Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They used to be inseparable.

Bokuto and Akaashi—an unstoppable pair on the court, and an unshakable bond off of it. Everyone at Fukurodani knew it. Where Bokuto went, Akaashi followed, always calm beside the storm, his quiet voice grounding the wild energy of the ace like gravity to a star.

“Hey, hey, hey!!” Bokuto said, his voice booming through the hallway.

Akaashi looked up from his book, leaning against his locker as he waited for his best friend to walk over.

“Ready to go?” Akaashi asked, grabbing his black volleyball bag from off the floor, hauling it over his shoulder.

Bokuto, as energetic as ever, especially when it came to volleyball, quickly nodded and followed Akaashi to the gym, talking all about his day.

Akaashi still remembers those days.

The ones filled with warm afternoons after practice, Bokuto’s voice echoing in his ears, animated hands flying as he described some ridiculous new move he’d invented. He remembers laughing, genuinely, not the soft, polite chuckles he gives people now. He remembers feeling like he had a place.

Then everything changed.

It was supposed to be a routine thing.

A standard secondary gender check, just before they started their final year of high school. Something to get over with, like a height check or a physical. Something that didn’t define him.
But life never worked that cleanly.

Akaashi was called down to the nurses office while in 5th period science. “Akaashi Keiji? Please bring all of your things with you.”

Akaashi gathered his books and papers before walking down to the nurses office. It shouldn't have been making him nervous, but it was.

He'd sat in the sterile nurse's office, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, hands clenched in his lap.

“Hello. You must be Akaashi,” said the nurse in a soothing tone. She had blonde hair and brown eyes, looking like a very sweet lady.

“Yes, that's me.” Akaashi simply replied, not showing much emotion as usual.

The nurse made small talk as she started the test. It took a while, but Akaashi saw her shuffle towards the printer, grabbing a paper.

When she told him the results, it felt like the floor shifted under him.

Omega.

Akaashi had hoped—prayed—for Beta.

Something quiet.

Something safe.

Something that wouldn’t change how people looked at him, how they treated him.

But instead, the label came down like a verdict.

He didn’t cry. Not there. Not in front of the nurse. Not when he walked out into the summer sun and saw Bokuto waiting for him outside, arms waving, grin wide and warm like it always was.

“Akaaaashiiii!” Bokuto called, his voice full of nothing but joy. “What took you so long?”

Akaashi smiled then. A weak, brittle thing. He didn’t tell him. Not that day.

But from that point on, something in him started to curl inwards.

He told himself it was for the best. That Bokuto, an Alpha, wouldn’t understand the sudden shift in how Akaashi felt in his own skin. That maybe if he put some distance between them now, it would hurt less later.

He couldn't bear the thought of Bokuto looking at him differently—not with pity, or worse, with that instinctive Alpha pull that society romanticized too often in all the wrong ways. They had promised to one day get together. Most people on their volleyball team saw them as the perfect couple.

Akaashi was scared, terrified that Bokuto would start treating him differently. He didn't want that. He didn't want to destroy the relationship that they had built over the years of being friends and playing volleyball together.

So, he started pulling away.

It was small at first. Less eye contact. Shorter responses. Turning down hangouts with excuses about homework, headaches, family. Bokuto didn’t question it, not at first. He just smiled a little wider, talked a little more, like he could fill in the gaps Akaashi was leaving behind.

But Bokuto wasn’t stupid. He noticed.

It first started off with just a few simple texts, asking to hang out, talk, call, text, but Akaashi never responded back.

Bokuto started walking up to him. But the second Akaashi saw him walk his way, he was gone in a flash.

He had cornered Akaashi in the hallway one day.

“You okay?” he’d asked one day, voice lower, quieter. Serious. “You’ve been... different.”

Akaashi had lied. He’d gotten good at that.

“Just tired.”

Bokuto was starting to get frustrated. He asked lots of people if they had heard anything from Akaashi. Something that could explain why he was doing this.

He went to Akaashi's house one day. Everything looked the same outside as it had before. Calm, peaceful, and felt like a second home to Bokuto.

Bokuto heard shuffling inside. Akaashi's mother had come to answer the door.

"What a surprise! I didn't know you'd be here, Koutarou!" Akaashi's mother beamed with excitement. She quickly ushered Bokuto to come inside.

"Hello Mrs. Akaashi! Is Keiji here by any chance?" Bokuto asked calmly.

"Yes! He's up in his room. I haven't seen you in a while, how have your parents been?"

Akaashi's mother replied. "They've been well, thank you for asking." They continued small talk until Bokuto decided to go upstairs.

He went to Akaashi's door and knocked once. "Who is it?" A soft voice replied, unmistakably Akaashi's.

"It's me. Can I come in?" Replied Bokuto.

There was a hint of surprise and hesitation in Akaashi's voice, but he hesitantly let Bokuto in his room. It was awkward, but Bokuto started asking Akaashi what was wrong. Why he was ignoring him, and just acting much weirder than normal.

The calm voice eventually got agitated as Akaashi wouldn't answer. They fought.

"Why can you just tell me what's wrong?! It's not like it's going to change anything between us!" Bokuto said, raising his voice.

"You don't understand! It does change things because im an omega!" Akaashi said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He gasped and immediately covered his mouth.

Bokuto froze, body going still. "What?" He said, voice shaky, heart beating rapidly.

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew this would happen...I'm really sorry." Akaashi said, fighting back tears.

"This..this still doesn't change anything. You said that we would be together forever! I dont care that you're an omega! I still want to be with you, atleast as your best friend!" Bokuto said, his voice cracking slightly.

Eventually, after months of trying to convince Akaashi, Bokuto stopped asking. And Akaashi hated himself for how relieved he felt when he did.
By the time they graduated, they barely spoke. Bokuto had been scouted, of course—his talent undeniable. Akaashi left quietly, fading into the background like he always knew he was meant to.
He told himself he was doing the right thing.

But late at night, in the silence of his apartment, Akaashi sometimes wondered if Bokuto hated him now. Or worse—if he’d just forgotten him altogether.

It had been years since they last saw each other.

Bokuto had continued to get better and better at volleyball. Akaashi sometimes even went to his games.

He saw how Bokuto's eyes always searched the crowd, always looking for someone.

His heart still ached. He missed Bokuto so much. His smile, his energy, and his kindness.

But Akaashi knew it was for the best, to stay away from him.

But fate, as it always does, had other plans.

Chapter Text

The roar of the stadium never got old.

Even after years on the national team, the swell of thousands of voices, the synchronized chants, the waves of flags in the stands—it still hit Bokuto like the first time he’d ever stepped onto the court in Fukurodani’s black and white jersey. Only now, his jersey was red, his name printed bold across the back, Bokuto Koutarou, #12.

He stood at the baseline, ball in hand, the weight of the match pressing down and lifting him up all at once. Brazil. A powerhouse. Every rally felt like a war, every point ripped from clenched fists and burning lungs. His heart thundered, sweat clung to his temples, but his grin never faltered.

He lived for this.

The toss went high, and his body moved on instinct. Jump, snap, strike. The ball cracked against the hardwood on Brazil’s side, a clean ace, and the crowd exploded.

“YEEAAAHH!!” Bokuto roared, chest heaving, pumping his fists as his teammates clapped his back. The noise surged, cameras flashed, the moment immortalized.

But when the cheers settled into the background, when the announcer’s voice boomed overhead, when his teammates huddled tight in celebration—Bokuto’s eyes did what they always did.

They searched the stands.

Row by row, face by face. As though he could will him into existence.

But Akaashi was never there.

Akaashi Keiji lived quietly now.

The days blended together: the steady hum of computers at the publishing office, the shuffle of papers, the faint smell of ink and coffee clinging to his clothes. His world was beige walls, fluorescent light, and the neat red strokes of his editing pen.

It was safe. Controlled. A life designed to draw no attention.

Yet volleyball never really left him. Sometimes, while marking corrections in a manuscript, he’d catch himself twirling the pen between his fingers in the same rhythm he once spun a volleyball. And when the national team played, he always ended up in front of the TV—even when he swore he wouldn’t.

He told himself it was for the love of the sport. That watching Japan dominate the court was simply habit, like flipping through the morning paper.

But that lie never held.

Because the moment the camera found him—Bokuto Koutarou, hair still as untamable as when he was seventeen, movements sharper now, body honed from years of training—Akaashi’s chest tightened. His breath caught. And he remembered.

He remembered afternoons in Fukurodani’s gym, Bokuto’s voice booming, hands flailing as he described a new move. He remembered walking home under a fading sun, laughter bouncing between them. He remembered promises whispered like secrets, that they’d always be together.

And he remembered how he ruined it.

The ache was constant, even years later. Watching from afar was both punishment and comfort. He could see Bokuto thriving, becoming the star he was always meant to be. But he could never be part of it.

Not anymore.

After the match against Brazil, Bokuto was pulled into the press room, sweat still clinging to his hairline, adrenaline buzzing in his veins.

“You’ve been performing at the top of your game,” a reporter said, shoving a microphone forward. “What motivates you? What keeps you pushing at this level?”

Bokuto laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I love volleyball, of course! And my teammates—seriously, they’re the best. Couldn’t do any of this without them.” His grin was wide, effortless, the one the fans adored.

But then, uncharacteristically, his smile softened. His gaze dropped for a moment, like he’d been caught off guard by his own thoughts.

“But honestly…” His voice dipped quieter, almost lost under the hum of cameras. “I guess I’ve always been chasing someone. Someone who made me want to be better.”

The room leaned in. The reporters waited for a name. But Bokuto stopped himself, grinned again, and waved the tension away. “Anyway! Japan’s got a lot more winning to do, so let’s keep it up!”

The cameras never caught the name he almost whispered.

Akaashi.

Two weeks later, fate intervened.

Akaashi’s publishing company assigned him to oversee an author’s signing event at a hotel in central Tokyo. He didn’t particularly want to go—crowds drained him, and event logistics always carried hidden chaos—but work was work. He ironed his shirt, tucked manuscripts into his bag, and set off with quiet resignation.

The hotel lobby buzzed with life. Guests rolled luggage across polished marble floors, the scent of coffee and perfume blending in the air, chatter bouncing against the high ceilings. Akaashi stood near the front desk, clipboard in hand, double-checking schedules.

Then he heard it.

A laugh—loud, warm, unmistakable.

His hand froze. The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. His pulse spiked. He didn’t dare look up. Not yet.

But he knew.

And when he finally lifted his eyes, there he was.

Bokuto Koutarou, unmistakable even in a crowd, his presence magnetic. He stood with teammates in matching jackets, hair still spiked in that impossible way, gestures broad and animated. Time had changed him—his shoulders broader, his frame stronger—but at his core, he was still Bokuto.

Akaashi’s breath caught.

And then Bokuto looked across the lobby. His golden eyes scanned the room—and landed on him.

Everything stilled.

The noise of the lobby dimmed, the bustle blurred. Bokuto froze mid-sentence, his grin faltering, his eyes wide in disbelief. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he whispered it, soft but certain.

“Akaashi?”

The sound of his name in that voice was a punch to the gut. Years of silence cracked in an instant.

Akaashi should have walked away. He should have turned, let the crowd swallow him, preserved the fragile distance he’d spent years building. But his body refused. He stood rooted, heart hammering, throat dry.

And Bokuto moved.

Step after step, each one steady, unstoppable, like a force of nature.

Akaashi gripped his clipboard tighter, fingers white-knuckled. His breath came shallow, his mind racing through excuses, apologies, anything to stop the inevitable collision.

But then Bokuto was there.

Up close, the years between them collapsed. Bokuto was taller than he remembered, his presence larger, his energy radiating even in stillness. His grin was gone, replaced with something rawer, quieter.

“It’s really you,” Bokuto said, voice low, shaky at the edges. Akaashi forced himself to meet his gaze. The same eyes he had once anchored, the same eyes he had run from. They looked at him now with something that made his chest ache.

“…Hello, Bokuto,” he whispered, the words thin, almost fragile.

For a beat, neither spoke. The lobby flowed around them, strangers moving in and out, but the two of them stood in a bubble of stillness, the weight of years pressing in.

Then Bokuto smiled—not the dazzling grin for cameras, but the real one. Softer. Warmer. Familiar.

“You look the same,” he said. “Still… still Akaashi.”

Akaashi’s throat tightened. He wanted to respond, to say You’ve changed. You’ve grown. You’re everything I always knew you’d be. But the words stuck.

Bokuto’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His voice dropped.

“Why didn’t you ever…?” He trailed off, swallowed hard, shook his head. “No. Sorry. Not here.”

Akaashi blinked, caught off guard.

“Do you… have time?” Bokuto asked, almost hesitantly. The unstoppable ace, uncertain. “To talk? Just… to catch up. Please.”

Akaashi’s chest ached. He should say no. He should protect the fragile distance he’d built. But looking into Bokuto’s eyes—eyes that had once promised forever—he found himself nodding.

"…Alright.”

The office always felt colder at night.

Most of the staff had left hours ago, their voices and laughter fading down the hallway until only the hum of fluorescent lights remained. Akaashi sat at his desk, shoulders curved, red pen balanced between his fingers as he scanned another manuscript. The words blurred, swimming across the page until he blinked hard and set the pen down with a sigh.

He checked the clock. Past nine. Too late, really, but the silence made it easier to work. No one watching, no small talk, no curious glances in his direction. Just him, the scratch of his pen, and the quiet.

The quiet was safer.

He stacked the manuscript neatly, aligning the corners until they were perfect, then slipped them into a folder. His motions were meticulous, practiced. Every little task was performed with care, as if precision could make up for the chaos that had always threatened to pull at the edges of his life.

He turned off his desk lamp, slipped his bag over his shoulder, and left the building.

Tokyo’s night air pressed cool against his skin. He walked down the street with steady, measured steps, the city lights glinting in puddles from an earlier rain. Couples passed him, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of cars. Akaashi lowered his gaze, as though not seeing them would make the ache in his chest easier to ignore.

He lived alone now, in a modest apartment tucked away from the busier parts of the city. The walk there was familiar, almost comforting—though sometimes too quiet, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts.

And tonight, his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.

The sight of Bokuto earlier in the lobby had cracked something open inside him. He had managed to keep his walls steady for years, building them brick by brick with silence and distance. But all it took was one look—those golden eyes, that voice calling his name—and suddenly he was seventeen again, terrified of what his body had become.

Omega.

The word still lodged like a thorn in his chest. He hated how much power it held over him. How it had shaped his choices, his fears, the slow unraveling of the bond he had once treasured most.

He remembered the first time his heat came.

