Work Text:
PROMPT: Artist AU
“I’m sorry, you want me to source what for you?” Akaashi holds the phone away from his ear to give it a brief incredulous look. He puts it back to his ear in time to hear a very bright voice finish repeating what it had said the first time.
“—Bull semen! A couple of gallons should do it.”
This is definitely among the weirder requests Akaashi has gotten, but at least this should be legal… Hopefully. Applying for permits is such a pain in the ass, seriously. He tucks the phone into the crook of his neck, and pulls up Google. “All right, any specifications? When do you need it by?” He minimizes the browser and pulls up Bokuto’s art work specifications. He blinks. “…And what do you need it for? It says here that you’re welding…?”
Bokuto takes a deep breath. “Well, you see, I was thinking,” he starts.
Akaashi can already tell that this is going to get complicated.
He writes down every word Bokuto says, files it and tags it, and e-mails it to everyone who should have it, including the Director and the Artistic Director, and then, unsurprisingly, has to sacrifice his lunch hour in order to sit in on a Skype call to Berlin and listen to Bokuto explain his vision again.
Since Akaashi has already heard it, he’s paying more attention to his noodles and the way Bokuto’s hair is amazingly spikey than to the conversation. Anyway, it’s a potentially brilliant idea if Bokuto can pull it off, and they’re still within budget so Nakashima is bound to sign off on it, and Shimizu generally approves of the craziness her chosen artists come up with. She chose them, after all, she knows what to expect.
“Okay,” Shimizu says finally as Bokuto’s explanation winds down. “This all sounds very promising. Please continue. Do keep me updated on your progress.”
Bokuto stares wide-eyed at her and then bursts into tears of joy.
Shimizu looks faintly embarrassed, but also like she’s used to this reaction. She almost single handedly made Karasuno Galleries what it is today, so probably she is. Akaashi has met the Karasuno artists. They’re an interesting bunch, and all of them gaze on Shimizu with worshipful awe.
Akaashi gives a tiny wave with his empty noodle cup when the call ends. He sees the way Bokuto’s ridiculous eyes go round and his mouth starts to form a word, but the connection is mercilessly cut by Nakashima right then. Nakashima is one of the best Directors Akaashi has worked for, and part of that is Nakashima’s ability to know when it’s necessary to be supportive and when it’s necessary to be ruthless.
“Well, Kiyoko,” Nakashima says and looks at his watch. “Let’s go talk to Yachi about the graphic design.”
Shimizu nods.
They walk off.
Akaashi wonders if he can slink off and grab a coffee. His phone starts ringing. He sighs. Apparently not.
He doesn’t meet Bokuto in person until three months later, when Bokuto comes flying in to Tokyo from Berlin in order to actually start assembling the work commissioned for the Miyagi Biennale. Bokuto is everything Akaashi has come to expect from frequent emails and regular Skype calls. He hadn’t quite expected how magnetic Bokuto is in real life however.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto shouts and embraces him joyfully at the airport. Akaashi blinks, then pats him awkwardly on the back. It’s really not Akaashi’s job to pick up anybody at the airport — it’s nobody’s job, really. Artists are normally expected to be able to get from airport to their hotel on their own — but, well, after talking to Bokuto so often, he wanted to meet him.
“Hi Bokuto,” Akaashi says. “It’s good to meet you finally.”
Bokuto finally lets him go. He beams. “You’re even prettier in person!” He lifts his enormous backpack onto his back easily, grabs his tiny rolling suitcase and starts walking towards the exit.
Akaashi blinks again. People call him pretty all the time, but usually not with such enthusiasm, and usually not when he’s schlepping around in track pants and has had maybe ten hours of sleep over the last three days. The Biennale is coming up in two weeks; He’s just glad he’s wearing clean underwear at this point. He follows Bokuto out and wait in line for a taxi. Bokuto is staying two days in Tokyo before going on to the Biennale office and checking out his space in the Karasuno Galleries. Akaashi might have booked into the same hotel as well. Because he’s going to be doing research, of course. No other reason. Nope.
It’s definitely not Akaashi’s job to trail behind Bokuto into the hotel, into the elevator and into Bokuto’s hotel room, but he does it anyway. He couldn’t explain it to Bokuto if he asked. Luckily Bokuto doesn’t seem interested in asking anything.
Akaashi lingers hesitantly in the doorway. Bokuto drops his backpack on the floor, shoves his suitcase against the wall and turns to look at Akaashi. He gestures towards the neatly made up bed and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Akaashi usually doesn’t laugh out loud at much, but this is so ridiculous — Bokuto is so ridiculous — that he can’t help himself.
Bokuto smiles back, but when Akaashi keeps laughing, he starts hunching down a little, ears turning red. “Just forget it!” he says, turning away, and Akaashi can see that his neck has turned bright red as well. It’s weirdly endearing. “Go away! It was stupid — I’m stupid.”
