Chapter Text
The pottery wheel hummed beneath Akaashi’s hands, a steady rhythm that’d become familiar over the past few years. Clay spun between his fingers, cool and slick, slowly rising into a cylinder that would eventually become a vase. Or maybe a bowl; he hadn’t quite decided yet.
The beauty of working with clay was that you didn’t always have to know where you were going until you got there.
Early afternoon sunlight streamed through the front windows of Soft Spring Ceramics, catching dust motes in the air and dousing everything in warm amber light. The studio smelled of earth with a hint of glaze chemicals, a scent Akaashi had grown to love despite its sharpness. Shelves lined the walls, displaying his aunt’s work of various bowls, vases and decorative pieces that were each painted to perfection in soft blues and greens.
A few of Akaashi’s own pieces sat among them, though he could always pick out which ones were his by their slight imperfections.
Just as he was smoothing the walls of his newest creation, the sudden intrusion of a rough voice startled him, the clay wobbling dangerously beneath his palms.
“You’re centering it wrong.”
Akaashi didn’t bother looking up; he’d heard Hajime’s footsteps approaching from the back room. Heavy and purposeful in the way his cousin always moved.
Soft Spring Ceramics was an Iwaizumi family business, owned by Akaashi’s aunt, Iwaizumi Kairi. It’d been in the family for a few generations now, with each year the studio flourishing just a little more. It was the main pottery and ceramics shop in the small town of theirs, allowing it to be a popular destination among the townsfolk, and even tourists just passing through.
The backstory of the studio was well known among locals, but Akaashi had only known of it for a little while.
After a family incident that’d happened nearly four years ago back in Tokyo, one Akaashi often avoided talking about, he’d quickly been taken in by his aunt and uncle, thus being forced to move towns. Soon after, he was offered a job at the studio by Kairi as a way to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. He'd been grateful for the opportunity; the studio had done wonders for his well-being. It’d given him something to focus on when everything else felt like it was crumbling.
His cousin, however, hadn’t been quite as therapeutic.
“I’m centering it exactly how I want to.” Akaashi retorted, working to re-smooth the walls.
“It’s off-balance. Look at it.”
“I am looking at it. I’m the one making it.”
Hajime moved, appearing in his peripherals, arms crossed. He was dressed in his usual work outfit: jeans that were covered in streaks of glaze, paint and left-over clay, paired with a well-worn shirt that showed off arms built from years of manual labor. His dark hair was pushed back with a bandana, and his face was morphed into a specific expression of his that he was about to launch into ‘older-brother’ mode despite being just under a year older than Akaashi.
“Keiji, if you’re gonna make something, at least make it right.”
Akaashi’s hands stilled, and the pottery wheel slowed to a stop.
Iwaizumi Hajime had a peculiar type of ego that made him think he was correct and in charge of anything and everything, regardless of the situation. It always came from a place of good intentions, Akaashi knew that, but the way he phrased things really pissed him off to no end.
Akaashi glanced up at him, one of his eyebrows raised. “Thank you, Haji, for your profound wisdom. I’ll be sure to write it down for future reference.”
Hajime frowned. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“Then don’t criticize my technique when you can barely make a pinch pot.”
His cousin’s jaw flexed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
The pair’s dynamic grew to be like this soon after Akaashi had moved in with the Iwaizumis’. Seeing Akaashi shell-shocked and grieving, Hajime took it upon himself to help his younger cousin in any way could. Whether that meant appointing himself as some role model pseudo-brother or someone that affectionately bullied him to no end, Hajime committed one-hundred-twenty percent.
They were like a pair of squabbling siblings that’d rather die than compliment the other.
“Dick.” Hajime finally muttered, already turning away to head back toward the front counter where a customer was browsing a display of tea sets.
“Asshole.” Akaashi mumbled in response. But Hajime must’ve heard him by the rude gesture he made behind his back, purposely angled so the customer wouldn’t see it.
Akaashi returned his attention to the clay in front of him and started up the wheel again. He let himself fall back into the meditative rhythm of the work, a rhythm that Hajime had so dutifully interrupted.
That was what Akaashi loved about ceramics specifically: the way you could lose yourself in the simple act of creation.
As he was nearing the end of shaping his work (a planter, he finally decided), the front door to the studio opened with the cheerful jingle of a bell. In walked his aunt, Kairi, carrying an unopened box of what Akaashi assumed to be the new set of supplies she’d ordered a week ago.
Her walk to the back room was brisk, shoulders tense with something bothersome. Hajime and Akaashi picked up on it immediately, sharing a glance that held unspoken questions. But with customers present they decided to leave it alone. Kairi was pretty open with them anyway, it was more than likely she’d tell them what was on her mind.
As Hajime was finishing packing a customer’s purple glazed vase and Akaashi was carefully removing his clay from the pottery wheel with a wire tool, Kairi reappeared. She had a grim look on her face as she sidled up next to her son behind the front counter.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into,” she muttered, voice tight.
Hajime’s expression mirrored her own. “Don’t tell me.”
Akaashi could hardly hear them under their hushed tones. But as notoriously nosy as he was, Akaashi strained to eavesdrop, slowing his movements as he transferred his clay to the drying shelf.
“Shinji,”
Hajime seemed to flinch, scowl deepening as if he’d bitten into something expired. “Bokuto?”
“Mhm.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. He just gave me that same mean glare he always does.” Kairi looked out the window, spying something down the way. “He was with his nephew.”
Hajime followed her gaze. “Which one?”
