Work Text:
i. tripod – a three-legged beast, keeps the pictures still
ii. negative – everything opposite and backwards
His hobby started with a request. A friend of a friend of a friend knew a person who knew a person who knew a person who needed someone to be a cameraman for a week. Ennoshita, part-time aspiring director and part-time kindly Facebook friend, formally requested assistance with his midterm project. Akaashi acquiesced. His shoulder ached by the end of the week, and he had his fill of badly-sewn lion costumes for a lifetime. A month later, Ennoshita showed him the finished film on a tiny laptop. A world existed on the screen that Akaashi hadn’t seen when he lugged around the camera. The disheveled yard unfolded into a forest, dark and deep and never ending. A hill delicately rose from the bottom of the screen. A butterfly scored along the exterior shot, meaningful and beautiful.
“You did really good work,” Ennoshita said, “The camerawork is really objective. It captures everything it needs to capture.”
Translated: impersonal, cold, distant. Akaashi accepted the compliment. He bought a digital camera with a month’s worth of cup ramen and started taking pictures. The world beyond his lenses was strange and interesting. Sometimes the picture would reveal a soft and gentle landscape, and other times the sharp focus drew out harsh corners and ragged edges. Between the rectangles of his fingers, the vast world became vaster. Of course, he didn’t flatter himself. He was no professional photographer. But he posted a few pictures online and his friends responded with enthusiasm. Somehow, a friend of a friend received a link, and Akaashi received an unusual request.
“His name is Bokuto. You haven’t heard of him? He goes to your university,” Kuroo said. “He’s—well, he’s a good guy.”
Akaashi didn’t like the amused hesitation hitching along Kuroo’s tone. But the request was curious, and he agreed to meet Bokuto. HOOTHOOTHOOT had a finals project before graduation and he needed someone to take pictures of him throughout his day, piecing together a facsimile of his university life. And he wanted Akaashi to take those pictures. Akaashi had last posted a picture of his dinner. He wondered what Bokuto saw in the food.
They had arranged to meet at a small café. Half an hour past the meeting time, Akaashi sipped at his lukewarm coffee and flipped through his book. Being stood up notwithstanding, he enjoyed the atmosphere. He sat in the umbrella shade, spine of the book propped against the edge of the table. The wait staff murmured inside through the open door. The wind flipped a page for him. The tranquility broke with an abrupt squeak of the gate and urgent footsteps ran towards the table. Akaashi tilted his head upwards, squinting against the sudden burst of sunlight when the umbrella swayed. Someone stood above him, bright and illuminating.
“I’m sorry I’m late! I got lost!” The person collapsed into the opposite chair, limbs sprawling. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, peeling it away from his panting. Akaashi signaled for a glass of water. He slid a bookmark to his spot and closed his book. He had a faint idea that “Bokuto” would be loud, but the reality was louder. He had a shock of gray hair, all hovering over his head. His muscular build rocked the chair and table with every exaggerated move. His eyes shone like gold.
“Wait! I’m Bokuto! I’m not just hitting on you or something!” Bokuto sat up, raising his hand to ward off any accusations.
“It would have been a poor pick-up line.” Akaashi pushed the newly arrived glass of water towards him. Bokuto eagerly grabbed the glass, downing most of the water in one solid gulp.
“Well, I was surprised to see you. When Kuroo showed me your picture, I thought he stole a model’s picture and he was making fun of me.” Bokuto blinked, and pointed to himself. “See? I know Kuroo! So I’m not just pretending to be Bokuto!”
“I didn’t think that.” Akaashi felt like following Bokuto’s thoughts was similar to watching trains. Bokuto hurtled forwards, knowing where the tracks were laid, but Akaashi could only see the blur of motion clipping past him.
“Since I’m Bokuto,” Bokuto said, giving an unnecessarily meaningful look, “You know what I want, right? It’ll be easy! You take pictures of me, I turn them in, my professor says I’m the smartest genius, I graduate, I go play pro, I win the Olympics.” Akaashi watched the small windows of the train turn into a blurry straight line, shapeless and bright.
“You play volleyball, correct?” Akaashi recalled Kuroo’s short speech.
“Yeah! You haven’t heard of me?”
“I haven’t.” Akaashi draped his hand over the cover of his paperback, mentally bracing for an oversized tantrum. He knew these sports types, carrying along the overinflated egos. Heard of him? For what? Playing volleyball? But Bokuto grinned, leaning forward across the table.
“I’ve heard of you! Akaashi, your pictures are really great. Since it’s my last project for this school, I really wanted you to take them. I’ll pay you and everything. All your pictures are really beautiful. They make me feel things. Like, I look at them, and I feel. Things.” Bokuto scrunched his nose, contemplating on his redundant statement. Akaashi reflected once more on his last picture of his dinner. Perhaps Bokuto had just been hungry.
Akaashi didn’t doubt the power of photography, but he knew he didn’t wield the same prowess. A camera, to him, was a blunt instrument. It was the equivalent of a hammer and the pictures were simply nails lined up in a row, insignificant and bland. When he looked at his own pictures, he felt dissatisfaction. He expected when others looked at his pictures, they’d feel apathy. He had no interest in becoming a professional photographer, so it didn’t bother him and he didn’t bother with it. But even more than his bafflement with Bokuto’s interest, they had another problem.
“Thank you,” Akaashi said slowly, “but I don’t take portrait pictures.”
Objects were one thing. He could arrange the composition and wait for the light and shadows to mix across the item. But a person was tricky to capture. They constantly changed their facial expressions and the focus would always be drawn upon them. He had no experience with taking pictures of humans.
“I’m sure you’ll do a good job. Akaashi, I’m not expecting you to be the next big thing. I just like your pictures and I want you to take a picture of me.” Bokuto had a charming grin. It stretched across his face, so big and wide that he had to close his eyes. Akaashi thought Bokuto’s expectations of becoming the ‘smartest genius’ in his class was already a tall order.
“I’m sorry,” Akaashi said. “But I haven’t taken pictures of other people. My photographs would be inexperienced.”
“Is it a ‘won’t’ or a ‘can’t’?” Bokuto opened his eyes, and they shone bright in the shadows. “Because if you won’t, then I’ll go bug someone else. But if you think you can’t, then I don’t believe you.”
His first thought: so Bokuto did know he was bugging him. His second thought: he should be irritated at the arrogance. His third thought: for some reason, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was Bokuto’s serious expression, earnest and forceful. Bokuto wasn’t the type of person to tell lies. Akaashi had never flattered himself into thinking he was a talented photographer, but under Bokuto’s lively gaze, he thought he could enjoy being flattered by others.
It was the moment he knew he would agree to Bokuto’s request, though he refused a few more times. Bokuto would scrunch his face, grimace with his mouth, tug at his ears, splay his fingers across the table. He was a figure in motion, and Akaashi wearily thought it would have been better to record him. But while he sat beside the café, under the cacophony of Bokuto’s groaning, his fingers twitched for a camera.
iii. contrast – where light and shadows separate and converge
Akaashi had brought his notebook, and while he waited on the steps, he tagged an important point. His camera equipment leaned against the second step. An hour after their arranged meeting time, Bokuto stampeded up the steps, his bag swinging against his leg.
“I’m sorry!” he wailed. “I got lost!”
“This is your apartment.”
“I know.” Bokuto shuffled past him, shoulders slumped. Akaashi tucked away his notebook and pencil. He had gotten some studying done, and the apartment was more peaceful than his own. The fervent bedsprings in the apartment above often haunted him deep in the night. Still, he took back his words when Bokuto opened the door to his place.
A threadbare chair had been overturned. Some open manga, flipped to fight scenes, splayed across the floor. A trail of socks led to piles of clothes on any unsuspecting furniture. The sink, crammed full of pots and plates, bravely withstood the weight. It was distinctly sporty, in the way only athletes could fill a room. A few volleyballs, obviously more used than a dusty pile of textbooks, lingered in the middle of the room. Some kneepads had been crowned and ruled over the lumps of clothes. A table had been cleared, contents assumedly dumped to the ground, to make room for trophies. The wall had been covered in volleyball posters, many peeling at the corners from sloppy tape.
“Sorry about the mess,” Bokuto said.
Akaashi didn’t want to touch anything. When he returned home, he needed to find his antibacterial soap and rub the stiff and unpleasant smell over his hands. With care usually reserved for tiptoeing past sleeping students, he gingerly made his way to a bare patch of carpet by the window.
“This is a trash heap,” Akaashi said, opening the window.
“Yeah, I meant to clean it. Last year.” Bokuto scratched the back of his neck. “I just don’t know what happened.” He dumped his bag onto the floor and kicked off his socks against the wall. He nudged his way through a laundry bag filled to the brim with cardboard boxes. Akaashi turned to the view outside the window, where everything seemed more neat and orderly. He desperately needed to see something clean.
