Chapter Text
Akaashi orders his second drink of the night as he watches his friends head out to the dance floor. He’s not even sure what they’re celebrating—a birthday, a cousin visiting from America, the ongoing miracle of having survived until the end of the week—but reasons to drink are more of a fun bonus than a hard rule this early in the semester.
Typically, Akaashi turns down these offers. He’s happy to hear about exploits the following day, but past experience has taught him that he likes the idea of bars far more than the reality of bars.
Sometimes he likes the idea of university as a whole far more than the reality of living it.
When he started at Waseda he had plans—hopes, even. He imagined his life like a coming of age novel, artistically greyscale, every milestone a blinding shock of colour. He expected to have it all: eyes meeting across a crowded room, dramatic declarations of love, the poetry of a body he knew better than his own. What he’s gotten instead? A worsening caffeine addiction, prescription lenses, and a series of one-night stands that hadn’t so much made him question whether he’s bad at sex, but rather whether anyone is actually good at sex.
But the first practice of the season is tomorrow, and so Akaashi has allowed himself to be dragged along. By the end of the weekend all his free time will belong to Waseda’s Athletics Department; he owes his friends at least these last few hours.
“Akaashi!” Sugawara Koushi’s voice travels, even over the pounding bass. He’s more than a few drinks in, giggling and swaying, looking back at Akaashi with open expectation. Akaashi just points to his drink and gives a quick shake of his head, rolling his eyes at Suga’s exaggerated pout.
“It looks like you made your boyfriend sad.” The voice—low and gravelly, also easy to hear over the thumping of the music—comes from the seat beside him. The warmth of someone’s breath so close to his neck nearly makes Akaashi shiver, but he rides the high of his annoyance, pushing any unwanted arousal firmly away.
“Oh, very smooth.” He twists his drink around, rolling his eyes as the ice clinks against the side of the glass. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” he starts, twisting to face the man next to him, hoping that he handles rejection well. “And I’m not loo—”
Akaashi’s words die, sacrificed to the wild clamour of the bar. The small rush of arousal he’d felt at the heat of a mouth near his skin intensifies, burning through him in a dizzying rush. The man smiles, and it’s everything Akaashi can do to keep his face neutral, to remember how to breathe—steady in, steady out. Any finer points of flirting he may have picked up in the years since he started at Waseda are gone, lost to the surreal experience of being here, in this moment.
Sitting next to Bokuto Koutarou.
Even in the dim light of the club, even with a baseball cap pulled low over his distinctive hair, even through the spike of instant panic, Akaashi knows his face. He’s seen it on television, in magazines, on the special edition beach calendar the MSBY Black Jackals had sold as a charity fundraiser four years ago.
Though it shouldn’t be possible, he looks even better in person. Here, Akaashi can see the minor imperfections, the parts that the camera blurs. Bokuto smiles and Akaashi can see the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eye, the slight curve of his bottom teeth, the faded line of a scar near the edge of his lip.
Akaashi is overcome with the immediate urge to bite; he wants to dig into that soft skin, to trace the dip of that scar with his tongue. He takes a sip of his drink, just to have something to do with his mouth.
“I’m Kou,” Bokuto says, sticking out a hand. Fleetingly, Akaashi wonders if this is how things have been throughout his entire career: crowded bars, smooth come-ons, fake names. He wonders how many other guys have been on the receiving end of this concentrated charm, desperate for Bokuto’s attention.
He decides he doesn’t care.
Akaashi takes the offered hand, sparks flickering up his spine as he feels the rough calluses that cover Bokuto’s palm. “Akaashi Keiji.”
“So, that pouty guy isn’t your boyfriend.” Bokuto leans in closer, and Akaashi catches the lingering scent of something—detergent, shampoo, cologne—just faint enough to make his mind fuzzy. To convince him that this is real—Bokuto Koutarou is hitting on him. “And a good friend would have dragged you out there, not left you all alone.” Bokuto rests his elbow on the bar, props his head in his hand. “Maybe he’s a colleague?”
“Yeah.” Akaashi doesn’t even really know what he’s agreeing to, but he can’t bring himself to care; Bokuto’s t-shirt is obscenely tight, and the way his arm is flexed does wonderful things for his biceps.
Bokuto, clearly aware of the effect he’s having, takes a sip of his own drink, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. Akaashi tries to be subtle, to not make a complete fool of himself, but he is only human. He watches Bokuto’s throat as he swallows, and embraces the bolt of heat that spreads from his stomach straight to his cock.