“The one named Kuroo, I believe.”
“Tch. At least it wasn’t the other one.”
Unable to resist, Akaashi followed their gaze.
Through the window, across the street and down a bit, sat Steel Owl Automotive, a car repair shop. The building was older, older than the ceramics studio, with paint peeling in places and a hand-painted sign that’s seen better days, yet ultimately added to its character. Three garage bays stood open, and Akaashi could make out the shapes of cars in various states of repair, the occasional spark of a welding torch and the muted sound of metal on metal.
The Bokuto family.
Even thinking the name felt like invoking something dangerous. Akaashi had heard the stories, everyone in town had. Rumors spread like wildfire when everyone knew everyone; gossip was the primary form of entertainment.
Stolen parts, scammed business partners and shady dealings that no one could prove but somehow knew all about. And then there were the owner’s nephews: Bokuto Koutarou and Kuroo Tetsurou, who were somehow brothers yet looked nothing alike.
Tetsurou was the type of teenager that was notorious for making everyone’s day harder than it needed to be, wrecking havoc for the sake of his own enjoyment. But the other, Koutarou, was worse off. Just a few months ago, he’d been released from his three-year sentence from the juvenile detention facility the next town over.
What he did, Akaashi had no clue.
Though despite all the negativity surrounding the family, the business remained relatively busy, its success rates rivaling that of the ceramics shop. It seemed rumors weren’t enough to deter people away when their source of transportation had something wrong with it. As long as clients were treated well, nobody cared enough to be concerned about whatever happened behind the scenes.
“I hate that they’re so close to us.” Hajime muttered, leaving his mother’s side to clear a table a pair of customers had used to glaze their matching mugs. “That whole family is bad news.”
Ensuring the wet clay was placed safely on the shelf, Akaashi moved to a sink that was closer to the windows. As he scrubbed the clay from his hands, Akaashi glanced back outside.
He never understood the depth of the animosity between the Bokuto and Iwaizumi families. Disregarding the rumors entirely, the conflict between the families seemed to go back generations; some old grudge that nobody could really explain but everyone felt obligated to maintain. Seeing a member of either family in the same vicinity of each other was a scandal within itself.
Hajime certainly took it seriously. Akaashi had witnessed at least three separate occasions where his cousin had gotten into shouting matches with both nephews in various places around town. Always about something trivial and meaningless.
It was all very dramatic and, in Akaashi’s opinion, pretty stupid.
Akaashi’s eyes caught movement. Someone was rolling out from under a car in the nearest bay, wiping their hands on a shop rag as they sat up. Even from this distance, Akaashi could make out the distinctive black-and-white hair, the broad shoulders, and the way he moved as he stood and stretched.
Bokuto Koutarou.
Akaashi had seen him plenty of times since his return from juvie; it was impossible not to in a town this small. But he’d never spoken to him. Never had the chance or a reason to.
He watched as Bokuto said something to another worker (Kuroo probably, based on the dark hair), and laughed at whatever response he got.
He didn’t look particularly dangerous from here. Just… normal.
Like any other nineteen-year-old that worked in his family’s shop.
Speaking of which…
Akaashi’s car had been acting up lately. There was a stutter when he accelerated, a hesitation that was getting worse with each passing week. He’d been meaning to get it looked at, but he’d been putting it off because, well, the closest mechanic shop was Steel Owl Automotive.
“You scrub any longer and your skin is gonna start peeling.”
Akaashi was suddenly ripped from his reverie when Hajime joined him at the sink to wash a handful of paint brushes. He bumped Akaashi out of the way with his shoulder, taking over the sink.
Akaashi frowned but backed away, reaching for a nearby hand towel. Instead of making a snide comment, he switched topics. “My car’s been acting weird,” he began nonchalantly, tossing the towel back on the counter. “It stutters whenever I accelerate.”
His cousin looked up, eyebrows pinched. “Stutters how?”
“It stutters… like a stutter.”
Hajime rolled his eyes, turning back to the brushes. “I’ll take a look at it after work.”
“You?” Akaashi looked skeptical. “You’re not a mechanic.”
“I know cars.”
“I don’t think changing a tire gives you the necessary qualifications.”
“I’ve changed many tires, and oil, thank you very much.” Hajime retorted. “I used to help Dad all the time with his truck before he sold it.”
“Replacing windshield wiper fluid doesn’t count.” Akaashi crossed his arms. “It’s fine, I’ll just take it to the shop.”
Hajime shut the sink off with more force than necessary, and dropped the brushes on a drying rank nearby. “Don’t,” his voice went hard. “Seriously, I’ll figure it out. I’ll watch Youtube, or something.”
“Youtube.” Akaashi repeated slowly, incredulous. “I’m not letting you near my car if your education is Youtube.”
“Anything I do to your 2001-piece-of-shit-Mazda wouldn’t be any worse than it already is.” Hajime placed his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “It’ll be better than letting those heathens touch it.”
“Do not talk about Momo the Mazda like that.” Akaashi’s eyes narrowed. “They run a car business, Hajime. I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
“A shady car business.”
“According to whom? You?” Akaashi turned on his heel then, walking towards the back of the studio where more tables stood. Their surfaces were already clean, but they needed to be reset for any other customers that wanted to glaze pre-made ceramic designs. “You’ve hated them since before I even moved here,” he continued over his shoulder. “I don’t think you even know why.”
As expected, Hajime followed. “I know enough. The Bokutos have always been trouble. Dad has several stories of–”
“Stories,” Akaashi interrupted. “Uncle told you stories. You and I both know Yuuma had a rather unconventional childhood.”