“No! No, you’re not,” Akaashi says quickly, laughter dying down. Bokuto does this sometimes about his art as well — “This was such a stupid idea! Everybody will laugh! I’m only pretending to be an artist, tell Shimizu that I’m a fraud! This is awful! Akaaaaaashi!” and usually Akaashi leaves him alone until Bokuto Skypes him two days later at what works out at about 2 in the morning his time, beaming, and tells Akaashi how he’s solved the latest snag in his planning — but this is different. He won’t let Bokuto think he misunderstood Akaashi’s intentions when he most certainly didn’t.
“Leave me alone,” Bokuto says. He turns his head a little when Akaashi comes up to him and places a gentle hand on his back. Bokuto’s eyes are stupidly wide again. “Akaashi?”
“I don’t want to go away,” Akaashi says, voice low in Bokuto’s ear, slowly stroking his hand up Bokuto’s strong back and up to his broad shoulders. Bokuto works with wood and metal a lot and he has the muscles to show for it. Akaashi likes it. He likes Bokuto, too, way more than he should. He doesn’t fool himself into thinking this is going to be more than maybe three weeks of mutual stress relief, but he thinks it can be three very enjoyable weeks of mutual stress relief.
Bokuto turns, tilts his head to the side as he searches Akaashi’s face. Akaashi leaves his hand on Bokuto’s shoulder, squeezing a little reassuringly. Bokuto’s face slowly lights up again. “Akaashi!” He sounds so happy. “You— really?”
Akaashi manages not to grin, but he’s helpless to stop the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Really. And I think you should kiss me now,” he adds.
He’s braced for Bokuto to jump him, but instead Bokuto surprises him by touching his face gently with a scarred and calloused hand, running exploratory fingers over his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, before leaning in to catch Akaashi’s lips in a soft kiss.
They kiss for a while, sweetly at first, then more lewdly, teeth and lips and tongue crashing against each other in nips and licks, until Akaashi remembers that Bokuto just flew in from Europe. He backs away a little, just a little though. They’re still pretty much nose to nose. “Do you want to take a shower?” he asks.
“Are you saying I stink?” Bokuto grins. He nudges Akaashi’s nose with his own. “You still gonna be here when I get out of the shower?”
“Yeah.” Akaashi isn’t going to be satisfied by just kisses. He wants Bokuto on the bed, he wants to explore, find out what makes Bokuto giggle, what makes him moan and what makes him sigh.
Bokuto still seems reluctant to let him go, but he does. He runs a hand through his flat hair, making a face. Akaashi tries not to laugh at him again. He’s happy Bokuto is here, he’s definitely sleep deprived, and, fuck, he likes Bokuto.
Akaashi sits down on the bed, watching as Bokuto unzips the tiny suitcase and pulls out toiletries. He gives Akaashi a quick smile before he disappears into the bathroom. Akaashi notes that he fails to bring a change of clothes.
He thinks about joining Bokuto in the shower. But Bokuto is tall enough and broad enough that fitting is probably tough enough on his own. Two would be pushing it. And it’s too soon. He knows Bokuto’s very firm (and wrong) opinions on jellyfish, superior cattle breed and chicken wire. He’s less sure about Bokuto’s opinions on personal space and showering with other people.
He does know that Bokuto likes both men and women, has no preference when it comes to fucking or being fucked, and once had sex in a gallery bathroom on a dare and is still a little disappointed he wasn’t caught. They’ve talked a lot over the last three months and when it’s late at night and Akaashi is one of three other people left in the office, he’s let their discussions wander off on tangents.
(He’s heard Yahaba yell about dog walkers and Hana having a serious discussion about IKEA furniture, so he’s hardly the only one to wander off topic, even if his conversations are possibly more explicit than theirs.)
Akaashi takes off his jacket, folds it up and gets up to put it on the chair. He can hear the water from the shower, and thinks it’s probably going to take a little longer, so he sits down again with his mobile phone and starts answering e-mail.
He’s still doing it when Bokuto steps back into the room, clad in what has to be the tiniest towel available to him. Not that Akaashi is complaining. Bokuto visibly preens at Akaashi’s admiring look. His hair is still wet and dripping, droplets falling down his neck, trailing further down his broad chest.
Akaashi places his phone down on the bedside table. He holds his hand out towards Bokuto, parting his knees so Bokuto can step between them. He puts his hands on Bokuto’s skin as soon as he can, wanting to touch so badly. Bokuto has dried off but he’s still damp in places. Akaashi smoothes his hands over his stomach, thumbs tickling against the thin line of black hair trailing from Bokuto’s navel and disappearing under the tiny, tiny towel.
“You’re still dressed,” Bokuto says. He cards his fingers through Akaashi’s short hair, tugging a little clumsily to get Akaashi to look up at him. “I want to see you. Please?”
Akaashi nods.
He scoots back on the bed, swiftly pulling his sweater over his head and throwing it behind him, not caring where it lands. He starts to shove his track pants down, pausing when Bokuto climbs into the bed with him. He leans over Akaashi, ducks his head down for a kiss. Akaashi is happy to oblige.
“Want you to fuck me,” Akaashi breathes when they separate. He’s been wanting this since Bokuto spent an entire Skype call lifting weights once. Shirtless. He’s almost sure Bokuto did it solely to see what Akaashi’s reaction was. Hopefully he’d manage to suppress his actual reaction of ‘want you. Now’ in favor of a more work appropriate focus on chicken wire, but it has lingered in his mind ever since. “Will you?”