“Did you want something to eat? I got…” Bokuto opened his refrigerator, faced with emptiness. “… a half-eaten cucumber.”
“This place is horrible. And you’re horrible for being the curator of this mess.” Akaashi folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the sill. “I’m not staying here.”
“But I need you to take pictures! What are we going to do?” Bokuto waved the half-eaten cucumber, growing concern on his face. Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep the headache from forming. He had assumed Bokuto would be unkempt, especially since he had spilled half his drink on his shirt the day before. He had vastly underestimated him.
“The project isn’t very demanding,” Akaashi finally said, “Your teacher won’t care if we pretend my apartment is yours. We’ll take some pictures there.”
“Akaashi! You’re the man!” Bokuto stuck out a thumbs-up, and bit into the cucumber.
“Don’t eat that.”
The walk to Akaashi’s apartment was fairly long. They walked beside a thicket of trees, the grass long and swaying. Akaashi kept his pace steady, while Bokuto hopped with every other step, turning and talking to him.
“So you’re my junior?”
“Yes.” Akaashi bowed his head slightly. “I’m sorry for my earlier impud—”
“That’s amazing! Hey, what do you think about me? You think I’m cool, right?” Bokuto jumped in excitement, landing in a cloud of dirt. Akaashi had expected Bokuto to wield his seniority over him with arrogance. He would have preferred that arrogance to the new spotlight of attention focused upon him, Bokuto trying to coax out some acknowledgment. Akaashi dutifully refused, glancing away towards the trees.
“I’ve liked looking at your pictures for a long time. When Kuroo showed them to me, I was like, whoa! And then I was like—whoa. Whoa, you know?” Bokuto stuck his hands into his jacket pockets. “I left some comments, I dunno if you’ve seen them.”
“Some of them,” Akaashi said. He had seen all of them when he was trying to figure out if HOOTHOOTHOOT was a spambot.
“I don’t know how to describe your pictures. I think they’re really beautiful.” It was more articulate than whoa, but no less baffling.
“Thank you,” Akaashi said. He was polite, but he wasn’t surprised that Bokuto dismissed the politeness with a nod of his head.
“I mean it! Don’t make fun of me, Akaashi.” Before Akaashi could assure him that he wasn’t making fun of him in this highly specific instance, Bokuto already continued. “So what makes you decide to take a picture? Like, do you like taking pictures of some stuff more than others?”
“I don’t think about that very much. It’s just a hobby. I’ll probably give it up sometime.”
“What? No! Why?” Bokuto stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heel to stare at him. Akaashi halted his step awkwardly, stopping too close in front of him. Bokuto was only slightly taller than him, but he towered now, big eyes and consternated frown. Akaashi fought down a surge of irritation, staring placidly into his eyes.
“It’s a hobby,” he repeated, slow and deliberate. “I’m not even sure if I enjoy it.”
“I wasn’t sure if I liked volleyball, either. The opponents kept blocking all my spikes. My teammates didn’t get along with me. But I practiced! I practiced the hell out of my spikes, and the next time we played them, we won.” Bokuto pointed at him. “You’ve been taking pictures for a long time, Akaashi. You haven’t stopped yet. Don’t you think that means something?”
“Not really.” Akaashi pushed Bokuto’s finger out of his way, continuing down the trodden path. Bokuto was nice, but he was stupid. He didn’t mind taking pictures for him, but Bokuto was the type of person who was more trouble than he was worth. Even as the thoughts solidified in his mind, he knew he was needlessly irritated. Bokuto’s little speech, something about hard work and finding merits in the journey, didn’t particularly bother him. He had already decided he would give up photography after graduation.
But Bokuto had stood close to him, expression tight and frightening. He looked at Akaashi like he was looking through him, like his narrow pupils could see his weaknesses and faults. The penetrating gaze unnerved him. Akaashi pulled the collar of his coat around his neck, trying to feel warmer.
Akaashi’s apartment was neat and orderly. He kept his books tidy on the desk, study notes filling the shelves. His refrigerator was well-stocked. He showed Bokuto around his apartment and outlined a brief schedule when Bokuto could come over with his things and pose for some pictures. Though Bokuto wanted to start, Akaashi refused on the grounds of poor lighting. Bokuto also invited him out to dinner. Akaashi refused again, and turned him out at the prompt ten at night, citing an early class.
Before he went to bed, he placed the camera in the middle of his table.
iv. emulsion – painting with chemicals until the picture appears, transfigured; dangerous
Snap. Bokuto, in Akaashi’s bed, posing like the Titanic drawing. Snap. Bokuto, making a pouting face. Snap. Bokuto, dramatically pulling his hair to one side.
“This isn’t working,” Akaashi said, kneeling beside his bed and flipping through the past pictures. He should trash them to save space on his memory card, but he felt, undeniably, even the virtual trashcan didn’t deserve the disgrace. He thought he’d be more uncomfortable with a stranger in his bed, but it was nothing compared to the pain of adjusting the lights and propping up the pillow only to see Bokuto making a horrible face at the camera. Bokuto Koutarou was part-time human disaster, part-time photographer’s worse nightmare.
“You said act natural!”
“How is this natural.” Akaashi turned the camera around to show a picture of Bokuto sticking his tongue out.
“That’s how I wake up,” Bokuto said serenely. Akaashi wasn’t sure what his face was doing. He was likely gaping at Bokuto, but he felt like Bokuto was in his own universe and Akaashi was an asteroid, spiraling away.
The morning light had started to get too strong, so he decided on his own impromptu break. He didn’t bother to tell his model, standing up instead and stretching out his arms. His back popped with soft crackling, and he let his camera dangle around his neck. Akaashi had thought, wrongly, that Bokuto’s mess was contained to his apartment. But Bokuto was a contagion, spreading his unruliness wherever he touched. He was the Midas of untidiness. Akaashi usually kept three blankets on the bed. Two had been tossed to the floor. Akaashi usually kept his living room area clear. Bokuto had brought a gym bag and some socks had crawled out, in mid-creep along the carpet. Akaashi unhappily toed them back towards to their gym bag home.
“Akaashi, I’m hungry.” Bokuto twisted on the bed. “I’ll treat you to lunch! Let’s go to the convenience store and get some chips.”
“Is that what you call lunch?”
“Oh, you’re right. Let’s get some candy, too.” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi grimaced. When Bokuto said his managers had forced a cafeteria pass upon him, he hadn’t really understood the dire state of Bokuto’s diet.
“Do you ever cook?” Akaashi faintly recalled the pots and pans in the Bokuto’s sink. In his mind, the scene was in black and white and Ennoshita’s horror soundtrack screeched in the background.
“I’m a great cook, Akaashi! I can make lots of things.” Bokuto had finally surgically removed himself from the bed, sitting in his pajamas on Akaashi’s sofa. “But sometimes I don’t feel like making anything at all.”
“So you’re a moody sort of person.” Akaashi knelt to grab a pot from his cabinet. “How surprising.”
“That’s mean, Akaashi!”
Akaashi turned, apology on his tongue, but Bokuto was enjoying himself with his puffed out cheeks and exaggerated scowl. Akaashi weighed the pot in his hands, setting it on the counter. His last boyfriend had broken up with him a while ago. Amongst the many reasons listed, his ex-boyfriend had told him he was too blunt. Of course, his ex had never gotten nearly so upset as Bokuto. But he couldn’t recall him ever looking so pleased, either. He settled for grabbing his leftover rice from the refrigerator, peeling open the container.
“You sure study a lot, Akaashi. Oops.” Bokuto had opened a book and the paper had fallen to the floor, spreading over the carpet. Bokuto glanced up frantically, looking like a child who had broken their parents’ vase. Akaashi sighed, turning to prepare the soup.
“I’ll pick that up, don’t worry about it.” Akaashi dug through his dining utensils. “I’m taking some extracurricular business seminars. After I graduate, I’m hoping the recommendations would help me interview at some established companies. Well, any company would do fine.”
“Oh,” Bokuto said. “I guess that’s why you said you wanted to give up photography.” Akaashi tilted his head. He wasn’t sure how the two were connected.
“I mean,” Bokuto clarified, “You got your life planned out, kinda. You know where you’re going. I think that’s nice.”
“I suppose it’s a plan, though I’m sure there will be things I can’t take into account. Still, I try to keep those at a minimum and stay away from troublesome things.” He wouldn’t say he was a careful person, but he was constant.
“Troublesome things?”
“Distractions from studying.”
“The last person who said that to me just couldn’t get a date.” Bokuto frowned. “Who am I kidding! You could get twenty dates, Akaashi! You could probably marry into royalty. Maybe you are royalty.”
“I’m not royalty.” Akaashi twisted the stove knob. “But a heavy relationship is taxing. After my ex-boyfriend broke up with me, I found more time to do things I enjoyed.”