“Bokuto Koutarou put someone in the fucking hospital, Keiji. Why do you think he went to juvie for three years?”
Oh.
Akaashi froze. Only for a moment, but just enough that let Hajime know he hit his target.
But Akaashi, stubborn as a mule and determined to prove a point, just glanced sideways at him as he reset a table. “And how many times have you gotten into public altercations with both of Shinji’s nephews?” He turned to face him fully then, scowling. “Uncle Yuuma has gotten into his fair share of fights as well. I fear your opinion is biased.”
“My opinion is informed.” Hajime shot back. “As someone who actually gives a shit about you, stay away from them.”
His cousin’s overprotectiveness was beginning to feel more suffocating than comforting. Akaashi sighed, moving to another table. “I’ll think about it.”
“I mean it, Keiji.”
“I hear you loud and clear, Dad.” Akaashi’s words were sharper than necessary, edged with something bitter.
Hajime fell silent then, lips pressing into a tight line. Even years later, Hajime was never sure where the boundary was when it came to Akaashi’s parents. He never mentioned them unless necessary, and every time Akaashi brought them up it was usually not in a positive context.
Ultimately, Hajime never found a proper response to Akaashi’s words, and just let out a sigh of his own, turning to move to another part of the studio. His warnings echoed in Akaashi’s head, but they weren’t exactly landing the way his cousin probably wanted them to.
Maybe it was because Akaashi learned during his time in the town that the things people said about you didn’t always match reality. The townsfolk even now still looked at him with pity, still whispering about “that poor Akaashi boy” when they thought he couldn’t hear. They’d made assumptions about who he was, what he needed, and how he was coping. Most were wrong.
So maybe everyone was wrong about Bokuto Koutarou too.
Lunch came with a typical request Akaashi learned to expect from his aunt. Cheerful, casual, and always perfectly timed with the exact moment he settled down with his bento box.
“Keiji, hon,” Kairi called from the front of the studio, her voice carrying that specific tone that meant she was about to ask for a favor. “Would you mind running to the craft supply store for me? We’re running low on the underglazes I need for the evening class tonight.”
Akaashi glanced down at his lunch, then back up. She was smiling at him with that warm, hopeful expression that made it near impossible to say no. Not that Akaashi would’ve said no anyway.
“Of course,” he replied, closing his bento. “Text me what you need.”
“Oh, you’re an angel.” She said with relief, pulling out her phone. “Take your time, you’ve been cooped up here all morning.”
From his place near a shelf of pre-made ceramic designs that needed glazing, Hajime peered over at them. “Where is he going?”
“The craft store down the block,” his mother answered easily. “I need him to grab a few things for me.”
“Oh, Mom I can go—”
“You have a customer consultation at one,” Kairi reminded, smiling. “The woman who wants a custom tea set for her daughter’s wedding, remember?”
Hajime blinked; he’d definitely forgotten. “...right, yeah. Her.”
Twenty minutes later, Akaashi was pulling into the parking lot of their local art store, Claw & Canvas. His phone buzzed with his aunt’s meticulously detailed list, complete with color codes and brand preferences. The store had its usual smell of paint and paper, and Akaashi lost himself in the familiar ritual of gathering supplies. Underglazes in cool colors, a new drying rack, a few tools and a package of sponges Kairi preferred for her texture work.
He paid, loaded everything into the passenger side of his car, and sat in the driver’s seat with his hands on the steering wheel.
The car stuttered when he went to pull out of his parking spot.
Akaashi groaned to himself, and glanced down at the clock on his dash.
12:37 PM.
He had some time before he needed to be back.
Akaashi’s heart was beating faster than it should’ve as he headed in the direction of the studio. It was stupid; it was just a car repair. People got their cars fixed all the time. There was nothing significant about driving to a mechanic shop and asking them to look at a problem.
Except he could’ve just had Hajime look at it, or even his uncle Yuuma. Could’ve let his cousin fumble through Youtube, fixing one problem just to ultimately cause ten others.
Anything as long as it kept the peace.
Instead, Akaashi’s eyes found the faded sign of Steel Owl Automotive.
He wasn’t afraid of the Bokuto family, not at all. That wasn’t what was making his palms sweat against the steering wheel.
He’d seen Bokuto Koutarou dozens of times over the past few months. Across the street, in passing at the grocery store, even once at the post office where they stood in line three people apart and never made eye contact. He’d seen the way he moved, with easy confidence and a charming, albeit slightly intimidating, demeanor. He’d seen him laugh at what customers have said to him, and seen him work on cars with a calm focus that was an odd juxtaposition to his reputation for violence.
He’d seen him, and he’d been curious.
But now, as Akaashi was pulling into the parking lot of the mechanic shop with a perfectly legitimate reason to talk to him, his stomach was tightening into a nervous knot that had nothing to do with fear.
The repair shop looked different up close. Sure, the building was older, but it was well-maintained in a way that surprised him. The bays were organized, tools hung on pegboards in neat arrangements, and cars in different states of repair were positioned with clear purpose. It didn't look like the den of monsters Hajime made it out to be. It looked like a working garage run by people who took pride in their work.
Akaashi got out of his car before he could talk himself out of it, and headed toward the propped-open lobby door. The interior was small, just a waiting area with a few chairs, a coffee maker, a stack of tires with a poster on it, and a front counter with a register and a computer.
No one was at the counter.