It had been brutal. He hadn’t been prepared—not really. The pamphlets at school, the whispered advice from classmates, none of it matched the reality of it. The fever that raged through his body, the bone-deep ache, the sharp, gnawing emptiness that left him curled in bed with his sheets twisted around him.

His mother had done her best. She had hovered outside his door with medicine and cool cloths, her voice soft but worried. “You’ll get used to it, Keiji. It’s part of who you are.”

But Akaashi hadn’t wanted to get used to it. He hadn’t wanted this.

He had pressed his face into his pillow and cried quietly, ashamed of himself for needing something he couldn’t ask for, something he couldn’t control. Each wave of heat felt like a reminder stamped into his skin: you are an omega. You are weak. You are vulnerable.

The world romanticized it, dressed it up in pretty lies about fated bonds and protective alphas. But for him, it was nothing but exposure. A spotlight he never asked for.

He learned how to hide it. He ordered suppressants discreetly, swallowed them with water and silence. When they didn’t fully work, he locked himself in his room, knuckles white against the sheets, whispering to himself that it would end soon. It always ended.

And every time, when the fever broke and he lay there exhausted, he promised himself he would never let anyone see him like that.

Least of all Bokuto.

He adjusted the strap of his bag, eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead.

Bokuto had been the one person he could never imagine looking at him differently. Bokuto had always been too kind, too bright, too steadfast. But Akaashi knew how the world worked. He had seen the way omegas were talked about, the way people looked at them—as delicate, as dependent, as incomplete without an alpha beside them.

And if Bokuto had known? If Bokuto had realized that the person he promised forever to was suddenly something society defined by their biology…

Akaashi had been too afraid to risk it. Too afraid to see even a flicker of pity in those golden eyes.

So he had run.

And tonight, standing across from Bokuto in that lobby, seeing the years melt away in an instant, he had felt the same fear coil sharp in his chest.

Because part of him still wanted to run.

The apartment was dark when he unlocked the door. He set his bag by the entryway, loosened his tie, and flicked on the light. The familiar space greeted him—tidy, minimalist, almost impersonal. Everything in its place, nothing out of line.

He slipped out of his shoes and padded to the kitchen, filling a glass of water. The silence pressed heavy here, thicker than in the office, more suffocating somehow.

He leaned against the counter, glass cool in his hands, and let himself breathe.

Seeing Bokuto again had rattled him. He hadn’t realized how much until now, standing in the solitude of his apartment, the memory of that smile still vivid in his mind.

Bokuto had looked at him like nothing had changed. Like he was still the same Akaashi who once steadied him through his mood swings, who listened to his endless ideas, who laughed at his terrible impressions.

But everything had changed.

Hadn’t it?

Akaashi pressed his palms flat against the counter, grounding himself. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Not now.

And yet, the thought lingered. Tomorrow, he would meet Bokuto again. They would sit down, talk, maybe even laugh. He wanted it—and it terrified him all the same.

His gaze drifted to the bookshelf across the room. On the bottom shelf, hidden behind stacks of old novels, lay a worn volleyball. He hadn’t touched it in years, not since Fukurodani, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

He walked over, crouched down, and pulled it free. The leather was scuffed, faded from use, but familiar under his hands. He ran his thumb over the seams, memories flickering sharp and unbidden.

Bokuto’s grin after a perfect set. The weight of victory in their hands. The sound of the crowd, smaller then, but no less deafening.

His chest ached.

He set the ball back carefully, almost reverently, and stood.

Tomorrow, he thought. He would face him tomorrow.

And maybe, just maybe, he would finally find the courage he’d been missing all these years.

The sound of the kettle whistling filled the kitchen. Akaashi moved automatically, pulling it from the stove and pouring hot water into his mug. The faint steam curled upward, carrying the scent of chamomile. He had picked up the habit years ago—tea before bed, something warm to quiet his thoughts—but tonight, it barely touched the storm in his chest.

He carried the mug into the living room and sat down on the couch. The cushions hardly dipped under his weight. The silence pressed heavy, thick enough that he could almost imagine another voice cutting through it.

His mother’s voice.

She was the only family he had left. His father had died when he was still young, too young to hold more than blurry fragments of memory—an arm around his shoulders, the smell of cologne, laughter echoing through the house. After that, it had just been the two of them.

She had raised him with care. With love, too, though sometimes it was a love sharpened by worry. She had always worked hard, always wanted to protect him, to prepare him for the world. And Akaashi had always been grateful.

But once he presented as omega, the conversations had shifted.

He remembered the first time vividly.

He had still been in high school, the shock of it new, raw. His body had barely stopped trembling from his first heat, the suppressants barely enough to quiet the worst of it. He had stumbled into the kitchen, pale and exhausted, and his mother had looked at him with both tenderness and something else—something heavy.

“You’ll need someone, Keiji,” she had said softly, pressing a glass of water into his hands. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

At the time, the words had felt like comfort. But they lingered in his mind, repeating, reshaping. You’ll need someone.

It wasn’t long before “someone” became more specific.

“An alpha would make things easier.”
“Don’t you think about the future? About stability?”
“You don’t have to keep struggling like this. There are people who would take care of you.”

The words had always been gentle, never cruel. She meant well. He knew she meant well. But each time she said them, something in him curled tighter.

Because what he heard wasn’t just advice.

What he heard was: You’re incomplete as you are.
What he heard was: You can’t handle this on your own.
What he heard was: You need an alpha to fix what being an omega made you.

And no matter how much he tried to remind himself that his mother loved him, the sting never faded.

He sipped his tea, gaze distant.

She had even tried setting him up once.

It was right after he’d graduated university, still trying to find his footing in the world. He’d come home for dinner, the smell of miso soup greeting him at the door. And there, sitting politely in the living room, had been an unfamiliar man.

Tall. Confident. Alpha.

The conversation had been polite, stilted. Akaashi had listened to him talk about his job, about his ambitions, about the way he wanted a partner who would “support” him. He had smiled where he was supposed to, nodded when expected, but inside his chest, something had twisted so tightly he thought he might choke.

Afterward, when the man left, his mother had looked at him with hopeful eyes.

“Well? What do you think?”

Akaashi had gone quiet. Too quiet. He remembered standing there, his hands trembling slightly, the words piling in his throat until finally he managed: “Don’t do that again.”

The hurt on her face had been immediate, unintentional. He hadn’t meant to wound her. But he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting through another evening like that—being introduced like a puzzle piece waiting for its missing part.

His mother hadn’t tried again. But every so often, the subject still slipped out. A comment over dinner. A sigh when he came home alone again for the holidays.

“You deserve to be cared for.”
“It would be nice to see you with someone strong.”
“You don’t have to carry everything yourself, Keiji.”

Always gentle. Always laced with love.

But still, always cutting.

Akaashi closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch.

He knew she wanted him to be happy. He knew she worried about him being alone. And sometimes, on the loneliest nights, he almost believed her—almost believed that maybe things would be easier if he let someone fill that role, if he let himself fall into the neat little box society had already built for omegas.

But the thought made his skin crawl.

He didn’t want to be chosen because of his secondary gender. He didn’t want to be seen as someone’s fragile omega, a prize or a responsibility.

And most of all, he didn’t want to settle for someone who wasn’t…

He stopped the thought there, throat tightening.

Because he knew where it led.

Bokuto.

Always, always back to Bokuto.

The one person who had never made him feel lesser, never once looked at him like he was fragile or incomplete. The one person he had been too afraid to tell the truth to—because losing that gaze of unshakable trust had felt like a risk he couldn’t take.

So he had chosen silence. Distance.

And it had cost him everything.

The tea had gone cold in his hands. He set the mug down on the table and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavy on him.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would see Bokuto again.

He should be thinking about what to say, about how to carry himself, about how to keep the past from bleeding into the present. But instead, all he could think of was the years in between—the long nights spent convincing himself he didn’t need anyone, the gentle but cutting words from his mother, the fear that one wrong step would reveal just how small he felt inside.

Akaashi drew in a slow breath.

He couldn’t undo the past. He couldn’t rewrite the choices he had made.

But tomorrow, maybe, he could at least start to face them.

Chapter Text

Sleep did not come easily that night.

Akaashi lay in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest, staring at the faint pattern of shadows on his ceiling. The clock on his nightstand ticked softly—each second an accusation. 11:47. 12:15. 1:03.

Every time he closed his eyes, Bokuto’s face surfaced. Not the way he had looked tonight in the lobby—older, broader, his smile tempered by years of responsibility—but the younger version, the one that had haunted Akaashi’s dreams for years.

Bokuto in his Fukurodani uniform, grinning ear to ear, golden eyes sparkling like he’d just invented volleyball himself. Bokuto sitting beside him during study sessions, tapping his pencil against the desk as if his body could never hold still. Bokuto in those last, painful months of high school, standing in Akaashi’s doorway with hurt in his eyes, asking why won’t you talk to me anymore?

Akaashi shifted onto his side, squeezing his pillow tighter. His chest ached with it—memory and anticipation colliding in a way that left him raw.

Tomorrow.

He was supposed to meet Bokuto tomorrow.

The thought filled him with a strange mixture of dread and… hope. A word he hadn’t dared claim for years.

The morning came far too quickly.

Akaashi dragged himself out of bed with a heaviness in his limbs that felt half physical, half emotional. The floor was cold under his feet, the air sharp with early light. He padded into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed his face with water.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and froze.

His hair was mussed, his eyes shadowed from too little sleep. His mouth pressed into a flat line, the faintest crease visible between his brows.

He looked tired. Older.

Would Bokuto notice?

Would he care?

Akaashi’s hand drifted up, fingers brushing against the curve of his neck. The faint scar at the base of his throat—barely visible, but to him, glaring—marked him undeniably. Omega.

He still remembered the first time he had caught himself staring at it in the mirror, just days after presenting. The shame had been immediate, hot, like a brand. He had tugged up his collar, avoided mirrors for weeks, and even now, years later, he sometimes felt the same impulse—to hide, to cover, to erase.

He turned away from the mirror, grabbing his toothbrush as though that might anchor him back into something ordinary. The taste of mint filled his mouth, sharp and clean, but it did nothing to wash away the gnawing thought: He’s going to see me. Really see me.

Breakfast was an afterthought—a piece of toast he barely tasted, half a cup of tea gone cold before he remembered to drink it. His stomach was too tight to handle more.

What consumed him instead was the question of what to wear.

It shouldn’t matter. He told himself it didn’t matter. But when he stood in front of his closet, eyes scanning row after row of shirts and jackets, he felt the old nervousness claw up his throat.

Too casual, and it would look like he hadn’t cared. Too formal, and it would look like he was trying too hard. Too plain, and he would blend into the background the way he always had—but wasn’t that exactly the problem?

He pulled out a shirt, held it against himself in the mirror, frowned, and shoved it back onto the hanger. Tried again. And again.

For a moment, frustration swelled, enough that he almost abandoned the whole attempt. Just throw on the first thing within reach, let Bokuto see him as he was—tired, guarded, unimpressive.

But the thought stung.

Because a part of him, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, still wanted Bokuto to look at him the way he used to. With admiration. With warmth. With that unshakable certainty that Akaashi mattered.

In the end, he chose something simple: a dark, button-up shirt with sleeves he could roll neatly at the wrists, paired with slacks that fit just enough to look intentional. It wasn’t flashy, but it wasn’t careless either. It was… safe.

Even then, as he buttoned the shirt, his hands trembled.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, long before he needed to leave. His bag rested by the door, though it carried nothing but a notebook and pen—an excuse, he told himself, to jot things down if conversation ran dry.

The silence stretched.

He should do something—read, clean, distract himself—but his body refused to move. Instead, his mind spun.

What would Bokuto say? Would he ask about the years they’d lost? Would he be angry, hurt? Would he laugh it off, like he always had?

And beneath all those questions, the one Akaashi feared most: would he look at him differently?

Not as a friend. Not as a teammate. Not as the person who once steadied him when no one else could.

But as an omega.

His stomach twisted. He pressed his palms against his knees, grounding himself in the press of fabric against skin.

It was only a meeting. Only a conversation.

But for Akaashi, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground ready to give way beneath him.

By the time the clock struck noon, he couldn’t sit still any longer. He grabbed his bag, slipped on his shoes, and stepped outside. The air was cool, crisp with the faint promise of autumn.

His pulse thrummed in his throat with every step toward the station.

Tomorrow had become today.

And today, he would see Bokuto again.

The rhythm of Akaashi’s footsteps on the pavement echoed in his ears, steady and deliberate. Each step carried him closer to the café where Bokuto had asked to meet, but the closer he drew, the heavier his chest became.

It was too easy, in that fragile quiet between breaths, for his mind to slip backward. To unspool years of memories he had spent so long trying to bury.

He had never meant to hurt Bokuto.

That was the part that gnawed at him most.

Back in high school, when he started pulling away, it hadn’t been because he wanted to. Every sharp word, every excuse, every time he let his phone buzz unanswered—it had felt like driving nails into his own skin.

Because he missed him. God, he missed him.

He missed Bokuto’s booming laugh, the way his presence filled a room like sunlight breaking through clouds. He missed the ease of their conversations, how Bokuto never cared if Akaashi spoke much or little, never minded the silences. He missed being someone’s anchor, the one person who could reach through Bokuto’s storms and steady him.

But more than that, he missed being seen.

Not as an omega. Not as someone fragile, delicate, or lesser. But simply as Keiji.

When Bokuto looked at him, it had never been with pity. Never with expectation. Just… warmth. Trust. Like he mattered in a way that was unshakable.

And that was exactly why he had pulled away.

Because once the word omega attached itself to his name, Akaashi couldn’t believe he deserved to be looked at that way anymore.

He remembered the first night it truly hit him.

It was weeks after his designation, long after the nurses had sent him home with pamphlets and prescriptions and half-hearted reassurances. He had been lying awake in bed, the moonlight casting silver shapes across his ceiling. His body still felt foreign to him, wrong in a way he couldn’t articulate.

All his life, he had imagined himself as something steady, unremarkable, safe. Beta.

Betas moved through the world without complication. No one looked at them twice, no one pinned expectations on their backs, no one saw them as fragile or dangerous. Betas could just be.

That was all Akaashi had wanted. To exist without his identity dictating how people treated him.

But instead, he had woken one morning branded with something else. Something that made strangers look at him differently, that made whispers curl through the hallways when the news spread.

Omega.

And suddenly, everything he thought he knew about himself fractured.

Omegas were delicate. Omegas were submissive. Omegas were expected to find an Alpha to “take care” of them.

He hated it. Hated the way the word clung to him, heavy as chains. Hated that it erased all the effort he had put into being dependable, capable, self-sufficient.

