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Konoha Akinori did not know which deity exactly he had offended in his previous life, but clearly the curse had chosen to reveal itself on this particular Monday. Mondays were never good, but this one? This one was just a masterpiece of cosmic spite.
And at the center of the catastrophe: Akaashi Keiji. Stoic, quiet, unflappable Akaashi, the picture of composure whether juggling trigonometry or Bokuto Koutarou’s emotional hurricanes. And, of course, unfairly attractive — so much so that the entire female population of the school collectively lost brain function whenever he so much as blinked. That very same Akaashi had done the stupidest thing: got himself a secret girlfriend over the weekend.
The evidence, if one could even call it that, was laughable. A “reliable” eyewitness report — delivered via the friend of the sister of some third-year student — claimed to have spotted him eating ice cream with a mysterious girl. And then there was the corpus delicti: a band-aid on his neck. Not just anywhere, oh no. Perfectly placed in the most incriminating of locations, begging to be interpreted as a clumsy attempt to hide a love bite.
The rumor spread out with impressive speed. It began innocently enough in Class 2-B, when Tanaka Mio, self-proclaimed keeper of secrets (which she immediately shared with anyone breathing), declared that her cousin had definitive proof. Within fifteen minutes, the story had found its way into 2-D, where Kagawa Minori — a girl whose sole extracurricular seemed to be embellishing tales to epic proportions — was already describing Akaashi as being “spotted holding hands and kissing under the cherry trees.”
By second period, two first-years in the stairwell were whispering about it like monks safeguarding a sacred text. And to Konoha’s mounting despair, he overheard two teachers in the corridor — Yamada-sensei from math and Fujii-sensei from literature — leaning in to murmur, “Have you heard about Akaashi-kun? The volleyball setter?” “Oh yes, the handsome one, isn’t he?”
That meant the rumour had officially leaked into the teacher’s lounge, and when gossip reached that far, there was no saving anyone.
And what did Akaashi do in the midst of this all? Absolutely nothing. He glided through the morning like a monk in serene meditation, untouched by the buzz surrounding him. His pen moved dutifully across his notebook; his eyes remained on the board. It was infuriating. The guy had the gall to act as though his personal life hadn’t just ignited a full-blown social crisis at their high school.
Only once—once—did Konoha witness even the slightest crack in the façade. Sugimoto, that loudmouthed idiot from the back row, had leaned forward and blurted, “Oi, Akaashi, what’s up with the band-aid?” For the briefest fraction of a second, Akaashi froze.
His hand had gone up to his neck in the smallest, most fleeting motion. A pause, no longer than a second, before he lowered it again and answered with that maddeningly neutral voice, “I scratched myself.” And that was it. No stammer, no blush, nothing. Which, of course, only made the gossip worse.
Meanwhile, Konoha sat at his desk, head propped up on one hand, listening to his classmates buzz like idiots. The volleyball team wasn’t helping either — Washio had raised an eyebrow in quiet suspicion after the guys had apparently discussed the matter on the toilet.
Komi had already sent around the theory via LINE that maybe Akaashi had met the girl through some study thing. And even Komi, who normally couldn’t keep his voice below earthquake level, had been whispering like he was part of an undercover mission.
The fact that his teammates had chosen the boys’ bathroom to dissect Akaashi’s alleged love life was an entirely separate issue Konoha didn’t want to think about any longer than necessary.
Konoha, however, wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pretend none of this was happening. Akaashi had done absolutely nothing — besides exist with that unfair face of his — and yet the entire school had decided to turn Monday morning into a live-action soap opera.
It was only a matter of time before this gossip would reach Bokuto. And that was when the true chaos would begin. Because Bokuto Koutarou was not predictable. He was not a ticking bomb. Bombs had timers. Bokuto was a natural disaster — one that struck with noise, tears, manic laughter, and — worst case scenario — possibly all three at once.
And just when Konoha thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse, his phone buzzed against the desk. He slid it open under the table and nearly groaned aloud.
Kuroo Tetsurō: So… rumor has it our favorite setter from Fukurodani scored himself a girlfriend? 👀 Spill.