He could hear muffled voices, the clang of metal and someone’s laugh coming from the direction of the garages. Music was playing from a radio somewhere, nearly drowned out by the sound of an air compressor.
Akaashi hesitated, then left the lobby to circle around the outside of the building to peer into the garages. The furthest one was empty except for a car on a lift. The second had what looked to be a mentor and apprentice working on the underside of a car, and the closest one—
Someone was bent over an engine, his back to Akaashi with his arms buried in the mechanical guts of a Subaru. He was wearing a pair of navy coveralls, though the top half had been unzipped to leave it hanging around his hips. The black tank top he wore accentuated his broad shoulders and strong arms, and his bicolored hair Akaashi had accidentally grown to become familiar with and remained spiked upwards to defy gravity.
“Um,” Akaashi began eloquently, shifting his weight. “Excuse me?”
The man stilled and pulled back from the engine. He grabbed a shop rag from his back pocket to wipe grease from his hands as he turned.
Akaashi’s breath caught in his throat.
He’d always harbored the private thought that Bokuto Koutarou was attractive from a distance. But up close, it was almost unfair. He had sharp golden eyes, a strong jaw and a small scar that cut through his left eyebrow that somehow made him more interesting to look at. His face was smudged with streaks of grease, his hair was slightly mussed, and he was looking at Akaashi with an expression that could only be described as scathing.
Bordering on annoyed.
Akaashi felt his stomach twist tighter.
Perhaps, just this once, Hajime was right. Maybe this was a mistake.
“Yeah?” His voice was curt, impatient. He eyed Akaashi up and down that made him suddenly very aware of his own appearance: jeans and a raggedy t-shirt that was covered in various art mediums.
“I—,” Akaashi started, then stopped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—my car—,” he gestured vaguely behind him, “—there was no one at the front, so...."
Bokuto’s eyes narrowed, and Akaashi watched as recognition flickered across his face. His gruff expression melted into something more complicated. Surprise, and something else Akaashi couldn’t determine.
“I know you,” Bokuto said then, almost accusatorily. “Aren’t you from that clay shop down the way?”
Akaashi blinked. “Uh, yes. I am.”
“So… you’re an Iwaizumi?”
Akaashi definitely knew something like this would come up, but there was something in the way he said it. Not quite hostile, but definitely wary, like the name itself was a warning.
“Akaashi, technically,” he corrected, making a small so-so gesture with his hands. “But yes, I’m blood-related.”
Bokuto stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Bokuto.”
Not exactly a warm introduction, but Akaashi hadn't expected much. It felt more like an acknowledgement of opposing sides; confirmation of the battle lines that’d been drawn long before either of them were born.
Akaashi nodded back in greeting, unsure what else to do.
The silence stretched between them uncomfortably, filled only by the sounds of the auto shop. Akaashi found it difficult to maintain eye contact with such expressive eyes, and found his gaze darting to look everywhere but Bokuto’s face. He looked back at him just in time to see his expression soften slightly, the gruffness fading into something more neutral.
He tossed the rag onto a nearby tool cart and placed his hands on his hips. “You said something was wrong with your car?” His tone sounded a little forced, like he was trying to remember that this was his job regardless of who Akaashi was related to.
“Yeah,” Akaashi said, relieved to have something else to focus on. “It’s been stuttering whenever I accelerate. I think it’s getting worse.”
“How long’s that been happening?”
“A couple weeks, maybe? I figured if I didn’t bother with it, it’d go away on it’s own.” Akaashi admitted sheepishly, looking away.
“Rookie mistake,” Bokuto replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Show me?”
Akaashi was about to refuse, pointing out that he was already in the middle of a job, but as if reading his mind, Bokuto waved dismissively at the Subaru. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll come back to it.”
Akaashi led him out to the parking lot to where his car sat. The afternoon sun was bright, making him squint as Bokuto circled the vehicle with an assessing eye.
“Nice car.” Bokuto said, almost to himself.
“Thank you. I’m glad someone sees the value in it.”
Bokuto lifted an eyebrow, prompting further context.
Akaashi bit the inside of his cheek; it was difficult to determine the limits to what you can say to someone you just met. “Hajime says it’s a piece of shit.” He said anyway.
Bokuto’s expression darkened at the name. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”
The sudden laugh that came out of Akaashi surprised both of them, but Bokuto must’ve remembered who he was talking to from the regret that flashed across his face. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” Akaashi waved him off, smiling. “There’s days I share the sentiment.”
“Regardless.” As Bokuto spoke, some of the tension left his shoulders. “When’s the last time you had your spark plugs changed?”
Akaashi’s eyebrows pinched. “I… don’t even know what those are.”
He was given a look that was somewhere between amused and exasperated. “That’s probably your problem right there then. Will you pop the hood?”
Akaashi pulled the release, and Bokuto moved to the front of the car. He propped the hood open and leaned in, his hands moving with confident familiarity over the engine. He poked at a few things, checked a few others, his brow furrowed in concentration.
It was oddly mesmerizing to watch. The way his hands moved with such certainty, the way he seemed to understand the mechanical language of the car in a way Akaashi never would. There was something almost artistic about it, the same kind of focus Akaashi felt when he was working with clay.
"Yeah," Bokuto said finally, straightening up. "I’ll have to check them out more thoroughly, but I assume they’re pretty worn. I can replace them, shouldn't take too long. Might want to do the ignition coils too while we're at it, but we can start with the plugs and see if that fixes it."
“Okay,” Akaashi replied, relying on the mechanic’s knowledge of car jargon considering he didn’t understand most of what he’d just said.
