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happylittledrabbles · 4 years ago

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When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Koutarou Bokuto x Keiji Akaashi

Rating: M (non-graphic smut, cursing)

Warning(s): Major character death

Genre: Angst

AO3

—

"When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me."

He first noticed it when they were on vacation. And there's no changing the diagnosis.

He first noticed it while they were on vacation.

Bokuto’s hands are cold as they slide up his husband’s torso; spending all day out in the frigid, Icelandic air clearly left its footprint on their skin. That is how they ended up in this position in the first place: Bokuto had not-so-subtly suggested they should do this to “warm up,” and Akaashi didn’t have the courage to deny him. Losing his calm demeanor, Akaashi gave into the neediness in his body and the puppy-dog look his husband had mastered whenever he wanted something.

“They’re still cold,” Akaashi mumbles, tilting his neck to the side to give Bokuto’s lips more room to roam. He flinches as they go further and further down into more sensitive territory until the cold is too much to bear. “Ugh—stop, I’ll do it. I’m warmer.”

He pushes the bigger man off him, his eyebrows furrowing as he uses more force than usual. Has Bokuto been putting on weight? He looks the same…

He rolls on top of his husband, seating himself comfortably in his lap. Akaashi’s thighs frame Bokuto’s hips in a way that makes Bokuto shiver, and it brings a satisfied smile onto the dark-haired man’s face.

“Whatever will get those pants off,” Bokuto comments with a smirk, lifting an arm and bringing Akaashi in for a kiss by the back of the neck. Their lips pull away with a smack as Akaashi busies himself with removing both their shirts. Bokuto’s eyelids are heavy, his breath coming out as puffs as he gazes at the beautiful Greek god of a man on top of him. “You’re right, you are warmer.”

They are just beginning to move together when Akaashi’s arms, holding him up as his hands fisted the bedsheets, suddenly give out, his muscles feeling like Jell-O.

“Feels that good?” Bokuto asks with that dastardly grin of his, but Akaashi isn’t having it. He tries to push himself back up, his arms trembling with the immense effort he is putting in until they give out once again, leaving him frustrated. He would roll his eyes affectionately at Bokuto’s insinuations, but he is genuinely perplexed. He isn’t even close to finishing—they had only started two minutes ago, for Pete’s sake. He has yet to start feeling good, so…?

“I’ll take over from here,” Bokuto eventually says after watching Akaashi struggle for a few moments. He finds the sight of his husband huffing and blowing the locks of hair out of his face exasperatingly as he adjusts himself incredibly amusing, but it’s hindering their time together. He rolls Akaashi gently onto his back effortlessly; meanwhile, Akaashi’s arms are still trembling mysteriously. What the hell? Thoughts of frustration overtake the thoughts of lust in Akaashi’s mind, wondering when his husband got so much stronger than him. Had it been because he hasn’t gone to the gym in a while? It must be that.

Bokuto gladly continues their lovemaking session despite Akaashi’s difficulties, and Akaashi finally gets to that ‘eyes rolling from pleasure and not annoyance at his imprudent husband’ point. But that moment of sudden weakness stays in the back of his mind, only resurfacing in that post-sex clarity.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, scratching his lower back as he ambles over to the bathroom to clean himself up and pee. He’s washing his hands when he smells smoke.

“I thought I told you to stop smoking,” Akaashi admonishes as he stomps back into the room. He swipes his boxers from the floor and slips them back on to protect some of his modesty. He’s at Bokuto’s bedside before the other can even open his mouth to retort, grabbing the cigarette and putting it out on the decorative ashtray on the nightstand, tossing the cigarette and tipping the ashes from the tray into the trash. While Akaashi’s constantly worrying about his cholesterol and blood pressure levels, taking vitamins and supplements galore, Bokuto freely does whatever he wants. As long as he’s performing at his best for volleyball, that’s all that matters in his eyes. And it’s working out for him: he’s completely and utterly healthy. Akaashi’s thankful if not envious of such healthy genes.

“Blame it on Coach Ukai,” Bokuto replies, grinning widely at his fussy partner. “It’s his fault for putting me onto cancer sticks.”