Konoha stared at the message like it was personally responsible for his suffering. He typed back with the energy of a man already halfway done with life:
Konoha Akinori: Shut up, Kuroo. Go bother your own team.
Of course. Of course the cancerous rumor mill had already jumped schools. At this rate, Konoha wouldn’t be surprised if the story made it to Karasuno before fifth period.
That meant one thing: It was no longer just gossip. It was an inter-school volleyball crisis.
Konoha dropped his head into his hands. Action had to be taken. If this spiraled any further without intervention, Bokuto would get blindsided, Nekoma would keep pestering them, and Akaashi — stoic, unhelpful, irritatingly serene Akaashi — would continue floating through the chaos like an untouchable monk while everyone else’s sanity collapsed.
By the time the lunch bell rang, Konoha had already resolved himself. They nedeed a meeting. A secret emergency meeting.
So, at the start of lunch, Konoha sent out his own round of messages—short, clipped, no room for argument:
Konoha: Washio. Komi. Onaga. Storage room behind the gym. Now. Emergency.
He didn’t bother explaining. If they’d been on this team longer than a week, they knew what “emergency” meant.
They assembled in what might have been the least suitable venue on school grounds: the abandoned supply closet behind the gym storage. The storage room was cramped, smelled like mildew and old chalk, and had a single flickering light overhead that made the whole thing feel like the set of a bad crime drama. Definitely not the kind of place where grand strategy should be made. But it was empty, and most importantly, it was far away from Bokuto’s ears.
Konoha, however, stood at the front like a man condemned to lead. He cleared his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose before beginning.
“All right,” he said flatly, “we all know why we’re here. Akaashi has apparently decided to play fast and loose with the stability of this team by—” he gestured vaguely, exasperated, “— existing in public with a band-aid on his neck.”
Washio grunted. Komi snickered, earning himself a glare. Onaga looked far too interested in the theatrics of the situation.
Konoha sighed. “Normally, Akaashi would be the one running these emergency sessions, but since he’s the root cause of this circus, you get me instead. And I’ll be honest: I am tired. I am tired of hearing about ice cream dates, I am tired of seeing half the school foaming at the mouth, and I am tired of knowing that Nekoma, of all people, already texted me about it.” He raised his phone like damning evidence.
“This — ” Konoha jabbed the phone in their direction —“is negligence. Negligence on Akaashi’s part. And if we don’t contain this before Bokuto finds out, we are all going to pay the price.”
Silence followed, broken only by the ominous hum of the flickering light.
Konoha dropped his hand to his side, jaw tight. “So. Suggestions?”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The flickering light above them buzzed like it was waiting for its cue.
Then Komi broke the silence. “What if we just… tell Bokuto it’s not true?”
Konoha stared at him. “Brilliant. And when has Bokuto ever believed something just because we told him to?”
Komi opened his mouth, thought about it, and shut it again.
Onaga leaned against a stack of dusty mats. “What if we find the girl? You know, prove it’s all fake.”
“Right,” Konoha muttered. “We’ll just stroll around Tokyo and interrogate every girl who’s ever eaten ice cream. Great use of our time.”
Washio, who had been silent so far, finally spoke. “We could take the band-aid off.”
Everyone turned to him.
Washio shrugged. “No band-aid, no rumor.”
Konoha rubbed his temples. “Washio, if you want to be the one to walk up to Akaashi and peel something off his neck in broad daylight, be my guest.”
Silence. No volunteers.
Komi’s hand shot up again like they were in class. “What if… hear me out… we give Bokuto false intel ? Like, we say the band-aid is from a volleyball accident. Or shaving. Or —” he hesitated dramatically, “— a mosquito bite.”
Konoha dropped his head into his hands. “Yes, Komi. A mosquito. In January. Perfectly plausible.”
Onaga, looking far too entertained by the whole disaster, added, “Or we could just distract Bokuto with limited-edition curry bread. He’s easy.”
That one, depressingly, had merit.
Konoha sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re all idiots. But fine. Curry bread it is. Until someone thinks of something that doesn’t sound like it belongs in a bad comedy sketch, we’re running with distraction tactics.”
The flickering light buzzed overhead again, as if mocking him.
BANG
The door to the storage room slammed open with the subtlety of an earthquake.