Bokuto reached up to shut the hood. “C’mon, let’s go get some paperwork.”
They headed towards the lobby. Inside, Bokuto moved behind the counter, turning on the computer and beginning to type at a speed that Akaashi hadn’t expected. “Name and number?”
“Akaashi Keiji. XXX-XXX-XXXX.”
“Make, model and year of your car?”
“2001 Mazda RX7.”
They continued like that for a few minutes longer, Bokuto asking questions and filling out the form based on Akaashi’s answers. Up close, in better lighting, Akaashi could see more details of him. The way Bokuto’s eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, the small freckles scattered across his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly as he concentrated on typing.
“Anything else I should know about the car?”
Other than its name is Momo and has an odd smell if left in the sun too long due to the glaze I spilled on the floorboards last year?
“Um, I don’t think—”
"Well, well, well!"
Both of them looked up as Kuroo Tetsurou emerged from the shop door of the lobby, wiping his hands on a rag. He was tall and lean, with dark hair that stuck up in a gravity-defying mess that somehow looked intentional. His eyes were sharp and calculating as they moved between Bokuto and Akaashi, and a slow grin spread across his face.
"I almost thought we’d gotten a visit from old Iwaizumi himself.” Kuroo said, amused. “You look an awful lot like that brute from the pottery store.”
“They’re related,” Bokuto muttered before Akaashi could reply.
“Oh!” Kuroo looked even more delighted, if not a bit surprised. “Didn't know we were consorting with the enemy camp nowadays.”
Though this was the first time Akaashi had ever spoken to Kuroo, he was already hoping this would be the last.
Akaashi’s eyes narrowed. "I'm just here about my car—"
"Sure you are," Kuroo interrupted, grin widening. He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Kuroo." Bokuto said, a warning in his voice. Though his eyes were still directed at the computer, typing away.
"What? I'm just making conversation." Kuroo's eyes fixed on Akaashi, and there was something sharp in his gaze now, something that made Akaashi straighten his spine. "What’re you, his brother? Cousin? How's he doing? Iwaizumi still got that stick up his ass?"
Akaashi's jaw tightened. "Hajime's fine."
"Leave him alone, Tetsurou." Bokuto interjected before Kuroo could speak again. He turned the computer screen toward Akaashi and placed a tablet with a stylist on the counter. "Sign here. I'll give you a call when it's done. Should be sometime later today."
Akaashi signed quickly, his hand steady despite the irritation simmering under his skin. Kuroo was still watching him with that infuriating smirk, and Akaashi refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
"Thank you," Akaashi said to Bokuto, deliberately ignoring Kuroo.
Bokuto nodded, and for a moment their eyes met. There was something in his expression. An apology, maybe, or just acknowledgment that his brother was being a total dickhead. It softened the edges of Akaashi's irritation, and made him remember why he'd come here in the first place.
Before either of them could say anything else, Bokuto turned and headed back toward the shop, leaving Akaashi alone with Kuroo.
Just for a moment, there was silence.
“Are you always like this?” Akaashi asked then, noticing Kuroo’s leering gaze.
“Ah! So he does bite back!”
With a roll of his eyes, Akaashi turned to leave. But not without Kuroo’s: “Give Iwa a kiss for me!”, following him out into the afternoon heat.
He felt off-balance, like the conversation had gone in directions he hadn't anticipated. He was already dreading the interrogation he'd face when he got back to the ceramics shop. But as he started walking back, carrying the bags of art supplies, he couldn't help but glance over his shoulder.
Through the open bay door, he could see Bokuto back at work, already bent over the same Subaru’s engine. As if sensing Akaashi's gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met across the distance, and something passed between them. The beginning of something neither of them had names for yet.
The moment broke when Kuroo appeared and made an unheard comment that caused Bokuto to turn and say the clearest “Fuck you,” Akaashi had ever heard in his life.
Akaashi turned away, smiling despite himself.
Maybe Hajime was right to be worried, just not for the reasons he thought.
The walk back to the studio felt longer than it was.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered, and he was immediately hit with the familiar comfort of the shop. Hajime was at the front counter, helping an elderly woman decide between two different sets of bowls. His voice was patient and warm as he explained the differences in the glazing techniques, but the moment Akaashi stepped through the door, his cousin's eyes flicked toward him.
It was just a glance, barely a second, but Akaashi felt the weight of it. Hajime's attention returned to his customer, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
Akaashi pretended not to notice. He headed toward the back where his aunt was organizing the kiln schedule, the bag of supplies from Claw & Canvas still in his hand.
"Oh, perfect timing!" Kairi looked up from her clipboard, her face brightening. There were smudges of terracotta on her apron. "Did you get everything?"
"Almost," Akaashi said, setting the bag on the work table. "They were out of the peacock blue underglaze, but the guy said they'd have more in stock by Wednesday."
"That's fine, I can work around it." She started pulling items from the bag, checking them against her mental inventory. "Thank you, sweetheart. Have you eaten?"
"Not yet.”
"Make sure you do." She squeezed his shoulder affectionately, then returned her attention to the supplies. "Oh, and there's a new order form on the desk in the staff room; someone wants a custom set of sake cups. I thought you might want to take it since you've been working on your wheel throwing."
"Sure, I'll look at it."
Akaashi escaped to the staff room before she could ask any more questions. It was a small space, just a table, a mini fridge, a microwave, and a couple of lockers for their personal belongings. His bento box was still sitting where he'd left it, and he grabbed it along with a bottle of tea from the fridge.