When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see Keiji anymore. He saw an omega. Weak. Frail. Doomed to need.

And the thought of Bokuto—bright, strong, unstoppable Bokuto—looking at him and seeing that same thing was unbearable.

So he told himself lies.

That if he pulled away now, it would hurt less later. That if he distanced himself, Bokuto would move on, find someone better, someone who wasn’t weighed down by the word omega.

But late at night, when the world was quiet and the ache of loneliness pressed against his ribs, the truth bled through.

He wanted to call him. He wanted to hear his voice, to listen to him ramble about practice or a new move he was perfecting. He wanted to laugh again, real laughter, the kind that only came when Bokuto was around.

And the guilt was suffocating.

Every time his phone lit up with Bokuto’s name, he stared at it until the screen dimmed. Every unanswered message was a knife to the gut. Every ignored knock at his door left him hollow.

And yet, he did nothing.

Because the fear was louder.

The fear that Bokuto would look at him differently. That his friend, his sun, would see him as nothing more than an omega.

He remembered one afternoon in particular.

Bokuto had been waiting for him outside the school gates, volleyball bag slung over his shoulder, waving like he always did. His grin had been wide, unguarded.

And for a heartbeat, Akaashi almost went to him. His legs almost carried him forward. He could almost feel what it would be like to fall back into step beside him, to hear him talk about nothing and everything, to feel that sense of belonging again.

But then, like a shadow crossing the sun, the thought came: He’ll treat you differently now.

And Akaashi’s feet froze.

Instead of walking toward Bokuto, he turned away, slipping down a side street before he could be seen.

He hated himself for it. He hated the way his chest ached, the way tears threatened at the edges of his vision. He hated that his cowardice was costing him the one person he couldn’t bear to lose.

But still, he didn’t go back.

The memories blurred after that—days filled with excuses, weeks where silence stretched between them, months that carved a gulf too wide to cross.

And yet, even in the distance, Bokuto lingered.

Akaashi found himself scanning sports magazines in convenience stores, eyes drawn to the pages where Bokuto’s name appeared. He found himself searching for him in televised matches, heart lurching every time the camera caught his smile.

It hurt. It always hurt.

Because no matter how far he ran, no matter how much he told himself it was for the best, one truth gnawed at him relentlessly:

He missed him.

He missed Bokuto more than he could ever admit.

The flash of headlights on the street snapped Akaashi back to the present. He blinked, realizing he had slowed, his body caught somewhere between memory and reality. The café was only a few blocks ahead now.

His pulse quickened, a drumbeat beneath his skin.

He had spent years drowning in guilt, convincing himself that distance was safer, that silence was easier.

But now, with every step bringing him closer, he couldn’t escape the question pressing harder with each breath:

What if Bokuto still looked at him the way he used to?

And worse—
What if he didn’t?

The café was brighter than he expected.

Akaashi paused just outside the glass doors, his reflection staring back at him in the polished surface. For a moment, he caught himself adjusting his collar, fingers tugging at the fabric as if that could hide the tremor beneath his skin.

Inside, the air was warm. The smell of roasted coffee beans and sugar clung thick in the atmosphere, wrapping around him the moment he stepped in. The low hum of conversation filled the space—quiet laughter, the clink of cups against saucers, the faint hiss of the espresso machine.

It should have felt ordinary. Comfortable, even. But Akaashi’s pulse was so loud in his ears it drowned everything else out.

He scanned the room. His gaze slipped over tables of strangers, over groups of students bent over textbooks, over an elderly couple sharing a slice of cake. For a moment, he almost let himself believe Bokuto wouldn’t be there—that maybe this was some mistake, a miscommunication, a reprieve.

But then he saw him.

Bokuto was seated at a corner table, half-turned toward the window where sunlight spilled across his shoulders. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his posture relaxed in that deceptively casual way Akaashi remembered—like every muscle in his body still thrummed with energy, even when he sat still.

And even from across the room, Akaashi recognized him.

His hair was shorter now, neater, though the stubborn cowlick still stood tall at the crown of his head. His shoulders had broadened, the lines of his frame filled in with years of training and strength. His jaw was sharper, his features more defined.

But his smile—

The moment Bokuto looked up and spotted him, that smile bloomed, wide and radiant, like the years had fallen away and nothing had changed.

“Akaashi!”

The sound of his name on that voice nearly unraveled him.

For a second, Akaashi froze. His instinct screamed at him to turn around, to flee before the moment could collapse under the weight of everything unsaid.

But his feet carried him forward.

The space between them felt impossibly long, each step deliberate, measured, his hands clenched in the fabric of his bag strap. By the time he reached the table, his throat was tight, words sticking like stones.

“Hey,” he managed, voice quieter than he intended.

Bokuto grinned wider. “You came.”

“Of course,” Akaashi said. He hated the stiffness in his tone, the way it betrayed the storm inside him.

Bokuto gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit! I already ordered you something. I didn’t know if you’d still like the same stuff but—well, I figured you probably still like coffee. You always drank it before exams, remember? To stay awake.”

The words tumbled out in that same eager rhythm, familiar and warm. But there was something gentler under it now, something steadier.

Akaashi sat, setting his bag carefully at his side. His pulse hadn’t slowed, but he forced himself to meet Bokuto’s eyes.

They were the same. Bright, gold, impossible to look away from.

And they were looking at him like he hadn’t changed at all.

The drinks arrived—two cups, one dark coffee for Akaashi, one frothy cappuccino for Bokuto. Steam curled upward, carrying the bitter-sweet scent between them.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable, like both of them were waiting for the other to bridge the gap.

Finally, Bokuto leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in his hands.

“You look good,” he said simply.

The words landed like a stone in Akaashi’s stomach. He ducked his head slightly, fingers curling around the warmth of his cup. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it.” Bokuto’s tone held no hesitation, no teasing. Just truth.

Akaashi didn’t know what to do with that. His chest tightened, and he took a sip of coffee to cover the way his throat felt too full.

The conversation started in pieces, scattered like stones across water.

“How’s work?”
“Fine.”
“You’re still in Tokyo, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still—uh—read as much?”

At that, Akaashi almost smiled. “I suppose so.”

Bokuto chuckled, the sound rich and familiar. “Figures. You used to read while waiting for practice to start. I could never figure out how you didn’t get distracted.”

“It’s not hard to ignore noise when you’re used to it,” Akaashi murmured before he could stop himself.

Bokuto barked a laugh. “Ouch. Guess I was pretty loud, huh?”

Akaashi didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching just slightly.

And for a heartbeat, it felt almost normal again.

But beneath the small talk, Akaashi’s mind spun.

Every time Bokuto’s gaze lingered, he wondered what he saw. Did he see the years carved into Akaashi’s face? The tiredness in his posture? Did he notice the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he gripped his coffee like a lifeline?

And worse—did he see the omega in him?

The thought was a constant echo. It made him shift in his seat, pull his sleeves down over his wrists, sit straighter as if posture alone could make him appear stronger, less fragile.

But if Bokuto noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he kept talking, his voice carrying the same warmth it always had, his laughter still bright enough to cut through the heaviness in Akaashi’s chest.

At one point, Bokuto leaned back, his gaze softer now, quieter.

“I missed you, Akaashi.”

The words were simple. Direct. No hesitation, no deflection.

Akaashi’s heart stuttered. His grip on his cup tightened. He opened his mouth, but the words tangled.

He wanted to say I missed you too. He wanted to confess that every day without him had felt like carrying a hollow space where sunlight used to be.

But the fear pressed too hard against his ribs.

So all he managed was: “It’s been a long time.”

Bokuto didn’t push. He just smiled again, gentler this time, like he understood more than Akaashi could say.

And for the first time in years, Akaashi let himself believe—maybe, just maybe—the distance between them wasn’t impossible to cross.

Their conversation drifted into another lull, the steam from their cups long gone, the café’s background noise soft against the weight between them. Bokuto leaned back in his chair, tilting his head as if he were trying to memorize every detail of Akaashi’s face.

“You know,” he said suddenly, “I don’t even have your number anymore.”

The words made Akaashi’s stomach twist. It was true—phones were replaced, numbers changed, years passed in silence. But hearing it aloud made it feel like a record of the distance between them.

Bokuto leaned forward, elbows on the table again, golden eyes catching the light. “Can I… have it again?”

For a second, Akaashi hesitated. His phone sat in his pocket like a weight, his pulse fluttering at the thought of handing over something so simple and yet so revealing. Contact information wasn’t just digits—it was an invitation. A promise that the silence wouldn’t return.

“Sure,” Akaashi said at last, voice softer than he intended.

Bokuto’s grin broke wide, as if he’d just scored the winning point in a championship. He fumbled with his phone, unlocking it and sliding it across the table. “Here. Put it in. Please tell me you’re still ‘Akaashi K.’ because I saved you under like three different nicknames back in school and kept forgetting which was the real one.”

Akaashi almost rolled his eyes but typed in his number carefully, feeling Bokuto’s gaze burning across the table. When he slid the phone back, Bokuto immediately tapped his own name into Akaashi’s device, his energy radiating like sunlight.

The moment was strangely grounding, as if something that had unraveled years ago was being tied together again, thread by thread.

And as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, Akaashi caught the faintest trace of Bokuto’s scent.

Fresh mint. Not sweet, not artificial—the sharp, grounding clarity of crushed leaves between fingers. Clean and alive. It cut through the heaviness that had followed Akaashi all evening, pulling a breath deeper into his lungs than he realized he needed.

In return, Bokuto leaned just slightly forward, his smile softening for a moment, eyes fluttering closed as though savoring something invisible.

“Still cinnamon,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Like when the cafeteria had those rolls before practice.”

Heat prickled at the tips of Akaashi’s ears. He hadn’t expected Bokuto to notice, let alone remember. His instinct was to shrink away, to cover it up, to apologize for being so obvious. But Bokuto only looked delighted, like the world had just handed him an old favorite song.

They parted outside the café, the night air cooler, tinged with autumn. Bokuto shoved his hands into his jacket pockets but still looked like he might burst with energy.

“Text me when you get home?” he said, rocking slightly on his heels. “Just so I know you didn’t, like, trip over a curb or something.”

Akaashi arched an eyebrow. “I’ve managed fine for years without you worrying about my coordination.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to worry before.”

The words lingered even after they went their separate ways.

When Akaashi got home, he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. He typed a brief, simple message before he could overthink it.

Akaashi: I’m home.

It took less than a minute for Bokuto to reply.

Bokuto: Yesss!! Good! Glad you didn’t fall into a manhole or something.
Bokuto: …do you still stay up late reading?
Bokuto: Or are you like… a responsible adult now?

Akaashi exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching against his will. His thumbs hovered before he typed back.

Akaashi: Sometimes. Depends on the book.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Bokuto: Knew it!! Some things never change 😁

The warmth of it filled the room in a way that made Akaashi’s chest ache. It was ridiculous, really, how a string of messages could make the air feel lighter.

The first week after they exchanged numbers, Akaashi’s phone lit up more than it had in months.

At first, it was startling. His notifications had long been reserved for work emails, the occasional reminder from his mother, or an online order arriving. Nothing that made his pulse jump. Nothing that made him hesitate, staring at the screen before daring to swipe it open.

But Bokuto’s name—saved in his phone now as simply Bokuto Koutarou—was different.

Day 1

Bokuto: Morning!!! Did you sleep?? 😤 Don’t lie!!
Bokuto: I bet you stayed up late again.
Bokuto: Akaashi you need your 8 hours!!

Akaashi blinked at his phone, still in bed, hair sticking out at odd angles. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet.

Akaashi: I slept fine. You’re very loud, even in text.

Bokuto: LOUD AND PROUD 💪
Bokuto: Also I had practice this morning. Guess who nailed a straight shot down the line?? THIS GUY!!!

Akaashi: Congratulations.

Bokuto: That’s it?? No “wow Bokuto you’re incredible”? No “I’m impressed, Bokuto”?
Akaashi: You seem impressed enough for both of us.
Bokuto: HAH!! Fair.

Day 3

Bokuto: Omg I saw a cat that looked EXACTLY like the one that used to hang around the gym back in high school. Remember?? The white one with the spot on its tail??

Akaashi was in the middle of grading reports when the message buzzed in. His pen hovered, mind dragged instantly back to the dusty corner of Fukurodani’s gym doors, Bokuto crouched down offering a water bottle cap to a stray cat.

Akaashi: I remember. You tried to feed it protein bars.

Bokuto: IT WAS HUNGRY!! How was I supposed to know cats don’t eat that stuff?? 😂

Despite himself, Akaashi’s lips curved. His students’ messy handwriting blurred as memories filled the page instead.

Day 6

It was late—past midnight—when Akaashi’s phone buzzed again. He almost ignored it, assuming it was spam or a system notification. But Bokuto’s name lit the screen.

Bokuto: Hey. Can’t sleep.
Bokuto: Sorry if this wakes you up. Just wanted to say I’m glad we talked again.

Akaashi sat in the dark of his apartment, blanket pulled over his knees. His throat felt tight. He typed carefully.

Akaashi: It didn’t wake me. I’m glad too.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Finally, Bokuto sent—

Bokuto: Goodnight, Akaashi. Sweet dreams.

Akaashi set the phone down, but it was a long while before he closed his eyes.

Week 2

Bokuto’s energy didn’t wane. If anything, it grew. He texted about everything—what he ate for breakfast, funny things his teammates said, memes he didn’t fully understand but sent anyway with too many emojis.

At first, Akaashi responded sparingly. Short sentences. Occasional questions. But the more Bokuto filled the silence, the harder it became not to answer. His words chipped away at the walls he’d built.

Bokuto: Hey hey hey guess what??
Akaashi: What.
Bokuto: I beat my personal record in training today!!
Akaashi: That’s impressive.
Bokuto: You’re supposed to say “wow, Bokuto-san, you’re amazing” 😂
Akaashi: Consider it implied.
Bokuto: I’ll take it!!

Week 3

The shift was subtle, but Akaashi noticed it: his phone no longer felt like a burden. Instead, he found himself anticipating the buzz. Sometimes, he even typed first.

Akaashi: How was practice?
Bokuto: OMG YOU ASKED FIRST!!! 🎉
Bokuto: Practice was AWESOME. Coach said my stamina’s crazy good lately.
Akaashi: I’m not surprised. You never ran out of energy.
Bokuto: You noticed 🥹

Reading that, Akaashi had to set the phone down for a moment. His chest tightened, memories flickering back—Bokuto’s shouts across the gym, his laugh echoing in the locker room, his grin after a perfect spike.