“HEY! HEY! HEY! What are you guys doing in here?!” Bokuto’s voice practically rattled the walls.
Konoha froze mid-sigh, Komi nearly toppled backwards over a box of jump ropes, and Onaga’s phone slipped out of his hand with a clatter. Washio, to his credit, didn’t even flinch, just folded his arms like he’d been expecting this all along.
Four sets of eyes darted toward each other in silent panic. Someone had to say something — anything — before Bokuto started asking questions they couldn’t answer.
Komi blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Uh — ! We’re holding an intervention! For — Konoha’s… love letters!”
Konoha’s head snapped around. “MY WHAT?!”
“Y-Yeah,” Onaga added hastily, seizing the lifeline, “he’s been writing, uh… practice confessions… to someone.”
“Who?” Bokuto leaned forward, eyes wide with genuine curiosity.
And before Konoha could stop him, Komi blurted, “The… cafeteria lady!”
The silence that followed was crushing.
Konoha gaped, words failing him, while Onaga nodded like a traitor. “Yep. Totally head over heels. Very poetic stuff. Lots of metaphors about… miso soup.”
Konoha wanted to implode. His teammates did not just tell Bokuto he was pouring his adolescent soul into letters for a fifty-year-old woman who ladled curry every day.
Bokuto gasped, stricken. “Konoha! That’s so sweet! But…” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I have to tell you that Sato-san is already dating Takahashi-san from the convenience store down the street.”
Konoha closed his eyes. Kill me now.
“But don’t worry!” Bokuto continued with the radiant optimism of someone delivering a halftime pep talk. “You’re a great guy! You’ll find someone else! Someone who’ll love your… uh… handwriting!”
Konoha dropped his face into his hands as Bokuto beamed at him like he’d just solved all of life’s problems.
Washio, ever the pragmatist, finally cut in, deadpan: “Bokuto-kun, they just put out fresh curry bread in the cafeteria.”
Like flipping a switch, Bokuto’s eyes lit up. “Curry bread?! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?! I AM OFF! BYE!”
And just like that, he was gone, thundering down the hallway with the energy of an overexcited golden retriever.
The door swung shut behind him. Silence.
For a long moment no one moved. The flickering light hummed overhead like it was mocking them.
Then Komi snorted. Loudly.
That was all it took. Onaga doubled over, wheezing, and even Washio’s shoulders started shaking with suppressed laughter. The sound bounced off the cramped walls until the whole closet was filled with the echo of his teammates completely losing it.
Konoha didn’t move. His face was still buried in his hands, and he seriously considered keeping it there forever.
“You guys,” he said finally, voice muffled, “are the absolute worst.”
“C-Come on,” Komi gasped between fits of laughter, “you have to admit—that was perfect! Bokuto totally bought it!”
“Yeah,” Onaga added, wiping his eyes, “the cafeteria lady! Genius!”
Konoha raised his head just enough to glare at them. “I’m sixteen. SIXTEEN. And thanks to you idiots, my captain now thinks I’m writing sappy love letters to a fifty-year-old woman who serves curry bread.”
Washio, still composed enough to sound reasonable, shrugged. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How?!” Konoha snapped.
Washio’s lips twitched. “At least we didn’t say the janitor.”
That sent Komi and Onaga into another round of hysterics.
Konoha let his head thump back against the wall. Never again. He was officially done. No more emergency meetings. No more damage control. If Bokuto wanted to believe Akaashi was secretly married with three kids and a dog, so be it. Let the world burn.
“Next time,” he muttered darkly, “I’m just going home sick.”
After that admission Konoha had officially lost control of the room. That was the thought sitting heavy in his skull as he glared around at his so-called friends and teammates. He hadn’t asked to play crisis manager. He just wanted to eat lunch in peace like a normal person.
But no. Thanks to Akaashi Keiji and his irritatingly perfect face, Konoha was now presiding over what might have been the stupidest emergency meeting in volleyball history.
Washio, at least, looked like he was taking this seriously. Too seriously. He leaned forward, folding his arms. “Look. We all know why this is a big deal. Akaashi’s supposed to keep Bokuto stable, right? That’s his responsibility. His — ” he hesitated, searching for the word, “ — setterly duty.”