“He didn’t leave me over here,” Akaashi finally says, squirming a little in his seat. “I’m not really a big dancer.”
“No?” Bokuto’s eyes flash—a look Akaashi has seen him wear on the court. He’s suddenly very thankful to be sitting.
It would be a lie to say that Akaashi had never fantasized about seeing that look on Bokuto Koutarou’s face, but he’d always imagined that he’d see it from across the net. That through some divine intervention, he’d find himself across the court from his idol, able to share that space with him at least one time.
To have it here, like this, with Bokuto Koutarou looking at him like he wants to take him apart? Akaashi is not strong enough to endure.
“I was—” Akaashi hesitates for just an instant. For just long enough to realize that if he walks away, he’ll never forgive himself. Then he drains the remainder of his drink, smiling as he sets the empty glass down on the bar. “I was actually thinking of getting out of here.”
Bokuto’s face lights up, the small quirk of his lips unfurling into a slow smile. “Yeah?” He finishes his own drink, then extends a hand to Akaashi. “Feel like having some company?”
Akaashi saw Bokuto Koutarou for the first time in his final year of middle school. It had been a tough year, socially and emotionally. His parents had divorced, neither one of them falling over themselves to be granted full-time custody. His best friends were headed to Itachiyama, and he was left to sort out what he was supposed to do with the crumbling mess his parents had handed him.
He worked himself to exhaustion that year. Everything that had previously brought him joy fell flat, his entire world washed in filmy grey. He read without absorbing the words, studied without analyzing the content, played volleyball without a care for whether they won or lost.
Because his grades didn’t suffer and there was no one home to watch him fall apart, everything continued as normal. Akaashi slumped through school and practice, week after miserable week, until his birthday arrived. Completely unaware of his eroding interest, his parents presented him with a gift he would have been blown away by the year before: V. League tickets, MSBY Black Jackals vs. FC Tokyo.
Akaashi attended the game alone, promising his parents he’d invited friends, telling his friends his parents wanted to spend time with him.
It was there, in that packed stadium, feeling small and tired and alone, that Akaashi’s life shifted. During the second set the Black Jackals made a substitution, bringing in their rookie outside hitter to try to change the tempo after a run of lost points. As soon as Bokuto Koutarou stepped onto the court, Akaashi could feel a palpable change—in the atmosphere, the crowd, the game. When Bokuto made his first hit, rocketing through the air with perfect form only to slam the ball straight down the line, Akaashi’s chest cracked open. Watching him celebrate, all wild screams and endless passion, Akaashi struggled to hold back tears. This, he remembered, was what it was supposed to feel like to play.
He knew, in that moment, he was watching a true star. In the grey landscape Akaashi’s life had become, Bokuto Koutarou shone, relentless and bright.
At first, Akaashi had wanted to be Bokuto, uninhibited and powerful, at the top of his game. He memorized stats and collected merch, watched every MSBY game and saved Bokuto’s best plays. Then he’d wanted to play Bokuto, to force him to look, to see him as a rival. He copied down strategies and analyzed plays, devising ways to counter his powerful spikes. And eventually, he’d just wanted Bokuto, in the way that every gay kid wanted someone beautiful and unobtainable.
Bokuto was endless light, pure and radiant, and Akaashi had always been helpless to its glow.
Bokuto escorts him out of the bar with one hand resting low on his back. Suga had picked out his outfit tonight—something from his own closet, since Akaashi doesn’t own anything his friend would deem club appropriate—and Bokuto’s fingers spread comfortably against the bare strip of skin on Akaashi’s lower back. He keeps rubbing his thumb just over the jut of Akaashi’s hip, scraping against the edge of his jeans with deliberate slowness. The touch makes Akaashi dizzy, makes him clench his teeth, makes his chest hurt. He curls his hands into fists, digs nails into his palm just to try to maintain some level of focus.
“My place isn’t too far from here.” This time, as Bokuto’s breath fans against his neck, Akaashi allows himself to shiver. He leans into the touch, his mouth dry as Bokuto’s lips dip lower for an instant, lingering at his neck. “Or we can go to yours, if you’re more comfortable.”
Akaashi’s apartment—Akaashi’s bedroom, wall adorned with Bokuto’s 2020 olympic jersey—is absolutely out of the question.
