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The house still smelled new.
Not new in the sterile, empty way—no sharp tang of paint or sawdust—but new in the sense that it hadn’t yet learned them. The walls hadn’t absorbed Bokuto’s laughter or Akaashi’s quiet humming. The floorboards hadn’t memorized the cadence of their footsteps. The windows hadn’t watched them wake up together enough times to know who would reach for the curtains first.
It would. Soon.
Snow clung softly to the roof, a fine white blanket that muffled the world outside and turned the morning light pale and gentle. Christmas morning arrived without urgency, without alarms, without the pressure of schedules or flights or obligations. Just quiet. Just warmth.
Just them.
Akaashi woke first.
He always did.
Not because he was a light sleeper—years of sharing beds with Bokuto had cured him of that—but because his body seemed attuned to small, sacred moments. The hush before dawn. The particular stillness that came before snow. The way the air felt different on Christmas morning, heavy with anticipation even when no one else was awake yet.
He lay still for a moment, breathing.
Bokuto was warm beside him, sprawled in a way that suggested he’d fallen asleep mid-thought, one arm thrown over Akaashi’s waist, his leg hooked lazily over Akaashi’s calf. His hair was a mess, sticking up in impossible directions, mouth slightly open as he breathed, slow and deep.
Akaashi smiled softly.
My husband, the thought came easily now, settling into him like it had always belonged there.
Husband.
The word still felt unreal sometimes—not because it felt wrong, but because it felt earned. Hard-won. Like something fragile that they had protected fiercely until it could finally exist without fear.
Akaashi shifted carefully, easing himself out from under Bokuto’s arm inch by inch. Bokuto grumbled in his sleep, tightening his grip reflexively, pressing his face into Akaashi’s shoulder like a cat refusing to be disturbed.
“Mm—Keiji…” Bokuto mumbled, voice rough and sleepy.
“I’m still here,” Akaashi murmured, turning slightly to press a gentle kiss to Bokuto’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”
Bokuto hummed, satisfied, and relaxed again.
Akaashi slipped free.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow of snow-reflected light through the curtains and the soft amber of the hallway nightlight. Their room was still sparsely decorated—boxes half-unpacked, picture frames leaning against walls instead of hanging yet—but the bed was theirs. The blankets smelled like their detergent. Like Bokuto’s shampoo. Like home.
Akaashi pulled on a sweater—oversized, soft, one of Bokuto’s old ones that still smelled like him no matter how many times it was washed—and padded quietly down the hallway.
The house creaked softly under his steps, a sound that made his chest warm.
Downstairs, the living room waited.
The Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, lights glowing softly, ornaments reflecting warm golds and reds. Some were new, bought together with exaggerated seriousness at the store. Others were old—Bokuto’s childhood ornaments mailed to them by his parents, Akaashi’s few carefully preserved ones from his own past.
Beneath the tree sat wrapped presents, some carefully squared and perfectly folded (Akaashi), others a little lopsided and enthusiastic (Bokuto).
Akaashi stood there for a moment, hands resting lightly over his stomach.
He exhaled.
This had been a long road. Longer than either of them had anticipated when they first started trying. Months of quiet hope. Disappointment carefully swallowed. Appointments that left Akaashi emotionally wrung out in ways he rarely allowed himself to admit. Bokuto had been unwavering through all of it—fiercely optimistic, heartbreakingly gentle when that optimism cracked.
They hadn’t talked about expectations for this Christmas.
They hadn’t dared.
Akaashi crossed to the kitchen, moving with purpose now. The kettle went on. Coffee followed. He prepared breakfast quietly, the way he always did when he wanted to give Bokuto something soft to wake up to—eggs, toast, fruit arranged just so.
And then, finally, he reached into the pocket of his sweater.
The small white stick rested there, light as breath, heavy as a miracle.
Two lines.
Still there.
Still real.
Akaashi closed his eyes.
Please, he thought—not to anything in particular, just to the universe that had finally, mercifully listened. Let me give this to him the right way.
---
Bokuto woke to the smell of coffee.
It was the first thing that registered, drifting into his consciousness before anything else. Coffee, warm and rich, paired with something faintly sweet and savory that made his stomach immediately growl.
Second thing: the cold.
Not unpleasant, just enough to make him burrow instinctively into the blankets before realizing something was missing.
“Keiji?” he mumbled, eyes still half-closed.
No answer.
Bokuto squinted, pushing himself upright. The bedroom was empty except for him, the blankets rumpled where Akaashi had been, his pillow cool now.
He frowned.
Then he smiled.
Christmas.