Konoha pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop saying that like it’s in the rulebook.”
Washio ignored him. “But it’s not just about keeping him calm during practice.” He pauses, obviously thinking if he should continue with his next thought. “We know…or we at least suspect Bokuto sees…looks at Akaashi differently. And if he hears his setter and best friend suddenly has a girlfriend…”
The silence that followed was thick. Uncomfortable.
Onaga fidgeted with his phone. Komi looked at his feet like they held all the answers to their problems.
Konoha finally broke it. “All right. Fine. Let’s say it out loud. Does anyone here actually have a problem if our captain has a crush on our vice-captain?”
He scanned the room. No one spoke up. Onaga shook his head first, then Komi. Washio gave a quick shrug.
“Good,” Konoha said flatly. “Because if any of you did, I’d personally kick you out of the team.”
Onaga grinned sheepishly. “Honestly, I think it’s kind of cute. Bokuto and Akaashi, you know?”
“Yeah,” Komi added, a little too loudly. “I’d totally ship it!”
“Don’t say ship it,” Konoha snapped. “We’re not middle schoolers.”
Washio, unfazed, continued, “Point is: none of us care if Bokuto’s got feelings for Akaashi. What matters is whether Akaashi understands what it looks like when he shows up on Monday morning with a band-aid on his neck and zero explanation. He’s the one who has to straighten this out.”
Konoha slumped back against the wall, exhaling through his teeth. Of course Washio was right. Washio was always right. And somehow, that meant he, Konoha Akinori, would end up cleaning the mess.
As if summoned by Konoha’s despair, his phone buzzed again. He glanced down.
Sugawara Koushi (Karasuno): Hey Konoha-kun! Just curious — does Keiji have a girlfriend? 😊
Konoha’s jaw tightened. He scrolled down.
Sugawara Koushi (Karasuno): Daichi heard it from Tsukki, who heard it from Kuroo. Figured I’d go straight to the source! Your closest, right?
Konoha set his phone face-down on the desk. “It’s in Miyagi now,” he said grimly. “This isn’t just a rumor anymore. This is a prefecture-wide epidemic.”
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him. Komi raised his hand like he was in class. “So… who’s gonna confront Akaashi?”
That was the heart of the problem, Konoha admitted. Akaashi never reacted. Never flinched. Never broke. Talking to him was like throwing rocks at a wall — you were more likely to hurt yourself than make a dent.
“Okay,” Komi said, breaking the silence. “Washio? You’ve got the serious face.”
Washio shook his head immediately. “No way. He’d just stare at me until I gave up.”
“Onaga?”
Onaga paled. “Forget it. He’ll eat me alive.”
Konoha snorted. “He’s not a tiger.”
Onaga hugged his knees. “Feels like one.”
Komi puffed out his chest. “I’ll do it.”
“Yeah, no,” Konoha said instantly. “If you try, he’ll tell you to shut up, and then we’ll be worse off than before.”
“Not true!” Komi protested. “I can be subtle.”
Everyone looked at him.
“…Okay, not subtle. But enthusiastic!”
Konoha rubbed his temples. This was hopeless. Konoha already knew the answer. But he still tried. “Not me.”
“Vote,” Washio said simply.
Three hands went up. All pointed at Konoha.
He stared at them in silence. Then dropped his head into his hands. “I hate you all.”
The rest of the school day was torture. Not because of math or economics, or even literature — no, those were survivable. What Konoha couldn’t survive was the running commentary inside his own head.
He spent every class imagining the worst-case scenario of confronting Akaashi.
Scenario One: He corners Akaashi after school, explains the whole “rumor has reached Miyagi” disaster, and asks him to just, for once, say something to clarify. Akaashi listens patiently, tilts his head, and then delivers the verbal equivalent of a guillotine: “That’s none of your concern, Konoha-kun.” End scene. Social death.
Scenario Two: He tries to joke about it, keep it light, like, “Haha, hey, crazy rumor, right?” Akaashi blinks, adjusts his notebook, and replies in that maddeningly neutral voice, “Why are you so interested in my personal life?” And then suddenly, Konoha is the one accused of obsessing. End scene. Social death, Part II.