“Your place is fine.” Bokuto squeezes his hand into Akaashi’s hip, a small celebratory gesture, and they continue in the direction of the university. The spring breeze is cool on Akaashi’s feverish skin, the Tokyo lights a perfect backdrop for Bokuto’s easy smile.
They wind up at a building that’s only a few blocks from Akaashi’s own. It’s much nicer—far out of the range of anything Akaashi could afford, with its private entrance and palatial lobby—and Bokuto sweeps him inside without a second thought.
The ride up the elevator is an exercise in patience. Bokuto’s touch has gone from a source of giddy pleasure to acute torture. Akaashi’s entire body burns every time Bokuto’s fingers graze his jeans. He’s so hard he’s aching, the anticipation of being touched a full body experience. He can feel sweat beading at the back of his neck, can hear the ragged edge of his own breathing. He wonders if he looks as desperate as he feels.
Bokuto, as calm and focused as he looks during a game, leans back against the elevator wall as they climb ever higher. He hooks his fingers into Akaashi’s belt loops, pulling him just close enough to grind their bodies together. His eyes narrow and his mouth tilts into a teasing grin as he fans his fingers out. The elevator dings its arrival, drowning out the sound of Akaashi’s whimper.
Bokuto threads their fingers together as they leave the elevator, pulling Akaashi along. They stumble into the expansive apartment, and Akaashi nearly cries when Bokuto immediately pins him against the door. He digs his fingers into Bokuto’s back, pushing his hips up and out, seeking out any sort of friction.
It only takes a single hand on his hip to keep him in place. Bokuto’s other hand snakes up to cup Akaashi’s jaw. “So eager,” he murmurs, grinning as Akaashi flushes.
Bokuto-san, Akaashi almost says, catching himself at the last minute. “K-kou,” he breathes instead, overwhelmed by the unbearable intimacy of it. Even if it’s intended as an alias, even if he’s just the latest of many to be held in place by him like this, it still feels like something from a dream. “Please.”
Thankfully, that seems to be enough. Bokuto yanks them together, Akaashi’s hands clawing against his perfect back, Bokuto’s leg slotting between Akaashi’s thighs. There’s no hesitation, no awkward sorting out of position, Bokuto just moves. He knows, instinctively, how and where to touch him. Perfect pace, perfect pressure. He kisses Akaashi with intent—open-mouthed and wet. He kisses the breath from Akaashi’s lungs, licks into his mouth, nips at his bottom lip.
It’s everything a kiss should be, and it’s dizzying to be on the receiving end.
The slick slide of Bokuto’s tongue has Akaashi barely able to stand. As he stumbles, Bokuto hitches him up, hands cupped under his ass. Akaashi’s legs dangle, hanging over Bokuto’s forearms as he kisses him again, and again, and again.
Akaashi groans, already past the point of caring what he sounds like—what he must look like. He just wants more; more pressure, more sensation, more of Bokuto.
“Fuck,” Bokuto whispers as Akaashi’s next moan breaks off, high-pitched and breathy. He mouths along Akaashi’s jaw, sucking right at the point where bone gives way to tender skin. The wet heat of each kiss lights fucking fireworks in Akaashi’s blood, shooting straight from his neck to his stomach to his cock.
Before this moment, Akaashi would have sworn that he wasn’t particularly sensitive, that he could take or leave foreplay. Now, Bokuto adds a scrape of teeth along with the wet suction and Akaashi’s fighting to hold back tears.
“Oh,” he whimpers, muscles clenching as Bokuto bites down, “God.”
Bokuto’s mouth gentles, tonguing over the tender skin before moving back up. He lets Akaashi step back to the floor, then presses a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back.
Akaashi knows that he must look awful, disheveled and desperate, but he doesn’t care. He hooks an ankle around Bokuto’s calf, preventing him from moving too far.
“Ahh, Akaashi.” Bokuto rubs his thumb against the swollen curve of Akaashi’s lip. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
Emboldened by the words, Akaashi lets his mouth fall open. Bokuto’s eyes darken as he slips one finger, then two, inside. Akaashi, already high on the rush of Bokuto’s touch, throws any remaining self-consciousness aside. He laps at Bokuto’s fingers, gazing up at him through his lashes. He watches as Bokuto’s careful control shudders; as his breathing hitches he presses down more firmly on Akaashi’s tongue.
Akaashi feels drunk, delirious with the heady rush of power.
“Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice cracks as he moves closer, then drops to a whisper. “What are you doing to me?”
Akaashi’s not sure that Bokuto meant for that last part to come out, but he doesn’t care. It’s going to be burned into his memory forever. He pulls back, scraping his teeth along the callused pads of Bokuto’s fingers as he moves.
“Kou,” he says, lowering his hands to Bokuto’s belt. “Can I—”
“Fuck,” Bokuto leans back, lets Akaashi slowly unloop the belt. “Please.”
Pants undone, Akaashi drops to his knees. The sharp zing of pain centres him, clears some of the foggy haze from his head. He peels Bokuto’s pants down slowly, letting his cock spring free.
He remembers attending a game three years ago, right before Bokuto chose to end out his career in the Italian Super League. The Jackals were behind, battling the pressure of constant blocks. The whole team was fracturing, nervous and jittery, making too many errors.
It was Bokuto who brought them back. Akaashi remembers the exact curve of his body as he flew through the air, the thunderous impact of his cross. He remembers thinking he would give anything to set for him.
Then, as he landed, squatting down to pump his fists in celebration, his shorts rose up to show a hint of the skin above his compression pads. At that, Akaashi’s thoughts had taken a distinct turn. He wanted to run his tongue along that skin, to sink his teeth into Bokuto’s thighs. He had a whole host of fantasies—and now, he can enact every single one.
He takes his time, running his hands over the thick muscle, ignoring Bokuto’s cock in favour of kissing up the inside of his thigh. Bokuto groans, his head falling back against the door as he rumbles his impatience.
Akaashi’s kisses move higher, and he nips at Bokuto’s skin, holding himself back from sinking his teeth in the way that he wants. He gives himself time to settle, to breathe through any residual worry he might have about his capabilities, then takes Bokuto’s impressive cock in hand. He licks at it, smiling when Bokuto’s fingers immediately fall to his face. The sudden movement upsets Akaashi’s glasses, and he lifts his hands to take them off.
“No, don’t.” Bokuto sounds wrecked, absolutely disassembled by a single teasing lick. “You look—you’re so sexy,” Bokuto explains. “I’ll be careful. Just—keep them on.”
Akaashi nods, then shifts Bokuto’s hands so that they settle in his hair. Bokuto gives an experimental tug, leaving Akaashi moaning as he takes Bokuto into his mouth.
What Akaashi lacks in skill, he makes up for with enthusiasm. He’s never sucked anyone this big before—hasn’t even seen anyone this big before—but he’s determined to make this good. The stretch of his jaw skirts just along the edge of painful; he feels full, broken open in the best possible way. Bokuto’s hands in his hair light up sparks that zip from his scalp straight down his spine, leaving him a shivering mess on the cold tiles. He pushes into the touch, urging Bokuto further, pulling at his hips until he’s snapping them forward.
He’s surprised by how easy it is to let go like this. He’s so hard it’s painful, cock digging into the seam of his jeans, but he just lets the desire wash over him. He takes and takes and takes, relishing the raw scrape of his throat, the dizzying slide of Bokuto’s cock. He doesn’t even know if he’s going to be able to talk tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it.
“Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice comes from far away, and Akaashi only notices because the grip of his hands softens, the quick snap of his hips slows. “Akaashi, baby.”
It’s the baby that does him in; Akaashi whines, looking up at Bokuto with eyelashes dusted with tears.
“I’m not going to last,” Bokuto says, his voice cracking as he stares down at Akaashi. “And I really want to fuck you.”
Akaashi slips his mouth off, letting Bokuto pull him to his feet. His lips, spit-slick and swollen, are tender when Bokuto leans in for another kiss.
“Do you want that, Akaashi?” He tips a hand under Akaashi’s chin, tilting it up. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes.” Akaashi’s voice is raw, unsteady, and Bokuto moves his mouth lower, kissing tenderly across his throat.
They shed clothes as they move toward the bedroom. Bokuto kicks his pants off from his ankles while lifting Akaashi’s t-shirt. Akaashi finally gets his hands all over Bokuto’s impressive chest as Bokuto makes quick work of Akaashi’s jeans. They trip and stumble, kissing between movements. Bokuto’s teeth catch the edge of Akaashi’s lip, his hands trace the dip of his back. His mouth presses to Akaashi’s cheek, his neck, his collarbone. Bokuto is made to give pleasure, and Akaashi is a willing sponge, siphoning whatever he can hold.
