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Life for Akaashi Keiji is mostly quiet.
He grows in a home of silence, where conversation is communicated through taut smiles and sullen glances. He spends nights flipping textbook pages, printing neat fine lines, listening as his house creaks and croaks with age and wear. Mornings are brisk and fly by in seconds. Akaashi has a routine that he has never once fallen out of, and getting ready for school is a dance he knows all too well. It is long strides through the halls and down the stairs, short sweeps of feet into shoes and brief over the shoulder looks as he announces his departure.
He takes the train to school, and it's here that things start to grow. Train rides are never truly silent but they aren't quite loud either. Akaashi thinks of early morning commutes as soft, low hums. A kind of tune he can naturally sway to as every stop gently pulls and pushes him in his seat. It's a song sung by fellow high school girls going on about the newest gossip, by the man on the phone in the clean and crisp business suit, and by the mother lightly scolding her children to keep from creating a scene.
If train rides are soft, low hums than school is something more intense and less desirable. The moment he enters his classroom, he enters into an environment that's foreign for someone who thrives in silence. Everyone likes to talk in his class (noticeably much more than other classes do). School is always the loudest part of his day. Washing over him in large tidal waves, filling in through his ears and drowning out every thought held in his brain. Sometimes, he finds it hard to think during this time. Sometimes, it ends up being too much and too overwhelming and too noisy that he needs space— that he needs to be alone. School is an ocean that Akaashi can swim perfectly fine through, but there's always something that manages to pull him under (but Akaashi doesn't like to think about that too much).
And then, there is volleyball practice. Akaashi likes volleyball practice, much more than the train rides, than being at home, than suffocating in the classroom. Volleyball reminds him of the morning; it is a dance he knows so well and one he wishes he’ll know for much longer than he originally planned. Volleyball is a tune so precise and loud but not the ugly kind like school. It fills the room with squeaking shoes, exasperated breaths, volleyballs slamming against floors and cutting through the air, cries of victory and cries of frustration, almost always ending with booming declarations towards becoming the best of the best.
Volleyball gives Akaashi’s day a little more light, a little more colour, a little more feeling. But most importantly, volleyball gives Akaashi the chance to be with his team, to be with Bokuto Koutarou.
Life for Akaashi Keiji is mostly quiet up until his first year of high school, up until the moment he meets Bokuto Koutarou, and decides to aim for victory by his side.
(“AKAAASSHGHI! Give me one more toss!”
“Alright, Bokuto-san.”)
Bokuto Koutarou is something Akaashi has yet to experience in his life. He is constantly shouting, constantly laughing, constantly moping, constantly striving, constantly failing, and constantly winning. Bokuto Koutarou is so many things wrapped into one that at first it overwhelms Akaashi. Akaashi, who lives almost passively, in the little insignificant moments like sitting quietly at his desk in the morning or waiting for the last train home to arrive.
Bokuto Koutarou is so different and everywhere that he ends up luring Akaashi out of the life he’s grown so accustomed to. After school is no longer the time where he heads straight home to study and bask in the silence. It becomes going to the convenience store with Bokuto, staying longer to practice his tosses with Bokuto, hanging out with Bokuto at the arcades. Akaashi lives almost strictly to a routine, and Bokuto is an uncontrolled variable that seems to be constantly messing it up, yet, Akaashi doesn't mind. He starts to not mind if things don't usually go as planned— as long as Bokuto is there.
(“Akaashi! I've decided that as the amazing captain I am, I'm going to take you out!”
“Out? Where to Bokuto-san?”
“Uh... Well… I haven't gotten to that part yet… But when I do, it's going to be great and you're going to love it Akaashi!”
“Alright. We’ll see if you're right, Bokuto-san.”)
Eventually, being around Bokuto so much does something to Akaashi. He starts to feel differently. He starts to compare being in Bokuto’s presence to the feeling of having someone run their fingers through his hair, or like drinking hot chocolate while sitting next to the fireplace on an icy winter day. It's as if a fire has been lit in his chest, one that's been melting Akaashi into a vulnerable, cheesy pool of emotions. And it's all because of him, his captain, his ace.
(“Akaashi, are you humming?!”
“... Yes? Why, is that strange?”
“No! No! It's just…”
“Bokuto-san, you're blushing.”
“W-What!? No I'm not!! I swear!”)
And, eventually, Akaashi begins to realize that maybe he isn't the only one feeling this way.
(“Akaashi, there’s something I have to tell you…”
“Yes, Bokuto-san?”
“I…”)
Life for Akaashi Keiji is mostly quiet up until his first year of high school, and is as noisy as ever up until his third year. Things are still same old, same old. (Maybe a little lonelier than before, but being alone isn't too foreign to Akaashi). He begins his mornings without any flaws in his steps, he listens to the hum of the train as the early sun begins to shine, he tries not to get lost in the conversations of the classroom (or in himself), and of course he always makes sure to go to volleyball— even if it's much harder now as the newly appointed captain (even if it's much harder without his ace by his side). But he still keeps going, sticking to routine, the way he always does.
And when the last train home slides to his stop, and he makes it into the car and to his usual seat, he is greeted by the one who keeps his quiet life from being truly silent.
(“KEIJI!!! I MISSED YOU!! It's been far too long!!”
“Koutarou, you saw me yesterday.”
“Okay BUT STILL!!”)
And he doesn't mind if it’s no longer mostly quiet— as long as it's because of him.