“What! Someone broke up with you? That doesn’t happen.” Bokuto blinked. “That just doesn’t happen!”
“It was amicable enough,” Akaashi said. “Besides, he was moving away. I wasn’t so attached to him that I’d want to put in the effort of a long-distance relationship. They require more work than I’m interested in investing.”
“Boring.” Bokuto bent down to collect the fallen paper, shuffling them into his hands. “Isn’t love more about feeling?”
“I wasn’t going to devote myself on a whim. It’s impractical to gamble on a maybe.” Akaashi shrugged. “I suppose that’s why I felt relieved when he finally left. There’s not much more to say about that.”
“You’re a dependable guy, Akaashi.” Bokuto looked away and dumped the paper atop the book, shoulders slumping. “Hey, do you have more pictures?” It was a reasonable, though abrupt, request. The soup had been set to a boil, so Akaashi set up his laptop. For once, Bokuto was quiet, clicking through the images. Akaashi finished in the kitchen, setting out the rice and soup on his dining table.
“You can keep looking,” Akaashi said when Bokuto started to push down the laptop screen. “I don’t mind.”
“They’re just really nice. Hey hey, do you have a favorite?”
“There are a few whose compositions are more pleasing.” Akaashi rose from his chair. He could hear Bokuto’s polite murmuring and then the click of chopsticks against the bowl. From a thin folder, slipped between two textbooks, he drew out a few glossy pictures he’d gotten printed as presents for his parents. A city picture, lights a dim smear in the frame. A close-up shot of some flowers, the blues and reds a symphony across the page. A forest picture, clear enough to see the etchings of the bark. Akaashi began his own lunch. Bokuto flipped through the pages, eyes rapid and greedy.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Akaashi got up for his third bowl of rice.
“I mean it, Akaashi! When I look at them, it just feels amazing. Even if I’m mad or sad, I get really happy to see them. I like the way you look at the world.” Bokuto had finished his meal, pushing his bowls to the side. The pictures were arranged around his elbows, and they looked like a bright meal for him. Akaashi continued eating, doubtfully looking down at the frames. When he looked at them, he thought the focus had been particularly good that day, or that the object was generally placed well within the frame.
“I’m better at taking pictures of things than people,” Akaashi said.
“The pictures you took of me were good! It was kinda boring to hold still when you moved all that stuff around, but I think it turned out really good.” Bokuto grinned. “There are three things I really like. One of them is volleyball, another one is your pictures. I’ll just use the ones you already took for the project.”
“I can’t stop you, but I’m sure your teacher will grade you lower for it. Perhaps we’ve been doing this wrong.” Akaashi grabbed Bokuto’s dishes, fighting valiantly against the horrors of Bokuto’s apartment. “Rather than staging it, let’s start with something that relaxes you. Something you like doing.”
“We had to ban visitors from volleyball practice,” Bokuto said thoughtfully. “But I got the next best thing in mind.”
Akaashi didn’t like the way Bokuto was grinning.
v. aperture – widening the eye, light flooding inside
Akaashi had a lot of worries about portraits. The focus, for one thing. He wasn’t sure if he would want the background blurrier or if he wanted the model to blend with the background. The lighting would be another thing. He’d also have to take sharpness into consideration. Blurring had been on his mind, but it hadn’t been his top concern. It now became his only concern.
When Bokuto said he ran in the mornings, Akaashi had an idealistic view of calm joggers keeping pace, winding down a lap beside a pleasant lake. Maybe a few lovely songbirds would chirp in the background. But Bokuto ran like he had eaten three full breakfasts in the morning, jumping and darting between the trees, raising his arms and yelling into the wind. Akaashi rested against a tree, shoving his forearm between the scratching trunk and his forehead. Sweat dripped off his chin and his camera rocked against his racing heart. He could hear Bokuto sprint far ahead and then turn back and sprint back towards him. Akaashi was fairly sure he was getting a cramp all over his body.
“If you keep running like that,” Akaashi said through gritted teeth, once he saw sneakers in his periphery, “all your shots will come out blurry. Let me adjust my camera. And run. Slower.”
“But I won’t be giving it my all!”
“Run. Slower.” Akaashi slumped underneath the tree, sitting on a root. He started to wipe his sweaty fingers on his shirt. He reconsidered, grabbing Bokuto’s shirt and stretching the thin materials to wipe his hand. Bokuto crouched down, sitting beside him with a crash. Akaashi bent over to adjust his camera, trying to find the best setting for Bokuto’s frankly unforgivable running.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Bokuto said. His face had turned sulky. Bokuto Koutarou was a part-time Sonic the Hedgehog knockoff and part-time wailing child.
“It should still be good.”
“Whatever! Any picture would do fine!” Bokuto turned away. Akaashi peered up from the viewfinder. He’d seen hints of Bokuto’s sulkiness, but this time, Bokuto seemed to fall into a full-blown dejection. His shoulders slumped forward, arms resting atop his knees. Akaashi watched his still form, and then switched the camera features back to normal. He raised the camera and snapped a picture, making sure the audio echoed in the trees. Bokuto whirled around, surprise in his wide eyes and open mouth.
“I’ll call this one, ‘Bokuto Acts Like a Child.’ What do you think?”
“Akaashi, no!”
Snap. “‘Bokuto Can’t Handle Sitting Down, Surprises Nobody.’”
“Akaashi!”
Snap. “‘Rare Sighting: Sad Owl Found at Foot of Tree. Open for Adoption.’”
Now Bokuto was making a strange face, wrinkling his nose and eyes. Akaashi’s finger instinctively moved, taking a few pictures without him narrating the caption. He felt compelled to capture the moment on his camera for some reason, and his hand betrayed his want. Bokuto took advantage of the silence, darting forward to grab the camera. Akaashi knew he wouldn’t be able to overpower him, the camera already slipping from his hands, but he stuck out his shin and Bokuto buckled over, pulling Akaashi down with him.
At least Bokuto was laughing now, chest reverberating with his chortling. Akaashi had fallen into a bed of pines, and he thought he’d have a hard time pulling through from his hair. Bokuto was heavy on top of him, but he didn’t mind that part. His sweat had begun to cool, and Bokuto ran warm like an electrified blanket. Flat against the forest ground, he could see the strong line of Bokuto’s throat. Bokuto’s laughter faded into something quiet, and he stared ahead, up at the trees.
“Hey, Akaashi,” he whispered, bending down closer to Akaashi’s ear. “I think I saw something over there. Think it’s an owl?” Before Bokuto drew back, Akaashi was already memorizing his cheekbone and the way his breath tickled the shell of his ear. He started to run a little too warm, adjusting against Bokuto’s hard abdominal muscles. But still, he tilted his head backwards, more pine needles tangling into his hair. He only saw the leafy trees ahead, without any noticeable shaking.
“It could be,” he said evenly.
“Hey, take a picture! Maybe we can zoom in later.” Bokuto didn’t get off him, elbows still in the dirt on either side of Akaashi’s chest. Akaashi raised his camera to his face, snapping the picture upside down. He doubted they would find an owl mingled within the branches when they scoured his laptop, but he took a few pictures of the surrounding trees as well. He wasn’t so stringent on space. With the camera still affixed to his face, he settled back flat on the ground. Bokuto was still above him, eyes fascinated with the trees ahead. His pupils flickered from branch to branch.
This was Bokuto, who dropped all his chopsticks on the floor and banged his head against the table while retrieving them. He was loud and booming and annoying. But sitting still, body warm against him, Akaashi felt the way he sometimes felt when he watched birds flutter outside the window and one would perch on a nearby branch. Everything was motion, a blur of wings and chirps. And then, stillness. He would see every detail of the feathers and the stripe of the talons. It felt like reverence. It was like that now. The shadows of Bokuto’s hair dashed backwards, his jaw firm. His eyes, still golden in the shadows, gazed beyond the layers of trees. Akaashi raised his camera and lowered his finger to capture the picture. Though the shutter sound loudly ricocheted, Bokuto must have assumed he was still taking pictures of the trees. He didn’t move, tracing any shake of the leaves.
“You’re heavy,” Akaashi finally said. Bokuto made another face and rolled off. Akaashi sat up, running his fingers through his hair and picking out the long needles.
“Have you ever taken a picture of an owl before?” Bokuto asked, dusting off his arms.
“I don’t really take pictures of animals. It’s hard to capture them in the right moment.” Akaashi stood up, continuing to pick out pine needles. He felt like running off this excessive feeling inside him. He wanted his lungs to burn away the strange throb. Too late, he remembered he needed to recalibrate his camera, and Bokuto took off. His happy yelping echoed in their surroundings. Akaashi finished twisting and checking his camera, and glanced at Bokuto’s rapidly fading figure. At this pace, he wouldn’t be able to catch up to Bokuto in time. He was fast enough that chasing after him would only lead to an endless chase. Going back to the beginning of the trail would be better, since the pathway would loop back.