Bokuto stumbled out of bed, dragging on pajama pants that didn’t quite fit right and a hoodie he definitely didn’t need but wanted anyway. He padded downstairs, each step accompanied by the faint creak of the new house responding to his weight.
When he reached the bottom, the sight stopped him short.
Akaashi stood in the kitchen, back to him, sunlight catching in his dark hair. The tree lights glowed behind him, the room bathed in warmth. He looked… peaceful. Grounded in a way Bokuto loved fiercely.
“Keiji,” Bokuto said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
Akaashi turned.
His smile was gentle, but his eyes were bright in a way that made Bokuto pause.
“Merry Christmas,” Akaashi said.
Bokuto crossed the room in three long steps and wrapped his arms around Akaashi, pressing his face into the side of Akaashi’s neck.
“Merry Christmas,” he echoed, grinning. “You’re up early.”
“You were snoring,” Akaashi replied evenly.
Bokuto gasped. “I do not snore.”
“You drool,” Akaashi added.
Bokuto laughed, loud and unashamed, the sound filling the house like it had always belonged there. “Okay, maybe a little.”
They ate breakfast together at the kitchen island, knees brushing, Bokuto stealing bites from Akaashi’s plate even though he’d been served the same thing. The world outside stayed quiet, snow falling lazily, as if even time had agreed to slow down for them.
After, Bokuto bounced on his heels, barely contained excitement radiating off him.
“Okay okay okay,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Presents? Presents.”
Akaashi chuckled. “You’re thirty-one.”
“And married,” Bokuto added proudly. “Which means I’m allowed to be even more excited.”
They settled on the floor by the tree, Bokuto immediately grabbing the largest, most obviously Akaashi-wrapped box.
“Nope,” Akaashi said calmly, intercepting it. “This one first.”
He handed Bokuto a small box.
Bokuto blinked. “It’s tiny.”
“Yes.”
“Is it—are you—did you get me jewelry?”
“No.”
Bokuto squinted suspiciously but tore into the paper anyway, revealing a simple wooden box. He opened it.
Inside sat the pregnancy test.
Bokuto stared.
For a second, his face went completely blank.
Then his breath hitched.
Then—very slowly—he looked up at Akaashi.
“Keiji?” His voice cracked.
Akaashi’s hands were trembling, clasped together in his lap. “It’s positive.”
Silence.
Then Bokuto made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob as he lunged forward, wrapping Akaashi in the tightest hug he could manage without knocking them both over.
“Keiji,” he choked, burying his face in Akaashi’s shoulder. “Oh my god—oh my god—are you serious?”
Akaashi laughed wetly. “I wouldn’t joke about this.”
Bokuto pulled back just long enough to cup Akaashi’s face, eyes shining, disbelief and joy crashing together. “We—we did it?”
Akaashi nodded.
Bokuto pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. “You’re—”
“I’m pregnant,” Akaashi said softly.
Bokuto cried.
Full-body, shaking sobs, joy spilling out of him without restraint. He kissed Akaashi everywhere—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips—hands gentle, reverent, like Akaashi was something holy.
“We’re gonna be dads,” Bokuto whispered, voice wrecked. “We’re really gonna be dads.”
Akaashi smiled through his own tears, heart full to bursting.
“Yes,” he said. “We are.”
---
The pregnancy test ended up on the tree almost by accident.
Bokuto had held it like it was made of glass—no, like it was made of hope—turning it over in his hands again and again, blinking hard like if he blinked too long it might disappear.
“It’s still there,” he murmured for the fifth time.
Akaashi smiled softly from where he was rewrapping torn paper. “It won’t change.”
“I know,” Bokuto said quickly, then quieter, almost reverent. “I just… keep expecting it to.”
He stood, pacing once, twice, then stopped in front of the tree. The lights reflected in his eyes as he stared at it, then down at the test in his hands.
“Can we—” He swallowed. “Can we put it here? Just for today.”
Akaashi followed his gaze.
Front and center on the tree, nestled between a wooden ornament shaped like a volleyball and a small glass star. Somewhere safe. Somewhere visible. Somewhere real.
“Yes,” Akaashi said immediately.
Bokuto let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months.
He balanced it carefully on a low branch, adjusting the needles so it wouldn’t roll, stepping back to examine it from three different angles like a proud curator.
“There,” he said, nodding. “Perfect.”
Akaashi watched him for a long moment, chest warm and aching.
That was the first time Bokuto teared up again.
He didn’t make a sound—just stood there staring at the tree, eyes glossy, lower lip trembling before he scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand.