“At least try not to do it in an Airbnb, please. We could get fined.” He flicks Bokuto on the forehead as he climbs back into bed and cuddles up to his side. Iceland is gorgeous but damn, is it freezing.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to fuck in an Airbnb, but we did that anyway,” Bokuto teases, causing Akaashi to immediately turn over and give him the cold shoulder—no pun intended. He barks out a laugh and rolls over, rubbing Akaashi’s arm and placing butterfly kisses on the soft skin of his back. He feels that it’s stopped trembling, but he notices how limp it is by his side. He’s never seen this reaction in Akaashi before. Did he do something different this time…? “Aw, c’mon, babe, don’t be like that. You very clearly liked it.”

He pauses, stroking Akaashi’s arm absentmindedly as his mind hops on the train of thought.

“What was that about, anyway? Does fucking in an Airbnb excite you that much? I’ve never seen you like that.” He grins and pulls Akaashi closer to his chest, his breath leaving the shell of Akaashi’s ear pink. “It was sexy as hell.”

However, Bokuto’s horniness is not reciprocated. All Akaashi can think about is the heavy pit that buried itself in his stomach in that moment, and he reaches forward to grab a pillow. He doesn’t exactly need it—he could just turn over and use Bokuto as his body pillow. But it’s almost as if he wants to test his muscles, see if they had come out of their Jell-O state. He hates Jell-O.

Perhaps it really did feel that good. But…his stomach hadn’t been flipping or filled with butterflies then as it usually did when they had sex—it had sunk.

…

Bright and early, the two men are back to their worldly adventures. They tour local villages, eat local food, and chat with the local people until the sky is an ombre of purple and navy blue.

“There’s supposed to be an aurora tonight, according to the locals,” Akaashi says as he figures out a map he got from a gift shop, trying to find their next stop.

“Oh, it was the bakery guy who said that, right?” Bokuto asks, peering over Akaashi’s shoulder to try and help with the navigation. However, he knows he would only make Akaashi more frustrated since Akaashi likes figuring everything out by himself. “He said we have to go to this point.”

He takes a chance at helping and saddles up next to Akaashi, pointing to a particularly tall lookout point. “Think you can climb that?”

“Just because you work out every day doesn’t make me a weakling in comparison,” Akaashi counters. He bites the cap off the marker and circles the lookout point’s name, the paper crinkling underneath his hand. As if to prove how strong and capable he is, his bicep bulges as he marks the lookout point, and Bokuto very obviously stares. He’s always loved Akaashi’s body, how muscular yet lean it is. He has curves in all the right places and strong where it matters. His body is nothing short of beautiful, a marble sculpture made by Michelangelo.

Akaashi places the cap back on and tosses a smug look over his shoulder, saying, “Remember how I constantly had to pick you up whenever you’d get depressed over a missed hit? Carrying a hundred-kilo man isn’t an easy feat.”

“Seventy-eight kilos, thank you very much!” Bokuto corrects instantly, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist and dragging him to their rental car. “Fine, then let’s see your skills. We have to be there in two hours.”

The drive is full of punk and hard rock songs, all at Akaashi’s request. Bokuto tries to compromise with just one pop song in the queue of AC/DC and Green Day, but because of his sly comments throughout the trip, this is his punishment.

“Turn here,” Akaashi says over the blaring of “Readymade” by Ado, pointing to the upcoming sign. The tires squeal as they try to compensate for the horrible Fast and Furious move Bokuto does as he turns, righting as they reach the fairly full parking lot for the lookout point. Akaashi would have cussed Bokuto out if not for a steady mix of yellow and green lights highlighting both their faces and all the cars in the parking lot, the metal reflecting the light and causing everywhere to be flooded in a mock bokeh.

He cannot get out of the car fast enough, slamming the door closed and getting a head start on the hike. He trips a few times since his eyes are transfixed on the lights, his hand reaching out for Bokuto, who had since caught up to him and helps him steady himself. He’s panting by the time they reach the tallest point, revealing a crowd of people and, most beautiful of all, a lake that looked as if it was made out of glass. The sky and the water join into one, doubling the number of lights and showcasing a waterfall of colors.

He jogs over to where everybody is seated, their chins craned up in unison as they watch with awe the lights dancing in the sky. It’s like watching a ballet, each part of the sky following its own storyline and choreography. Akaashi stumbles from the vertigo of looking up too fast, Bokuto hot on his heels and ready to catch him until he rights himself.