“Whatever you want,” Bokuto promises. He shifts, rolls off the bed and on his feet. He walks towards his tiny suitcase, dropping his towel on the way, leaving Akaashi with a fantastic view of his ass as he bends down. Akaashi’s eyes glaze over for a moment. He’s definitely doing it on purpose, the asshole. That’s confirmed when Bokuto turns back and grins at Akaashi’s expression.
Akaashi wriggles out of his track pants, shoves his boxers down after, gets on his knees by the time Bokuto comes back to him. He reaches out and pulls Bokuto into bed with him, smiling a little at the oof of surprise. He can go weeks without smiling as much as Bokuto is making him want to.
Bokuto drops the lube and the condoms on the bed. His arms go around Akaashi, embracing him tightly. “You’re so… Wanted this for so long,” Bokuto says. “You really want this too? I wasn’t sure, I couldn’t tell. I hoped. Fuck, you have no idea. I was going to woo you. I had plans. Stupid, idiotic plans, but I was desperate. Am desperate. You were going to see my installation and be overcome with desire and admiration of my genius.”
Akaashi nips at his ear, dragging his nails up Bokuto’s back. Bokuto shivers beneath his hands. “I already am,” he says, and Bokuto gives a full body shudder. This isn’t something Akaashi thinks he’s very good at, but if it gives him this kind of reaction from Bokuto, he’s willing to try. “I love how strong you are,” he says, fumbling for the words. “I’ve been wanting you to hold me down and fuck me for a while.”
“I can do that,” Bokuto says eagerly. “I can definitely do that.”
They separate so Akaashi can lay back down on the bed. Bokuto nudges his knees apart, and Akaashi hooks his elbow under one, holding himself open for Bokuto. He’s usually quiet in bed but for Bokuto he wants to try, so he moans when Bokuto pushes a finger into his asshole, moving it until he can easily add another. He’s hard, and he can’t see it, but he knows Bokuto is as well, can feel Bokuto’s cock sliding against the back of his leg whenever Bokuto moves, leaving sticky wetness behind.
Bokuto watches him, not blinking. It should be creepy, but instead makes Akaashi feel warm all over. It reminds him of the couple of times their Skype sessions have coincided with Bokuto working on one of his small delicate installations of carefully balanced nails, thread and tiny mirrors. The focus on Bokuto’s face had been the same.
“Fuck me, Bokuto. Come on, please.” He thinks he sounds awkward, but Bokuto doesn’t seem to think so, so he keeps going. “I need you in me. Please.”
Bokuto drags Akaashi’s knees up to his shoulders and thrusts inside. Akaashi’s not going to last, but that’s okay. They have three weeks. They have time. They can do it again. If Bokuto still wants it. Akaashi really hopes he does.
The back of Bokuto’s neck is still wet and slippery, hair still dripping at the tips, as Akaashi scrambles to get a good grip, trying to get Bokuto closer. He’s bent almost double like this, and he’s not athletic enough to keep it up for long, but right now it’s so good. Bokuto thrusts into him carefully, hips circling a little in impatient desire. Bokuto is holding back; He doesn’t need to. Akaashi can take this.
He licks his lips. “Harder,” he says. “You can… Don’t hold back.”
Bokuto flicks his eyes up to Akaashi’s face, absorbing his pleading expression, and then lets go of control, fucking into him hard and fast, breath coming in sharp stutters. This is what Akaashi has been wanting and it’s just as fantastic as he thought it would be, guiltily imagining it in his bed at home.
Akaashi’s orgasm hits him as a flood of white stars across his vision and he falls back, panting. “No, keep going,” he says when Bokuto starts slowing down. Bokuto listens. Akaashi just lies there and enjoys the sensation of being fucked while floating in a haze of afterglow.
Bokuto comes with a grunt, collapsing down on Akaashi for a moment, breathing into the crook of his neck. Then he pulls out, hand around his cock to keep the condom in place, and Akaashi can finally stretch both his legs again. He does, back bending in an arch off the bed before he flops down again. He feels pleasantly used, aching all over and sleepy.
“Good?” Bokuto asks. He gets rid of the condom and snuggles down next to Akaashi. He looks pleased with himself. Rightfully so, Akaashi acknowledges. Usually he has no patience with this kind of thing, but Bokuto is different.
“Mhmm.” It’s barely a hum of a agreement, but Bokuto beams.
“Will you stay?”
“If you want me to.” Akaashi is comfortable, turning into Bokuto, allowing Bokuto’s hands on him. He doesn’t want to get up and find his own hotel room anyway.
“I do. Stay for breakfast,” Bokuto says. “We’ll do this again. If you want?”
Akaashi nods in sleepy agreement. He’s fading fast, curling into Bokuto’s warmth, cheek against Bokuto’s chest. He throws an arm over Bokuto’s waist to keep him in place. He doesn’t want Bokuto going anywhere either.
Bokuto kisses his forehead with a smile. “Good night. See you in the morning.”