Scenario Three: Akaashi doesn’t even respond. Just stares. The Stare. A silence so heavy it crushes bone. Konoha pictured himself collapsing under the weight of it, like some tragic figure in a play.
By third period, he was so far down the rabbit hole that he actually drafted possible opening lines in his notebook instead of taking notes:
- “We need to talk, as teammates.” Too formal. Sounds like a breakup.
- “Listen, Bokuto’s emotional stability is in danger.” Too dramatic. Also insane.
- “Do you want to maybe deny or confirm the girlfriend thing?” Horrible. Death sentence.
He was so deep in thought that he completely missed his name being called.
“Konoha-kun,” Fujii-sensei said once, patiently. Then again, sharper: “Konoha.”
Still nothing. He was too busy running through Scenario Four (Akaashi laughs. Quietly. At him. Which would somehow be worse than anything)
The third time, Fujii-sensei barked, “Konoha!”
Konoha jerked upright, heart slamming against his ribs, and before his brain could filter, his mouth shouted the thought currently screaming in his head:
“—BUT WHAT IF HE THINKS I’M JEALOUS OF HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND?!”
The room froze.
Absolute silence. A pencil (probably Sugimoto’s) clattered to the floor somewhere in the back row.
Konoha’s soul evacuated his body. He wanted to rewind time, break the laws of physics, anything to un-say that sentence.
Fujii-sensei stared at him, baffled. “Jealous of… whose girlfriend?”
Nobody answered. They didn’t need to. Half the class was already turning their heads toward Akaashi, who sat perfectly still, pen in hand, eyes calmly fixed on Konoha.
It was unreadable. Unblinking. The exact, bone-crushing silence Konoha had feared most.
And there it was. Scenario Three, in the flesh.
The hours after his outburst stretched into a slow, agonizing death. Konoha sat rigid at his desk, cheeks hot, ears burning, every nerve in his body screaming with secondhand embarrassment — except it wasn’t secondhand, it was his hand, and he’d signed the confession in bold letters for the entire class.
The laughter had only lasted a few seconds, mercifully cut short by Fujii-sensei’s glare. But the damage was done. Everyone had heard it. And worse, Akaashi had heard it.
Konoha didn’t dare look at him for most of fourth period. When he finally risked a glance, Akaashi was already watching him. Not with mockery, not with suspicion — just that calm, steady gaze he used in games, the one that said he was taking in every detail.
Which somehow felt worse. Because next to being unfairly handsome, terrifyingly smart, and unshakably composed, Akaashi Keiji was also a good friend. And good friends noticed when you were unraveling like a cheap sweater.
Konoha could feel it all afternoon: Akaashi’s eyes flicking toward him now and then, subtle but there. The kind of quiet observation that said: You’re not fine, and I know it. And the truth was, Konoha wasn’t fine. His stomach was in knots, his brain was boiling with scenarios, and he was running himself ragged trying to script an impossible conversation for after school.
How could he find a moment alone with Akaashi after school, without Bokuto hovering, without anyone overhearing? Should he “accidentally” wait by the shoe lockers? Suggest they walk to practice together? Pretend he’d forgotten his notebook so he could tag along when Akaashi went back for his bag?
And then, during the last period, his phone buzzed quietly in his desk. Konoha’s heart dropped — he braced for another grenade from Sugawara or Kuroo.
Instead, the sender was Akaashi Keiji. The message was short, almost casual: Do you want to talk after school?
For a moment, Konoha just stared at the screen. Relief and panic warred in his chest. Akaashi didn’t know — not really. He’d just seen a teammate, normally poised and cool, blurt something insane in class and decided to check in.
Which was, of course, exactly what made it worse. Because now Konoha actually had to talk to him.
With his pulse thudding in his ears, Konoha ducked under his desk and typed out the message: After class. Courtyard, by the old vending machines.
He stared at it for a full minute before pressing send. The second it left his screen, regret settled into his chest like a stone.
The rest of his last lesson blurred into white noise. The sensei’s voice droned on, chalk scraped across the board, classmates whispered behind their hands. Konoha heard none of it. He was too busy counting down the minutes to his own demise, staring at the clock until the hands seemed to mock him with their slowness.