“Be careful,” he warns as he unfolds their blanket and sets it on the knee-high grass, wading into it and sitting down. He pats the fabric, trying to get Akaashi’s attention. “Come here.”

Akaashi blinks as if he has snapped out of a trance, stumbling forward and into Bokuto’s arms. His head is foggy, the lights flashing in his vision every time he closes his eyes.

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers, craning his neck up again now that he is on solid ground.

“Yeah,” Bokuto replies as he leans his head on his husband’s shoulder. “Beautiful.”

But Bokuto isn’t looking at the lights.

Their rings glimmer underneath the aurora, the gold morphing into all different shades thanks to the rippling of the colors above them. It really is like looking at the ocean, the sound of the waves being replaced with soft murmurs in Icelandic and the ambient breeze twisting through the tree branches. Akaashi almost stops breathing since his breaths come out an opaque white, obscuring the lights from his vision.

��

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

…

Bokuto is nearly asleep once the lights finally fade out. They had gotten lucky—this aurora lasted nearly an hour. And Akaashi didn’t break eye contact for that entire hour. He was in love, his lips upturned into the faintest smile.

When the lights melt into the black night, he pats Bokuto on the cheek to wake him up and stands up, beginning to fold the blanket with the other still on it.

“Hey, hey, what’s the rush?” Bokuto exclaims, followed by a deep yawn as he rolls off the blanket and into the grass.

“I want to leave before both of us fall asleep.” One hour of keeping his eyes wide open with barely any blinking leaves Akaashi’s eyelids fatigued, and they are hanging low as he neatly folds the blanket in his lap and starts toward the car.

“Babe, I’m fine,” Bokuto replies, followed yet again by a yawn. They share a look, and he gives in. “Okay, okay, I’m getting in the car.”

They’re driving down the slope, both their eyelids heavy, drunk on sleep.

“Turn here?” Bokuto asks, beginning to slow down as he turns to his husband, who is fast asleep. “Hey, wake up, navigator.” He shakes Akaashi’s thigh before moving up to his shoulder. “Akaashi, hey—”

He’s paralyzed by the red lights that flood his vision, and his foot flies to the brake too slowly.

…

“We see accidents like that all the time on that slope,” the doctor says disapprovingly, shaking her head as she flips through the paperwork on the clipboard. “They should start putting streetlights there.”

“But then the lights wouldn’t be as pretty,” Bokuto protests, his arm shaking in its sling.

The doctor gives him a stern once-over before going back to her paperwork. “Tell that to the claim you’ll have to settle with the rental car agency. I’ll release you both in a couple of hours. For now, please rest.” She turns to Akaashi, who is sitting in the chair next to Bokuto’s bed with a pack of ice to the bump on his forehead. “Can you start filling these out, please?”

Akaashi nods and takes the offered pen, but as he puts it to the paper, his hand begins trembling uncontrollably. It isn’t violent, but it’s noticeable enough to make him stop trying to write and stare at his hand for a second. He looks up at the doctor, who is also staring at his hand.

“Hm.” She meets Akaashi’s puzzled gaze with a sympathetic smile. “Must be an after-effect of the accident. Don’t worry too much.”

She begins to walk out of the room but stops in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Akaashi. “If that persists, I would check with your physician back home.”

She nods a goodbye before leaving the room, escaping just in time for Bokuto to wail about having to contact the rental car company and pay for the damages. But Akaashi isn’t listening. He usually ignores Bokuto when he gets like this, but now it’s for a different reason. He’s back to staring at his hand, willing the trembling to go away. It eventually does, and he proceeds to sign the papers, but that pit in his stomach never leaves. It only expands.

…

It’s Akaashi’s 36th birthday three days after the accident, and he’s celebrating it by helping Bokuto wrap his arm in plastic wrap in order to go to The Blue Lagoon. It has been thirty minutes, and Bokuto is yet to be satisfied by the amount of wrapping.

“What if it gets wet?” he whines. “I don’t want to interrupt the healing process. I have a game to play in two weeks!”

“Have you told your coach yet?” Akaashi asks pointedly, to which Bokuto grumbles something in response. “That’s what I thought. You’re not going to play for a while. Probably eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?!” Bokuto shouts, causing everybody within a twenty-foot radius to turn their heads to the Japanese man so clearly in despair.

