Work Text:
“I am not a stallion, I am just perverse.
Hopeless, and docile, and tamed.”
- Crywank, “Only Everyone Can Judge Me”
There is a big bad monster in Bokuto’s brain.
It sits in the back of his mind and whispers things to him. It gives him a list of rules and demands they not be broken.
One: Do not upset Akaashi.
Two: Keep his emotions in line.
Three: Be normal.
The first is hard, but it falls into place easily. He can be kind to Akaashi. He can be funny for Akaashi. What he cannot be is forgetful, or a nuisance, or lazy. He makes the bed each morning. He pours them tea. He buys their groceries, and when he gets home he asks for only one kiss. It’s better than asking for more. He wants more.
The second is harder, especially when the monster in his mind likes to say mean things. It tells him that his teammates are mad at him, that he texts too much and that Akaashi does not love him the same as he did yesterday. It’s not a whisper, but a roar, bouncing off every corner of his skull until all he can hear is the other voice in his mind. The bad one. The monster’s.
The third? Well.
The third is impossible. But he’s trying anyway.
Bokuto is not normal. Has never been normal. He has known this since the start, from the small things that become big things, piling high until they are an impregnable wall. When he is six the school counselor believes his social skills are lacking, that this is why he cannot make friends easily; when he is ten he clings so close to the gym teacher that she eventually tells him to go outside and play; when he is fourteen his teammates leave him in a run; and when he is seventeen he sees the way Fukurōdani creates a laughingstock out of him.
Akaashi is different. Akaashi is quiet. Akaashi is kind. Akaashi is the best thing that has ever happened to Bokuto, because he does not judge, does not think Bokuto is weird, does not mind when Bokuto shouts or when Bokuto is sad. They bond over comics and volleyball and food, which Bokuto thinks is great, because those are some of the things he loves, and he’s glad Akaashi loves them too. When Akaashi talks about the books he’s started or the new documentary he just watched, Bokuto listens, because Akaashi is his world and Akaashi is his favourite, and anything Akaashi likes Bokuto wants to like.
It’s different now that they are adults. Akaashi is always working. Bokuto is always practicing. Some nights Akaashi has migraines, and others he is too tired to do anything but sit. It’s not Bokuto’s fault, it’s not, but it is. He knows it is. The winces Akaashi gives when he is too loud or too clingy or too Bokuto during these moments are crystal clear. There’s no point in wondering if Akaashi is mad, because Bokuto knows what the answer will be every time.
“Akaashi,” he pries one night. “Are you mad at me?”
To the left of him, the light of their television screen flickers across Akaashi’s face. He looks fine, at peace, unbothered. But when he says, “No, Bokuto-san. I’m not mad at you,” Bokuto knows it’s a lie. He knows it is, because the tone Akaashi uses is not the same tone he uses when he’s actually fine, is it?
“Okay,” he concedes, tight-lipped and sweaty-palmed. He twists his fingers together nervously.
Akaashi says nothing else. Why is he saying nothing else? Akaashi is always quiet. But this is a different kind of quiet. Bokuto is sure of it.
Five minutes later and Bokuto is leaning in again, nosing against the cotton of Akaashi’s shirt. “Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”
“Bokuto-san, I said I’m fine. What is there to possibly be mad at?”
This is a good question. Bokuto can think of a million and one reasons, but he does not say any of them. Instead he shrugs, and looks at Akaashi’s lap. Anywhere but his face. “I dunno.”
“Then it’s fine. I’m just tired tonight. I’m sorry if that’s why I’ve been quiet. Work was hard.” Akaashi kisses his forehead. It makes Bokuto feel momentarily better. Akaashi is not upset at anything and he is just tired, just worn out, because they are adults with busy lives. It’s fine.
The twisting in his gut does not leave until morning. By then he is happy. By then he is cooking breakfast and dancing to the radio.
𓅓𓅓
Sometimes, when Bokuto is really upset, his skin becomes too tight. He thinks there might be bugs inside him. He’s not sure. But his body feels impossibly small, all six feet and three inches of it, and he wants to burn it. Wants to hurt it. Wants to cut his skin and open it so that he can crawl out. He does neither, because despite the impulsive urge, it scares him. So he instead he does this, because to him, it is simple and effective:
He takes a clean sock. It doesn’t matter where he is. His bathroom or a locker room are both fine. As long as he’s alone, Bokuto doesn’t mind.
