you've even given it a chance." Kenma nudged him with his elbow. "Go talk to him. He invited you because he wants you here."

Before Akaashi could respond, Bokuto looked up and their eyes met across the room. The effect was immediate and visceral—Bokuto's entire face lit up, and he practically launched himself off the couch, abandoning his story mid-sentence to cross the room.

"You made it!" Bokuto's enthusiasm was almost overwhelming. "I was starting to think maybe you'd changed your mind. Do you want a drink? Are you hungry? There's pizza somewhere, I think, and Konoha brought chips—"

"I'm fine," Akaashi said, and he was surprised to find it was mostly true. Something about Bokuto's genuine happiness at seeing him made the knot in his chest loosen slightly. "Congratulations again on the game."

"Thanks! It was a good match." Bokuto was standing close—closer than strictly necessary in the crowded room—and Akaashi was hyperaware of it. "Come meet some people! Unless you want to hide with Kenma? That's valid too. Parties aren't really his thing."

"They're not really mine either," Akaashi admitted.

"Really? But you came anyway?" Something soft and wondering crossed Bokuto's face. "That's—thank you. For coming. I know this probably isn't your scene."

They were interrupted by a tall player Akaashi recognized from the game—the setter, he thought. "Bokuto! We need you to settle something. Konoha says your spike in the fourth set wasn't as good as the one in the fifth, but I'm saying—oh." He noticed Akaashi and grinned. "You must be the tutor. I'm Shūichi Anahori."

"Akaashi Keiji."

"The famous Akaashi!" Anahori’s grin widened. "Bokuto hasn't shut up about you all week. 'Akaashi this, Akaashi that, do you think Akaashi will come to the game—'"

"Okay!" Bokuto's face was turning red. "That's enough of that. Don't you have a debate to get back to?"

"I'm just saying, nice to finally meet the person who's managed to make our ace care about literature." He clapped Bokuto on the shoulder and wandered back to the kitchen, leaving Bokuto looking embarrassed and Akaashi feeling something warm and dangerous bloom in his chest.

"Sorry about him," Bokuto said. "He's—they're all kind of a lot."

"It's fine." Akaashi found himself almost smiling. "They seem like good friends."

"The best. I don't know what I'd do without them, honestly." Bokuto's expression turned earnest. "But you should meet them properly. Come on."

And just like that, Akaashi found himself being introduced to the volleyball team. There was Konoha, Bokuto's roommate, who immediately launched into an embarrassing story about Bokuto's essay crisis. There was Washio, the middle blocker, who was surprisingly quiet for someone so tall. There was Komi, who asked Akaashi thoughtful questions about his major and actually seemed interested in the answers.

They were, despite Akaashi's expectations, genuinely welcoming. No one made him feel out of place or questioned why he was there. If anything, they seemed pleased that Bokuto had invited him.

"It's good to see him like this," Konoha said at one point, when Bokuto had been pulled away to help Kuroo with something in the kitchen. "Happy, I mean. He's been stressed about the whole grade situation."

"He's been working hard," Akaashi said. "His writing has improved significantly."

"I'm sure it has. But I don't think that's the only reason he's been in a good mood." Konoha's look was knowing. "Just saying."

Before Akaashi could figure out how to respond to that, a girl appeared at Bokuto's side. She was pretty—tall and athletic with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail—and she touched Bokuto's arm with easy familiarity as she laughed at something he said.

Akaashi felt something cold and unpleasant settle in his stomach.

"That's Yukie," Konoha said, following his gaze. "She's the team manager. She and Bokuto have known each other since first year."

"I see."

"They're just friends," Konoha added, and there was something pointed in his tone. "In case you were wondering."

Akaashi wasn't wondering. He had no right to wonder. Bokuto could talk to whoever he wanted, could have whatever history with whoever he wanted. Akaashi was just his tutor.
Just someone who'd agreed to come to a party.

Except Bokuto was looking around the room now, clearly searching for something—for someone. When his eyes found Akaashi, he excused himself from Yukie mid-conversation and made his way back over.

"Sorry about that. Yukie wanted to talk about the schedule for next week." He held out a cup. "I got you water. I wasn't sure if you wanted alcohol, and I figured water was safe?"

"Thank you." Akaashi accepted the cup, and their fingers brushed. It shouldn't have felt like anything. It felt like everything.

"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" Bokuto asked. "It's kind of loud in here. Kuroo has a balcony—it's small, but we could actually hear each other talk."

Akaashi should say no. Should stay in the crowded room where there were people and noise and distractions. Should not go somewhere quiet and private with Bokuto, where it would just be the two of them and whatever this thing was that kept pulling them together.

"Okay," he said instead.

Bokuto's smile was brilliant. He led Akaashi through the apartment to a door that opened onto a tiny balcony barely big enough for two people. The noise of the party immediately dimmed, replaced by the ambient sounds of the city at night.

They stood side by side, looking out at the lights of campus. It was cooler out here, and Akaashi was grateful for it—his head felt clearer in the fresh air.

"Sorry if that was overwhelming," Bokuto said. "The team can be a lot when they're all together."

"They're nice. I can see why you enjoy playing with them."

"Yeah, they're great." Bokuto was quiet for a moment, then added, "I'm really glad you came tonight. I know this isn't your usual thing."

"No," Akaashi agreed. "It's not."

"So why did you come?"

It was a simple question, but the answer felt impossibly complicated. Because you asked. Because I wanted to see you outside of the library. Because I'm afraid of what I'm feeling but I can't seem to stop feeling it. Because when you look at me like I matter, I start to believe it.

"I was curious," Akaashi said finally. "About your world. You've been learning about mine—literature, analysis, all of that. It seemed fair to see yours."