“You should’ve just stopped the car on the side of the road,” Akaashi replies, immediately regretting his words. This would only start a fight. And it does.

“If you could’ve just woken up,” Bokuto retorts heatedly, snatching his wrist back to do the wrapping job himself. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over, anyway. We would’ve been the ones rear-ended if I stopped.”

“Okay, well—” Akaashi stops himself, his hands dropping to his lap as he turns his head to gaze out into the picturesque lagoon. He knew this argument would happen eventually. He swings his eyes back to Bokuto, who has put his finishing touches on the wrapping. “Can we not fight on my birthday?”

Bokuto huffs. “We aren’t fighting,” he explains but pauses, realizing he’s only furthering the argument. He purses his lips and nods, standing up from the beach chair and adjusting his swim trunks. They can’t go naked like in the bathhouses at home, so the rough fabric feels strange on his skin, especially when he submerges himself in the warm, milky blue water. He sighs, keeping his wrist elevated as he uses his other hands to splash the water in his face, running his fingers through his hair. He looks over his shoulder, watching as Akaashi busies himself with taking off his shirt, revealing his toned body that still had healing hickeys from a few nights ago. His muscles flex as he spreads sunscreen on his skin, causing Bokuto to roll his eyes and grin affectionately. Akaashi, forever concerned about skin cancer.

“Come on, babe. I’m waiting for you.”

Akaashi’s heart hurt a little from the fight, but it warms at the expectant look on his partner’s face. He nods and puts the sunscreen down, dipping his toes in the water before stepping into the pool and involuntarily letting out a long sigh of relief. All his muscles relax, and not in the strange way they did before, as if they were Jell-O. No, now they relax as if they’re softened butter, melting into his body. He rests his arms up on the edge, letting his head hang back like a ragdoll.

“Better?” Bokuto asks.

“Better.”

…

They stay nearly the entire day at the lagoon, switching between being inside the lagoon and the various spas and restaurants around the pool. Bokuto treats Akaashi to a couple’s massage until he gets kicked out of the room by his husband for groaning too loud and for making too many weird comments. He stays in the bar until Akaashi sits next to him, looking completely refreshed, his skin practically glowing in the soft haze of the sunset provided by the large bay windows.

“You look relaxed,” he comments. He hesitates to touch Akaashi, feeling as if he needs to wash his hands beforehand, but finally rests his hand on his bare shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pregnant.”

“Yet again, mood ruined,” Akaashi replies, except it comes out as a joke rather than an admonishment. He leans on the bar and asks for a beer. “I don’t want to go back home.”

“Why not?” Bokuto asks, cocking his head. “We have to get back to Emiko. She’s waiting for us.”

It’s hard to believe that Bokuto isn’t related to their dog, Emiko, because he looks exactly like a dog at that moment, his still-drying hair flopping over like ears and his bushy eyebrows raising up his forehead quizzically.

Akaashi chuckles and sips at the foam, licking it off his top lip. “This place brings me some kind of…peace. I want to live here one day. Or at least come back.”

“We’re definitely coming back,” Bokuto replies with an emphatic nod. “I couldn’t get enough of looking at your face as you watched the aurora. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The aurora?”

Bokuto turns his head to see Akaashi staring back at him with a thin white foam mustache on his top lip after taking another sip, clearly unaware of how endearing he looks.

He smiles softly. “Yeah. The aurora.”

…

“So, you say you’re having tremors?”

Akaashi never thought he would muster up the courage to go to the doctor. But he finally does after about a month, and as he’s sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms, he regrets he ever came.

“Y…es,” he replies haltingly. “It’s probably nothing, but the doctor in Iceland said I should get it checked out, and it’s just been so strange. I have probably just been overworking myself at the gym. I’m not twenty anymore, ha. Actually, I think I should just go—”

“Keiji, please sit down.” Akaashi does as he is told and watches his doctor pull out a forearm exerciser and sets it on the table. “If you can.”

Akaashi raises a brow but shrugs and reaches forward. He grabs the forearm exerciser and uses it as usual before putting it back on the table.