The burn is delicious. It’s addictive. It feels like he deserves it. He pushes the sock deep into his mouth, until his jaws are wide and there are tears in his eyes. Because he’s been bad, he’s vile, he’s perverse, and this temporary gag is enough to shut him up. He is vulnerable and stupid and worst of all, he has broken rule two.
It’s a minor infraction, really. Nothing that should matter to a normal person. But Bokuto is not normal, because it is a big deal to him, and the monster that occupies his mind is angry, really angry, and it’s bubbling to the surface now and threatening to let loose. Bokuto thinks he should punch a locker. He wants to punch a locker. Maybe the bruises on his knuckles would feel good.
They’re finishing practice when Atsumu pulls him in by the shoulders and laughs in his ear. “Bokkun,” he teases, “got something on yer mind? You were barely hittin’ my sets today.”
And the thing is, Bokuto knows it’s a joke. Knows that they regularly harp on each other. But today is a bad day, and he gets annoyed, gets passive, says, “Nah, Tsum-Tsum. Your sets just weren’t as good today.”
The sock in his mouth is damp. It’s wet. It tastes like detergent and his own spit. Bokuto takes it out and shoves it into his gym bag. He should text Akaashi, because Akaashi will want to know the bad thing he did. Maybe it’ll give him some attention. Any attention from Akaashi is good.
He texts his boyfriend. His hands are still quivering from the rush of adrenaline, the ache in his jaw, the grinding of his worn teeth. Except a reply doesn’t come. It never comes. Akaashi is busy, Akaashi is an adult, Akaashi is in Tokyo while Bokuto is in Osaka. Of course he can’t be on his phone whenever Bokuto wishes him to.
Still. That anger is festering again. It’s black and thick like tar and leaves Bokuto with the taste of bile in his mouth. It stays there for the rest of the day, and worst of all, his teammates never notice, never say anything about the lack of noise that often flows unfiltered from his open mouth. Instead they laugh, and they talk, and there is nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong.
Today is Tuesday, which means it is his Skype night with Akaashi, and they’re making rice with grilled fish. The tapping of Akaashi’s knife against the cutting board is soothing, but still. Still there is the monster. Still there is his annoyance, no matter how much Bokuto knows it is unwarranted, no matter how much Bokuto wishes it wasn't there.
“Aka-aashi,” he drawls as they sit down to eat. “You didn’t text me back for five hours.”
Akaashi looks surprised. “I’m sorry, Bokuto-san. My phone died this morning. I had forgotten to charge it.”
There’s a rush of guilt. Bokuto says nothing, instead choosing to purse his lips. “Oh,” he replies dumbly. “Sorry. Didn’t know.”
“Did something happen?”
Bokuto thinks back to his text. It wasn’t much. He’d typed out Akaashi’s name and sent it. There was nothing that stated he’d done something wrong. Something bad. Something that would clearly upset Akaashi. He’s going to keep it that way, because he’s decided Akaashi doesn’t need to know after all.
He laughs. “Nah! Nothing happened, ‘Kaashi. Just wanted to tell you that I love you lots and lots. You’re the best boyfriend, didja know that?”
The smile he receives is so beautiful, so astounding, so bright, that it leaves his chest warm and full for the remainder of the night.
𓅓𓅓
Bokuto pretends he does not get jealous, but he does. What he finds hilarious is that Fukurōdani’s colours were based on yellow, bright and hopeful and reminiscent of the sun itself; what’s even more funny is its double-edged meaning, a colour best represented in jealousy and betrayal. Even at age twenty-three he feels young. Immature. Inexperienced. A teenager that hasn’t figured out how to navigate a relationship.
Sometimes Akaashi talks about the new friends he makes or the different people he meets. It should not set Bokuto off, but he’s been finding more of late that he does not have complete control of himself. It’s hard, when there’s another entity entirely inside of him, occupying his body without rent. It comes at the worst times, like now, with his lips shut and his rice ball hanging in the air.
“Bokuto-san? Are you alright?”
Akaashi’s voice is like a light in a dark tunnel. It penetrates the thick clouds that hover in his mind and bring Bokuto back to the present. When he looks up, his boyfriend is eyeing him inquisitively. The caterpillar brows that Bokuto has always loved are now pinched harshly, etching wrinkles into Akaashi’s porcelain face.
