Not in the way you normally do - there is no mild curiosity behind the movement of his eyes. No unhinged interest that draws his attention. He watches the same way people fret, nervous but intense, worried but unwilling to act. Yet.
Bokuto’s shoulders drop, and Akaashi feels the flag drop, a race against space and time alike. He meets eyes with Washio, then Sarukui, before the return to the ball.
They are four points down, all of which have been Bokuto’s errors. They lost the previous set by another of Bokuto’s errors, though seventeen of their twenty three points had also been by his hands. Akaashi gauges the placement of his team, the movement of their feet, waits for the ball to crest over the net. They have two, maybe three volleys before Bokuto will start to get restless, numbers and probabilities filing alongside his gut instinct to set to the only real point-scorer of their game.
The ball is spiked, Komi receives, Bokuto’s shoulders drop with his eyes and Akaashi resists the urge to sigh.
Dejected Mode: In effect.
Akaashi sets to Washio, moves back into position, and strategizes. Bokuto needs something to pull him out, as they don’t currently have the time to wait for him to ease out of it, but Akaashi can’t put his finger on what. The squeaks of rubber on wood fill the gym, Akaashi hears the roar of the crowd and the distinct voices of their coach, their teammates, mixed in with those of the other team.
He blinks, thinks of Bokuto, of wide golden eyes and soft grey hair, of large calloused hands and bright smiles. He thinks of the moments when Bokuto is at his highest, after winning spikes and congratulator speeches. Of the yell he gives when the ball hits the floor and everyone in the gym lets out a breath, a single thought connecting them all - they won.
In these moments, he feels like a pole in a hurricane, pulled and pushed but grounded, feeling himself slip out of the sand and letting that panic settle hot and sour in the back of his throat. He doesn’t have time for this, they don’t have time for this, if he doesn’t fix it and Bokuto doesn’t get better then what’s the use of him as a setter.
I notice, you know. Washio is blocked, Komi dives to save the ball, Akaashi volleys it over for a free ball and everyone resets. Notice what, Bokuto-san? He hears his coach above the crowd, calling one of their base plays, usually one he reverts back to when he knows everyone is struggling to find their footing. What you do on the court, when you pull me out of my funks.
The other team sets up for their left wing spiker. The ball hits the top of the net. Sarukui gets his hand under it and gets it up in the air. All I do is remind you, Bokuto-san. You have the skills already. Akaashi quickly situates himself under the ball, watches it fall towards him. The whole front line sets up for the assault, waiting for the ball to reach his fingertips before they start their motion.
It’s more than that-
Of the options, Bokuto is on the right side behind Akaashi, has started advancing a second too early, but has his eyes up to the ball. Akaashi blinks, thinks, waits.
-You save me.
Bokuto’s straight spike is, as far as Akaashi can tell, nearly impossible to block if not planned for and set up for prior to the set. The power behind it, as well as Bokuto’s split-second decision-making ability with regard to that spike, specifically, is unstoppable.
They win the game, after that point. Five points, in succession, from the serving line. Bokuto shakes the captain’s hand under the net before turning back to his team, throwing up his fists as they all advance on him- Akaashi included. He throws his arms over Bokuto’s shoulders and can’t stop grinning, even as the rest of their teammates pile on.
Nationals is next week, and for one more year, Fukurodani will play on that court. In that arena.
Bokuto will play, for one last year. And that’s enough for Akaashi.
FILL: TEAM ARAKITA YASUTOMO/FUKUTOMI JUICHI, G
wordcount: 721
Akaashi watches him.
Not in the way you normally do - there is no mild curiosity behind the movement of his eyes. No unhinged interest that draws his attention. He watches the same way people fret, nervous but intense, worried but unwilling to act. Yet.
Bokuto’s shoulders drop, and Akaashi feels the flag drop, a race against space and time alike. He meets eyes with Washio, then Sarukui, before the return to the ball.
They are four points down, all of which have been Bokuto’s errors. They lost the previous set by another of Bokuto’s errors, though seventeen of their twenty three points had also been by his hands. Akaashi gauges the placement of his team, the movement of their feet, waits for the ball to crest over the net. They have two, maybe three volleys before Bokuto will start to get restless, numbers and probabilities filing alongside his gut instinct to set to the only real point-scorer of their game.
The ball is spiked, Komi receives, Bokuto’s shoulders drop with his eyes and Akaashi resists the urge to sigh.
Dejected Mode: In effect.
Akaashi sets to Washio, moves back into position, and strategizes. Bokuto needs something to pull him out, as they don’t currently have the time to wait for him to ease out of it, but Akaashi can’t put his finger on what. The squeaks of rubber on wood fill the gym, Akaashi hears the roar of the crowd and the distinct voices of their coach, their teammates, mixed in with those of the other team.
He blinks, thinks of Bokuto, of wide golden eyes and soft grey hair, of large calloused hands and bright smiles. He thinks of the moments when Bokuto is at his highest, after winning spikes and congratulator speeches. Of the yell he gives when the ball hits the floor and everyone in the gym lets out a breath, a single thought connecting them all - they won.
In these moments, he feels like a pole in a hurricane, pulled and pushed but grounded, feeling himself slip out of the sand and letting that panic settle hot and sour in the back of his throat. He doesn’t have time for this, they don’t have time for this, if he doesn’t fix it and Bokuto doesn’t get better then what’s the use of him as a setter.
I notice, you know. Washio is blocked, Komi dives to save the ball, Akaashi volleys it over for a free ball and everyone resets. Notice what, Bokuto-san? He hears his coach above the crowd, calling one of their base plays, usually one he reverts back to when he knows everyone is struggling to find their footing. What you do on the court, when you pull me out of my funks.
The other team sets up for their left wing spiker. The ball hits the top of the net. Sarukui gets his hand under it and gets it up in the air. All I do is remind you, Bokuto-san. You have the skills already. Akaashi quickly situates himself under the ball, watches it fall towards him. The whole front line sets up for the assault, waiting for the ball to reach his fingertips before they start their motion.
It’s more than that-
Of the options, Bokuto is on the right side behind Akaashi, has started advancing a second too early, but has his eyes up to the ball. Akaashi blinks, thinks, waits.
-You save me.
Bokuto’s straight spike is, as far as Akaashi can tell, nearly impossible to block if not planned for and set up for prior to the set. The power behind it, as well as Bokuto’s split-second decision-making ability with regard to that spike, specifically, is unstoppable.
They win the game, after that point. Five points, in succession, from the serving line. Bokuto shakes the captain’s hand under the net before turning back to his team, throwing up his fists as they all advance on him- Akaashi included. He throws his arms over Bokuto’s shoulders and can’t stop grinning, even as the rest of their teammates pile on.
Nationals is next week, and for one more year, Fukurodani will play on that court. In that arena.
Bokuto will play, for one last year. And that’s enough for Akaashi.