He’d noticed. He’d always noticed.

Through it all, their scents began to weave into the story of their meetings. The first time they bumped shoulders walking down a busy street, Bokuto’s mint washed over Akaashi, sharp and grounding, startling in its clarity. Akaashi ducked his head, embarrassed at the flush rising in his cheeks.

Later, over coffee, Bokuto leaned close to show him a picture on his phone. Akaashi felt the air shift—the faint sweetness of his own cinnamon roll scent curling between them. He tensed, bracing for teasing or discomfort.

Instead, Bokuto smiled, eyes crinkling. “I forgot how good you always smell.”

Akaashi’s face burned. He stirred his coffee unnecessarily, words caught in his throat.

What started as occasional meet-ups turned into a rhythm neither acknowledged aloud. Once every two weeks became once a week. Then twice. Sometimes it was planned—“Dinner after your shift?”—and sometimes it was impulsive.

Bokuto: I’m near your neighborhood. You free?
Akaashi: For a little while.

They fell into patterns: ramen shops, walks, bookstores, late coffee runs. Akaashi tried to tell himself it wasn’t dangerous, that this wasn’t the same as before. But each time Bokuto leaned close, laughter spilling, or texted him goodnight, the cracks in his defenses widened.

The scents told the story even when words didn’t. Mint, fresh and grounding, wrapping around Akaashi like a steady hand on his back. Cinnamon, sweet and unshakable, slipping out despite every effort to suppress it.

Bokuto never teased. Never made him feel small for it. He simply smiled, as if Akaashi’s scent was the most natural, welcome thing in the world.

And slowly—dangerously—Akaashi began to believe him.

Chapter Text

The months that followed blurred together softly, like watercolor bleeding across paper.

What began as a hesitant reconnection—one awkward lunch, a few text messages that fizzled into silence, then another—turned into something quieter but more constant. A rhythm. A habit.

Akaashi didn’t even notice when it happened.
At first, Bokuto’s messages were just little blips in his day: an energetic “HEY, HEY, HEY!!” at 8:00 a.m. sharp, or a photo of some ridiculous latte art shaped like an owl with the caption “look!! it’s me!!” But before long, the messages started filling the small spaces in Akaashi’s life—the moments between editing reports, the late-night quiet before sleep. He found himself checking his phone more than he wanted to admit.

He told himself it was just because Bokuto could be… persistent. Unstoppable, really.

But somewhere along the line, his replies stopped being obligatory. They started being genuine.

[TEXTS — two months after reconnecting]

Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY guess what!!
Akaashi: You’re eating lunch again before practice?
Bokuto: what no >:(
Akaashi: Then I give up. What.
Bokuto: i finally nailed that crazy serve I told u about!!!
Akaashi: The one that sent the ball into the ceiling last time?
Bokuto: YEAH THAT ONE!! except this time it stayed on the court!!
Akaashi: Congratulations. That’s progress.
Bokuto: >:( akaashiiiii you could at least pretend to be impressed
Akaashi: I’m very impressed, Bokuto-san. Truly.
Bokuto: there we go!!! that’s my setter

Akaashi stared at that last text longer than he meant to.
That’s my setter.

It shouldn’t have meant anything—Bokuto called everyone something—but it sank into him all the same, warm and aching. He told himself it was just nostalgia, just the ghosts of old habits lingering in the air. But when he caught himself smiling faintly at his phone, he quietly put it face-down on his desk and took a long breath, as though that might steady his heart.

They started meeting up more often.

At first, it was innocent—lunches at quiet cafés, quick coffee runs, Bokuto’s unending attempts to drag him to the gym to “help him warm up” (which Akaashi politely declined every time). But the more they saw each other, the less it felt like something to overthink. Their conversations found an old rhythm again, familiar yet changed.

Bokuto had grown broader with age, shoulders heavy with the kind of strength that came from years of hard work and self-discipline. His laugh, though, was the same—loud, bright, full-bodied. It filled the spaces Akaashi didn’t realize had been empty for so long.

Akaashi had changed too.
He was quieter, maybe more reserved, but the core of him—the patience, the subtle humor that lived between words—was still there. The world had demanded he grow cautious, and he had. But around Bokuto, that guarded composure began to loosen, bit by bit.

The first time they hugged again, it wasn’t planned.
It was after a match—Bokuto’s team had just finished a grueling five-set game, and Akaashi had gone to watch, sitting inconspicuously among the crowd. Bokuto had spotted him halfway through the last set, eyes lighting up like a flare, and afterward, when the team had finished shaking hands, he came jogging over.

“Akaashiii!” Bokuto’s voice cut through the noise of the gym. Before Akaashi could respond, he found himself pulled into a tight, sweat-damp embrace.

Akaashi froze for a moment, heart thudding wildly. Bokuto smelled like real mint—cool, sharp, clean. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was distinct enough that Akaashi’s senses felt overwhelmed for a heartbeat too long. His own scent—warm cinnamon and faint sugar—rose instinctively in response, something his body did before he could stop it.

He pulled back quickly, his cheeks faintly pink. “You’re… sweating all over me.”

Bokuto laughed, unbothered. “That’s what happens when you win, Akaashi!”

Akaashi wanted to scold him, to remind him of personal space—but instead, he just sighed and looked away, lips twitching. “Congratulations, then.”

“Thanks! You saw that last spike, right? You did, didn’t you?”

“I did. It was… impressive.”

Bokuto beamed at that, and for a moment, it felt like they were back in high school again—just two players sharing the same court, the same rhythm.

But when Bokuto turned to wave to some teammates, Akaashi’s chest ached with something sharp and complicated. He wanted to hold on to this version of them—simple, easy, unbroken—but the truth always hovered underneath. The world would still see an alpha and an omega standing side by side, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

It wasn’t that Akaashi was ashamed of Bokuto. It was that he didn’t trust the way people looked at them.
Even now, years later, that old discomfort lived under his skin. Being an omega had never stopped feeling like a crack in his reflection, a label that everyone read before they saw him.

He’d learned to manage it—to keep his scent suppressed most days, to carry himself with quiet composure that discouraged curiosity—but Bokuto always had a way of breaking through those defenses.

Akaashi noticed the way Bokuto leaned close when he laughed, how his scent sometimes brushed past his composure like a breeze slipping through the cracks. Real mint—fresh, alive, grounding. He hated how easily it calmed him.

And yet, when they sat side by side, Bokuto still talked with his whole heart, and Akaashi found himself listening—not out of obligation, but because it felt natural again.

Akaashi’s phone buzzed one evening as he sat on his couch, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. The city outside hummed quietly, lights spilling through his curtains. He checked the message.

Bokuto: u free this weekend??
Akaashi: Possibly. Why?
Bokuto: I was thinking we could grab lunch! or dinner! or both!!
Akaashi: That’s… a lot of meals.
Bokuto: gotta make up for all the years u ditched me >:(
Akaashi: I didn’t ditch you.
Bokuto: you totally did
Akaashi: I had reasons.
Bokuto: bet they weren’t good enough :p
Akaashi: …
Bokuto: okay okay fine fine. but still—let’s meet up, yeah? same café as last time?
Akaashi: Sure.
Bokuto: sweet!!! i’ll bring snacks
Akaashi: It’s a café, Bokuto. They have snacks.
Bokuto: yeah but not MY snacks. see u there cinnamon bun

Akaashi stared at that last line until the edges of his vision blurred slightly. Cinnamon bun.
Bokuto had always been attuned to his scent—even back in high school, he’d once said, “You always smell like something warm and sweet, like those cinnamon rolls from the bakery.” It had embarrassed Akaashi so much he avoided that bakery for months.

Now, the nickname hit differently—less teasing, more tender. He shook his head, trying to brush it off, but the corners of his mouth softened anyway.

The small changes kept piling up.

They started exchanging new contact info—Bokuto insisting on adding him everywhere, from messaging apps to photo-sharing platforms, to something called “SnapTok” that Akaashi didn’t even have before. Bokuto flooded him with updates: new training routines, meals, random thoughts about cats, motivational quotes that were often spelled wrong. It should have been overwhelming. It was overwhelming. But it was also… comforting.

Because for the first time in a long time, Akaashi didn’t feel lonely.

And though he told himself that it was just friendship—that it had always been friendship—his heart still fluttered each time Bokuto sent another “good morning!” text, or when he looked up during lunch and saw that same irrepressible grin aimed right at him.

He’d missed this. He’d missed him.

But as he watched Bokuto wave from across the street one evening, the sunlight glinting off his hair, Akaashi also felt that familiar fear stir again.
The world wasn’t kind to omegas who stood too close to alphas. Not when the bond between them looked like this.

And yet, as Bokuto crossed the road, smiling like the years hadn’t changed a thing, Akaashi couldn’t bring himself to step back.

The first time Bokuto mentioned Kuroo again, it was over coffee and laughter.

They were sitting in their usual corner booth—a tiny café tucked beneath an overhang of ivy. Bokuto had insisted on buying cinnamon rolls “because they smell like you,” and Akaashi, after a token protest, had given up. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the window, turning the world amber and slow.

“So guess who I ran into last week!” Bokuto announced, halfway through his second pastry.

Akaashi raised a brow. “I’m assuming you’ll tell me regardless of whether I guess.”

Bokuto grinned. “Kuroo! He’s working with the Association now—some scouting slash PR thing. Said he might drop by practice tomorrow.”

That name tugged on a whole network of old memories—nationals, late-night study sessions, shared bus rides between teams. Kuroo Tetsurō had always been an odd combination of sharp intelligence and teasing mischief. Akaashi could already imagine the smirk.

“I see,” Akaashi said quietly, sipping his coffee. “That sounds… lively.”

“Lively’s one way to put it,” Bokuto laughed. “He still acts like he’s the only adult in the room, except when he’s not. You’ll come say hi, right?”

Akaashi hesitated. It had been years since he’d been around the rest of their old volleyball circle. Part of him missed that camaraderie; another part feared the questions that might follow—the subtle looks, the unspoken curiosities about his designation, about them.

But Bokuto’s eyes were bright, expectant. The kind of brightness that was impossible to refuse.

“I’ll think about it,” Akaashi said, which for Bokuto was good enough.

The Next Day

The stadium hummed with the familiar rhythm of drills—footfalls echoing, the smack of the ball, the sharp call-outs of position plays. Akaashi waited by the side benches, quietly watching. Bokuto’s team moved like a storm—disciplined chaos wrapped around his energy.

He didn’t realize how tense he was until a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Well, well, look who the wind dragged in.”

Kuroo’s tone was unmistakable—smooth, smug, and warm all at once. He looked nearly the same: tall, a little broader, hair just as unruly as ever, grin like he’d been waiting years to use it again.

“Kuroo,” Akaashi greeted, offering a polite nod.

“Oh, come on, that’s all I get? No handshake? No ‘long time no see, senpai’?” Kuroo teased, stepping forward to pull him into a brief, firm hug. “You haven’t changed at all—still the picture of composure.”

“You have changed,” Akaashi said dryly. “You got louder.”

Kuroo laughed. “That’s because I hang around Bokuto too much. It’s contagious.”

“Hey!” Bokuto called from across the court, mock-offended. “I heard that!”

Kuroo cupped a hand to his mouth. “You were supposed to!”

Akaashi couldn’t help it—he smiled. It was strange, this feeling of slipping back into old rhythms after so long, like opening a book to find the pages still memorized.

After practice ended, the three of them went out for dinner. Bokuto insisted on a place with “huge portions and free refills,” and Kuroo, ever the instigator, agreed before Akaashi could protest.

The conversation flowed easily. They talked about the league, new players, the messiness of sponsorship deals. Bokuto animatedly retold a story about accidentally setting off the team fire alarm while making ramen in the dorm kitchen (“it was ONE time!”). Kuroo kept poking at Akaashi’s calm responses, trying to get a rise out of him.

“So, Akaashi,” Kuroo said, leaning back with a smirk. “Still editing and doing the quiet genius thing?”

“Something like that,” Akaashi replied.

“And still dealing with Bokuto’s chaos?”

Akaashi’s chopsticks paused. He glanced at Bokuto, who was happily demolishing a bowl of noodles.

“Yes,” he said softly, “but it’s… different now.”

Kuroo tilted his head. “Different good, or different complicated?”

“Both,” Akaashi admitted.

Kuroo chuckled. “I figured as much. You two always had that orbit thing going on—like planets trying not to crash but can’t stop circling.”

Bokuto looked up, noodles halfway to his mouth. “That’s so cool. Can we be, like, the Sun and Mercury?”

“You’d burn him alive,” Kuroo deadpanned.

Akaashi coughed into his drink to hide a laugh. “Exactly my point.”

Later That Night

When Akaashi finally got home, the city had settled into quiet hums and distant headlights. He dropped his keys on the counter, leaned against the wall, and exhaled slowly. His phone buzzed a few seconds later.

Bokuto: had fun tonight!!!
Akaashi: Me too. It was good seeing Kuroo again.
Bokuto: yeah! feels like old times huh?
Akaashi: It does.
Bokuto: he said we should all go bowling next week. you in??
Akaashi: I’m not sure yet.
Bokuto: aww come onnn cinnamon bun, u gotta!
Akaashi: Stop calling me that.
Bokuto: nope 😤

Akaashi set the phone down, lips tugging upward despite himself.

But beneath that light warmth, another feeling crept in—an uneasy awareness of how visible this friendship was becoming again. The old press circles, the fan posts that sometimes caught Bokuto leaving cafés, the comments about “mystery companions.” It wasn’t that they were doing anything wrong. Still, the thought of headlines—National Ace seen with omega companion—made his stomach twist.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, forcing the thought away. Bokuto deserved a life without complications. Akaashi had promised himself he wouldn’t be the one to bring those shadows back.

And yet, as the mint-and-cinnamon mix of their last hug lingered faintly in his mind, he couldn’t shake the truth that scared him most:
he didn’t want to fade out of Bokuto’s life again.

Kuroo slipped back into their lives the same way he always had—half smirk, half hurricane.

It started with that one dinner, but soon enough, group chats were revived, inside jokes reborn, and weekend meetups penciled into calendars.
Bokuto, of course, was thrilled.
Akaashi, on the other hand, felt his peaceful solitude shrinking by the day.

Every Friday, without fail, a new message would appear.

Kuroo: Friday night—dinner at that ramen place again.
Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY I’M IN!!!
Akaashi: I have work.
Kuroo: no u don’t, I checked your company’s upload schedule
Akaashi: …that’s unsettling.
Kuroo: see u at 7 👍

He still went, of course.