Here is the thing: Bokuto has never made friends easily. Not since he was five and forgot to feed the class fish during his first week as the chosen caregiver. Akaashi is his first real friend, his first real best friend, his first real anything. Akaashi is as weird as he is and as fun as he is and he tastes like honey melon and sounds like the best song Bokuto has ever heard. Which means it feels bad when he has more friends who are probably better than Bokuto, probably funnier and more cool to hang with. He doesn’t think they yell when they’re excited. He doesn’t think they hide in the corner of the closet when they’re sad.
Instead of saying this, Bokuto fixes a grand smile across the expanse of his face, beaming brightly. “I’m great! Why do you ask?”
His boyfriend is still watching him, blue eyes squinting behind the lenses of his glasses. “Ah, alright. You’ve been quiet tonight. Have I said something wrong?”
He is upsetting Akaashi. He is breaking rule one. “No!” Bokuto says hurriedly. “You didn’t do anything. Nothing! I’m just really, really tired from the train ride, yeah?” He makes a scene of spreading his arms wide, grunting as he does so. “Big, awesome guys like me can only take so much.”
Akaashi still looks wary, but he laughs softly, quietly, the way he always does. It makes Bokuto feel somewhat better. He can ignore his feelings of inadequacy. His jealousy. The voice telling him Akaashi will leave him, because they always leave, always find someone better. It’s been this way his entire life - why is this any different?
They’re cleaning up and putting the dishes away when the bubble bursts and Bokuto looks across at Akaashi. He’s perfect like this, hair tousled and eyes lidded heavily. He’s wearing an old sweater of Bokuto’s, one that hangs off his shoulders and hides the shape of his hips.
“Are you going to leave me?”
Akaashi looks up. His eyes are unreadable. His mouth twists. “Why would you think that?”
He’s already said it. Those impulsive, rash decisions that poke holes in his vessel are now big enough to let him drown. “I… I don’t know. You were talking about your new coworkers, and it scared me. I’m really happy for you, ‘cause it’s so great that people like you, you’re a real fantastic guy, the best Akaashi, really the best. But I’m still your best friend, right?”
“Oh,” Akaashi breathes, “Koutarou.” There are hands against Bokuto’s cheeks then, soft and kind and familiar. Akaashi’s thumb underneath the heavy bags of his eyes makes his lower lip quiver. He’s not going to cry. He’s not. He won’t. “Is that why you were so quiet at dinner?”
Bokuto nods numbly. He says nothing. His face is so hot. He feels like a volcano that’s erupted, lava oozing down its sides.
“Of course you’re my best friend. You’re my boyfriend too, big bird. Truthfully, I… I’m not sure there is anyone who understands me the way you do. Not even myself.”
This is stupid. He feels stupid. He’s a mess, a wreck, a clingy bastard who doesn’t deserve this tenderness. But if there’s one thing Bokuto is aware of, it’s that he’s greedy and gluttonous; instead of pulling away, he leans closer, lips tracing Akaashi’s soft skin. “Are you just saying that?” he murmurs.
Akaashi smiles. “No.” He kisses Bokuto’s nose. “You’re so tuned to other people’s emotions. I’ve never seen anything like it, quite frankly. You can pick up on the most miniscule changes. It used to scare me, how easily you read me, especially when I couldn’t do the same. But I don’t think anyone can tame you in that kind of way.”
Oh. He’s never thought of it that way before. It had always come so naturally, like a sixth sense that didn’t need to be trained; it’s almost certainly a byproduct of paranoia, but even then it feels strange to be praised for such ‘talents.’
“Really?” he asks, pulling away. He stares down at Akaashi owlishly. “I didn’t really ever think about it like that, huh? If you say so, I guess.” He kisses him then, sloppy and off-centred. “Thanks, ‘Kaashi.”
Those hands that were once holding him fall away. Bokuto misses the warmth, but he says nothing. Not when he’s already been a nuisance this evening. It’s yet another rule he’s broken. “Don’t thank me. I’m telling you what I know.”
“Okay,” he says. His throat feels like it’s been rubbed raw, the muscles spasming as he struggles not to croak. Akaashi does not need to see him cry. Not now.
“Good.” Akaashi takes his hand. “And Bokuto-san?”
“Yeah?”
“The next time you feel this way, tell me. I want to know when you’re upset.”
𓅓𓅓
There are days where Bokuto never texts. Never calls. Never talks more than needed. They’re rare, but they’re there, and he knows they’re becoming more frequent. He thinks it’s because of the weather. It must be because of the weather.