The doctor watches on silently, a finger on his top lip as his eyebrows furrow together. He puts the forearm exerciser back in his desk drawer and clasps his hands together. “You seem fine. I’ll just take some urine and blood samples from you to rule some things out. If you notice anything else, please give me a call.”

After peeing in a cup and giving up some of his blood, he practically glides out of the office. It seems as if there’s nothing wrong with him, which is exactly the diagnosis he was expecting. He had been over-exaggerating, and the doctor back in Iceland was definitely correct: his trembling hand had been a result of the near concussion he received. He drives back home and greets Bokuto with a grand smooch on the lips and musses up Emiko’s floppy ears before going into the kitchen and cooking them a beautiful three-course meal. He’s happily eating, but Bokuto finds it harder to eat. Not because of the cast on his wrist, but because of something else.

Akaashi is being a lot messier than usual. Dropping food back into the bowl, getting sauce on his face. He’s probably still excited, Bokuto thinks, but the ramen going down his esophagus turns into a pit that buries itself in his stomach, and he can’t shake the feeling. No matter how much Akaashi kisses him or hugs him or cuddles up by his side as they watch a movie, he still can’t smile to his full potential.

…

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

…

It’s a few days later when Akaashi’s joyous mood crumbles. Doctors only call after tests when something is wrong. And sure enough, while in the middle of working on his computer, Akaashi’s phone rumbles on the desk with his doctor’s name lit up on the screen.

He’s once again sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms much tighter than before. He’s doing the breathing technique his therapist taught him for his anxiety, but it only makes him want to pass out.

“Your blood tests came back alright. No HIV, hepatitis, your vitamin B12 levels are good, and no cancer from what I can—.”

“Oh, my God.” Akaashi exhales out all the anxiety in his chest, nearly doubling over from the weight taken off his chest. He looks back up at his doctor and grins. “That means I can go, right? I’ll get going—"

The doctor holds up a hand to get Akaashi to be quiet. “These blood and urine tests are only to rule out diseases. But I wouldn’t have called you into the office if I hadn’t found something.” His doctor takes a sharp breath as he shuffles his papers around as if he got a paper cut. “Your CK levels are abnormally high.”

Something in Akaashi drops. His stomach? His heart? All he knows is that he’s heavy like a bag of rocks, and he feels strapped to the chair.

“What…is that?” he asks, his chest so tight, he’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. No better place to have it than in front of a doctor, though.

“Creatine kinase. It’s an enzyme that’s released into the blood when there’s some muscle damage. It’s released when you’re either having or had a heart attack—”

“Dr. Hirose, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“No, you’re not, Keiji,” his doctor says with a look of pity on his face. It makes Akaashi’s panic heighten. Pity? “Or when you do a lot of strenuous exercises—”

“That’s what I said! It’s because I’ve been exercising—”

“Keiji,” his doctor breathes forcefully, giving the dark-haired man a stern look. “Or it’s a sign of a degenerative muscle disease. I’m going to schedule you for an MRI in two weeks. If it really is because of strenuous exercise, then nothing will show up. I just want to make sure there aren’t any tumors or pressure on your spinal cord.” His doctor scribbles something down on the notepad in front of him and crosses something out on his clipboard. “In the meantime, lay off the weights and rest at home.”

“O…kay.” Akaashi leaves, hope still bright in his chest. He goes through all the workouts he’s been doing over the past few months, and he nods his head to himself as he confirms that he has overexerted himself a few times. Now he has permission to just laze around at home instead of pushing himself to go to the gym. Doctor’s orders.

A week passes with nothing of note. Bokuto finally gets his cast taken off, brandishing his newly healed wrist like a trophy. Akaashi claps, unamused, but can’t help the smile that forms when Bokuto kisses him until his breath is taken away, using that wrist to grip the small of his back and press their fronts together.

“You still need to do physical therapy,” Akaashi reminds him, but Bokuto rolls his eyes and thanks the doctor before pulling his husband out of the clinic and into the car.

“That can wait,” Bokuto says, pulling Akaashi in by his tie and almost knocking his glasses off by the sheer force of his kiss. “Now let’s celebrate.”

Ever since that vacation, Akaashi hadn’t tried to go on top. He’s been scared that the same thing would happen, and it’d be on his mind the entire week. He had just gotten cleared by his doctor—the last thing he needs is for his arms to go weak.