Sometimes it was the three of them; other times, Daichi or even Kenma would join. The conversations were loud and overlapping, filled with laughter and the kind of warmth that comes from years of shared history. Yet, in the small pauses between noise, Akaashi always found his attention drifting—to Bokuto’s laughter, his hands, the little moments where his mint scent brushed through the air, grounding and dizzying all at once.

He hated how easily his body noticed it.
He hated that it felt safe.

One Friday night, after dinner, the group lingered outside the restaurant under the flickering streetlight. Kuroo leaned against the wall, watching Bokuto animatedly recount an old match they’d played against Nekoma.

“…and then he dives right across the floor! You should’ve seen it, Akaashi—like a cat chasing a laser pointer!”

“That’s… one way to describe it,” Kuroo said, rolling his eyes. “You almost broke your wrist, remember?”

“Details, details!” Bokuto waved him off. “We still won, didn’t we?”

Kuroo smirked, then turned toward Akaashi. “He still gets that same look, you know. Every time he talks about you.”

Akaashi blinked. “What look?”

“That one,” Kuroo said simply, nodding at Bokuto, who was now enthusiastically demonstrating his jump form using a lamppost as a makeshift net. “Pure adoration. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

Akaashi’s stomach fluttered, but he schooled his expression into something neutral. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“Nah,” Kuroo said softly. “He doesn’t.”

Akaashi didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.

As the weeks passed, Akaashi noticed the changes—the ones that weren’t so loud.

Bokuto started showing up outside his office after late shifts, holding two cups of coffee and grinning like he’d done something heroic. Sometimes they’d just walk around the city in comfortable silence, the only sound their footsteps echoing across the pavement. Sometimes Bokuto would talk about volleyball, about leadership, about the loneliness that still clung to the edges of success.

Akaashi listened.

He always listened.

And slowly, Bokuto started to realize that Akaashi still knew exactly what to say to steady him. That even after all these years, his presence still brought calm to the chaos.

“You know,” Bokuto said one night, walking beside him along the riverside, “you haven’t changed that much.”

Akaashi looked over. “You have.”

Bokuto laughed. “Good different or bad different?”

A pause. The water shimmered under the streetlights, gold rippling into darkness.

“Good,” Akaashi said quietly. “You grew into yourself.”

Bokuto smiled at that—soft, genuine, the kind of smile that made Akaashi’s chest ache.

“Still wish you’d stop running from me, though,” Bokuto said.

Akaashi’s step faltered. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Bokuto interrupted gently, not accusing, just honest. “You’ve been doing it since high school.”

Akaashi opened his mouth, then closed it. The truth sat heavy in his throat, bitter and familiar. He didn’t know how to explain the fear, the quiet shame that came with being seen. Not as the composed setter, not as the calm friend, but as an omega—vulnerable, biological, defined before he could define himself.

Instead, he said softly, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Bokuto didn’t argue. He just looked at him, mint scent brushing close in the cool air, steady and unyielding.

“Maybe not,” Bokuto said finally. “But I want to try.”

Kuroo, of course, noticed everything.

He teased them mercilessly at first—sending memes about “slow-burn romances” and dramatic photos of volleyballs captioned “the tension is killing me.”
But over time, his teasing grew quieter, edged with something like fondness.

One evening, after practice, Kuroo caught Akaashi waiting outside the gym. Bokuto had run back in to grab something he’d forgotten.

“You two are really bad at pretending this is just friendship,” Kuroo said casually, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Akaashi stiffened. “It is friendship.”

Kuroo gave him a knowing look. “Sure. And I’m a setter.”

Akaashi sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Please don’t start.”

Kuroo grinned, then sobered a little. “You know… he never stopped looking for you. Even after you pulled away. He used to ask me if I’d heard from you, years after graduation.”

Akaashi’s breath caught. “He did?”

“Every time I saw him,” Kuroo said simply. “So don’t push him away again. Not if you don’t really want to.”

Akaashi didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. His pulse was too loud in his ears.

But when Bokuto came jogging back out, holding his forgotten jacket and waving like he’d just won another match, Akaashi realized something quietly devastating:

he didn’t want to.

Later that night, lying awake in bed, Akaashi stared at his phone.
A single unread message blinked at him.

Bokuto: had fun tonight :)) thanks for coming again
Bokuto: oh and tell Kuroo to stop winking at me during dinner that’s weird
Akaashi: I’ll tell him.
Bokuto: u sure u’re okay tho? you looked kinda quiet near the end
Akaashi: Just thinking.
Bokuto: bout what
Akaashi: You.
Bokuto: :O what about me??
Akaashi: Go to sleep, Bokuto-san.
Bokuto: can’t now lol

Akaashi smiled faintly, closing his eyes. The familiar warmth of cinnamon and mint still lingered in his mind, curling through the quiet like gravity itself.

The week unfolded softly.
What surprised Akaashi most was how ordinary it felt. The messages, the visits, the way Bokuto’s name lighting up his phone no longer startled him — though his chest still gave that small, traitorous twist every time.

Bokuto texted first, always.

Bokuto: “Morning!! Don’t skip breakfast again, okay?”
Bokuto: “Team meeting went long. Want to call later?”
Bokuto: “Hey hey hey!! Found a café that sells cinnamon rolls that actually taste like you smell!”

Akaashi had rolled his eyes at that one, but the truth was he’d smiled until his cheeks hurt.

He didn’t always reply right away. Sometimes he’d stare at the screen, thumbs hovering, thinking too long about what to say. When he did respond, his messages were short, careful, but Bokuto always found a way to keep the conversation alive.

Akaashi: “Good luck with practice.”
Bokuto: “Thanks!! But luck’s better with you cheering.”
Akaashi: “…You’re ridiculous.”
Bokuto: “You love it though.”

He didn’t answer that one. But his pulse did.

Their meetings began innocently. A coffee after practice. A shared dinner when Bokuto claimed he “couldn’t cook without supervision.” Then another visit, and another. It became routine before Akaashi realized it.

The first time he visited Bokuto’s apartment, he noticed how different it felt from the old high-school version of the ace’s energy. The space was bright but organized, dotted with evidence of someone trying to balance chaos and control: shoes neatly aligned, a vase of fresh eucalyptus on the table, a volleyball rolling lazily in a corner.

Bokuto had brewed mint tea — of course he had. The scent hit Akaashi before the steam did, crisp and fresh, wrapping around the faint cinnamon that clung to Akaashi’s own skin. The combination startled him; it was strangely right, too right.

“Smells good, huh?” Bokuto had said, grinning as if he knew exactly what was happening in Akaashi’s head.

Akaashi had forced a small laugh. “You still put too much tea in one pot.”

Bokuto laughed, loud and unguarded, and the sound filled the quiet corners of Akaashi’s chest.

In the evenings, Akaashi would walk home alone, the city humming softly around him. He told himself he was imagining the warmth that lingered — that it was just the tea, or the memory of Bokuto’s laughter echoing in his ears. But it was more than that.

He’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how easy it was to talk to him again, and how hard it was not to say too much.

Bokuto texted him almost every night before bed.

Bokuto: “You asleep?”
Akaashi: “Trying to.”
Bokuto: “Try harder. Good night, Keiji.”

Sometimes he sent a photo — a blurry one of his hand reaching out toward the sky during practice, or a picture of a half-burned dinner captioned, ‘See? You should’ve come over.’

Akaashi saved them all, though he’d never admit it.

By mid-week, he’d grown used to the rhythm — used to expecting Bokuto in small ways. But comfort always carried danger.

That evening, Bokuto invited him over again. “Just for dinner,” he’d said. “I made too much.”

Akaashi had hesitated, fingers tapping against his thigh. He wanted to say no, to keep distance, but when he looked at the message, at the little smiley face Bokuto had added almost shyly at the end, something inside him gave way.

When he arrived, Bokuto was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron tied crookedly. The scene was so normal it hurt.

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re just in time,” he said, waving a spatula like a flag. “I didn’t burn it this time.”

“It smells edible,” Akaashi murmured, setting his bag by the door.

Dinner was simple — stir-fried vegetables, rice, grilled chicken — but it tasted better than it looked. They talked easily between bites. Bokuto told stories from training camp, gesturing so wildly that he almost knocked over his drink twice. Akaashi listened, smiling more than he realized.

Then came the quiet. Not awkward, just full.

Bokuto’s gaze lingered too long across the table. “You know,” he said softly, “I missed this. Talking to you like this.”

Akaashi’s chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth. He looked away first. “You’ve… always had people around, Bokuto. You didn’t need me.”

“That’s not true.” The answer came without hesitation. “I needed you. I just didn’t know how to say it back then.”

The words sat between them like a held breath. Akaashi’s heart gave a single, sharp ache. He tried to deflect — talked about volleyball, deadlines, anything — but the tone had already shifted.

Later, when he left, Bokuto walked him to the door, as he always did. “Text me when you get home?” he asked.

“I always do.”

“Yeah, but I still like hearing you promise.”

Akaashi nodded, throat tight.

The following days blurred into soft repetition — texts, visits, laughter. Bokuto would stop by his apartment sometimes, claiming he was “in the neighborhood,” though Akaashi doubted that was true. They’d share coffee on his small balcony, the scent of mint and cinnamon mixing again and again.

It was during one of those evenings that Akaashi realized how much he had changed. He was still cautious, still scared of being seen as weak, but when Bokuto looked at him now, it wasn’t pity he saw. It was something steadier.

“You look like you’re thinking too much again,” Bokuto said one night, nudging his shoulder.

“I always think too much.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said quietly. “That’s what I love about you.”

Akaashi’s breath caught. He didn’t respond — couldn’t — but his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his mug.

Bokuto didn’t take the words back. He just smiled and leaned against the railing beside him, looking at the skyline. “You make the noise in my head quiet down,” he said after a while.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of everything they hadn’t said yet.

That night, Akaashi dreamt of the old gym at Fukurodani — the sound of volleyballs echoing, the sun through dusty windows, Bokuto’s voice calling his name. When he woke, his phone was buzzing.

Bokuto: “Can I see you tomorrow?”
Akaashi: “You saw me yesterday.”
Bokuto: “And? Tomorrow’s new.”

He laughed to himself, the sound surprising him.

When the weekend came, they met again. This time at Akaashi’s place. He’d cleaned the apartment twice before Bokuto arrived — though he told himself it was just polite.

Bokuto brought food again, and a small bag of cinnamon rolls from the café he’d found. “These reminded me of you,” he said, setting them down.

Akaashi wanted to tease him, but something in Bokuto’s tone stopped him. There was no joke in it, no exaggeration. Just truth.

They ate on the couch, legs almost touching, the quiet full of warmth. When Bokuto laughed, Akaashi felt it in his ribs. When their shoulders brushed, neither of them moved away.

The hours slipped by until the light outside turned soft and gold.

Bokuto looked at him then, really looked. “Keiji,” he said, the name a low hum. “Can I tell you something?”

Akaashi’s heartbeat stumbled. “You always do anyway.”

Bokuto smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “I just… I never stopped thinking about you. Even when you disappeared. Even when I tried not to.”

Akaashi’s breath hitched, the world tilting slightly. “Don’t—”

“I mean it.” His voice softened. “You were the person who saw me when I was all noise. And I’ve been trying to find that feeling again ever since.”

The air between them pulsed. Akaashi’s fingers tightened around his cup. He could feel the warmth of Bokuto’s scent, mint fresh and real, wrapping around his own cinnamon warmth until the room itself seemed to hum.

He didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly Bokuto’s hand brushed his — a small, uncertain contact that sent every thought scattering.

Akaashi didn’t pull away.

“Bokuto—”

“Just let me say it,” he whispered. “You don’t have to answer yet.”

Akaashi’s throat was too tight for words.

Bokuto smiled — a little sad, a little hopeful. “You don’t have to be anyone else with me. Not Beta, not strong, not perfect. Just you.”

Akaashi’s eyes burned. He looked down, blinking fast. “You make it sound easy.”

“Maybe it could be.”

The quiet stretched again, long and fragile. Then Bokuto stood, stretching, breaking the moment before it could break them. “Come on,” he said lightly. “If I stay, I’ll eat all the cinnamon rolls.”

Akaashi managed a small smile. “That would be a crime.”

“Then save me from it.”

As he walked Bokuto to the door, the words hovered unspoken between them. Bokuto turned at the threshold, his grin softer than usual. “Tomorrow?”

Akaashi nodded. “Tomorrow.”

The door closed gently behind him, leaving Akaashi in the echo of mint and laughter and something he wasn’t ready to name.

He stood there for a long time, hand resting on the doorknob, feeling the heartbeat that wasn’t entirely his own.

Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow, he might finally be brave enough to answer.

Chapter Text

Morning came far too quickly.

Akaashi woke slowly, the strange heaviness in his chest taking a moment to resolve itself into memory. He lay still beneath the covers, staring up at the faint patterns of light stretching across his ceiling. His apartment had always been quiet in the mornings — peaceful, orderly, the kind of environment he once believed would keep him from thinking too much.

Today, it did nothing to stop it.

Because the moment he fully opened his eyes, the first thought that rushed in wasn’t about work, or deadlines, or anything safe and familiar.

It was Bokuto.

Bokuto’s smile.
Bokuto’s warmth.
Bokuto’s scent — that sharp, grounding, real-mint coolness that lingered in his clothes long after they’d parted the night before.

Akaashi pressed a palm lightly over his eyes.

He should not still feel it as vividly as if Bokuto stood right beside him.

He exhaled once, quietly, and forced himself to sit up. The day wouldn’t wait just because his chest felt tight and fluttering, like someone had cupped his heart in their hands and squeezed gently every few seconds.

He got ready on autopilot — shower, coffee, hair, clothes — but every step was threaded through with the memory of last night.

The way Bokuto had said his name so softly.
How close they’d stood.
The warmth that had rolled off him in waves, almost too much, almost too soothing.

Akaashi pulled in a slow breath, steadying himself as he gathered his bag and left his apartment.

The publishing company lobby smelled faintly of paper and fresh ink, a scent Akaashi usually found calming. Today, it just felt… thin. Too light, too easy to cut through with the memory of mint.

He greeted the front desk, signed in, rode the elevator up to his department, and stepped into the open office floor where editors and assistants were already settling in.

It should have been grounding.

It wasn’t.

Akaashi opened his laptop. He tried to focus on the manuscript he’d been reviewing the day before. But as soon as he began reading, the words blurred at the edges, drifting out of focus as his mind slipped sideways into thoughts he absolutely shouldn’t be entertaining at work.

He smells so good.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening slightly.

That… wasn’t the kind of thought he usually let himself have. Not so plainly. Not so honestly.