His teammates notice these shifts in demeanour, but they never chalk it up to him being upset. Upset Bokuto is loud. Upset Bokuto makes noise. Upset Bokuto pouts like a child and forgets simple tasks like locking up after practice. This is different, more deep, more impalpable than simple mood swings will ever be. So they say nothing, because what is there to say? Bokuto is not mad. Bokuto is not sad. Bokuto is - nothing.
He is nothing.
But at least he has Akaashi.
It becomes easier to ignore texts, easier to ignore the guilt in his gut the longer he stays silent. By the end of the day it feels refreshing, and that void he’s been floating in feels as if it’s slipping, as if his toes are inching back towards earth. It’s only when he reaches his apartment, turns on his cellphone, checks his notifications, and sees -
Absolutely zero messages.
So no one has cared to check on him. That’s alright. It’s not like he wanted them to anyways, right? This isn’t a game of volleyball, he doesn’t need a stand of people to watch him, doesn’t need the crowd to clap along with the momentum of his serves. He’s the one that’s been quiet anyways.
But still. The attention would be nice.
That numbness is back and it spreads down his arms and tingles in his hands. When he looks in the mirror that stands to the side of his bed, he sees white hair, broad shoulders, thick calves. It’s his body, there and corporeal. That’s it though, isn’t it? He’s a body. A vessel. There’s no real identity to him. No purpose. An ace, sure, a future Olympian. It’s what he’s worked for his entire life.
Bokuto waves. The man in the mirror waves back. He even smiles. How polite.
He’s Bokuto Koutarou. He’s Bokuto Koutarou and the big bad monster tells him that’s all.
Friday night passes and Bokuto doesn’t eat. Instead he sleeps, and he sleeps, and he sleeps. It’s eleven the next morning when he wakes up. There’s crust around his eyes and he’s only somewhat conscious of the fact that he slept in yesterday’s clothes, disgusting and unwashed and smelling faintly of sweat.
He grabs his phone. There are five missed calls and a couple texts from Akaashi. Panic chews its way like a rat in a cage through the centre of his gut.
Instead of getting up, he calls back. Akaashi picks up on the first ring. “Bokuto-san?” He sounds worried. That’s not good. His anxiety shouldn’t be allowed to get out of hand.
“Wh- ‘Kaashi. Why did you call me so much?” Bokuto’s voice cracks with the remnants of sleep, heavy and still tired.
“You didn’t text me at all yesterday. I tried calling you last night but there was nothing. Did you just wake up?”
He closes his eyes. Rule one. Rule one. He’s broken it again. He’s broken it again and he’s an evil person and he is going to hell for this and he is disgusting and -
Akaashi’s voice breaks through. “Bokuto-san? Bokuto-san. Are you there?”
“I’m here,” he rasps. “M’sorry, Akaashi.”
There’s a stretch of silence where neither of them talk. This is when Akaashi begins to overthink and Bokuto begins to slip into despondency. It’s a dance they’ve been playing for months it seems.
“Keiji. You’re overthinking again. I can smell it.”
A gentle laugh sounds through the phone at Bokuto’s poor joke. But it sounds strained, like it hurts Akaashi. “I’m not overthinking this time, Bokuto-san. I promise.”
“Good," he says with a little sigh. “But really, I’m sorry. I was tired yesterday, super distracted too, ‘cause everyone’s games were totally off. I couldn’t hit even a single spike! Can you believe that? Can you? It’s like Tsum-Tsum was trying to throw my entire groove in the trash.”
He can almost picture Akaashi nodding along in his mind. “Ah, I see.” And then: “Bokuto-san. You’re home this weekend, right?”
Bokuto frowns. “Yeah? Why?”
“Okay. Please stay in the apartment. I’ll be in Osaka by nightfall.”
Oh.
Bokuto showers and does his best to shave the bit of stubble that’s grown like a parasite across his face. By the time Akaashi arrives at the train station, he’s successfully made the bed, bought them dinner, and made sure that the apartment is spotless. It’s the most he can do right now, considering the troubles he’s caused.
Akaashi hugs him and kisses him as normal. He even makes an effort to kiss Bokuto twice, which is unnecessary, but god be damned if Bokuto isn’t eating it up like it's his last meal on earth. There is nothing in this universe that can compare to the way Akaashi’s lips are tailored to fit perfectly against his own.