He sat on a bench, listening to the rustle of leaves. He had enough battery to amply look through his old pictures. Bokuto. Trees. Trees. Trees. A series of Bokuto looking sad, turning towards him, looking surprised and struggling with a grin. Akaashi hid his smile behind his hand, elbow leaning on his knee. He heard leaves crunching and he steadied his camera. He caught a few shots of Bokuto jogging down the trail, occasionally looking back with some concern. The shutter had clicked again when Bokuto saw him, a great smile breaking across his face. He sprinted the last few steps.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, pleasurably, “You’re here.”
“Yes.” Akaashi powered down his camera. “I didn’t think I could catch up in time. I’m sorry about that.”
“No, no! I’m really happy. I thought you’d left. I’m used to people falling behind me, but you’re the first person to wait for me.” Bokuto grabbed him by the shoulder, face aglow. In his head, Akaashi could recall Bokuto’s solemn speech on the pathway back to his apartment. His teammates hadn’t gotten along with him. Maybe they weren’t the type to wait around for him, either. It wasn’t his problem, but he shifted his weight under Bokuto’s hand.
“Do you get along with your teammates now?” he asked. As expected, Bokuto didn’t catch the jump in the conversation and took the new lead for granted.
“Yeah! Ever since we won that match. They’re my good friends now.”
“Is it just because you won that match?” It didn’t sound like they were good friends if they were only impressed that Bokuto had managed to beat their opponents. But Bokuto frowned, slowly shaking his head. He scrunched up his nose in thought.
“It’s not just because I’m good at volleyball,” Bokuto said, each word drawn out. “I mean, I guess a little bit of it was about that. But it’s like—a tree. And being good at volleyball, that’s like the leaves. And there’s roots. You get it?”
“Absolutely not.” But Akaashi thought he could understand it, a little bit. Maybe it wasn’t only the match that won Bokuto the favor, but the work and practice Bokuto had invested into the match.
“It’s like your pictures! You take good pictures, but it’s more than that. You’re really serious about it. You think about it. You care.” Bokuto nodded. “That’s what makes your pictures great, too.” Once again, the flattery melted into his ears. Akaashi bit back a smile, steadying his mouth.
“Ah, is that so. Does that include the pictures I now have of you sulking?” Akaashi raised his camera, pretending to click through his old pictures. Bokuto’s eyes widened, jaw dropping open.
“Akaashi! Don’t tell anyone about that!”
vi. racking focus – foreground shifts with background, things reverse
“I’m bored, Akaashi.”
“Then please go home.” Akaashi had tried to politely usher Bokuto out of his apartment after Bokuto had dropped by to get some pictures taken in the background of Akaashi’s apartment. After failing, he tried to impolitely usher Bokuto out. Now, he had created a small fortress from his books, reviewing his notes, while Bokuto drummed his fingers on the table. Other than the occasional loud outburst, Bokuto could somehow keep quiet, attention darting from corner to corner of Akaashi’s room. They had managed to take more pictures, but Bokuto was a difficult model. Or perhaps Akaashi was a bad photographer. Either way, the pictures turned out poorly. Even if Bokuto was satisfied, Akaashi was certainly not.
It wasn’t only Bokuto’s ridiculous poses. Even when he sat still, distracted by something outside Akaashi’s windows, Akaashi still couldn’t manage to capture him. He had an essence that moved and shifted within him, too elusive and quick. When Akaashi looked over his pile of books, Bokuto had managed to find Akaashi’s camera. The device whirred softly as Bokuto turned it on and off. That finally coerced Akaashi from his self-imposed imprisonment.
“Don’t break it,” he said. Bokuto grinned, obviously pleased he had gotten Akaashi’s attention.
“Hey, teach me how to use this.”
“There’s not much to teach. Point. Click. Get your fingers out of the way.” He supposed there was more than that. His camera wouldn’t have so many settings if taking a good picture was that simple. But for Bokuto, he was confident those instructions were already too overwhelming. The camera’s flash went off In Akaashi’s face. He remained impassive.
“You’re a cruddy teacher, Akaashi. But maybe it’s stuff you can’t explain, like emotions. You have to feel the right moment to take the picture. You’ll feel it in your bones.” Bokuto nodded to himself, zooming in on Akaashi’s face. Akaashi remained impassive.
“That’s definitely not it.”
“You might not like talking about mushy stuff, but that’s gotta be it. Don’t be shy!” Bokuto’s finger was quick, taking a few more successive pictures of Akaashi. For his part, Akaashi remained still and reminded himself to swap out memory cards after Bokuto’s theft.
“I’ve been straightforward with all of your questions.”
“Oh, yeah? Then what parts about me do you like?” Bokuto pointed at him, posture stiff.
“Your face is ridiculously red.”
“It’s not!” Bokuto hid his blushing face with the camera, taking a few more pictures of Akaashi. “Geh, I’m trying to take a bad picture of you, but they’re all super good!” The opposite of Bokuto’s pictures, then. Akaashi was sure Bokuto was exaggerating, but he wasn’t displeased at the compliments. He raised his chin up in a mock pose, though the subtleties would be lost on Bokuto.
“You should take more pictures of yourself,” Bokuto said, leaning forward. “You’re really photosexual.”
“It’s called photogenic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s that. But only one thing could make your pictures even better.” Bokuto hurried around the table, and pressed against Akaashi’s back. Akaashi was wearing a thick sweatshirt and Bokuto’s arm jutted against the lumpiest part of the hood, but Akaashi could still feel Bokuto’s heat, radiating in a warm glow. Even without turning around, he would have known it was Bokuto. His notes now abandoned, forced to observe Bokuto’s actions, he turned his gaze towards the camera in the air, which beeped and took the shot.
“Now let’s do a funny face one!” Bokuto leaned further against him, a hand on Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi kept his face still throughout the new shots. Bokuto didn’t seem to notice, humming happily to himself. He dropped down level with Akaashi’s face, holding out the camera once more to take the picture. Akaashi wondered about the focus, but the camera light had already gone off. Bokuto left from his perch on Akaashi’s shoulders, leaving a strange sensation of cold where his hands had been placed, though the apartment itself was fairly warm. Akaashi rubbed his shoulder. Bokuto was already taking more pictures of objects around Akaashi’s apartment.
“Don’t you have volleyball practice?”
“Not officially, but the gym’s probably already open.” Bokuto reluctantly put down the camera. “I get why you want to give it up, Akaashi, but I still think you look really peaceful when you’re holding a camera.” No, Bokuto had never said that before. But the news wasn’t surprising to Akaashi. To Bokuto, Akaashi himself must seem peaceful compared to his brashness.
“I’ll still take family and vacation pictures.” Akaashi wanted to avoid Bokuto’s all-seeing gaze again. “To say I’m completely giving it up is an exaggeration.”
“Yeah, but you’ll give up the parts where you take pictures for fun.” Bokuto shrugged. “Well, I shouldn’t read too much into it. Maybe I’m thinking taking pictures is like my volleyball, you know? You get hooked on it. But it’s all up to you.”
Bokuto grabbed his jacket, slinging it over his arm. He slowed when he passed by Akaashi, ruffling Akaashi’s hair. Akaashi didn’t move away from the ministrations. For some ghastly reason, Bokuto seemed reliable in that moment, wise and knowing. Despite all his loudness, he actually did care. When Bokuto pulled away to grab his bag, Akaashi twisted around to watch him.
“Still,” Bokuto said, “Sorry for being meddling.”
“Well, I appreciate your thoughts.” Akaashi blinked at Bokuto’s sudden dumbfounded expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nobody’s ever said that to me before!”
A short while later, Bokuto ran off to play with his underclassmen in the gym. Akaashi studied a few more pages in the silence, and finally restlessly rose to grab his camera. He could see the past pictures that Bokuto had taken, fuzzy pictures around the room. The poor lighting caused dimness to settle into the picture’s core. He considered deleting them, and finally hit the batch where Bokuto had taken pictures of them together. Bokuto stuck out his tongue in his silly face. Akaashi smiled, and put down the camera. He’d have to remember to at least transfer the pictures later.
vii. bounce light – the travelling light becomes soft
Akaashi came to understand Bokuto’s schedule with astounding familiarity. Bokuto woke up late in the mornings. He would yawn, stretching his arms above him, and trundle off to brush his teeth while falling asleep at the sink. His hair was always a mess. After getting ready, Bokuto jogged around the trail as some light exercise. In the afternoons, he usually attended his lectures, trying his best not to sleep on his books. Sometimes, if he didn’t have a lecture, he would go to the university gym. Akaashi took a few pictures with the gym owner’s permission, but he settled into working on his own muscles after a while. He could get stronger.