He swallowed once, pretending it loosened the knot in his throat.

He tried again.

Ten seconds into reading, Bokuto’s laugh from last night echoed in his ears — the low, delighted one he only used when he was truly happy. And then he remembered how it had felt to stand next to him on Bokuto’s balcony, the cool evening air mixing with the faint mint scent that clung to Bokuto’s clothes and skin.

Sharp. Clean. Comforting.
Strong without being overwhelming.

Akaashi’s fingers curled slightly against the manuscript pages.

He’d always been sensitive to scents — it came with being an omega — but Bokuto’s scent didn’t hit him the way other alphas’ did. Other alphas smelled heavy, suffocating, like they wanted to fill every space.

Bokuto… didn’t.

Bokuto’s scent made him feel warm. Anchored. Like something inside him was being held steady instead of pushed.

He hated how much he noticed that now.

He hated even more how much he wanted it.

A soft sigh left him before he could stop it.

Across the open office, one of his coworkers glanced over.

Akaashi immediately straightened, expression smoothing back into its usual neutral calm. He lowered his eyes to the manuscript again, adding an annotation with a steadiness he didn’t feel.

But the distraction didn’t fade.

If anything, it grew.

Because the more he forced himself to work, the more his thoughts drifted — not just to Bokuto’s scent, but the way Bokuto had looked at him last night. Like Akaashi was someone he wanted to reach for again and again.

It made Akaashi’s cheeks warm, and he had to look away from his screen entirely.

This wasn’t good.
He wasn’t good at this.
He wasn’t good at wanting things openly.

Especially not things as dangerous as Bokuto Koutarou.

By late morning, he’d made exactly the kind of progress he dreaded — three pages edited, none of it satisfying.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet breath as he massaged the bridge of his nose.

His mind, unhelpfully, supplied another memory.

Bokuto leaning in just slightly when they stood close last night.
Bokuto inhaling softly, like he was taking in Akaashi’s cinnamon scent without meaning to.
Bokuto blinking a little too long afterward, expression warm and unguarded.

Akaashi’s chest tightened.

He’d forgotten — or maybe ignored — how sensitive Bokuto was to scents. How openly expressive he was. If Bokuto liked something, he showed it. If he loved something… he showed it even more.

And last night… Bokuto had seemed very, very comfortable being close to him.

Akaashi’s pulse tripped over itself.

This wasn’t good.
Or maybe it was too good.
He didn’t know which scared him more.

He tried to refocus again — reading a sentence, then reading it again. Then again. But nothing stuck.

The warmth in his chest only spread further.

Was it supposed to feel like this?
This soft ache?
This quiet, simmering pull toward someone who felt so familiar it almost hurt?

He didn’t know.

He’d spent so many years shutting those parts of himself down that feeling them again — especially so strongly, so sweetly — made him feel unsteady.

Off-balance.

Human.

Akaashi closed the manuscript slowly, placing both hands on top of it. His fingers trembled faintly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him to feel it.

By lunchtime, he’d given up any hope of concentrating completely.

He left the office, stepped out into the cool midday air, and walked toward a quiet bench near the side of the building where he sometimes ate alone.

He needed space.
He needed to breathe without the weight of Bokuto’s memory pressing warm and bright in the back of his mind.

But even outside, the pull didn’t ease.

Akaashi sat down, exhaling softly, and let his shoulders relax.

He took a slow breath in.
He held it.
He let it out.

And the entire time, all he could think — ridiculous, embarrassing, unbearably honest — was:

I miss his scent already.

The thought startled him.
Not because it was wrong, but because it was true.

Too true.

He pressed his thumb lightly against the edge of the bench, grounding himself with the faint texture of old paint.

He shouldn’t be thinking this much about Bokuto.
He shouldn’t be letting himself feel this full, this drawn toward him.

He knew what happened when he wanted things too strongly.

He hid.
He ran.
He ruined good things.

And yet…

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way Bokuto had leaned toward him, eyes softening in a way that made Akaashi’s breath catch.

Does he… feel this too?

The question alone made his stomach twist.

Because it was terrifying.
Because it was hopeful.

Because it was both.

He exhaled, slowly, shakily, and lowered his head.

The warmth inside him — that combination of longing and something deeper — only grew.

And grew.

And grew.

Slow, gentle, but undeniable.

Akaashi’s fingers curled around the edge of his bench, holding tighter for a moment as something in his chest pulled taut.

He smells so good.
I want—

Akaashi’s breath caught.

The thought continued without him meaning it to, gaining weight, gaining heat, carrying him somewhere he usually refused to go—

And it was right there, at the edge of becoming something more, something he couldn’t think at work, something that made warmth pool low in his stomach—  

He liked Bokuto. He liked him way more than he should.

Akaashi continued doing work at his job, even though the thought of Bokuto made Akaashi want him more. So when his shift was over, he was quick to pack everything up, practically running home, because that felt like the only safe area that he could be at the moment.

Arriving at his house, Akaashi set his bag down and kicked off his shoes, not caring where they landed. 

He rushed to his room, closing the door behind him and sat on the edge of his plush, neatly arranged bed.

Akaashi's cheeks were red with embarrassment, because he couldn't believe what he was about to do.

His hand slid into his pants and under the waistband of his underwear. Akaashi's skin was warm, and he was already leaking with slick. He pushed one finger into his pussy, biting his lip to hold back a moan. The thought of Bokuto's hands doing this, touching him in all the right places made him even more wet. He had tried to stop thinking about Bokuto, but it was impossible to do at this point. He gently thrusted his finger in and out, carefully adding another when he was ready. Akaashi let out a soft, quiet moan. A gush of slick came out of him, and he already knew how close he was. He added a third finger, all three thrusting the same rhythm. His fingers carefully searched for that one spot inside of him. Akaashi knew he found it when he came, a louder moan pulled from his lips. He sat there for a minute, catching his breath until he realized what he had just done.

Akaashi was quick to clean himself up, even taking a shower. He got into soft pajamas before laying on top of his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, still processing what just happened. But only one thought was going through his mind.

"I am so screwed."

Akaashi woke late the next morning—later than he should have for someone so strictly structured with his mornings. His alarm had gone off… and apparently been dismissed by a hand that was half-awake and wholly uncooperative. When he finally blinked into consciousness, light was spilling between his curtains in soft stripes across the floor, warm and almost too gentle.

His head felt heavy, fogged with sleep, something he wasn’t used to even on exhausted days. It took him several slow breaths before he realized why—before memory resurfaced with an almost physical pull in his chest.

Bokuto.

The thought hit him like sunlight through a window, sudden and bright and too much all at once.

He’d dreamed with Bokuto’s face somewhere in that haze—no, not even his face. His scent had woven its way in, the real mint threaded with something warm and distinctly alpha. And he must have been thinking about him on the edge of sleep, too, because there was still a faint, phantom echo of Bokuto’s presence in his chest.

Akaashi groaned into his pillow, mortified at himself.
“Oh, this is getting ridiculous…”

He pushed himself up slowly, rubbing at his hair, and then froze when he caught the faintest trace of cinnamon still lingering in the air—his own scent, stirred up from sleep. Not sweet, exactly, but warm and thick enough that even he noticed it before it dissipated.

He exhaled, annoyed at the way it made heat coil low and tight in his stomach.
Not now. Not again.

He showered longer than usual. Not because he needed it, but because the scalding water gave his mind something to focus on other than the man who had been effortlessly invading his thoughts.

He’d been fine for years. Years.
He’d kept himself distant, balanced, composed. He’d spent so long convincing himself that everything inside him was controllable—instincts, reactions, emotions tied to scents and bonds he never wanted.

And then Bokuto had come barreling back into his life with that smile like sunrise and a scent that might as well have been carved specifically to unravel him.

By the time he was walking into the office, Akaashi had convinced himself—firmly, stubbornly—that he had regained control.

He made it to his desk.
He sat down.
He pulled up the layout mock-ups he needed to revise.

And lasted exactly three minutes before Bokuto’s name popped into his mind like a spark catching dry tinder.

Not even for a reason. Just… Bokuto existing somewhere out there in the world.

Akaashi exhaled sharply and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

This was pathetic.

He tried again.
He forced his eyes to skim the text on the page.
He even clicked through the design files, making notes here and there.

But the problem was that everything reminded him of Bokuto because everything always had. The bold titles reminded him of Bokuto’s loud, confident voice. The bright yellow accent color reminded him of his energy. Even the page margins made him recall the way Bokuto used to point dramatically at whiteboard edges during high school meetings, insisting they were “secret strategy zones.”

Akaashi shut his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly.

He was in trouble.

And the truly unfair part was that Bokuto wasn’t even doing anything.
He wasn’t sending messages, he wasn’t calling, he wasn’t popping up out of nowhere—

BZZZ — BZZZ — BZZZ

Akaashi went still.

Oh no.

He reached for his phone with a dread that was not dread at all, but something warm and too expectant.

Sure enough:
Bokuto Koutarou
5 new messages.

Akaashi braced himself before opening the thread.

BO: Akaashiiiiii are you awake yet???

BO: Actually wait it’s morning you probably are

BO: I saw this café on the way to practice and it had cinnamon rolls and I thought of you

BO: Not in a weird way

BO: Well maybe a little?? But like!!! NICE weird!!!!!!

Akaashi made an embarrassingly choked sound that he immediately smothered behind his hand.

Why was Bokuto like this?
Why did he text like a runaway train?
Why did every word feel like someone knocking directly on the door of his chest?

He typed slowly, carefully—because someone had to maintain composure in this exchange.

Akaashi: Good morning. Thank you for the… cinnamon roll association. I think.

The reply came in less than five seconds.

BO: IT’S A COMPLIMENT I SWEAR

BO: Also I miss you already

BO: Not like!! In a clingy way!!! Just like!!!

BO: You’re fun to be around

Akaashi stared at his phone, and his whole body felt like it had been plugged into a low-voltage current. Warm, buzzing, impossible to ignore.

His face felt dangerously hot.

He set his phone down slowly, palms hovering over the keyboard in an attempt to redirect his attention to work. But his scent—his own, cinnamon-sweet and restless—kept drifting faintly around him. He imagined for a moment Bokuto burying his nose in it, inhaling—

Nope.
Absolutely not.

He abruptly stood and walked to the kitchenette for water, because hydration was a neutral, non-Bokuto thing. Surely.

But even walking didn’t clear his head. Every step felt too aware, too keyed-up, like his body was reacting before his mind could catch up.

I can’t let this get out of control, he told himself.

He had to stay composed.
He had to be normal.
He had to—

His phone buzzed again.

And he didn't even have to look to know who it was.

He exhaled.
This wasn’t sustainable.
But it also… felt good in a way that terrified him.

When Akaashi got home that night, there was a message waiting:

BO: Hey Akaashi!

BO: Kuroo said he got us reservations at a place!!! For all three of us!!!

BO: You free this weekend???

Akaashi changed into comfortable clothes before answering, as if changing would help him approach the conversation with dignity.

Akaashi: Yes. I’m free.

Three seconds.

BO: YAAAYYY

BO: I want to see you again

BO: And!! Also Kuroo wants to see you

BO: BUT MOSTLY ME

BO: (don’t tell him I said that)

Akaashi sat heavily on his couch, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

How was he supposed to survive this man?

He typed back with as little trembling dignity as possible.

Akaashi: I look forward to it. Goodnight Bokuto-san.

And then, after a beat:

BO: goodnight akaashi ❤️

Akaashi froze.

His scent spiked so sharply he swore he could feel it in the room.

He put his phone face-down on the table and leaned back, staring at the ceiling with wide, embarrassed eyes.

This was getting dangerous.

His heart felt too full, his chest too warm, and his thoughts too unsteady. Every part of him reacted before he could stop it—subtle omega instincts shifting under his skin, responding to the alpha who didn’t even know what he was doing to him.

I need to calm down, he told himself.

But the truth was, he didn’t know if he wanted to.

He liked Bokuto.
He always had.
And now that they’d reconnected, the feeling was flooding back through cracks he’d never quite sealed.

He covered his face with his forearm, groaning quietly.

“Why does it have to be him…”

Why did it have to be someone whose scent made him feel warm all the way to his bones?
Someone who looked at him like he mattered?
Someone who said “I miss you” without hesitation or embarrassment?

Someone he had once feared losing more than anything.

Akaashi curled on his side on the couch, heart twisting but not unpleasantly.
He didn’t know where this was going.
He didn’t know how far he’d let it go.

But one thing was becoming clear:

Trying not to get flustered around Bokuto was becoming impossible.

And wanting him—wanting something he shouldn’t, something he’d tried so desperately to suppress—was getting harder to deny.

Akaashi spent the next few days pretending to be calm.

He failed spectacularly.

Every morning that week, he woke up with his body already warm, mind unreasonably alert, as if it was waiting for something—or someone. And every time his phone buzzed—whether it was a weather alert, a spam message, or a real text—his pulse jumped before he could stop it.

He hated that he couldn’t train the reaction out of himself.
He hated that his heart didn’t listen.
He hated how being an omega made everything louder inside him.

But he hated more how much he looked forward to Bokuto’s name lighting up his screen.

By Saturday evening, he had spent far too long picking out clothes for someone who prided himself on practicality. He changed his shirt three times, then scolded himself for acting ridiculous, then changed again anyway.

He settled on something simple—black slacks and a soft cream sweater—nothing flashy, nothing that would make him seem like he was trying too hard. Still, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he flushed, realizing he did look better than usual. Even his hair cooperated today.

“Tch…”
He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to quiet the fluttering under his ribs.

It’s just Bokuto and Kuroo. Just friends. This is normal.

He didn’t believe that.
His instincts didn’t believe that either.

He checked the time—he was early, of course. He always was.

The restaurant Kuroo chose was an upscale casual place near the river, warm lighting glowing through the windows and the murmur of weekend crowds filling the street. Akaashi stood near the entrance, hands tucked subtly in his pockets, controlling his breath so his scent didn’t drift too openly. With his control, he usually kept it soft, barely noticeable unless someone was incredibly close.

But the moment Bokuto arrived, Akaashi lost all sense of internal composure.

“Akaashi!”

His voice carried across the street, too excited, too warm, too Bokuto.
He jogged toward him with that familiar wide grin—hair slightly messy from the wind, wearing a light jacket that somehow highlighted his shoulders in a way Akaashi’s traitorous attention couldn’t ignore.

And there it was—his scent hitting in a wave.
Fresh mint.
Not candy-sweet, but crisp, grounding, something that cut through the noise of the street and sank right into Akaashi’s spine.

Akaashi inhaled once—too deeply by accident—and instantly regretted it.