When the bell finally rang, he was the first one out of his seat. Too fast. Too obvious. He slowed down in the hallway, trying to look normal, but his bag was already packed and slung over his shoulder like he was fleeing a crime scene.
And then came the waiting. Standing by the old vending machines, the hum rattling in his ears, Konoha kept checking his phone like a man condemned. One new message after another buzzed across the screen — “encouraging” in the worst ways possible.
Komi: You got this, bro! Just pretend you’re confessing your undying love! Haha jk… unless 👀
Konoha ground his teeth.
Another buzz.
Onaga: If he stares at you, don’t blink. Tigers respect dominance.
Konoha briefly considered throwing his phone into the vending machine slot.
Washio: Be direct. Don’t ramble. He hates rambling.
Which, of course, made Konoha instantly want to ramble.
Buzz.
Komi again: If it goes bad, just fake a seizure. I’ll back you up.
Konoha typed, Please stop texting me, but Komi immediately replied with twenty flexing-arm emojis.
Konoha let his head fall back against the vending machine with a hollow thunk.
And then another buzz — this one from Akaashi: On my way.
Konoha swallowed hard. Execution in T-minus two minutes.
Akaashi appeared with the exact kind of punctuality that only made Konoha more tense. Not late enough to give him breathing room, not early enough to catch him off guard. Just… perfectly on time, like an executioner who’d read the timetable. He stopped a few feet away, posture neat, gaze calm.
“Hey,” he said, almost politely.
“Hey,” Konoha echoed. And then there was silence.
It wasn’t comfortable silence, the kind that sometimes existed between friends who knew each other well. This was the kind that pressed down on your shoulders, hummed in your ears, and made every second of vending-machine buzzing feel like it was counting your heartbeat.
Konoha shifted his weight. Than his bag. Then his arms, which suddenly had nowhere natural to go. He cleared his throat. “So, um… let’s say — hypothetically — if someone… had feelings. For, you know. Someone else. And they weren’t really admitting it.” He gestured vaguely at the air. “Because of, uh… reasons. Circumstances. Timing. Gender. That kind of thing.”
Akaashi blinked once, slow. “Are you trying to confess something to me?”
“What — no!” Konoha’s voice cracked so fast he almost winced.
Akaashi tilted his head just slightly, studying him. His expression hadn’t changed — still maddeningly neutral — but there was the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Then… is this some kind of the birds and the bees talk?”
Konoha gaped. “Are you serious right now?”
“You’re being strangely vague,” Akaashi said, calmly, like he was pointing out a math error. “I thought maybe you were building up to something dramatic. Or biological.”
“I’m not —” Konoha stopped, pressing a hand over his face. His patience was cracking. “Unbelievable. Only you would take this seriously enough to actually assume I’m lecturing you about biology.”
“Should I not be?”
The flat delivery, the absolute lack of irony in his tone — it pushed Konoha straight over the edge.
“Fine,” he snapped. “You want me to spell it out? You’re the setter. Which doesn’t just mean tossing balls around, it means holding the team together — holding Bokuto together! Keeping him functional, sane, whatever. And then you go and do this.” He flung a hand in Akaashi’s general direction. “This whole…thing. With the secret girlfriend. Or whatever you think you’re hiding. And you expect the rest of us not to implode under the fallout? Do you even realize what kind of mess you’ve started?”
For the first time that day, Akaashi’s composure faltered. He blinked, slow and deliberate again, but this time his brow furrowed. “Secret girlfriend?”
Konoha let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t play dumb.” He jabbed his finger toward Akaashi’s neck like it was damning evidence in a courtroom. “That. Right there.”
Akaashi’s hand went up automatically, brushing the edge of the band-aid. For a second his calm expression slipped, eyes widening just barely — but enough. Enough for Konoha to see the exact moment it clicked.
“Oh,” Akaashi said, softly.
And then, against all odds, stoic, unflappable Akaashi Keiji looked genuinely flustered.