Bokuto’s room is bare but for the bed and a single small table. In all fairness, it’s an impressive bed—a huge, solid thing, and covered with sheets that feel like heaven against Akaashi’s feverish skin. Bokuto presses Akaashi onto his back and finally—finally—grinds their bodies together, giving Akaashi some of the friction he desires.
His hand drifts down Akaashi’s side, tracing over his ribs. He pauses, braced over Akaashi, unreal in every sense of the word, and looks down at him with hooded eyes. “You ready for me, Akaashi?”
No, Akaashi thinks, never. But he wants him, might die if he doesn’t get to feel the heavy weight of him. So he nods, pulling him down, wanting him closer. He runs his hands up the swell of his biceps, fans them out on either side of his shoulders. He maps Bokuto’s body, memorizing every dip and curve, burning the image into his mind. If all he gets is one night, he’s going to do whatever he can to remember every detail.
Bokuto leans into the extra attention, whispering nonsense into the crook of Akaashi’s neck, licking and nipping at his skin. He touches him lightly, teasingly, until Akaashi can’t stand it any longer.
“Kou,” he pleads. “Please, I want—”
He has no experience saying what he wants—no experience knowing what he wants—but Bokuto understands. It takes him no more than a handful of seconds to grab what they need, then he’s flipping Akaashi over with a single movement.
“Akaashi?” Bokuto kisses a path up his spine and Akaashi’s close to tears once more. Every press of Bokuto’s mouth is a revelation; hearing his name from Bokuto’s mouth the most potent kind of magic. His hands tremble, and he bites down on his lip to keep from gasping. Bokuto gently moves his hips, arranges him into a comfortable position. “Is it okay like this?”
Akaashi nods again—too quickly, and Bokuto notices.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll take care of you.”
And he does.
In the past, Akaashi had seen sex almost as a checklist, an exercise that needed to be completed in sequence: foreplay, enacted; erogenous zones, touched; penetration, accomplished.
But Bokuto? He moves with confidence, handles Akaashi’s body like an expert—knows exactly how and where and when to touch. His free hand snakes under Akaashi’s body, drifting across the sensitive skin of his abdomen, grazing the edge of a nipple. There is nothing rote or routine about this. Akaashi is a shuddery mess, stomach swooping and muscles trembling.
When Bokuto finally thrusts inside, slow and sweet, Akaashi surrenders. He collapses inward, giving himself over completely to Bokuto’s rolling hips, the ebb and flow. Bokuto wrings noises out of Akaashi’s raw throat, reduces him to the most primal version of himself. He fucks Akaashi senseless, mouths at the column of his spine until he sobs, tucks his head around his shoulder to swallow up the sound.
Bokuto-san, Akaashi thinks as pleasure lights up his entire body, as the pace shifts from languid to frantic, as a hand finally wraps around his aching cock. The pressure builds and builds and Akaashi has idolized Bokuto for years, but right now, in this moment, he is a devotee. A supplicant, ready and willing to be burned alive. His pounding heart, his ragged breaths, the steady pulse of his body all move to the same beat. He is a metronome, set to a singular rhythm, keeping track of the only score that matters: Bokuto-san, Bokuto-san, Bokuto-san.
Akaashi wakes with the sun, his body aching with the memory of his night. He’s cramped and warm, pinned in place by one of Bokuto’s arms, and desperate to stretch.
He notices how empty the room truly is in the muted light of morning; there are a few boxes scattered in the corners, a suitcase still filled with clothes propped open against a wall. Bokuto clearly hasn’t been here long, and Akaashi tortures himself for a handful of minutes, imagining what it might look like when Bokuto has finished moving in.
The water Bokuto had brought for him the night before is still sitting on a small table, and Akaashi wriggles out of the blanket cocoon so that he can take a sip. The sharp sting of swallowing does nothing to cool him down; his whole body flushes anew as memories from the night before come flooding back.
Bokuto stirs, long limbs stretching, but he doesn’t wake. Akaashi takes a second to look at him, to appreciate him in a way there hadn’t really been time for last night. He’s gorgeous—Akaashi already knew that—but there’s a vulnerability in his sleeping face that Akaashi didn’t expect. As he watches Bokuto’s eyelids flicker, he wants nothing more than to crawl back in beside him. They could wake together, wrapped up in each other. It’s easy for Akaashi to imagine Bokuto running his fingers up and down his back, feeling the shivery pleasure of that featherlight touch.