He'd barely taken two bites when the door swung open.
Hajime filled the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression somewhere between concerned and irritated. He closed the door behind him with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the small room. "What took you so long?"
Akaashi took another bite, chewing slowly. "The craft store was busy."
"Try again."
“...traffic?”
"Your car isn’t outside. Did you walk here?"
Akaashi set down his chopsticks and met his cousin's eyes. There was no point in lying, Hajime would find out eventually anyway. Small towns had a way of making secrets impossible.
“They jumped me and stole my car on my way back from the art store.”
Hajime froze. “What?”
“You’re so gullible,” Akaashi huffed a laugh. “I took my car over there, okay? You said yourself I needed to get it looked at.”
"I said I would look at it!" Hajime's voice rose, but he caught himself, glancing toward the door before lowering his volume to a hiss. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that my car has a problem and there's a mechanic shop down the street." Akaashi kept his voice level, refusing to match the other’s energy. “You would've just made it worse."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. Remember when you tried to fix the kiln and we had to get a new one entirely?"
Hajime's scowl deepened. "That's different."
"Hardly."
Hajime ran a hand through his hair, agitation clear. "Did anything happen? Did they say anything to you?"
Making a sarcastic comment similar to ‘duh, of course they said something to me’, would probably make things worse, so Akaashi refrained from doing so.
"Nothing crazy happened." Akaashi said, which was only partially true.
He thought about the way Bokuto indirectly called his cousin a piece of shit and the immediate apology that followed. He thought about Kuroo's conniving grin and his comment about Hajime, followed by the request of giving him a kiss. He thought about the way Bokuto had shut his brother down and the quiet apology in his eyes.
"They were professional,” he went on, glancing away. Definitely not true. “Something about spark plugs, I think."
“Who helped you?”
“The nephew.”
“Which one?”
Akaashi hesitated, fearing the answer would set him off. “...Koutarou.”
"Koutarou," Hajime repeated, monotonously. He moved closer, leaning against the table. His voice dropped, becoming more serious. "Look, I know you think I'm being controlling. I know you think I'm biased. But I'm not making this up, Keiji. That family is bad news. Koutarou especially."
"I didn’t get that impression when I was over there."
“You’re so stubborn.” Hajime's expression flickered, frustration mixed with something that looked almost like hurt. "I'm just trying to protect you."
"I know," Akaashi's voice softened slightly.
He did. Hajime had been trying to protect him since the day he'd moved in, barely able to function and drowning in grief. Hajime had stepped into the role of older brother without being asked, had been there for every nightmare, every breakdown, and every other moment when the weight of losing something dear threatened to crush him.
But that was four years ago; Akaashi wasn't that broken kid anymore.
"I appreciate it," he continued. "Really. But it’s okay, I promise. Nothing happened."
Hajime stared at him for a long moment, jaw still tight. Then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Fine. But if they try anything like scam you—"
"I'll tell you," Akaashi lifted his hand then, extending his pinkie. “Pinkie promise.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Hajime straightened, smacking his hand away. "I need to get back out there. Mom's got me rearranging the display shelves. Again."
"She changed her mind about the layout again?"
"Third time this week." But there was fondness in Hajime's voice now, the earlier tension fading. He headed toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "Just... be careful, alright? I know you think I'm paranoid, but I've got reasons."
"I know you do."
Hajime nodded and left, the door swinging shut behind him.
Akaashi sat in silence for a moment, then picked up his chopsticks and returned to his lunch. His phone sat on the table next to his bento box, screen dark and silent.
A few hours later, Akaashi was back at his pottery wheel, hands covered in wet clay as he worked on pulling up the walls of a bowl. He'd fallen back into that meditative state where the rest of the world faded away and there was only the spin of the wheel, the give and take of the clay, and the slow emergence of form from formlessness.
His phone rang.
The sound cut through his concentration like a knife, causing Akaashi's hands to jerk slightly. The bowl wobbled on the wheel and he quickly steadied it before it could collapse entirely. His heart was suddenly beating faster, and he told himself it was just the surprise of the interruption, not anticipation.
Akaashi looked down at his hands. Completely covered in clay, slip dripping from his fingers. He glanced toward the front of the shop where Hajime was helping a customer, then back at his phone.
"Damn it," he muttered, quickly pulling his hands away from the clay. He grabbed the nearby sponge and wiped frantically at his fingers, but the clay was stubborn, clinging to his skin. The phone rang again, and Akaashi abandoned the sponge in favor of the sink in the corner, turning on the water and scrubbing as fast as he could.
Akaashi grabbed a towel, dried his hands in three quick swipes that probably didn't get all the clay but would have to be good enough, and lunged for his phone.
"Hello?" He was slightly breathless.
"Hey, is this Akaashi?" The voice on the other end was familiar.
"Yeah, it’s me."
"It’s Bokuto." There was a pause, and Akaashi could hear background noise; the sound of the shop, someone shouting something about a wrench, music playing from a radio. "I’ve got good news."
Akaashi's grip on the phone tightened. "Oh?"
"It was just the spark plugs, like I thought. An easy fix, just took a bit with the cars ahead of you. But your car should be running smoothly now."
Relief washed over Akaashi. "Oh, that's great. I was worried it might be something more serious."
"Nah, spark plug issues are pretty common. You're lucky you brought it in when you did, though. Any longer and the ignition coils might’ve been damaged."