“Hey, Akaashi, are you impressed?” Bokuto squatted a bulky weight.
“No.” Akaashi was distinctly not looking at how Bokuto squatted, especially not in the mirror, and he didn’t care about the way Bokuto’s ass would curve. Akaashi focused on pumping his ten-pound weights with more vigor than necessary.
The majority of Bokuto’s day was dedicated to volleyball practice. Bokuto said he was talking to the coach about lifting the blanket ban on visitors, but the inciting incident had apparently been extremely scarring, a dark trauma of the volleyball club. Mostly his fans, Bokuto explained with some pride, which Akaashi translated to someone breaking in and perhaps videotaping the practice footage to leak to other teams. That aside, Akaashi had enough pictures of Bokuto’s afternoons. They had even gone out to eat barbecue, and he had taken pictures as evidence to show Bokuto had stolen most of the meat off his plate. Bokuto was thick-headed, but he must have been thick-tongued as well, given the way he ate the meat that still sizzled from the grill. The thought of Bokuto’s tongue didn’t excite Akaashi at all.
When Bokuto came over before and after practice, he mostly read volleyball books or played Akaashi’s dusty video games. Akaashi would still take the occasional picture when he thought Bokuto’s face, fixated on getting Mario to the end of the level, was particularly charming. Since he had so many extra pictures, he didn’t bother to pose Bokuto or adjust the lighting. Sometimes Bokuto would bring him out to stores, pointing at fancy clothes and trying to convince Akaashi to buy kneepads. Akaashi only needed morning and evening pictures to complete the project, but a chill lingered from his last experience with Bokuto’s apartment. He was sure the mess had only grown, and sometimes, when Bokuto ran late, he wondered if the mess had finally swallowed him whole. He considered trying to stage the pictures again. Bokuto had relaxed from the natural pictures, but if he saw the camera pointed his way, he would still sometimes make strange faces.
One night, while he was reading a book in bed, he heard his doorbell ring. He checked the time. Rather late, even for Bokuto, but he made his way across the room in his bare feet. He had to step over some manga that Bokuto had left at his place, but Akaashi had already piled them up into a neat tower and let Bokuto use bookmarks for the fight scenes. At the doorway, he squinted through the peephole. Familiar gray hair swayed from side to side. He considered pretending he wasn’t home, but eventually relented and opened the door.
Bokuto leaned against his doorframe, eyes mostly closed. His finger still hovered over the doorbell, and his hand fell away when the door fully opened. The night air rushed into the room. Akaashi felt cold in his shirt and shorts.
“I left something at your place.” Bokuto blearily blinked at him. “Important. It was something important.”
“Your cell phone?” Akaashi ushered Bokuto into the room, if only to close the door behind him and shut out the chill. Goosebumps prickled down his bare arms. Bokuto yawned, stretching out his mouth considerably, like he was swallowing air. Akaashi padded towards his kitchen area where Bokuto’s beat-up cell phone sat next to Bokuto’s pile of change. He only grabbed the phone. Bokuto sometimes used the change for the coin laundry across Akaashi’s apartment complex.
“Your place is close to the gym,” Bokuto mumbled, “so I thought I’d stop by and… get something important…”
“That’s reasonable.” Akaashi offered the phone, and then pulled Bokuto’s wrist and opened the palm of his hand, wrapping the phone underneath his fingers. Bokuto clutched onto the phone, but his head drooped downwards, eyes completely shut now. His breathing relaxed. Akaashi watched him and wondered if he should take a picture of Bokuto, asleep, standing up. It would be a marvel. But Bokuto was already listing to the side, and Akaashi caught him underneath his arm.
“I’ll let you sleep over just this once,” Akaashi said, “and I expect monetary compensation.”
“What? Oh, yeah… Oh, I had my phone all along.” Bokuto stared at the phone in his hand. “Sorry for bothering you, Akaashi. Musta… forgot it…”
Akaashi pushed him onto his bed. He had an extra futon somewhere, reserved for guests in unexpected circumstances. When he finally found it, Bokuto was slumped against the wall, hands curled in his lap. His bag had dropped to the foot of the bed. The flap was open, revealing mostly volleyball books. Akaashi closed it and placed it by the doorway. He spread out the futon, careful with the corners. He supposed volleyball practice had run later than usual, and the adrenaline had worn off. When he finished, he leaned over to Bokuto.
“Bokuto-san,” he murmured. “You’ll be uncomfortable if you sleep like that.”
“What? Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take two.” Bokuto nodded. Akaashi sighed, helping Bokuto out of his coat. He bent down to pull off his socks. He had seen enough of Bokuto’s socks around his apartment to care very little about them. When he was done, he surveyed his options. The most reasonable option was to pull Bokuto from his bed and onto the futon, but he risked trapping himself under Bokuto for the rest of the night. He decided against it, and settled for pushing and prodding Bokuto until he was resting under the covers of the bed, arms sprawled out.
Akaashi grabbed his camera, checking the battery. Bokuto had said Akaashi could take sleeping pictures, since he sometimes took naps at Akaashi’s place and figured they could always fake evening scenes for the project. But nothing beat authenticity. He would show Bokuto the pictures in the morning and see what he thought about them. Akaashi picked out a lens and hovered over the bed. Though his back ached at his posture, he stood still long enough to take a picture of Bokuto’s sleeping face. He looked peaceful, mouth partially open. The usual animated lines on his face faded into something quiet. Akaashi took a few steps back to take a full picture, adjusting the focus into something equally soft. He leaned over to finish up with a close-up shot when Bokuto grabbed his arm.
“Hey hey hey,” Bokuto mumbled, head lulling to the side. That was far too many hey’s to be reasonable.
Akaashi knelt beside the bed, gently wresting his arm away. He raised his camera again. The picture was fuzzy. He twisted the lens. The light from his lamp diffused into the frame. The square focus fluttered around until it captured Bokuto’s face. The sensation flooded through his fingertips, tingling at seeing the world so differently. This was Bokuto, the way Akaashi had wanted to take his picture at the beginning. Against his usual agitation, his peaceful sleep felt precious and valuable. Akaashi reached over to push some hair from Bokuto’s face, and froze. It was absurd, but his own hand suddenly looked different. He curled his fingers. They curled, but it seemed intimate against Bokuto’s face. His touch seemed gentle and caring behind the lens. Carefully, holding his breath, he unrolled his fingers and brushed against Bokuto’s hair. He took the picture.
He yanked back his hand like he’d been scalded and lowered the camera into his lap.
Like a cosmic joke, the bedsprings of his neighbors above him began squeaking. The relentless rhythm drilled into his head.
viii. dodging and burning – playing with contrast, tone, and density
“Akaashi! There were eggs on sale, so I bought a bunch of dozens.” Bokuto banged open the door, clambering into the apartment with his sopping wet shoes. He shook out his hair. It sprinkled on Akaashi’s walls. Akaashi closed his notebook and took the dripping plastic bag, heavy with the apparent bunch of dozens. Bokuto was a part-time wet dog and part-time grocery bag lifting champion.
“Go take a shower,” Akaashi said, “I’ll make something with the eggs.”
“O-kay.” Bokuto pulled off his jacket, obviously fine with letting it drop over the sofa. Akaashi caught it and placed it on his coat hanger, still ducking his head and examining the eggs. He supposed he could make an omelet, but scrambled eggs sounded better. He thought he had some vegetables inside his refrigerator that could accompany them. Bokuto had said he had bought tomatoes earlier.
“Hey, Akaashi.”
Akaashi stepped into the shallow hallway, holding the pan. Bokuto had peeled off his shirt, towel hanging over his neck.
“Are we okay? It seems like you’ve been avoiding me lately.” Bokuto frowned. “Am I overthinking it? I’ve never overthought anything in my life, Akaashi. It’s really got me worried.”
“It’s just your imagination. Hurry up and don’t catch a cold.”
“O-kay.”
Bokuto was right. He never overthought anything in his life, and he was completely right that Akaashi had been acting strangely. Akaashi didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t avoid Bokuto, even if he nimbly twirled around incoming phone calls. Bokuto often dropped by unannounced, especially when his practices ran late and he was too tired to bike back to his place. He had his own toothbrush. A volleyball had somehow entered into Akaashi’s living room, used by Akaashi to support his feet when he watched movies on his laptop. Bokuto even bought food from sales and cooked dinner for the both of them, extravagant and delicious and guilt-wrenching. Akaashi stared at the treacherous eggs. Traitors.