But that’s not what this is.
From the performance last night, to Akaashi’s aching muscles this morning, it’s obvious that Bokuto is experienced. Of course he is; he’s Bokuto fucking Koutarou. He can have anyone, and Akaashi should be grateful for the time he was given—it would be ludicrous to hope for more.
So, instead of pulling back the blankets, he leaves the bed entirely, walks through Bokuto's empty apartment gathering up the scattered pieces of his outfit. Then he tucks his phone away in his pocket, takes a steadying breath, and quietly walks away.
By the time he arrives at home, his muscles have loosened at least a little. There’s an ache in his lower back that he’s definitely going to feel during practice, but he’ll at least be able to walk in without limping. He loses time in the shower, pressing in on the tender parts of his skin.
It’s not until he’s at the sink, picking through his drawer for the correct face cream, that he notices the mark on his neck. Seeing it immediately conjures memories of heat—the press of Bokuto’s mouth, the scrape of his teeth. He prods at it, fingers brushing along the mottled skin, but it’s not sore. Touching it brings no pain—only a ridiculous possessive thrill.
He’s such an idiot.
Rushing through the rest of his routine, he changes into his practice clothes, zipping his jacket all the way up to his throat. There’s no way he’s going to be able to hide it from the team, but if he can keep it covered through warmups, there won’t be time for anyone to give him shit until they’re all exhausted.
Thankfully, there’s a bit of a nip in the air when Akaashi finally leaves. His apartment is close enough that he can meander, though he keeps his eyes firmly averted from Bokuto’s street. The neon magic of the previous night is stripped away, leaving the neighbourhood washed out and dull under the drizzly sky. Akaashi keeps his head down and feet light, shoving in headphones to drown out the incessant circling of his own thoughts.
Almost everyone is there when he arrives for practice. Sakusa Kiyoomi, his freshman roommate and closest friend on the team, is already stretching, warding off any potential conversation with an aura of pure hostility.
Akaashi takes a seat right next to him, scanning the room.
“Coach is late?”
If Sakusa notices the strain in Akaashi’s voice, he opts to ignore it. “He was here,” he says, eyeing a particularly rambunctious pair of first-years with open loathing. “Said he was making an announcement.”
Though he knows it’s probably not about him, Akaashi’s stomach flips just the same. Over the past three years he’s been steadily working toward starting setter—a position he’d managed to clinch for a handful of games the past season. He looks toward the small knot of his fellow fourth-years. Sitting amongst them, a nervous clench to his jaw, is Hayashi, their current starting setter.
Akaashi turns, ready to tempt fate and ask Sakusa to rehash the same conversation they’ve had about the starting position for the fiftieth time, but before he can open his mouth, he hears a cheerful, “I’m so excited to get started!”
His entire body freezes, prompting a confused look from Sakusa. Akaashi knows that he should move, breathe, something, but he’s arrested in a state of rigid panic.
He knows that voice.
He looks up and finds the familiar figure of their coach making his way across the gym. The whole team rises, a low hum spreading from player to player as they recognize the person at their coach’s side.
“Welcome back,” Coach Furukawa says, his soft voice enough to silence any residual whispering. “Before we get started today, I want to make an important announcement.”
He steps forward, arms tucked behind his back in his signature style. He looks tired, Akaashi notices. A little thinner, a little more worn than last season. The fluorescent lights aren’t flattering for anyone, but Akaashi can’t help but notice that their coach, despite his enduring brilliance, is starting to show his age.
“I want you all to know that this will be my last year at Waseda.” There’s a small burst of protest–one of the first years actually yelps—which Coach Furukawa waves away with a brush of his hand. “Don’t get too excited,” he says, his smile turning predatory. “I’ve got big plans for my final year and I’m willing to bet that none of you are ready to tackle them quite yet.”
Sakusa gives a small huff—probably warranted, since he’s definitely the only one of them who hasn’t slacked off at all since the end of last term—but says nothing. It’s a good enough distraction that Akaashi misses whatever Coach says next, his attention only recaptured when the second voice rings out, bright and booming.
Akaashi looks up just in time to see Bokuto stepping forward, bowing low to the gathered players. His face, boyish and bright, holds a completely different kind of joy than the night before.
“Thank you for having me, everyone! I think we have a lot to learn from each other, and I’m honoured to be here as your new Assistant Coach!”