Something in Bokuto’s voice was different. There was an ease to it now, like he was more comfortable talking about cars over the phone than he'd been talking to Akaashi in person.
“You can come pick it up whenever you’re available. I'm just finishing up some things and then I'll run it through a test drive to make sure everything's good."
"Oh, you don't have to—"
"It's part of the service," Bokuto interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not gonna hand you back a car without making sure it's actually fixed."
Akaashi smiled. "Ah, well. Thank you. I appreciate it."
"No problem. Just doing my job." There was another pause, and Akaashi heard someone call Bokuto’s name in the background.
"Okay… I'll see you then?"
“Yeah. See you soon, Akaashi.”
"See you soon." The line went dead. Akaashi stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, a smile tugging at his lips.
He returned to his wheel to clean up his workspace, carefully covering the bowl he'd been working on so it wouldn't dry out. His hands were still slightly damp, and there were remnants of clay on his hands that he’d missed from before.
"Who was that?"
Akaashi jumped, nearly dropping his phone, and turned to find his cousin. "The auto shop. My car's ready."
"Oh.” Hajime's eyes narrowed. “Want me to come with you?"
“No. Chances are you’ll stir something up anyway.”
“What? I don’t stir up anything.”
Akaashi glanced at him pointedly. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna rip Kuroo’s dick off and shove it down his throat’, when he cut you off in traffic last week.”
“Okay, well. He shouldn’t have cut me off.”
Akaashi rolled his eyes.. “I'll be back in ten minutes.”
The late afternoon air was still warm, the sun starting its descent toward evening but still bright enough to make him squint. The walk to Steel Owl Automotive was short, but Akaashi's heart was beating faster than the distance warranted, a nervous flutter in his chest.
The shop looked the same as it had earlier, bays open, the sound of tools and music drifting out into the street. But this time, Akaashi walked through the front door with a bit more confidence, the bell above chiming to announce his arrival.
Bokuto was at the front counter, jotting notes down into a paper-filled binder. He looked up at the sound of the bell and smiled when his eyes found Akaashi’s.
"Welcome back," Bokuto said, shutting the binder. "Right on time."
"I try to be punctual." Akaashi approached the counter, suddenly very aware of the fact that he hadn't bothered to check his appearance before leaving the studio.
"Your car runs like a dream now." Bokuto grabbed a set of keys from the hook behind him. Akaashi's keys, with a small ceramic owl keychain he'd made in his first year at the shop. "You're all set."
"Thank you. Really. I was worried it was going to be something bad."
"Nah." Bokuto’s eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. "You take pretty good care of your car, just gotta stay on top of the regular maintenance stuff."
"I'll try to remember that."
"Or you could just come by every few months and I'll check it for you." The words came out casual, but there was something underneath them. An offer that felt like more than just customer service.
“I might have to take you up on that," Akaashi's pulse quickened. "My memory isn’t the best when it comes to car maintenance.”
Bokuto leaned forward against the counter. "Well, that’s exactly what we're here for."
"Right."
They stared at each other for a moment, and Akaashi felt the air between them shift into something charged. Bokuto’s gaze dropped briefly, then back up, and there was a faint flush creeping up his neck that made Akaashi's stomach flip.
"So, uh," Bokuto cleared his throat, straightening up. "You wanna see what I did? Some people like to know for future reference if problems pop up again."
Akaashi didn't particularly care about spark plugs. He knew nothing about cars beyond the basics, that they needed fuel to run and an occasional oil change. Mechanical explanations usually went in one ear and out the other. But Bokuto was offering, and Akaashi found himself nodding before he could think better of it.
"Sure. I'd like that."
Bokuto’s face lit up. "Cool, follow me."
Akaashi followed him out to the parking lot, trying not to stare at the way Bokuto’s shoulders moved under his tank top, or the way his coveralls hung on his hips. Akaashi popped open the hood again for his demonstration.
"So here’s the thing," Bokuto started, moving towards the engine. "Spark plugs are what ignite the fuel in your engine. When they get worn down, the ignition isn't as strong, which is why you were getting that stuttering."
He pointed to something (Akaashi had no idea what), and continued explaining. His voice took on a different quality when he talked about cars, more animated and confident. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing to different parts, and Akaashi found himself mesmerized not by the explanation but by the passion in it.
"—and that's why regular replacement is important. You don't want to wait until they're completely shot, because then you risk damaging other components." Bokuto looked up, and seemed to realize he'd been talking for a couple minutes straight.
He smiled at Akaashi’s blank expression. “You didn’t get any of that, did you?”
"No," Akaashi admitted with a small laugh. "Not at all. But it's... interesting. The way you explain it."
"Really?" Bokuto looked skeptical, like he thought Akaashi might be making fun of him.
Akaashi nodded, sincere. “Mhm.”
Something flickered across Bokuto’s face. Surprise maybe, like he hadn’t expected someone to actually appreciate his work. They were standing close, Akaashi realized. Close enough to be borderline inappropriate for employee-client standards.
"Anyway," Bokuto stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "That's the basic rundown. Your car should be good for a while now. Just, you know, keep an eye on it if anything else pops up."
"I will." Akaashi's voice came out quieter than he intended.
They walked back to the lobby together, and Akaashi was hyperaware of the space between them now. How they seemed to naturally fall into step with each other. At the counter, Bokuto pulled out the invoice and slid it across.
Akaashi looked at the total and blinked. "This is lower than I thought."
"Parts and labor." He shrugged. "I'm not gonna upcharge you just because I can."