“Oh no,” Akaashi said gently, rising to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Bokuto sniffed immediately. “I’m just—look at it, Keiji. It’s right there. It’s real. It’s—” His voice broke. “It’s ours.”
Akaashi wrapped his arms around Bokuto’s waist, pressing his cheek between Bokuto’s shoulder blades. Bokuto leaned back into him instantly, all weight and trust, one of Akaashi’s hands sliding up to rest flat over Bokuto’s heart.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Christmas morning drifted into late morning without either of them noticing.
They opened the rest of the presents eventually—Bokuto tore through wrapping paper with his usual enthusiasm, immediately forgetting half of what he’d opened because he kept glancing back at the tree. Akaashi got soft things, practical things, things Bokuto had clearly agonized over choosing.
Every time Bokuto’s gaze caught on the pregnancy test, his breath would hitch.
Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he covered his mouth. Sometimes he wiped at his eyes and muttered, “Sorry,” even though Akaashi never once looked bothered.
Around noon, Akaashi made them tea.
Bokuto followed him into the kitchen, hovering so close he was practically attached.
“You don’t need to supervise,” Akaashi said fondly.
“I do,” Bokuto replied. “You’re pregnant.”
Akaashi arched a brow. “I can still boil water.”
“I know that,” Bokuto said earnestly. “I just… like being near you.”
That, too, was new—but not surprising. Ever since the reveal, Bokuto’s hands had been on him constantly. Not possessive. Not panicked. Just grounding. Like he needed physical proof that Akaashi was still right there.
They curled up on the couch afterward, wrapped in blankets. A Christmas movie played quietly in the background, neither of them paying much attention to it.
Bokuto rested his head on Akaashi’s shoulder, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles on Akaashi’s thigh.
“Can I ask something?” Bokuto said softly.
“Always.”
“Are you… okay?” Bokuto asked. “Like—really okay?”
Akaashi considered the question carefully.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I’m scared. But I’m okay.”
Bokuto nodded slowly, accepting that without trying to fix it. “Me too.”
He hesitated, then added, “I think I’m gonna cry every time I see that test today.”
Akaashi smiled. “That’s fine.”
“I might cry tomorrow too.”
“Also fine.”
Bokuto laughed wetly and pressed a kiss to Akaashi’s temple.
Snow continued falling outside, thick and quiet. The world felt sealed off, like this was a day meant only for them.
In the afternoon, they ventured outside briefly—boots crunching softly against the snow as Bokuto insisted on showing Akaashi the backyard again, gesturing wildly about where a swing set could go someday, where a garden might fit.
“Not rushing,” Bokuto said quickly, hands up. “Just—thinking.”
Akaashi watched him with a fond, knowing smile. “You’re already planning.”
“I’ve been planning since you said ‘positive,’” Bokuto admitted. “I think my brain short-circuited and rebooted in ‘Dad Mode.’”
Akaashi laughed, breath fogging in the cold air.
When they came back inside, cheeks flushed and fingers cold, Bokuto paused just inside the door.
The tree lights glowed softly in the dimming afternoon light.
The test was still there.
Bokuto stared at it—and cried again.
This time he didn’t bother hiding it.
He just stood there, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking as Akaashi stepped in front of him, cupping his face.
“Hey,” Akaashi murmured. “Talk to me.”
“I just—” Bokuto laughed through tears. “I keep thinking about how long we wanted this. How many times we hoped. How many nights you pretended you weren’t disappointed so I wouldn’t worry.”
Akaashi’s breath caught.
“I saw it,” Bokuto continued softly. “I just didn’t know how to help.”
“You helped,” Akaashi said immediately. “By staying. By believing.”
Bokuto pressed his forehead to Akaashi’s chest, breathing him in. “I believe so hard right now.”
They ordered takeout for dinner—nothing fancy, just comfort food eaten straight from the containers while sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. Bokuto insisted on setting a place for “the baby,” which amounted to an extra napkin folded carefully beside Akaashi.
By evening, the house was dim except for the tree lights and a few lamps. Snow still fell, thick and slow.
Bokuto sat on the couch, Akaashi tucked against him, both of them warm and full and emotionally exhausted.
Bokuto reached out, gently touching Akaashi’s stomach through the fabric of his sweater.
“I know it’s early,” he said quietly. “But… hi.”
Akaashi covered Bokuto’s hand with his own, anchoring it there. “Hi,” he echoed.
They stayed like that, breathing together, letting the day settle into memory.
Their first Christmas in their new house.
Their first Christmas as husbands.
Their first Christmas as fathers.
And the tree watched, lights glowing softly, holding their secret right at its heart.