Heat darted down his neck. His heartbeat picked up.
He looked away, ears burning.

“Bokuto-san,” he said smoothly—his voice even only because he forced it to be. “You’re… energetic tonight.”

“Of course I am! I’m seeing you again!”

Akaashi’s entire body stuttered. Thankfully, before Bokuto could notice the way his scent flickered warmer in response, Kuroo appeared behind him, leaning casually on his shoulder.

“Oi, Bokuto, don’t flirt so loud in public. You’ll scare him off.”

“I’M NOT FLIRTING!” Bokuto yelped.

“You absolutely are,” Kuroo deadpanned.

Akaashi cleared his throat, attempting neutrality.
“We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk. People can hear you both.”

Kuroo smirked. “That’s fine. I like when people hear me. Makes me feel important.”

“And I’m not flirting!” Bokuto insisted, crossing his arms, puffing up like a ruffled bird. “I’m just happy to see Akaashi. That’s normal!”

Akaashi felt heat crawl slowly up his neck.
He said nothing, because he didn’t trust his voice.

Kuroo’s eyes caught the tiny shift in Akaashi’s posture—of course he did. Kuroo noticed everything. His smirk sharpened slightly, amused, but mercifully he didn’t say anything else.

“Come on,” Kuroo waved them toward the entrance. “I booked the table under ‘Kuroo, obviously amazing.’”

Akaashi sighed softly.
Some things never changed.

The lighting inside was warm and dim enough that everything felt intimate—not romantic, but comfortable, gently enclosed. The scent of grilled meat and simmering broth filled the air, layered with wine and laughter.

They were seated in a booth—Bokuto too big for the space, shoulders almost brushing Akaashi’s, knees bumping once under the table before he jerked them back awkwardly.

“Sorry!” Bokuto whispered with a frantic smile.

“It’s fine,” Akaashi replied, willing his pulse to calm.

But it wasn’t fine.

Not really.

Bokuto’s proximity was… overwhelming. In the best and worst ways.

His scent drifted every time he moved. His thigh brushed Akaashi’s twice more. He leaned too close when pointing at something on the menu. He laughed loudly at one of Kuroo’s jokes, and Akaashi felt the sound vibrate right through his bones.

“This is nice,” Bokuto said suddenly, hands folded on the table. “I like this. Us. Like before.”

Akaashi’s chest tightened.

Like before.

Like when they were inseparable.
Like when they trained and studied and lived in a world where the other was always there.
Like when Akaashi had walked away because he was too afraid of being an omega in front of him.

His voice softened before he could stop it.
“I like it too.”

Bokuto beamed so brightly Akaashi had to look away.

Kuroo teased Bokuto relentlessly, which was normal.

Bokuto dramatically insisted that the water here was the “fanciest water he’d ever tasted,” which was also normal.

Akaashi listened more than he spoke, which was expected.

But what wasn’t normal was how constantly aware he was of Bokuto’s presence beside him. How every time Bokuto laughed, Akaashi’s scent wavered. How Bokuto leaned toward him without noticing, voice dropping when he asked Akaashi questions. How Bokuto’s knee brushed his a fourth time and Akaashi felt his breath catch quietly.

He prayed—silently, desperately—that neither of them noticed how unsteady he felt.

But Kuroo’s eyes flicked to him once—just once—and lingered.
Akaashi stiffened.

Kuroo didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a knowing way that made Akaashi want to crawl under the table.

The conversation flowed easily between all three of them, but Bokuto’s attention kept returning to Akaashi. Leaning in to hear him better. Asking him what he thought about the food. Nudging him lightly whenever Akaashi made a subtle joke. Smiling at him like the rest of the room simply didn’t matter.

Akaashi tried to hold himself perfectly still, tried not to inhale too obviously when Bokuto leaned closer, tried not to let his scent spike when their shoulders brushed.

He failed every time.

After dinner, the three of them walked along the riverside path. Lanterns glowed along the railing, reflecting warm light onto the water.

Kuroo walked ahead a little, pretending to be interested in a street performance so the other two drifted slightly behind.

Bokuto stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing at Akaashi from the side with a softness that made Akaashi’s stomach twist.

“You look happy,” Bokuto said quietly.

Akaashi’s breath caught. “I… suppose I am.”

Bokuto’s smile gentled.
“I like seeing you like this.”

Akaashi almost stumbled.

Too direct.
Too earnest.
Too Bokuto.

He steadied himself, clearing his throat.
“You’re very… expressive, Bokuto-san.”

“That’s because I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

…
Akaashi’s heart stopped.

Just stopped.

Even his scent flickered sharply—so much that he had to step a little away to keep it contained.

Bokuto noticed immediately. “Ah—did I say something weird? Sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Akaashi shook his head quickly. “You didn’t. I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Bokuto scratched his cheek sheepishly.
“Sorry. I just meant that you’re important to me. Really important.”

Akaashi swallowed.

He couldn’t answer.
Not yet.
Not while his whole body felt like a too-hot coil of emotions he couldn’t risk exposing.

Kuroo looked back at them then—sharp eyes catching everything—and abruptly announced:

“I need to take a call. Keep walking, I’ll catch up.”

He disappeared with suspicious speed.

Akaashi wanted to strangle him.
Or thank him.
He wasn’t sure.

Bokuto kicked lightly at a pebble and said, “You look happy tonight, Akaashi.”

Akaashi’s heart tightened.
“I… suppose I am.”

“I like seeing you like that,” Bokuto said, smiling softly.

Akaashi almost tripped.
He caught himself, face warming.
“That’s… kind of you to say.”

“It’s not just kind,” Bokuto insisted, earnest as ever. “I mean it. You being here—this feels right.”

Akaashi’s breath hitched.

Bokuto didn’t hear it. But Akaashi felt it—sharp, uncontrolled, embarrassing. His scent flickered without permission. He stepped half a pace away to steady himself.

But it was too late.

Bokuto had already noticed something shift in the air between them.
His expression softened further, eyes warm in a way that made Akaashi’s stomach twist.

“Akaashi… I’m really glad we’re doing this again. I want—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because Akaashi did something unbelievably reckless.

He moved.

It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t conscious.
It wasn’t even a decision.

One moment Bokuto was looking at him with that unbearably earnest expression—like he was seeing right through him—and the next, something inside Akaashi cracked open, a quiet instinct slipping past every wall he’d built.

Akaashi leaned in.

And kissed him.

It was small. Barely more than a quick press of lips. Gentle. Soft. Nearly trembling.

But it was unmistakably a kiss.

Bokuto froze.

Akaashi froze.

And then—

Akaashi jerked back so fast he nearly lost his balance.

“I—sorry—that wasn’t— I didn’t—”
His voice tangled into broken pieces, a mess of apology and panic.

His face burned, ears hot enough to sting. His chest felt too tight, too loud. He stepped even further back, hands lifting instinctively to cover his mouth.

“I didn’t mean— It just— I’m sorry—”

Bokuto stood absolutely still.
Eyes wide.
Lips parted in complete shock.
A faint blush creeping up the tips of his ears.

“Akaashi…” he whispered.

Which made it worse.

Akaashi shook his head quickly, mortified to the bone.
“That was—out of line. I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have— Please forget I—”

“No.”

The word hit the air with surprising firmness.

Akaashi stopped breathing.

Bokuto stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something fragile.

“I… I don’t want to forget it,” he said, voice softer than Akaashi had heard in years. “I don’t think I could, even if I tried.”

Akaashi’s face burned even brighter.
His scent flickered again—warm, embarrassed, flustered.

He covered his mouth again, mortified.
“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bokuto said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Akaashi couldn’t meet his eyes.
He shook his head once more, too overwhelmed to speak, too embarrassed to stay, too aware of every beat of his heart.

Kuroo reappeared at that exact moment—whether by coincidence or extremely deliberate timing.

He took one look at the scene—Akaashi red-faced and panicking, Bokuto stunned and glowing—and raised an eyebrow so sharp it could cut steel.

“…Should I pretend I didn’t just miss something?” he asked.

Akaashi wished the river would swallow him whole.

They walked to Bokuto’s apartment building in strained silence, both of them so embarrassed they could barely look at each other.

Bokuto’s steps were heavy but happy.
Akaashi’s were tight and mortified.

Kuroo walked slightly behind them, smirking like he knew exactly what happened and was absolutely going to interrogate Bokuto later.

When they reached the building, Bokuto rubbed the back of his neck.

“Um… text me when you get home? If you want?”

Akaashi nodded, unable to trust his voice.

Bokuto smiled—soft, shy, completely unlike his usual confident grin.
And it made Akaashi’s face burn all over again.

“Goodnight, Akaashi.”

“…Goodnight.”

Bokuto went inside.

Kuroo walked away, chuckling under his breath.

And Akaashi stood there for a long moment, pressing a hand over his flushed face, wishing he could somehow rewind time—even though a small, dangerous part of him didn’t regret it at all.

Not really.

He walked home with his heartbeat still caught somewhere between fear—

—and hope.

Chapter Text

Akaashi woke slowly, the kind of slow where the world seemed to pull itself into focus one hesitant layer at a time. For a moment he had no idea why his chest felt warm, why his neck felt tight with a fluttering, nervous heat, or why he was already fully awake even though he’d barely slept.

Then it hit him.

He had kissed Bokuto.

Or—no. Bokuto had kissed him.

Or… they had kissed each other, drawn together like magnets in one thoughtless, instinctive motion.

Akaashi immediately buried his face in his pillow, groaning into the fabric.

What had he done?

His cheeks burned so intensely he could feel the heat radiating into the linens. He wasn’t sure whether to faint, hide, or walk into the ocean.

Bokuto had kissed him.

And he hadn’t pulled away.

He hadn’t even hesitated.

His hand drifted unconsciously to his lower lip. He could still feel the ghost of Bokuto’s mouth — warm, soft, hesitant, almost trembling. The mint-scented warmth of him drifting across the tiny space between them.

Akaashi’s heart thudded so hard it felt like someone knocking from the inside of his chest.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

How was he supposed to look Bokuto in the eyes today? Tomorrow? Ever again? Their friendship — their long, awkward, carefully renewed bond — had suddenly shifted into something warmer, something hungrier, something he was terrified to name.

And Bokuto… Bokuto had looked so startled afterward. Embarrassed in a way he rarely ever was. As if he’d surprised himself.

As if he wanted more.

Akaashi swallowed, the movement tight.

He hated how much that thought thrilled him.

He hated how much he wanted it to be true.

Worse, he hated how being an omega made these reactions feel amplified—how his body remembered that moment with an embarrassing intensity. Cinnamon-tinged warmth curled under his skin, radiating from the center of his chest outward like a slow-burning ember. His scent always reacted strongest when his emotions got tangled, and right now it was ridiculous.

Why couldn’t he have been born a beta? Someone steady. Someone neutral. Someone who didn’t get flustered so easily or react to every spark of intimacy like they were wired to short-circuit.

Being an omega was exhausting.

Being an omega around Bokuto was… impossible.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He had to control himself today. For both their sakes. Bokuto had every right to be as embarrassed and unsure as he was. They had crossed a line neither of them had prepared for.

Akaashi dragged a hand through his hair, exhaled deeply, and forced himself to get up.

There was no way to undo the kiss.

And a part of him — a quiet, shameful, yearning part — didn’t want to.

But he had to hold himself together. He had to act normal.

…if he even remembered how.

As Akaashi stepped into his kitchen, his phone buzzed on the counter.
His heart instantly jumped into his throat.

He reached for the phone slowly, almost fearfully.

Bokuto: “Morning!! Did you sleep okay??”

Akaashi nearly threw the phone.

Why was Bokuto texting him like everything was perfectly normal? Like they hadn’t kissed. Like their entire world hadn’t tilted into a slightly different orbit.

His pulse pounded as he typed back.

Akaashi:
Good morning. I slept fine. You?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Of course it did.

Bokuto:
“Slept like a rock!! 😁
Hey um… I was thinking…
We’re still cool right?? Like—uh—nothing weird?? Sorry if I made things awkward.”

Akaashi’s breath caught.

Bokuto was worried.
Bokuto thought he might be uncomfortable.

Akaashi leaned his forehead against the cool refrigerator door, exhaling shakily.

He typed slower this time.

Akaashi:
We’re okay. I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong.

Three dots.

Then—

Bokuto:
“Okay!! Good!!
Because I—
I mean—
I really liked spending time with you yesterday.”

Akaashi felt his ears heat.
He pressed his palm to his chest to calm his racing heart.

Akaashi:
I did too.

A pause.

Then—

Bokuto:
“Can I see you again?
Not today—you’re working, right?
But maybe tomorrow? Or this weekend??”

Akaashi stared at the screen.

He had expected awkwardness. Avoidance. Distance.

Not eagerness.
Not warmth.
Not Bokuto sounding like he wanted him close.

His scent flared faintly, warm cinnamon blooming in the air before he could stop it.

He typed before he could overthink.

Akaashi:
Tomorrow works.

Instantly:

Bokuto:
“YES!!!!!
Okay!! Tomorrow!! I’ll plan something fun!! 😁”

Akaashi covered his face with his hands.

How was he supposed to survive this man?

Akaashi tried to go about his morning as if nothing was different, but every movement felt off-script, as if his mind kept circling back to a single point:

He kissed me.
I kissed him.
We kissed.

Every time he thought he’d finally regained composure, a tiny detail would shove him right back into flustered territory.

The softness of Bokuto’s mouth.
The way his hand had hovered, unsure, near Akaashi’s waist.
The brief tremble in Bokuto’s breath.
The stunned, pink-faced silence afterward.

Akaashi stopped in the middle of making tea, realizing he had been pouring hot water onto the counter for a solid five seconds.

He set the kettle down with a shaky sigh.

Maybe he needed fresh air.
Or a nap.
Or a personality transplant.

His phone buzzed again.

He flinched.

Bokuto:
“Hey ummm… what scent is that room spray you use??
I keep thinking about it and I can’t figure it out 😅”

Akaashi froze.

Room spray?

Room spray?

Oh—

Bokuto thought his natural scent was a room spray.

Akaashi nearly died on the spot.

He typed far too fast.

Akaashi:
That wasn’t room spray.

Three dots.

Bokuto:
“??
What was it then?? It smelled amazing.”

Akaashi swallowed hard.

He typed.

Akaashi:
My scent. Cinnamon.

There was no response.
Not for ten seconds.
Twenty.

Akaashi felt his stomach tighten.

Then—

Bokuto:
“Oh.
…
OH.”

Akaashi dropped his phone on the counter and covered his burning face with both hands.

Perfect.
Perfect.
He was never leaving his house again.