"Hajime said—" Akaashi stopped himself, but it was too late.
The ease in the atmosphere solidified into something tense. Bokuto’s expression shifted, something guarded sliding into place. "He said what?"
"Nothing. Just that he wanted to make sure the price was fair."
"You thought I'd scam you?"
"No!" Akaashi said quickly, emphatic. "I didn't think that. Hajime did, maybe. But I didn't."
Bokuto studied him for a moment, then his expression softened. "I think it’s funny how much he doesn't like me."
"I think it’s unfair. He doesn't know you."
Bokuto raised a brow. "Neither do you."
"No," Akaashi said, holding Bokuto's gaze. "Not yet."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Bokuto's eyes widened slightly, and that flush was back, creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could—
"Koutaaaarouuuu!" Kuroo's voice echoed from somewhere behind the shop door, impatient and demanding. “I need you!”
Bokuto’s expression soured at the way his given name was said. "I’m busy!" He called back towards the shop.
“Now please!”
He looked back at Akaashi, appearing apologetic. "I’m sorry, I gotta—"
"It's fine. You're working." Akaashi pulled out his wallet and handed over his card. "Thank you. For everything."
"Yeah, of course." Bokuto processed the payment, his movements quick and efficient. But Akaashi caught the way his eyes kept flicking up, like he didn't want this interaction to end. "Drive safe."
"I will."
Akaashi took his receipt and his keys, and headed toward the door. He could feel Bokuto’s eyes on him as he walked to his car, warm and heavy. When he slid into the driver's seat and turned the key, the engine purred to life. Smooth and steady, no hesitation. Perfect.
Then he was pulling out of the parking lot, exhaling deep as if he hadn’t had a proper breath in a minute.
Bokuto stood in the first’s bay entrance longer than he should have, watching Akaashi's car disappear down the street towards the ceramic studio. His chest felt tight, like something had settled there and refused to leave.
"Dude."
Bokuto blinked, the voice breaking through the spell of his thoughts. He turned to find Kuroo leaning against a customer’s car, arms crossed. He was wearing that insufferable smirk of his.
Apparently Kuroo hadn’t needed his help at all, instead purposely interrupting his interaction with Akaashi to cut it short. Bokuto wasn’t very thrilled upon finding this out.
"What?" Bokuto went for casual and failed, the single word coming out defensive and brittle.
"Flirting with customers is against company policy." Kuroo said matter-of-factly, pushing off the car to meander closer.
"Don’t be dense. I was being helpful," Bokuto crossed his arms, unconsciously trying to build some kind of barrier between them.
"You think I’m blind and deaf?” Kuroo's tone was light, but there was an edge of warning underneath it. “You offered to explain spark plugs to him."
“I offer to explain everything to every customer,” Bokuto argued, though he could tell his defense sounded weak. “Unlike you, who does the absolute bare minimum.”
“Sure,” Kuroo shrugged halfheartedly, not even bothering to defend himself. “But do you offer to explain things just to spend more time with a customer?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you would've explained the entire composition of his car if it meant keeping him here for another five minutes."
Bokuto felt heat rise to his face. "So what if I did? He's—" He stopped himself, but Kuroo was already leaning in, eyebrows raised expectantly. He had that kind of look that said he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear Bokuto say it outloud.
"He's what?"
Bokuto's hands tightened on his own biceps. "He's fuckin’ hot, okay?" The words came out more defensive than he’d intended, almost aggressive. "Is that what you wanna hear?"
The admission hung in the air between them. Bokuto's face burned hotter, the weight of it resting heavy on his shoulders. Not just the attraction, but the stupidity of saying it out loud.
"I knew it," Kuroo's grin was triumphant. But only for a moment, until it shifted into something more serious."But you do know he's an Iwaizumi, right?"
"Akaashi, technically." The correction slipped out before Bokuto could stop it.
Kuroo blinked. "Huh?"
"Nothing. Nevermind." Bokuto turned away, heading toward the second bay where a car was waiting. He didn't want to have this conversation; didn't want Kuroo to put words to the thing that had been building in his mind since Akaashi first walked into the shop.
"Kou," Kuroo followed him, his voice dropping lower despite the fact they were alone in the shop. "Just leave him be. Before you do anything stupid."
"Stupid is my middle name," Bokuto muttered, grabbing a wrench from the tool cart.
"That's not funny." Kuroo moved to block his path, forcing his brother to look at him. "You know what happened last time you acted without thinking."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Bokuto’s grip tightened on the wrench, knuckles white. "That’s not even remotely similar."
But even as he said it, he could feel the lie. He could feel the echo of past mistakes; the memory of another time he'd let his heart lead and his brain follow too far behind.
"Isn't it?" Kuroo's voice was gentler now, and that somehow made it worse. "His family hates us and our family hates them. Not to mention Hajime has his own personal vendetta against both of us. You really think going after Akaashi will end well?"
Bokuto didn't have an answer for that. Because Kuroo was right; he knew Kuroo was right. Getting involved with Akaashi was stupid, complicated and doomed from the start. The Iwaizumis had made it clear years ago that the Bokutos weren't welcome in their orbit, and the feeling was mutual.
But he couldn't stop thinking about the way Akaashi had looked at him. Like he was worth knowing. Like his past didn't matter as much as who he was right now.
When Bokuto never replied, Kuroo just sighed, defeated. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
He walked away, heading back toward the office, and Bokuto was left standing alone in the bay with a wrench in his hand and Akaashi's smile burned into his memory.
He was so fucked.