After scolding Bokuto for smoking and after cleaning himself up, he walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He flinches at a pain in his ass, evidence left behind of Bokuto taking ‘celebrating’ to a whole new level. It isn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it, but damn, the aftermath was painful.

He grabs the filter pitcher and lifts it up, and the second he does, his right arm gives out. He watches helplessly as the pitcher cracks on the edge of the fridge and freefalls onto the floor, the top coming off and spilling four liters’ worth of water all over the kitchen. Not to mention the giant crack in the plastic. If they tried to fill the pitcher to full capacity next time, it’d surely split open.

Akaashi doesn’t even notice when Bokuto skids into the kitchen or when he yells at Emiko to stop drinking the water. He doesn’t notice when Bokuto grabs the roll of paper towels and begins to mop up the water or his husband’s arms around him, whispering explanations or jokes or whatever nonsense he says to cheer him up. He only snaps out of it when he feels Bokuto’s finger on his cheek, lifting a tear from his skin.

He turns around in Bokuto’s arms, looking up at him, his bottom lip quivering. “I’m not okay, Koutarou.”

Bokuto wishes he could deny it. He so desperately wishes he could say ‘no, babe, you’re overreacting.’ To see that relieved smile on his face like he had on when he came home from the clinic. But he can’t. Because he knows that Akaashi isn’t okay.

“Let’s go back to bed, babe. I’ll get you some water. Go rest,” he says softly, ushering Akaashi away from the distressing scene and bending back over to dry the rest of the floorboards. But he can’t help it when he wets the hardwood further with his own tears.

…

Bokuto skips physical therapy to go with Akaashi to the hospital despite the latter’s many attempts to go alone. Akaashi had managed to convince Bokuto the previous times that he was just going in for a routine checkup, but now Bokuto’s not falling for it.

“The MRI is painless,” the doctor explains, beginning to help Akaashi sit down, but he waves away any help.

“I can walk, thank you.” Ever since the incident in the kitchen, Akaashi has grown more defensive of everything he does. If Bokuto asks if he needs any help, Akaashi fires back with ‘do I look like I need help?’ or ‘I’m not helpless.’ He has always been snarky, but his current demeanor is callous, uncaring. There’s no love in his sarcastic remarks, just hurt.

He lays down on the bed, shifting around until the doctor tells him to stop. It’s quick, and, like his doctor said, painless, and he’s out in less than five minutes.

“The results will be out in two days,” his doctor warns after coming out of the small glass room adjacent to the machine. “If you get a call from me, that doesn’t automatically mean bad news.”

“Okay.” Akaashi hasn’t mentioned the pitcher incident to his doctor. He knows it’s the stupidest thing he can do. But if he doesn’t mention it, treats it as yet another injury sustained from overworking himself, then maybe it doesn’t exist. And it doesn’t, not on paper.

The next few days pass by like molasses. Akaashi doesn’t get any work done, and each time his phone rings, he nearly passes out. When he finally does get the call, he actually does pass out, and Bokuto has to pick up the phone for him while trying to wake him up.

“Doc? Hey, it’s Koutarou.”

“Oh, Koutarou. If you could pass along to Akaashi that the MRI is all clear, that would be great.”

As if on cue, Akaashi wakes up and snatches the phone out of Bokuto’s hand, holding it up to his ear. “What, Dr. Hirose?”

“I said that your MRI is all clear. No tumor, nothing messing up your discs. There’s nothing wrong with your brain or spinal cord.”

Akaashi is out again like a light.

When he comes to, he’s in bed, the covers up to his chin. He sits up groggily and wipes his eyes, turning to see a bowl of mochi on the nightstand, nearly melted.

“Bokuto?” he calls, his voice hoarse. He reaches over and brings the bowl into his lap, nibbling on a mochi. Despite the mochi being cold, he’s warm. He can only picture Bokuto picking him up and tucking him in before making his famous mochi. It’s one of the only things he knows how to make, and he knows exactly when to make it.

Bokuto pads into the room, followed closely behind by Emiko. The two are twins, Akaashi swears. Emiko hops up onto the bed and nuzzles Akaashi’s arm before collapsing onto his thighs, laying her head down with a grunt.