Konoha stared. He’d seen Akaashi calm through Bokuto’s mood swings, exam pressure, even that one time Komi nearly set the gym on fire by accident. But now? The faintest pink was spreading up Akaashi’s neck, past the edge of the band-aid. His eyes flicked away, then back, and for once, he didn’t look like a boy who had every answer neat and filed away in his head. He looked… rattled.
And Konoha, sharp enough to notice, felt a strange, bitter satisfaction. Because wasn’t it about time Akaashi cracked like the rest of them? Just once? His usually composed features betrayed the tiniest crease between his brows, the slight press of lips together as if words were caught behind them.
Konoha was still watching—half triumphant, half unnerved—when a familiar voice boomed across the courtyard.
“KONOHA! AKAASHI!”
Bokuto rounded the corner with the energy of a typhoon in sneakers. In his hand, triumphantly held aloft like sacred treasure, was a single, crumpled paper bag.
“Guess what!” he boomed. “Washio told me the cafeteria still had curry bread, and it was the last one! The very last! And I got it!” He puffed out his chest as if he’d just won Nationals on his own.
Before Konoha could process what was happening, Bokuto tore the bag open, pulled out the golden bread and flung an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, nearly knocking the poor guy forward. Then he pressed the curry bread into his hand like a knight offering spoils to his king.
“Here, Kaashi ! For you!”
Akaashi blinked, still pink, holding the untouched curry bread Bokuto had pressed into his hand.
Konoha, standing there with nothing, felt the sour taste of despair bloom at the back of his throat. Not only was he third-wheeling his own impending execution, he wasn’t even important enough to merit snack consideration.
Bokuto finally turned, his eyes round with sudden guilt. “Ah! Sorry, Konoha! I didn’t get one for you! This was the last!”
Konoha opened his mouth to answer, but Bokuto barrelled right over him. “So! What are you two talking about?”
The question hung in the air like a trap. Konoha scrambled internally — lie, lie, you need a lie. Something safe. Homework? Club plans? The weather? But his thoughts tangled like thread.
And then his gaze fell on Bokuto’s hand.
Carelessly slung around Akaashi’s shoulders, fingers pressing against the curve of his neck — exactly where the band-aid sat.
Konoha’s heart stuttered.
He wanted to look away, to come up with his excuse, but Bokuto was moving his thumb in these small, absent circles, right along the edge of the plaster. Not deliberate. Not calculated. Just a careless, comfortable touch. Except — there was something in it. A kind of unconscious pride, like he knew what was underneath. Like he’d put it there.
Konoha’s brain lurched. Wait—no. No way.
And then he caught Akaashi’s face.
The calm, controlled, neutral mask was gone. Akaashi was stiff as a board, curry bread hanging forgotten in his hand. His shoulders were tense, his jaw too tight, his eyes very carefully not looking at Konoha. And his ears. His entire face. Red.
Konoha stared. Akaashi flinched, barely perceptible, like someone caught in the spotlight of a stage. And in that second, Konoha knew that Akaashi knew that Konoha knew.
The pieces slammed together.
The band-aid. The rumors. The odd flinch when someone had asked. The gossip wildfire that had consumed the school.
It hadn’t been a secret girlfriend. It had never been a girlfriend. All that panic, all that gossip, the entire school turning itself inside out over nothing.
Because Akaashi Keiji hadn’t gone and secured himself a girl at all — he’d gone and gotten himself a boyfriend.
A secret boyfriend.
In the very loud, very unmistakable form of Bokuto Koutarou. Bokuto, who was still beaming like the sun, utterly oblivious, giving his setter the last curry bread in all of Fukurodani with one hand — while the other absentmindedly stroked the exact spot where he’d left a hickey.
Konoha felt his stomach drop into his shoes.
Lightbulb moment. Catastrophic. Blinding.
And very much irreversible.
Konoha’s brain was screaming. Not a calm, logical scream — no, it was a furious, incoherent roar, the kind that rattled behind his eyes. All day. All. Day. He and the others had been twisting themselves into knots, plotting secret meetings in broom closets, drafting contingency plans for Bokuto’s mental stability — all because Akaashi hadn’t bothered to say anything.
And there he was: standing perfectly still, curry bread in one hand, Bokuto’s arm across his shoulders, face bright red like a guilty neon sign.