But then:

Bokuto:
“I liked it.
A lot.”

Akaashi stopped breathing.

His knees nearly buckled.

He had to sit down before gravity made the choice for him.

Bokuto liked it.

He liked Akaashi’s scent.

He liked him.

Akaashi pressed a hand to his chest as if that could steady the pounding rhythm.

Tomorrow felt impossibly far away.

But also far too close.

The office smelled like coffee, ink, too many paperbacks, and fluorescent lights.

Akaashi sat at his desk with his editing tablet open, red digital pen in hand, eyes scanning the manuscript in front of him.

He was on page 12.

He had read page 12 five times.

He understood none of it.

Characters were speaking, plot was happening, emotional beats were attempting to land — but he didn’t register a single one.

Because his brain was full of only one thing:

Bokuto tomorrow.
Dinner.
In Bokuto’s home.
Just the two of them.
After they kissed.

He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.

Deep breath.
He needed to think about work.
He needed to be professional.

Unfortunately, his mind had other plans.

Every time he blinked, he saw Bokuto’s smile.
Every time he inhaled, he thought of mint.
Every time he shifted in his seat, warmth curled under his skin like cinnamon rolling radiantly through his veins.

It was ridiculous.

Embarrassing.

Infuriating.

And deeply, deeply unfair.

He wasn’t supposed to get this flustered.
He wasn’t supposed to react like an omega textbook stereotype at the mere idea of dinner plans.

He wished, not for the first time, that he had been born a beta — steady, neutral, unshakable. A beta wouldn’t be melting into a puddle just remembering the way Bokuto’s thumb brushed his cheek after the kiss.

Akaashi set down his stylus with a quiet clack and rubbed his temples.

He couldn’t keep going like this.

He looked at the manuscript again.

He read the same sentence three more times before it finally registered:

“She wondered whether crossing that line meant losing him, or if it meant they were finally brave enough to stop pretending.”

Akaashi froze.

Unhelpful.
Painfully accurate.
Entirely too close to home.

He pushed his chair away from his desk.

He needed air.

In the break room, he leaned against the counter and let his shoulders relax.

He would see Bokuto tomorrow.

He didn’t know what would happen.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say.

But he knew he wanted to see him.

And maybe…

Maybe that was enough for now.

He checked his phone.

Bokuto:
“Are you allergic to anything?? For dinner I mean!!
I don’t wanna accidentally poison you 😅”

Akaashi felt his lips curve.

Even through text, Bokuto overflowed with sincerity.

He typed back quickly.

Akaashi:
I’m not allergic to anything. I trust your cooking.

Three dots.

Bokuto:
“REALLY?!?!
Okay okay I’ll make something good then!!!!
I already have ideas!!! 😁🔥🍲”

Akaashi exhaled, helplessly fond.

Mint lingered in his imagination like a cool breeze.

Work would be useless today.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Akaashi stood outside Bokuto’s apartment door, trying to convince his heartbeat to slow down.

It wasn’t working.

The hallway was quiet.
Softly lit.
The faint scent of mint drifted from under the door — unmistakably Bokuto, warm and refreshing and grounding.

Akaashi swallowed.

Why did he feel like he was about to step into something irreversible?

He raised his hand and knocked.

The door swung open instantly — too instantly — and Bokuto’s bright face appeared, hair slightly messy, apron on, flour dusting his cheekbone.

“Akaashi!! You’re here!”

His smile was the kind of radiant that could power a small city.

Akaashi felt warmth bloom in his chest.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I am.”

Bokuto stepped aside eagerly.

“Come in! Dinner’s almost done! And don’t laugh— I tried plating it nicely.”

Akaashi slipped off his shoes and entered. The air inside was warm, cozy, full of subtle spices and the crisp undertone of Bokuto’s mint scent. His nest-like home reflected him perfectly — energetic yet gentle, lived-in but tidy, full of color and warmth.

It smelled like him.
Comforting, refreshing, grounding.

Akaashi’s omega senses reacted before he could stop them, cinnamon rising under his skin—but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral.

Don’t get embarrassed.
Don’t get flustered.
Don’t—

Bokuto turned toward him, smiling so softly Akaashi’s thoughts immediately short-circuited.

“How was work?” Bokuto asked as he walked back into the kitchen, checking a pot on the stove.

“Fine,” Akaashi lied smoothly. “Quiet.”

“Oh good! Mine was busy,” Bokuto said, “but I kept thinking about dinner so I didn’t mind!”

Akaashi nearly tripped over nothing.

He steadied himself.

Calm.
Calm.
Stay calm.

He followed Bokuto to the kitchen, watching him stir something fragrant. Bokuto glanced up at him with an unexpectedly shy expression.

“I… uh… made one of your favorites.”

Akaashi blinked.

“…You remember my favorites?”

Bokuto’s ears went red.

“Of course I do.”

Mint filled the air, sharp from embarrassment, warm at the edges.

Akaashi’s chest squeezed.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had been thinking too much.

Dinner was simple but beautifully made — Bokuto had clearly put effort into the presentation, arranging the plates with careful precision that contrasted hilariously with the flour smeared on his arm.

They sat across from each other at the small table.

At first, conversation stumbled — a little awkward, a little hesitant.
Neither of them wanted to mention the kiss.
Neither wanted to be the first to bring it up and risk scaring the other.

But slowly, naturally, their old rhythm resurfaced.

Bokuto made a joke.
Akaashi responded dryly.
Bokuto laughed too loud.
Akaashi hid a smile behind his hand.

The tension eased.

Warmth grew.

Mint and cinnamon twined subtly in the space between them.

And by the time they were down to the last few bites, Bokuto looked across the table, cheeks faintly pink, eyes bright and soft in a way that made Akaashi look away, heart thudding.

“Akaashi…” he said gently.

Akaashi’s breath caught.

“I’m really glad you came tonight.”

Akaashi swallowed, heat rising in his cheeks.

“I’m glad too.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment too long.

A moment warm enough to soften the edges of the room.

A moment that felt like the beginning of something neither of them could name.

...

He didn’t know why he suddenly felt lightheaded.
Maybe it was the warmth of Bokuto’s apartment.
Maybe it was the way Bokuto was watching him with such open fondness.
Maybe it was—

No.
No, it couldn’t be.

But then he felt it.

A flutter.
A pulse.
A soft bloom of heat spreading low in his stomach.

Akaashi froze.

His fingers tightened around the glass as realization hit him like a bucket of cold water.

His scent.

His omega pheromones.

They were slipping out.

Not a lot.
Not enough to be obvious to a stranger.

But to an alpha — especially this alpha?

It would be unmistakable.

He tried to stop it, tried to clamp down, tried to school his breathing into something steady.

But the room was warm, Bokuto was close, and the air between them was thick with unspoken things.

His heart jumped painfully.

No.
Not here.
Not now.
He couldn’t lose control in front of Bokuto, of all people.

Akaashi lowered his face, letting his hair shadow his eyes. He focused on breathing evenly, willing the warmth in his cheeks to fade.

But then—

Mint hit him.

Sharp.
Clean.
Immediate.

Bokuto’s alpha scent flared in response, instinctive and sudden, filling the air with a refreshing vibrancy like crushed mint leaves between warm palms.

Akaashi’s breath caught.

Bokuto smelled it.

He knew he had.

Akaashi didn’t dare look up.

But Bokuto spoke, voice quiet… gentler than Akaashi had ever heard it.

“Akaashi,” he said softly. “Hey… it’s okay.”

Akaashi’s entire body went rigid.

His scent spiked again — mortification this time, not yearning — a swirl of warm cinnamon that practically radiated his embarrassment.

“I—I’m sorry.”
He pushed back slightly in his chair. “I didn’t mean to— It wasn’t intentional— I’m completely in control, I just—”

“Akaashi.”
Bokuto’s voice was steady.
Warm.
Grounding.

He stood slowly, like he was wary of startling him, and came around the table.

Akaashi watched the movement through his lashes, frozen, unable to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Bokuto murmured.

“You didn’t,” Akaashi said quickly. Too quickly.

His cheeks heated again, cinnamon curling unconsciously through the air.

He clenched his hands under the table, furious at his own body for betraying him.

Bokuto knelt beside him.

Right beside him.

Not touching — not crowding — just close enough that Akaashi could feel his presence, steady and reassuring.

Mint wrapped around Akaashi softly this time, not sharp, not overwhelming. A gentle breeze. A quiet anchor.

Bokuto tilted his head, eyes searching Akaashi’s face with tender concern.

“You don’t have to apologize for being an omega,” Bokuto said quietly.

Akaashi flinched.

His throat tightened.

He looked away, jaw clenching.

“That’s not— It’s not about being an omega, I just—”

“It is,” Bokuto said softly. “You always get so tense talking about it.”

Akaashi’s breath trembled.

He didn’t want to have this conversation.
Not here.
Not after dinner.
Not when he was already off-balance and vulnerable.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto continued, voice even gentler now, “you don’t have to hide your scent from me.”

Akaashi shook his head immediately.

“Yes, I do. Of course I do.”

Bokuto blinked. “Why?”

Akaashi swallowed, looking down at his hands.

“Because it’s… embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing.”

“It is.”

“Akaashi—”

“It is to me,” he whispered.

The room fell quiet.

Mint faded slightly, controlled, careful.
Bokuto wasn’t reacting instinctively anymore — he was listening.

Akaashi didn’t know how to explain the way his stomach twisted every time his scent slipped. How exposed it made him feel. How vulnerable. How much it reminded him of everything he hadn’t wanted to be.

He forced himself to exhale.

“I didn’t want to make things complicated between us,” he admitted, voice soft. “I didn’t want to push anything onto you. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Bokuto’s expression softened like melted gold.

“You could never make me uncomfortable.”

That did it.

Akaashi’s scent pulsed again—warm cinnamon, surprised and hopeful and desperately trying to stay contained.

Bokuto’s eyes flickered for half a second — an instinctive alpha reaction — but he steadied himself, kept distance, kept control.

Akaashi appreciated that more than he could ever say.

Bokuto offered a tiny smile.
Not exuberant.
Not overwhelming.

Gentle.

Honest.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said. “Not about this. Not about anything.”

Akaashi stared at him, breath caught somewhere too high in his chest.

He couldn’t speak.
Not without everything spilling out.

And then—
mercifully—
Bokuto stood.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s clear the dishes.”

Akaashi nodded, grateful for the break in intensity, and rose to his feet.

Their shoulders brushed.

Only for a second.

But both of them felt it.

Mint flickered.
Cinnamon fluttered.

Akaashi’s eyes widened at the same time Bokuto’s ears turned red.

They both jolted back like they’d touched fire.

“I—sorry!”
“Sorry!!”

They spoke at the same time, then froze, then laughed nervously.

The atmosphere warmed again, lighter this time, but with a faint undercurrent of something deeper — something neither of them dared name yet.

They carried the plates to the sink.

And as they stood side by side washing dishes — shoulders careful, scents cautiously restrained — the air between them hummed with a quiet, growing tension.

Gentle.
Warm.
Undeniable.

Akaashi was halfway through rinsing a plate when he felt it again — that unmistakable warmth rising under his skin, that subtle tug low in his stomach. His pheromones, soft and clean and unmistakably omega, drifted into the air despite every effort to keep himself composed.

He froze.

He never slipped like that. Especially not twice.

Before he could pull himself together, Bokuto’s hands stilled beside him in the sink. The alpha’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly — shoulders lifting, breath catching, pupils widening just slightly. His voice came out lower, gentler.

“…Akaashi?”

Akaashi almost dropped the plate. “I—I’m fine,” he managed, though his cheeks were pink, ears burning, and his heartbeat embarrassingly loud.

“Your pheromones are showing,” Bokuto said softly, not accusing, just concerned—and maybe a little breathless. “Did I… do something?”

Akaashi shook his head too quickly. “No! I mean—no, you didn’t. I just… got distracted.” He wished the counter would swallow him whole.

But Bokuto smiled. Warm. Soft. A little dazzled.
“You smell… nice.”

Akaashi nearly malfunctioned.

They finished the dishes like that — awkward, aware, bumping into each other more than necessary, both trying desperately to pretend they were totally normal and absolutely not combusting inside.

Every time their hands brushed, Akaashi’s breath hitched. Every time Akaashi leaned close, Bokuto forgot whatever he was holding.

By the time they sat down on the couch, an impossible tension hung between them — shy, charged, and hopeful.

Bokuto rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, Akaashi… I, um. I really—”

Akaashi looked up.

And that was it.

They leaned in at the same time — a soft, hesitant press of lips, nothing rushed. Just warm. Careful. Sweet. They parted just an inch, both of them wide-eyed and red as tomatoes.

“…Oh,” Bokuto whispered.

Akaashi’s voice was barely there. “Y-You kissed me.”

“You kissed me too!”

Silence. Then—

“…Should we do it again?” Bokuto blurted, mortified immediately after.

Akaashi covered his face with one hand. “Bokuto-san… please don’t say it like that.”

But he didn’t pull away when Bokuto leaned in again.

This kiss was deeper. Slower. Their hands found each other naturally, fingers tangling. Bokuto’s touch was steady and warm on Akaashi’s back, and Akaashi’s lips curved into a shy smile against his.

They sank into the couch cushions, kissing in gentle waves — teasing, retreating, returning — until Akaashi finally pulled back, breath unsteady and cheeks glowing.

“I should… probably head home soon,” he said automatically.

Bokuto blinked. “You can stay here tonight, if you want.”

Akaashi visibly hesitated. Then nodded once, small and shy.

Bokuto practically lit up. “Okay! I have pajamas you can borrow.”

He returned with one of his softer sets — the shirt definitely too big, the shorts definitely threatening to slip. Akaashi appeared from the bathroom a moment later, wearing them.

Bokuto felt his heart stop.

He looked so comfortable. So small in Bokuto’s clothes. So Akaashi.

“…They fit,” Bokuto said, voice cracking.

Akaashi raised an eyebrow. “They don’t. They’re huge on me.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto whispered — completely gone, but trying to hide it. “They look great.”

Akaashi pretended he didn’t hear the second part.

They ended up curled together on the couch, Akaashi tucked naturally against Bokuto’s side, Bokuto’s arm wrapped around him like it belonged there. The room was dim, quiet except for their soft breathing.

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi murmured, already drifting.

“Yeah?” Bokuto whispered back.

“I… really like you.”

Bokuto hugged him a little closer. “I really like you too.”

Akaashi fell asleep first, warm against him. Bokuto stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling with the dopiest smile imaginable, trying not to burst from how happy he felt.

And slowly — peacefully — he drifted off too.