"Hey, you feeling better?” Bokuto asks, walking over and sitting down cautiously at the foot of the bed as if Akaashi’s made out of glass. “I made you mochi to celebrate the clean bill of health.”

Akaashi smiles and nods, scarfing down another piece of mochi. “Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled by the sticky rice dough. The sight is enough to make Bokuto laugh and scoot closer, wiping a bit of ice cream from the corner of Akaashi’s lips and lick it off his finger.

“I’m going back to practice tomorrow,” he continues. “My physical therapist says I’m good to go. So we’re both doing awesome.”

Akaashi grins and leans forward, pulling Bokuto in for a kiss, burying his fingers in the white-gray hair. They continue to eat mochi together, making small talk and eventually watching a movie together, but Akaashi still isn’t fully happy. When Bokuto falls asleep, he gets up to put the bowl in the sink. Before he can finish the trip, he drops the bowl onto the carpet. The thud is muffled, Bokuto too deep in sleep to wake up. But Akaashi, who was drowsy before, is now fully awake. He looks to his right arm, his hand trembling and his forearm cramping up. He simply bends down and picks up the bowl with his left arm, puts it in the sink, and silently slips underneath the covers. He snuggles up next to Bokuto, much closer than usual, resting his head on his chest.

“Mm, Keiji,” Bokuto mumbles, more asleep than awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies a little too quickly. He grips Bokuto’s tank top in a fist, savoring the warmth of his husband’s skin against his cheek. “Just want to be close to you.”

“Mm,” is all that Bokuto replies before draping an arm lazily over Akaashi’s waist, burying his nose in the other’s dark hair.

Akaashi closes his eyes, but he doesn’t think he sleeps at all.

…

It’s a pretty normal month, but Akaashi’s knees are roughed up with all the tripping and tumbles he’s taken. He doesn’t tell Bokuto or his doctor, and he thanks God it’s nearing autumn so that he has an excuse to wear long pants. They bought a new pitcher, but Bokuto can’t help but notice Akaashi never gets near it. It’s particularly difficult to keep a straight face and not notice when Akaashi’s spoon trembles as he spoons sugar into his coffee or when food has made its home on his face whenever they eat. He needs to receive an Oscar for his acting abilities because every time he’s left alone, he can’t help but bury his face in his hands and pray.

It’s another month before Bokuto sits Akaashi down and stares hardheartedly at him.

“You need to go to the doctor.”

Akaashi, who already knew what the conversation would be about due to Bokuto’s seriousness when he sat him down, crosses his arms and shakes his head. “No. Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Really, Keiji?” Bokuto using his actual name means serious business. “You think I don’t realize you dropping everything? All the stains on your shirt? How you can’t even fucking talk sometimes?”

“Hey. Don’t…curse,” Akaashi says, and, as if his body wants to prove a point, his words slur together.

Bokuto slams the table, sending both Akaashi and Emiko’s heads snapping upwards at the loud bang.

“It hurts me, too. You think you’re the only one suffering, but you’re being so goddamn selfish. Because it hurts seeing you like this and not do anything about it. Listen, I’ve been trying to ignore it, too, hoping it’ll just go away. But it’s getting worse, Keiji, whatever this is. And I’m not going to stand by while you kill yourself.”

Bokuto’s eyes well with tears, and it only takes his husband getting emotional—which only happens in a sports-related context—to get Akaashi to pick up the phone and call his doctor.

“Muscle weakness and slurring speech?” his doctor asks, pausing to ponder something. “Come in tomorrow. I’ll get an EMG appointment set up for you.”

The two men look at each other, and Akaashi stands up and walks to the bedroom with Emiko, slamming the door closed. Bokuto takes that as a sign that he’s sleeping on the couch.

…

“This will cause a bit of discomfort,” the neurologist says gently before conducting the test. Akaashi shifts in his chair each time the instrument sends small electrical shocks in his wrist and frowns when the needle is inserted in his arm.

“Move this way…and that way…perfect.” The neurologist is studying the screen, and Akaashi is studying the neurologist. He’s studying her facial expressions, the way she moves, anything that will give him an indication of the meaning behind the squiggles onscreen. Bokuto squeezes his shoulder even though the neurologist told him not to touch him, planting a butterfly kiss on the shell of his ear. Finally, after over half of an hour of uncomfortable tests, Akaashi is instructed to go to his doctor’s office.