Dinner is the same as always. Bokuto jokes, Akaashi smiles, and the two of them laugh. And it’s genuine, really, because Bokuto feels happy. Akaashi is here, and Akaashi cares, and Akaashi is enjoying himself. That’s what matters, right? That’s what he should care about.
It’s only after, when they’re about to settle in for the night, does Akaashi pause the television and turn to Bokuto. He looks different, as if there’s a secret he’s been withholding, a worry that’s been choking him by the jugular and won’t let go.
“Koutarou. Can I ask you something?” Akaashi’s voice is so soft. It reminds him of linen sheets and white clouds on a summer’s eve.
Bokuto smiles, but his cheeks don’t lift. “Sure thing, ‘Kaashi! Anything you want.”
A beat of silence.
“Are you alright?”
He stares. And he stares. And he stares until he’s certain his eyes have left a hole through Akaashi. He wants to say yes, wants to promise that it’s alright, that he’s never been better and that the stars have never looked as close as they do now. He should be leaping for new heights, should be on the moon and waving to the Martians beyond. That’s what Akaashi wants to hear, right?
It’s a shame that he can’t bring himself to say any of that. Bokuto has never been good at lying, in the same way that he’s never been good at friends, or relationships, or being normal. So instead he puts down his weapons and raises his white flag, the way he should have long ago.
“I don’t think so,” he whispers. “I think it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like me, Keiji.”
Akaashi leans forward and takes Bokuto’s hands in his. They’re larger, more bony, more soft and tender. They’re nothing like Bokuto’s, which are callused and worn. “Do you want to talk about it?” Akaashi asks.
He’s not going to cry. He doesn’t cry, not ever. That’s not what he does, it’s not him. “I -” Bokuto cuts off and feels a fat tear roll down his cheek. “Fuck, I - I didn’t mean to start crying. Sorry, ‘Kaashi. Sorry.” He scrubs viciously at his cheeks, until his skin burns and turns an angry red.
Gentle hands pry away the fists that crowd his face. “That’s okay. Please cry. It’s healthy.”
So he does.
He cries. And he cries. And he cries until there’s nothing else but Akaashi’s hands in his hair and his lap against Bokuto’s face. He cries until the monster is silenced, until its voice is a quiet purr and a distant rumble. It’s only then that he talks and finds the words to sum his feelings, only then that he lets himself be heard.
“I think I need help,” he says between tissues. “I think I need a doctor. I feel like, like. Like I’m a bad person.” His bottom lip trembles. “I always have these angry thoughts, these impulses, these urges I can’t suppress without sabotaging everything. Some days my brain tells me I should give up on the Jackals, give up on you, give up on my friends, and it scares me, ‘cause I love all those things, love you, and ‘m scared, real scared, ‘Kaashi, ‘nd I don’t know what I’m gonna do or what I’m gonna say when I -”
“You’re not a bad person,” Akaashi murmurs.
A sniff. “What?”
“I said you’re not a bad person. You’re Koutarou Bokuto. You’re the Jackals’ ace and my boyfriend. You’re your sisters’ brother and your parents’ son. Every bone and every fibre in you is composed of kindness, down to the very last cell.” Akaashi’s words are lifting him on pillowed wings, higher, higher, until the ground is no longer visible. “You make friends wherever you go and you say sorry when you forget to hold the door open. I hear you before I see you, and I like that, like you, because of the things that make you Bokuto. So when I say you’re not a bad person,” here, Akaashi’s hands stop their movements, “then I mean it.”
Bokuto is not a bad person.
Bokuto is a good person.
Bokuto is a kind person.
“Do you mean that?” he asks.
The curve of Akaashi’s lips can be felt against his hair. “Always.”
It’s not a lot, but it’s enough for now. Akaashi’s words find their way to his heart and stay there, blanketing him like a warm scarf on a winter’s day. He doesn’t want this to end. He wants to stay here, always, in the comfort of Akaashi’s arms until their bodies become one.
“Akaashi?”
“Yes, Bokuto-san?”
A gentle inhale. “Please stay with me.”
“I was planning on it,” Akaashi hums.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
𓅓𓅓
He meets the psychiatrist a month later. She’s short, kind, and doesn’t get mad when Bokuto is too loud, or too quiet, or too fidgety. She breaks every stereotype Bokuto has ever heard and puts to rest every doubt he has about athletes and mental health. She lets him steal the candies from her little bowl and says nothing when he pops one, two, three in his mouth. She even lets him play with the stress toys. That’s his favourite part, he thinks.