He cracked them open. They sizzled over the hot pan. He didn’t know what to do. Affection, he had always reasoned, came with knowing someone for over a period of time. He had known his ex for some years before they began dating. He had known an ex before that since childhood. In comparison, Bokuto’s length of time was a speck of dust on his illustrious record. But Bokuto already snuck into his life, infiltrating the crooks of Akaashi’s apartment with his things and his habits. No, he was swayed by material objects, but he couldn’t really say he knew Bokuto. Perhaps he had misunderstood his feelings. Bokuto was helpless in taking care of himself, so Akaashi simply helped him. His feelings were that of a caretaker’s. He couldn’t attribute them to love. Firmly, he stirred the eggs. They came out steaming hot, golden and fluffy. He added a pinch of pepper and grabbed a tomato.
“It smells good.” Bokuto used the end of his towel to wiggle water from his ear. “Leave the dishes out, Akaashi, I can make dinner tonight.” Bokuto was flushed, droplets of water still clinging to his collarbone. His tight shirt cradled his arms. Akaashi nodded, chopping the tomato. The juice splurted out and spread over his fingers. He didn’t deserve this.
“Since I’m here, can I look at your pictures?”
“You still like doing that?” Akaashi served the eggs and slices of tomatoes. Bokuto had already gotten Akaashi’s laptop. He unlocked his way through the screen and reached the gallery.
“They’re beautiful, Akaashi! I want to hang them all over my walls.” Bokuto dug into the eggs.
“You still haven’t told me what you liked about them.”
“They just make me happy! It’s like, how you see the world. If I passed this—” Bokuto twisted the laptop to show a picture of a flower, bent under the weight of the wind. “—I wouldn’t take another look. But you did and now it looks awesome. And I mean, look at the angle. You had to have gotten down on the ground to take the picture. It shows you really care. You looked at this and thought it was good and you were serious about taking the picture.”
Akaashi bit down into the eggs. Chewing and swallowing gave the information time to course throughout his body. He hadn’t realized the picture revealed so much about him. Listening to Bokuto talk about his photograph and watching Bokuto’s fingers skirt over the petals was novel. Through his lens, he had seen a different world. Through Bokuto, he saw himself in a different way.
“Tell me more,” Akaashi finally said. He wondered if he was demanding too much from Bokuto, drawing the flattery from his mouth like magic handkerchiefs, bright and pretty. But Bokuto grinned, twisting the laptop towards him to fully showcase his pictures.
Bokuto liked the city pictures, too. Akaashi must have had to climb stairs and take elevators for a good building shot. The night shots were beautiful, too, the contrast of the evening against the fiery windows and streaks of car lights. Akaashi took nice pictures of cities and they were usually shots with an aerial view, wide and encapsulating. The nature pictures were good because it was the opposite. Akaashi took most of the pictures from the ground, following the lines of trees and the details of the trunks. He captured the branches crossing through the sky and that rupture of light shining between the trees. The cities were wide, wide, wide. The nature shots were big or small. Akaashi often took pictures of the little details like the wet dew on the leaves, dripping down with the morning sun glimmering inside. The food pictures always made him hungry, but they were his favorites, too. They were all his favorites. He thought they were the most Akaashi-like since they showed the food he was about to eat. For these, he liked the framework. Akaashi was careful in arranging the food, showcasing the vibrant green of the cabbage or the delicate rice piled inside his bowl. It wasn’t easy to take good pictures of real food, in Bokuto’s opinion, but maybe Bokuto just ate the wrong things. For Akaashi to take good picture after good picture, he must rearrange the food and consider the shapes and sizes. Afterwards, he must have to choose that subtle filter, a quiet light against the frame. He liked all the pictures. They showed him things he saw but didn’t actually see.
Akaashi stared at his pictures. Somehow, they seemed more special to him.
“I still don’t know why you take pictures of these things,” Bokuto said, “but I like ‘em. They’re beautiful like you.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because I mean it! You don’t mind, right?”
“I don’t.” Akaashi leaned over to flip through his pictures with a new fascination. “I just don’t really understand. My ex used to call me beautiful, but I look fairly normal.”
“It’s more than that! It’s like a banana. Wait, no, forget that.” Bokuto scratched his neck. “It’s like, like you’re composed, Akaashi. When most people meet me, they get mad about the stuff I do. Which I get! I really get it, but you don’t let it get to you. And you’re funny. I mean, you’re kinda funny mean to me, but I like that. You’re nice, too. You’re nice to other people and you’re nice to me, even though you don’t have to be. It’s—beautiful. Do you get it?”
“I suppose my personality can be appealing to some people.”
“You make it sound so smart.” Bokuto shook his head. “It’s not something that logical!”
“I’m sure my appearances are sometimes pleasant to others.” Akaashi drew his gaze away from his pictures. “And you happen to be one of them. Though I don’t particularly understand.”
“What’s hard to understand! You’re great, Akaashi. Since I’m great, too, that makes us even more great.” Bokuto’s chair creaked when he shifted his weight forward, reaching out a hand to crest along Akaashi’s cheek. He obviously didn’t think his action through, judging by his frozen expression. His hand still cupped Akaashi’s face.
“Which part of me is great?” Akaashi didn’t move, though his fingers curled in his lap. Bokuto swallowed, awe-struck with blinking eyes.
“You know,” he said, voice raspy. “This part.” His fingers traced along Akaashi’s ear, dipping over his cheekbones. Akaashi closed his eyes and felt the fingers brush against his eyelids and against his eyelashes. He kept his eyes closed while Bokuto touched his nose and dropped down to his lips. He parted his mouth slightly. Bokuto ran his finger over the bottom lip, and Akaashi could feel the way his mouth dragged along with the finger. He opened his eyes. Bokuto stared at him, close enough that Akaashi could see his reflection in his eyes. Bokuto’s mouth was slack and his finger still pressed against Akaashi’s lips. Slowly, carefully, not to upset or startle him, Akaashi raised his hand and took Bokuto by the wrist. He kept his hand steady, fingers curling around his warm skin.
“This part?” he murmured.
Bokuto nodded frantically. Akaashi released his hand, returning to his plate of eggs. His fork clinked against the plate. He felt warm around his ears and neck. Bokuto had also turned away, knees pressed together on the side of the chair. Akaashi couldn’t see Bokuto’s expression.
Akaashi wondered if his face was stoic enough when Bokuto glanced at him quickly, gaze flickering from his face to the floor. His stern logic over scrambling the eggs fell apart. The surge of emotions choking his throat didn’t feel like he was a caretaker.
“About your pictures,” Akaashi said, scraping his chair across the floor. “I’ll get them for you. For your final project. So you can. Look at them.” He hoped his words flowed smoothly.
“Oh. Oh, yeah! That reminds me!” Bokuto scrambled from his seat, grabbing his bag from the door. He rummaged through it, tossing out some notebooks. When he returned, a plastic name badge swung from a lanyard.
“What’s that?”
“All your pictures are really good, but we’re still missing volleyball. So I pulled some favors and got you—ta-da—a badge for an official game! Well, it’s a kinda official game. It’s not a tournament game, but we dress up and play a rival team. There are some scouts that’ll be there, but that’s mostly for the underclassmen who play.” Bokuto chattered off his excess energy, drumming his fingers over his knee.
“Scouts?” Akaashi accepted the badge, tracing along the dull corners. “So you’ll be able to impress them and go pro.”
“Well, I’ve already accepted an offer. A long while ago, actually.” Bokuto batted at the badge where it swung from Akaashi’s hand.
“And what does that entail?” Akaashi asked carefully.
“I’m leaving right after I graduate. I guess I’ll travel a lot, go places, practice. Lots of airplane rides. I won’t be back for a while. I’ll have to start packing! But the important thing is that I’ll be able to get better at volleyball.” Bokuto grinned. “It’ll be great.”
“I see,” Akaashi said.
It was a good thing he didn’t like Bokuto, then. Or else news like that could shatter him.
ix. noise reduction – erasing artifacts
x. flare – the burst of sunlight
He didn’t bother with a disguise to attend the game. It wasn’t like he was deliberately avoiding Bokuto, but he always found a busy excuse for when he called. With increasing volleyball practice, Bokuto had less time to drop around the apartment. It was convenient for the both of them. For some reason, he felt almost betrayed that Bokuto was leaving the city, his muscles growing stiff and weary. But Bokuto had no obligation to tell him. Akaashi had no reason to care. He didn’t even like Bokuto, really. He had only agreed to a favor. It was, in fact, auspicious that Bokuto was leaving before anything could happen. Not that anything would happen, he told himself.
For now, he sat on a bench and tinkered with his camera. He raised his ISO and adjusted the aperture, occasionally holding up the camera to peer through the viewfinder. The fountain burbled in front of him, the foamy water cascading downwards. Something red caught his attention, and he lowered his camera. Kuroo waved at him, approaching with someone following behind him. His friend had his fingers hooked through the straps of his backpack, staring down at his feet while he walked.