"And? What do you think?"

"I think..." Akaashi considered his words carefully. "I think you're exactly yourself, no matter where you are. In the library, on the court, at a party. You're genuine in a way that's rare."

Bokuto turned to look at him, and there was something intense in his expression. "Is that a good thing?"

"Yes." The word came out quieter than Akaashi intended. "It's a very good thing."

They were standing close on the small balcony, close enough that Akaashi could see the flecks of gold in Bokuto's eyes, could count his breaths. The party continued inside, muffled and distant, but out here it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

"Akaashi," Bokuto said, and his voice had gone soft. "Can I ask you something?"

Akaashi's heart was beating too fast. "Of course."

"Do you—" Bokuto stopped, seemed to gather his courage. "Would you want to hang out sometime? Not for tutoring. Just... because?"

Every reason Akaashi had constructed for why this was a bad idea rose up in his mind. They were student and tutor. They came from completely different worlds. Akaashi had spent two years carefully avoiding exactly this kind of situation. He wasn't ready for this. He might never be ready for this.

But Bokuto was looking at him with such hope, such vulnerability, and Akaashi found that all his carefully constructed defenses meant nothing in the face of it.

"I'd like that," he heard himself say.

Bokuto's answering smile was like sunrise. "Really?"

"Really."

"That's—wow. Okay. Cool. I mean, not cool, like, better than cool. Amazing. Great." Bokuto was rambling now, the way he did when he was excited or nervous. "We could get coffee? Or food? Whatever you want. I'm free most afternoons when I don't have practice. Or we could—"

"Bokuto," Akaashi interrupted gently. "Breathe."

Bokuto laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I'm kind of really happy right now."

"I can tell."

They stood there for another moment, just looking at each other, and Akaashi felt something shift. This was no longer just tutoring sessions and academic obligation. This was something else, something that made his chest feel too tight and too open all at once.

The door to the balcony opened, and Kuroo stuck his head out. "There you are! We're starting a game of Kings—oh." His eyes flicked between them, and a knowing smile crossed his face. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Akaashi said quickly, at the same time Bokuto said, "Maybe?"

Kuroo's smile widened. "Right. Well, whenever you two are done with your moment, everyone's asking where Bokuto went. Apparently, no party is complete without watching him lose at drinking games."

"I don't always lose!" Bokuto protested.

"Name one time you've won."

"That's—I'm sure there was—shut up, Kuroo."

Kuroo disappeared back inside, laughing. Bokuto turned back to Akaashi, and there was a question in his eyes.

"We should probably go back in," Akaashi said, even though part of him wanted to stay out here in this small private space where the rest of the world didn't matter.

"Yeah, probably." But Bokuto didn't move immediately. "Akaashi?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For giving me a chance. I know I'm kind of a lot sometimes, but I promise I'm not as chaotic as I seem. Well, maybe I am, but in a good way? I don't know, I'm not making sense—"

"You're making perfect sense," Akaashi said, and he meant it. "And you're not too much. You're exactly enough."

The look Bokuto gave him was enough to make Akaashi forget every reason he'd ever had for protecting himself from this.

They went back inside together, back into the noise and the crowd and Bokuto's world. But something had changed. Every time Akaashi looked up, he found Bokuto already looking at him. Every time they ended up near each other in the crowded apartment, Bokuto would gravitate closer, like they were magnets.

Kenma caught his eye at one point and raised an eyebrow. Akaashi just shook his head, unable to explain and unwilling to try.

He stayed later than he'd planned, longer than he probably should have. He watched Bokuto lose spectacularly at Kings, laughed at Kuroo's terrible jokes, had an unexpectedly engaging conversation with Konoha about sports psychology.

And through it all, he was aware of Bokuto—his presence like a constant warmth, his attention like gravity.

When Akaashi finally said his goodbyes around midnight, Bokuto walked him to the door.

"Text me when you get home?" Bokuto asked. "So I know you made it okay?"

"It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"I know, but still?"

Akaashi found himself agreeing, and the smile Bokuto gave him made something in his chest constrict painfully.

The walk home was quiet, and Akaashi spent it turning the evening over in his mind. He'd gone to a party. He'd met Bokuto's friends. He'd agreed to spend time together outside of tutoring. He'd said yes when he should have said no, should have maintained boundaries, should have protected himself from whatever this was becoming.

He pulled out his phone and texted Bokuto: Made it home safely.

The response came almost immediately: good!! tonight was really fun. thanks again for coming

Thank you for inviting me.

so about that coffee...tomorrow? or is that too soon? i don't want to be pushy

Akaashi stared at his phone. Tomorrow. Less than twelve hours away. No time to overthink, no time to talk himself out of it, no time to rebuild his defenses.

Tomorrow works. 2pm?

PERFECT. ill pick you up?

Alright.

this is a date btw. just so we're clear. i mean if you want it to be. it can be whatever you want it to be. okay i'm going to stop texting now before i say something embarrassing

too late for that

HEY

It's a date, Bokuto. I'll see you tomorrow.

Akaashi sent the text before he could second-guess himself, then immediately put his phone face-down on his desk and stared at his ceiling.

He'd said yes. To coffee, to a date, to all of this. He'd said yes when every part of him that knew how to be careful was screaming to say no.

His phone buzzed one more time: i promise ill make it worth it. see you tomorrow, akaashi :)

Akaashi closed his eyes and tried to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea. But all he could think about was Bokuto's smile, Bokuto's honesty, Bokuto's complete and utter lack of pretense.

Maybe it was time to let himself want something, consequences be damned.

Even if the thought alone terrified him.