It’s on their third visit that she sits him down and asks if he’s heard of borderline personality disorder. He says no.
“There are three clusters of personality disorders,” she says. “A, B, and C. Think of them as small families.” She brings up a chart and points to the middle grouping. There are other disorders there, ones Bokuto has never heard of before, including antisocial personality disorder, histrionic personality disorder, and narcissistic personality disorder. “Borderline is characterised by unstable relationships, turbulent mood swings, and paranoid ideations. Patients struggle to be left alone, though their inappropriate outbursts can cause others to be pushed away.”
Bokuto nods along. He says nothing.
“Patients might have trouble with impulsive behaviour, including sabotaging relationships, engaging in unsafe sex, and spending copious amounts of money. They might fall back on self-harm techniques in response to rejection and suffer from paranoia that makes it hard to distinguish reality from fiction. Up to half of borderline patients report psychosis.”
It’s a lot to take in. It’s even more to comprehend the idea that this might be him. “Okay.” He fidgets with the putty in his hands. “Are you saying I have this?”
She smiles then, kind, caring, and free of any pity. “I think you might.”
“What are we going to do?” Bokuto asks.
His therapist pulls out a booklet and writes something down. “I’m going to book you an appointment at the nearest hospital. They’re going to run some tests with you. After that we’ll get an official diagnosis, and then we can start you on the proper medication.” She pauses and looks up from her notebook. “Is that alright with you, Bokuto?”
It’s more than alright. It’s the best thing he’s heard in months. He has the urge to jump then and there and present her with a hug. “Huh? Oh! Yeah. Yeah! That’s fantastic, really, thank you Aoki-san! I’m gonna have to talk to my coach about medication, and we’re gonna have to make sure it’s nothing that’ll interfere, ‘cause I have to be at the top of my game, y’know? But really, that’s fantastic!”
Aoki beams at his merriment. “That’s good to hear. I’ll call you when the appointment goes through, alright?”
For once, the monster does not make an appearance. Instead it is just Bokuto, in his own mind, running free like a stallion. He shakes his therapist’s hand vigorously. “Hey hey! That’s great! I can’t wait to tell Akaashi, he’s gonna be so happy. Thanks Aoki-san.”
He’s so quick to run out the door that he nearly misses Aoki’s laugh. “Take care, Bokuto.”
𓅓𓅓
There is a big bad monster in Bokuto’s brain.
It sits in the back of his mind and whispers things to him. It gives him a list of rules and demands they not be broken.
One: Do not upset Akaashi.
Two: Keep his emotions in line.
Three: Be normal.
The first is hard, but he’s getting better. These days he sees Akaashi laugh more, smile brighter, and worry less. He still makes their bed and he still pours them each tea, but now there’s a little tasklist on their fridge that says Take Medication! It travels with him between Tokyo and Osaka, and on the rare off-chance that he travels out of the country, makes sure to pack it neatly in his duffel bag.
The second has become easier. The Abilify he takes helps with the paranoia and the outbursts, and Bokuto is commended on his newfound abilities to take control of situations. It’s not what he’d called normal, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get. There are no more mood swings on the court, no more pouting or quick remarks of sarcasm; at home he still finds solace in the comfort of sheets, but his waves of depression are less frequent and less destructive.
The third? Well.
The third is impossible. But he’s alright with that.
Bokuto is not normal. He has never been normal. He likes to say that he is, and Akaashi is kind enough to agree with him when he asks, but he’s accepted that there is nothing normal when it comes to the name Koutarou Bokuto. He has bad days, and that’s fine. He has good days, and that’s even more fine. He likes to eat bubblegum ice cream mixed with banana and chocolate, and he likes to sing in the shower. He likes to spike balls and he likes to be the ace. He likes to kiss Akaashi and he likes to count the amount of steps that it takes to get from one side of his apartment in Osaka to the other. He lifts his feet when they drive over bridges because it is good luck. He watches himself twenty, thirty, forty times in every match recording. None of these things are normal, but it’s fine.
He’s Bokuto Koutarou. He’s Bokuto Koutarou and the big bad monster tells him that’s all.
It’s alright though. Bokuto can tell when something is a lie. After all, he’s not bad. He’s kind.