Konoha’s jaw clenched. His fists balled at his sides. Steam might as well have been pouring out of his ears.
Akaashi’s eyes flicked toward him. Just a glance, quick but sharp, reading Konoha the way he always did. And this time, he didn’t miss it — the shift in Konoha’s face. The anger, the realization. The silent you absolute motherfucking bastard practically vibrating off him.
Akaashi’s mouth parted slightly, and for the first time that day he looked… cornered. He blinked, once, twice, then turned his head.
“Bokuto-san,” he said, voice steady but a shade quieter than usual. “Could you give us a few minutes?”
Bokuto blinked, reluctant to let go. “Huh?”
“Just a little while,” Akaashi added, still calm. “Please.”
Bokuto looked between them, confused. Then he grinned. “Ohhh, got it! Serious setter-talk stuff!” He slapped Akaashi’s shoulder and bounded off. “I’ll be at the gym! Don’t take too long!”
His voice faded into the distance, leaving only the hum of the vending machines and the thudding of Konoha’s pulse in his ears.
Now it was just the two of them. And Konoha was ready to erupt. His glare could have set the vending machine on fire.
Akaashi shifted, curry bread still in his hand, fingers tightening around the wrapper. He opened his mouth, closed it again. For once, words didn’t line up neatly in his head.
Finally, he tried. “The… the girl. The one people said they saw me with.” He hesitated, watching Konoha’s expression like he was waiting for a guillotine to drop. “She’s just a friend from middle school. We went out for ice cream because her mother owns the shop. She was helping picking up a birthday gift for Bokuto-san.”
Konoha blinked. “…A birthday gift.”
“Yes.” Akaashi’s voice was even, but his shoulders betrayed the tension. “That’s all it was. Nothing more.”
“And the hickey?” Konoha shot back, folding his arms.
Akaashi’s composure cracked. The tips of his ears turned crimson, his eyes darting away. He adjusted the strap of his bag as though that could distract from the truth pressing against him. Then, finally — quietly, almost reluctantly — he said it.
“That… wasn’t from her. Or any girl.”
Konoha just stared. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, forcing Akaashi to continue.
Akaashi cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the floor like he was calculating every word before it left his mouth. His voice dipped, and for the first time all day, Akaashi actually seemed unsure of himself.
“The thing is… Bokuto-san found it. Accidentally. He came by my place on Saturday, and —” Akaashi exhaled, rubbing at his temple. “He has a habit of poking around where he shouldn’t. He found the box under my bed before I could stop him.”
Konoha blinked. “You hide birthday presents under your bed?”
Akaashi ignored the comment, his tone flattening as though he was bracing for impact.
“It wasn’t just a normal gift. Not something you’d give a… regular teammate.”
A pause.
And then, finally, his eyes lifted, steady but cautious. “That’s how it started. He figured it out. And… we are dating now.”
There it was. The secret. Out in the open, heavier than any rumor.
Akaashi’s chest rose and fell, shallow. For the first time, he looked afraid — not of gossip, not of Bokuto’s moods, but of Konoha. Of his teammate’s reaction.
Konoha let the silence hang a moment longer, partly to make Akaashi sweat, partly because he was still adjusting to the fact that the day’s chaos had boiled down to this. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“You know,” he muttered, “you could’ve just told us. Instead of letting the entire school spin into a soap opera.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “But if you’re worried about me — or any of us — don’t be. None of us have a problem with it.”
Akaashi blinked.
Konoha rolled his eyes. “Really. Not me, not Washio, not Onaga, not Komi. Honestly? Most of us probably figured something like this already.”
The tension in Akaashi’s shoulders eased, just a little. He exhaled, a quiet sound, almost relief.
Konoha leveled him with one last look. “Just… next time, try not to nearly kill the rest of us with a rumor apocalypse.”
Akaashi’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. “…I’ll try.”
Konoha exhaled sharply, still glaring at him.
“Fine. Good for you. But just so we’re clear — next time the team spirals into a crisis, you’re the one running the emergency meeting again. I’m done. Retired. Permanently.”
Akaashi gave the smallest nod, calm as ever. “Understood.”
And somehow, that was enough to finally make Monday feel survivable again.