“Long time no see, stranger.” Kuroo stepped to the side, revealing his friend. “Akaashi, this is Kenma. Kenma’s a classmate. Kenma, this is Akaashi. Akaashi goes to this school.” Akaashi nodded in greeting. Kenma nodded and averted his eyes.
“You taking pictures for Bokuto?” Kuroo circled the bench, hands in his pockets. Akaashi didn’t bother to follow him with his eyes.
“They still banned outsiders from practice, so this could be my only chance.”
“It’s good that you brought your camera, then. Preserve those memories.”
“That’s not why I take pictures.” Akaashi frowned. He hadn’t expected to say those words.
“Really, now.” Kuroo grinned. “Sounds like you’re really thinking things through. Good, good. You and Bokuto worried me for a while there.”
The semantics of the sentence bothered him. Kuroo may have been worried about him because he had already told Kuroo he was giving up photography after graduation. Kuroo may have been worried about Bokuto for whatever reason. But Kuroo’s smile told him that he meant him and Bokuto, coupled together, twined in some shared worry.
“We’re going to be late,” Kenma said. “We should get good seats.”
“You’re looking forward to this, huh?” Kuroo slung his arm around Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma rocked on his feet at the weight, but he didn’t look annoyed. Instead, he gazed at the stadium ahead where a small crowd milled around the brick walls.
“How can I say this,” Kenma murmured. “It’s just a bit interesting.” They left soon afterwards. But even while he filed into the court, Akaashi thought about the way Kenma had looked. Throughout his conversation with Kuroo, Kenma had directed his gaze onto the ground. But at the end, he had stared straight ahead at the stadium with a strange gleam in his eyes, like the upcoming game was a delicious morsel.
The squeak of shoes across the court. White lines drawn into the ground that shone like lacquer. Above him, the heavy lights poured down like a physical weight. On both sides, a small crowd murmured behind banners. People scattered across the stadium seats, huddled together in twos and threes and overlooking the court. A strange tension electrified through the atmosphere. Officials pulled out metal chairs and the referees fixed their sleeves. Akaashi didn’t usually attend sports events. He wondered if all matches had the concentrated chaos. The announcement, booming with a tinge of static, said the event would begin soon. He aimed his camera at the audience. The focus strayed from face to face, the people bending their heads together, their cheering horns dangling by their sides. Through his viewfinder, he watched as someone peered over the edge, and then turned to tug on their companion’s shirt. Within seconds, one by one, they had all turned towards the court like a row of dominos. The cheer started almost instantaneously, hands clapped together, faces with fervent excitement. Akaashi swept his camera to the ground floor.
It was Bokuto.
The camera blurred and came back with a sudden focus, and he could see him, arms outstretched and basking in the deafening cheers. The strong arms, the straight posture, regaling in the cheers. Head tilted back, gusty grin. The uniform in sharp white, black, gold. His teammates following behind him, a pack of birds with their knowing and hungry smiles. Akaashi took the shot. Then he took another. And another. His finger moved without respite, even as he fumbled with the zoom. In that moment, he didn’t think Bokuto could give him a bad shot. That bold striking figure drew his attention. That grin curled across Bokuto’s face, confident and strong. He seemed to absorb all the rays of light, golden eyes shining at every angle. Behind the camera, Akaashi could see Bokuto’s gaze lazily sweep the floor. Searching for him, he thought with a jolt. But he had hidden himself in the thin crowd, camera covering his face. Bokuto didn’t seem to find him, turning to say something to his teammate.
The number 4 was firm on his back, the lines curving against his shoulder blades. Akaashi took another picture. Even when the cheers faded at the warm-ups, he could still feel them in his fingers. The atmosphere had changed to indulgent waiting to jittery excitement, everyone murmuring and pointing. Akaashi took wider shots, but he knew he was only waiting. He was avoiding him. But the whistle blew, and Akaashi was forced to twist the camera back to the other end of the court.
Bokuto’s serve. Akaashi took another picture. Snap. He could feel himself sweating underneath his collar. The ball seemed to float from Bokuto’s fingers when he tossed it into the air. The bright colors spun in the air, leisurely falling to the ground. A first step. Another, and Bokuto was running to it, arms dropped by his sides. Snap. Snap snap. He flew to meet the ball, each motion masterful and necessary. The tensile arch of his back, the snap of his arm. Power careening through his body. Snap snap snap. The ball smashed on the other side of the net, skidding and bouncing against the back wall. Snap snap snap snap. Snap snap. The other team, turning to stare at the force. Bokuto, fists by his side and roaring, victorious. Akaashi thought he could still feel the shock wave still reverberating inside him.
“BO-KU-TO! BO-KU-TO!” The crowd screamed above him. Startled, he raised the camera’s gaze. The audience yelled for Bokuto, their horns clattering and hands clapping together. He had never heard such a din or seen such fervent admiration. They unfurled like wings, the feathers rippling across the stadium seats.
You haven’t heard of me?
Dumbfounded, he brought the camera’s view down to the court, and stepped back. Bokuto was staring directly at him, assured grin on his face. His eyes, taking in the light, seemed to glow.
I’ve heard of you.
xi. blooming – the slow halo flourishing from too much light
He found Ennoshita in a dorm room, huddled away under dim light. Open books surrounded him. Crude sketches and storyboards scattered across the room. Ennoshita had two monitors running, the video program whirring away. He also had two heavy shadows underneath his eyes, and he slurped away at the last of his coffee in a cracked mug.
“No, it’s not a bad time. I was thinking I should take a break.” Ennoshita smiled into his coffee cup. “Ah, but if this takes more than ten minutes, I might start crying.”
“It won’t take so long.” Akaashi flipped on the light switches. Even if Ennoshita needed relative darkness to work on his project, he didn’t need to strain his eyes.
“So how can I help?” Ennoshita smiled and tilted back his mug. His smile turned to confusion when he peered at the empty bottom. Akaashi sat at the edge of a chair, hands folded on his knees.
“I’ve been thinking about giving up photography.”
“Well, that’s a shame. But it happens. Interests change. Things happen.” Ennoshita took another sip at his empty mug. “But I’m sure you’re not just here to tell me that, even if I was your director for a week.”
“I don’t know anyone else in the arts. I’m sorry for the bother.” Akaashi ran his finger over his knuckles, resting between the bumps. “Someone very annoying asked me why I was giving it up now, after such a long time of pursuing this hobby. I’m not sure if I understand his reasoning. He has a—convoluted mind. But perhaps you can help me understand.”
“Sounds like fun. But I’m not sure if I can help from his perspective.” Ennoshita tapped his finger on his desk. “But maybe I can answer from mine. Do you have a hard time taking pictures, Akaashi?”
“It can be difficult to get a shot that pleases me.”
“I know, right? And sometimes it doesn’t work, right? Even though everything says it should work and everything should be falling into place and your actors are actually standing still and not trying to have a nose-picking contest again? But then you’re up until five in the morning, trying to piece together the film, but it’s just not working out, and all the transitions are wrong and you should have framed the scene closer to the ground but everything is falling apart and it’s due in two days and it’s too late to reshoot everything?” Ennoshita tilted back his empty mug again.
“Yes,” Akaashi said.
“Yeah. Right. It’s not always easy. But you worked through that. You know, I ran away once. I’m not proud of that.” Ennoshita smiled gently. “Everything was overwhelmingly difficult. It didn’t seem fun anymore. But I couldn’t give it up. It’s different for everyone, of course, and you might find yourself in a better place without your camera. But maybe this someone is just thinking about that. That you worked hard without running away.”
“I can see that,” Akaashi said slowly. “Though I don’t think he’s the type of person to put so much thought into his words.”
“The passionate type, right? The kind who drag you around?” Ennoshita glanced at the monitor at the still frame of two actors mock punching each other. “I get that.”
“He said he liked my pictures. Though my shots still seem very cold and impersonal,” Akaashi said, apologetically. “Not much has changed since I helped you on your project.”
“I didn’t say your shots were cold.” Ennoshita’s brow furrowed. “Did I?”
“You said they were objective.” Not that Akaashi expected Ennoshita to remember a throwaway sentence from a long while back. But Ennoshita’s eyes widened. After a moment, his startled face smoothed back down to his calm state.
“Akaashi, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d take it that way. I just meant that, as a director, the way you handled the camera was very in-tune with what I wanted. That’s not what a lot of amateur cameramen can do. I’ve never thought they were impersonal. In fact, isn’t it the opposite? Your camerawork was very personal because you were catering to my exact needs. I’ve always been a fan of your pictures, too.”
“I see.” Akaashi heard the words from his mouth, but he stilled his fingertip between the mountains of his knuckles. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t been hurt by Ennoshita’s words. It hadn’t been a trauma, carried deep inside him. But the words had always been a fact with him, and hearing something different threw him off. He felt like something moved inside him, a boulder scraping along the ground while it rolled. No, that would be wrong. It had started rolling a long time ago.
