When Bokuto breaks a wing for the first time, he cries and cries and cries.
“Stay still, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, as he pulls the crooked pinions straight and digs his fingers into the pillowy down. He tries to be gentle—tries to keep his touch soothing, as if he could smooth away Bokuto’s unhappiness with each sweep of his hand—but Bokuto shudders and the wing pulls out of the loose bandage again.
Akaashi bites his lip in frustration, and reaches out to try again.
“I’m broken,” Bokuto is saying, muffled into the bedsheets. His other wing trails off the edge of the mattress, the enormous length of its flight feathers flaring out over the tiled floor. There’s a veritable puddle of feathers all around him, strewn across the bed as if a minor battle had been fought and lost on Akaashi’s lap. “I can’t fly, I can’t do anything! I’m useless. Grounded. I might as well be dead.”
“It’s just a broken wing,” Akaashi replies. He folds Bokuto’s broken wing carefully, bending the joint into its correct place. Outside the window, he can hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliff-face, and he thinks, it's lucky Bokuto hadn't fallen into the ocean. “It will heal, if you’re not reckless with it.”
Bokuto makes a soft, warbling noise—not quite pain, but misery enough. It makes him seem soft, small and confused where he hides his face in his arms. “I said I can’t fly, Akaashi!” he says, voice thick. “What will I do, if I can’t fly?”
Stay still for longer than a few minutes, Akaashi thinks to himself. Stay here, with,
But he holds his tongue, and doesn’t say anything. Just runs a gentle hand over the curve of Bokuto’s wing, pale feathers glossy and neat where they poke out of the bandage. Perhaps it’s selfish of him, to savour the moments when Bokuto is caught by the pull of gravity, weighed down and human.
Akaashi buries the thought, quashed it down when Bokuto stirs enough to lean into the warmth of his arms. His face presses against Akaashi’s stomach, breath warm as it fans over bared skin. The demand is unashamed and obstinate; Bokuto in his grief, is as loud as when he soars through the open sky.
“You don’t understand, Akaashi,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse and scratchy from his earlier tears. “You wouldn’t. You can’t fly! Up there, in the sky. The world is—it’s everywhere, it’s mine. I could touch the sun, and bring it back for you.”
“You would burn, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies. He continues stroking, as Bokuto hiccups a protest.
Sometimes, Bokuto comes back with his shoulders red and peeling, and his nose decorated with little flakes of dried skin. Akaashi will tell him, as he rubs filmy ointments into the angry patches that he can see, don’t fly too far away.
Bokuto, of course, does it again just several days later, and Akaashi lets him go with the certainty that Bokuto will return to him, surly and aggrieved, at the fact that the sun insists on burning him.
He keeps those moments like little pebbles in a sack, collected from the riverbed as he waits for Bokuto to tire and come home. Moments like these, when Bokuto is quiet and seeks comfort in his arms; like mementos, keepsakes. Sentimental trinkets that he would deny if discovered, yet hoards all the same, tucked away and hidden somewhere dark and forgotten.
Akaashi wonders, sometimes, why his heart feels so heavy.
FILL: Team Miyuki Kazuya/Narumiya Mei, T
When Bokuto breaks a wing for the first time, he cries and cries and cries.
“Stay still, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, as he pulls the crooked pinions straight and digs his fingers into the pillowy down. He tries to be gentle—tries to keep his touch soothing, as if he could smooth away Bokuto’s unhappiness with each sweep of his hand—but Bokuto shudders and the wing pulls out of the loose bandage again.
Akaashi bites his lip in frustration, and reaches out to try again.
“I’m broken,” Bokuto is saying, muffled into the bedsheets. His other wing trails off the edge of the mattress, the enormous length of its flight feathers flaring out over the tiled floor. There’s a veritable puddle of feathers all around him, strewn across the bed as if a minor battle had been fought and lost on Akaashi’s lap. “I can’t fly, I can’t do anything! I’m useless. Grounded. I might as well be dead.”
“It’s just a broken wing,” Akaashi replies. He folds Bokuto’s broken wing carefully, bending the joint into its correct place. Outside the window, he can hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliff-face, and he thinks, it's lucky Bokuto hadn't fallen into the ocean. “It will heal, if you’re not reckless with it.”
Bokuto makes a soft, warbling noise—not quite pain, but misery enough. It makes him seem soft, small and confused where he hides his face in his arms. “I said I can’t fly, Akaashi!” he says, voice thick. “What will I do, if I can’t fly?”
Stay still for longer than a few minutes, Akaashi thinks to himself. Stay here, with,
But he holds his tongue, and doesn’t say anything. Just runs a gentle hand over the curve of Bokuto’s wing, pale feathers glossy and neat where they poke out of the bandage. Perhaps it’s selfish of him, to savour the moments when Bokuto is caught by the pull of gravity, weighed down and human.
Akaashi buries the thought, quashed it down when Bokuto stirs enough to lean into the warmth of his arms. His face presses against Akaashi’s stomach, breath warm as it fans over bared skin. The demand is unashamed and obstinate; Bokuto in his grief, is as loud as when he soars through the open sky.
“You don’t understand, Akaashi,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse and scratchy from his earlier tears. “You wouldn’t. You can’t fly! Up there, in the sky. The world is—it’s everywhere, it’s mine. I could touch the sun, and bring it back for you.”
“You would burn, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies. He continues stroking, as Bokuto hiccups a protest.
Sometimes, Bokuto comes back with his shoulders red and peeling, and his nose decorated with little flakes of dried skin. Akaashi will tell him, as he rubs filmy ointments into the angry patches that he can see, don’t fly too far away.
Bokuto, of course, does it again just several days later, and Akaashi lets him go with the certainty that Bokuto will return to him, surly and aggrieved, at the fact that the sun insists on burning him.
He keeps those moments like little pebbles in a sack, collected from the riverbed as he waits for Bokuto to tire and come home. Moments like these, when Bokuto is quiet and seeks comfort in his arms; like mementos, keepsakes. Sentimental trinkets that he would deny if discovered, yet hoards all the same, tucked away and hidden somewhere dark and forgotten.
Akaashi wonders, sometimes, why his heart feels so heavy.