“You put a lot of yourself in your pictures, Akaashi. And you’re not a cold person.” Ennoshita smiled. “Well, you’re calm and practical. But that’s not the same as cold.”
“Thank you,” he said. He was surprised at the relief he felt in his chest.
“I won’t try to dissuade you from giving it up. But taking pictures, isn’t it fun?” Ennoshita sipped at his empty mug once more, and stared down in deep betrayal at the lack of coffee. Akaashi considered the question.
“It’s fun. To be honest, I’m not sure if I can give it up anymore.”
Last night, he had been reviewing the pictures on his laptop. He had snuck away with the crowd before Bokuto could find him, but in the pictures, he thought Bokuto could track his every step. His memory card was almost full. He had stopped on a shot of Bokuto spiking the ball, floating off the ground, face screwed up in concentration, eyes glowing gold.
“I think I’m hooked on it,” Akaashi said.
xii. latent image – only appears under the light
Akaashi pressed the doorbell. According to his meticulous Bokuto schedule, Bokuto should have been in his apartment, having woken up from his nap. At this time, Bokuto should be pretending to study, doodling at the corners of his notes. Akaashi straightened up, holding the manila folder closer to his side. Bokuto’s door swung open, and Bokuto stared at him.
“Akaashi! Hey, you came here!” Bokuto grinned.
“Is it still a mess?”
“You came here! Come on in.” Bokuto stepped back. Akaashi reluctantly sidled into the apartment. It wasn’t as bad as last time, though he didn’t like the reasoning behind it. Most of the relevant objects had been stuffed into open suitcases, half-packed in messy piles. Other objects stuck out from the bottom of the bed. The posters had been taken down, dumped to the side of the room.
“Hey, I saw you at the match. Did you see that spike I did? And that no-touch ace? Oh, and that other spike? All of them? Did you think I was cool? I was, right? I was super cool, right?” Bokuto chattered, opening his refrigerator.
“You were.”
“Come on, Akaashi, you can admit it once in a w—” Bokuto stopped. The refrigerator door slammed shut and he was in front of Akaashi in seconds, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him. Akaashi endured.
“Are you okay, Akaashi? Are you feeling feverish? You can lie down! I’ll clean everything! Is it the fumes? I vacuumed last year!”
“I brought the finished project.” Akaashi pulled himself away and sat on the sofa. “When are you leaving?”
“Nextish weekish. The manager said she’d help me with the schedule.” Bokuto looked away. “And that she’d come by and take the money I owe her.”
“You owe me money too.”
“Geh.”
Bokuto clattered his way back to the kitchenette. Akaashi waited, folder in his lap, while Bokuto brought two mismatched cups to the table. He had somehow found a slice of cake, which he sloppily cut in half with a fork. Akaashi watched his broad hands work, listening to the tink of the fork against the small plates. In the nextish weekish, Bokuto would be on an airplane, off to a new life and new opportunities. Akaashi would finally be left in peace in his apartment. His fingers curled around the fraying tips of the folder. The cake presented to him was a noticeably smaller slice than its companion.
“Bokuto-san,” he started at the same time Bokuto said, “Hey, I saw a snail today.”
“Wait,” Bokuto said, “You first.”
“For the longest time, I thought you were stupid.”
“Never mind, I’ll go first. I saw a snail today, and, I guess that’s the end of my story.” Bokuto drooped down on the sofa. “Okay, go on.”
“But you’re not stupid, are you?” Akaashi bit back a wary smile. “You’ve been more intelligent than me, in many ways. You look forward to your future. You do everything for your goal. You don’t let doubts cloud your mind.”
“I worry sometimes, too,” Bokuto said, strangely defensive against the compliments.
“All along, you’ve seen what I couldn’t see. You’ve been more courageous. And to be honest, I hate losing.” Akaashi stretched out his fingers in his lap. “I know I said I don’t do long distance relationships. The investment, the loneliness, the worry. But I’d like to try.”
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, awed. “You’re going to date somebody who lives far away? Wow. I mean, I guess I’m kinda disappointed, but I’m also really excited for—”
“I like you and I want to date you.” Akaashi grabbed Bokuto’s wrists, tight and firm. “Go out with me.”
He watched, with some amusement, Bokuto’s face run through a gamut of expressions. He always did have a flexible face. First came the shock and awe, mouth open, eyes bewildered. Then, confusion settled in, gaze darting around the room like he expected Akaashi to be expressing his love for a stranger who had entered his apartment. But once assured they were alone, he blinked at Akaashi, and a warm grin spread over his face. Happiness exuded from him, delight in every form. Akaashi wanted to take pictures of him. Akaashi wanted to take pictures of him for the rest of his life.
“I knew you liked me,” Bokuto said, like he hadn’t spent the last minute surprised and confused. “I knew it. I knew it. You like me. I knew it.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Akaashi told himself to be better and not to laugh at the shenanigans.
“And how do you feel about me?” Akaashi prodded. He had a good idea, but his heart still beat in his chest, blood pumping to his twitching fingers.
“Well, you know how I feel about you! I told you how I felt a long time ago!” Bokuto ran his fingers through his hair, like his body couldn’t handle the excess energy. “Remember? I told you. I like three things. Your pictures, volleyball, and you.”
“You didn’t mention the last part.” This was the man that Akaashi was choosing to love. Forgetful, floundering, infuriating. Sweet, energetic, strong. He shouldn’t have been so charmed by the earnestness, the simplicity. But he felt a curling flush on his cheeks.
“No, I did! I’m sure I did! Did I?” Bokuto frowned. “Well, I just thought you didn’t like me back. And I was okay with that! Except I wasn’t. I’m getting confused. Do you really like me, Akaashi?”
“Yes.”
“You’re being honest, right? You’re not lying, right?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Akaashi—!” Bokuto leapt up and sat back down again, visibly restless from the revelation. His hair, if possible, seemed to reach new heights. Akaashi watched him affectionately.
“That aside, I brought the finished project,” Akaashi said, holding up the folder. “I finished this earlier, but I was afraid to show you. For some reason, you always seem to see me in my pictures. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to know.”
He set aside the empty plate, spreading the glossy pictures across the table. He had chosen the best pictures of Bokuto to represent his last year of university. A shot of the morning, Bokuto sprawled on the bed, his hand flung out and reaching for something unseen by the picture. A jogging shot, where Bokuto had run ahead and turned to look at the camera, light catching in his hair and eyes. A food shot, where Bokuto tried and failed to catch a grape sliding from his grasp. They continued, a pithy selection of pictures. The silliness and absurdity mingled with the seriousness and focus. A gold light flooded through the shots, and sometimes the pictures could barely contain the subject. Throughout the pictures, there was warmth. When Bokuto glanced at the camera, he was always grinning. Akaashi assembled the pictures in some order, but he still had one picture left in his folder. He slipped it out and placed it into the center. During a time-out of the game, he had taken a picture of Bokuto’s back, firm and steady. Bokuto looked out of the frame, eyebrows drawn in serious thought. By the framing of the picture, it seemed like the light glowed from him.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said. “You really like me.”
“Yes,” Akaashi said, breath catching in his throat. He didn’t always understand Bokuto, but he could understand him in that moment. The pictures, spread out before him, were irrefutable evidence. The camera may have caught Bokuto’s lazy and warm affection, but the cameraman had always been focused on him, adoring his movement. He had never thought his pictures were full of love. But looking at the shots, he couldn’t deny it.
“Hey, Akaashi.”
Bokuto leaned forward and hesitated, impulsivity wrestling with his reasoning. Akaashi finished the thought for him. He kissed him lightly, fingers curling around the empty folder. The apartment was quiet except for his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his soft intake of breath. Cake, he thought. He tasted like the cake they had just eaten. When Bokuto rested back on his hands, his face was stunned. He blinked twice, his mouth hanging open, and then smiled. He looked absurdly happy. Akaashi wondered if a camera had taken a picture of them, in that moment, how his own face would have looked. He thought he also might have looked absurdly happy with a small and reckless smile. It would be a sight he hadn’t seen before.
He would have to take a picture to find out. But first, he let his hands drape onto Bokuto’s shoulders, leaning down to kiss him again.
xiii. resolution – the way it becomes
The final submitted project had Akaashi’s carefully chosen pictures. All the shots were neat, clean, and simple, save for a last addition. On Bokuto’s insistence, a final picture was clipped onto the end. It was sloppy and messy, taken from a tripod timer. On a simple backdrop, in a blur of motion, Bokuto grabbed Akaashi in a hug. Akaashi glanced away, off the frame. But his hand loosely grasped Bokuto’s arm and he had a secretive smile, caught by the camera.
xiv. time lapse – and again and again and again