“I’ll send the results over to your doctor now,” the neurologist says. Yet again, there’s that look of pity. The pit in Akaashi’s stomach expands until he feels bloated and barely able to walk to his doctor’s office. He uses Bokuto’s hand for balance, but he finds that his right arm can barely sustain his weight anymore.

“Your EMG test is abnormal,” his doctor says lightly, but just the word ‘abnormal’ is a shot to the face.

“What does that mean, doc?” Bokuto asks, seeing that all of Akaashi’s mental strength was zapped out from the tests.

“It means that the EMG showed electrical activity even when your muscles were in a resting position,” the doctor replies, setting down the paperwork on the desk and resting his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes flicking between the two men. “You have a degenerative muscle disease. This is consistent with your CK levels, which show muscle damage. I want to do a few more tests, but from what I can see, you might have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

“What the fuck is that?” Bokuto shouts, practically jumping out of the chair and snapping his fingers in front of the doctor’s face. “Japanese, please!”

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, tugging on Bokuto’s sleeve, and even if he didn’t have degenerating muscles, he wouldn’t have been able to stop Bokuto in the state he’s in now.

“ALS,” the doctor clarifies, and both men freeze into place like statues. “Motor neuron disease, Lou Gehrig’s disease—there are many names. I’m not saying you have it for certain, but all the evidence points to it. Your accident back in Iceland certainly didn’t help. Now, I want to discuss treatment—”

Akaashi grabs the nearest trashcan and vomits into it, and no matter how much he throws up, the pit in his stomach stays, growing ever bigger.

…

I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

…

It seems coincidental, but the second Akaashi receives the diagnosis from both his primary doctor and a second opinion from a neurologist, his symptoms worsen tenfold. He can’t drink coffee anymore, having burned himself too many times from spilling hot coffee all over himself. He’s going to physical therapy every day, taking a handful of pills every day, going to an ALS clinic every day. He works whenever he can. He tries to go to every one of Bokuto’s games. Climbing up the bleachers is rough, and he tries to arrive before the teams come out of the locker rooms so Bokuto doesn’t see him like this. He attempts to write posters—keyword: attempts. His handwriting comes out more like a scrawl, his fingers failing him and letting the pen slip through multiple times. They said this would happen back at the clinic. Loss of fine motor control. It’s one thing to hear it, it’s another thing to experience it.

If somebody didn’t know better, they’d think a child wrote the poster board. But instead of a child holding the poster and cheering on their father, it’s Akaashi, pointing at Bokuto when he jogs onto the court with as much of a fist as he can hold. Bokuto grins when he sees his husband, but his face visibly falls when his eyes drop to the poster. He misses the first shot, saved just in time by their outside hitter. He turns back to the game, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is on his husband, who had just been given a death sentence, and he’s watching it all unfold.

Because that’s what it is: a death sentence. Stephen Hawking gave hope to everybody with ALS, as they say every day at the clinic and physical therapy, but he knows the statistics. He studied them until he fell asleep at the kitchen table: only about 20% of people live five or ten years after diagnosis, a far cry from Hawking’s 55 years. Hawking’s survival rate is as much of an enigma as the black holes he studied.

Akaashi knows all the statistics by heart. Memorization and Stephen Hawking won’t change the fact that he will die far too young.

He cries and laughs all the time. It’s not even because he’s sad or seeing something particularly funny; it just happens. In the rare moments where he’s particularly entrenched in his work or watching a titillating movie with Bokuto and can forget about his life, he’s interrupted by a bout of laughter or gobs of tears, and he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, dragging his now-limp foot along with him.

Bokuto accused Akaashi of being selfish for not seeking out a diagnosis, but now the guilt has fallen onto him. He’s more selfish than Akaashi is, pitying himself for having a sick spouse. He feels guilt every single time he cries because he needs to be strong for Akaashi. He needs to be the one supporting his husband. He needs to try and get his mind off the stress. He needs put on a brave smile when he’s faced with Akaashi’s worsening symptoms. But he can’t help but suffer for Akaashi, absorb all the pain he’s feeling every time he can’t speak or struggles to lift a fork. Sure, it doesn’t hurt physically, but it tortures the mind. It must be torture to count down the days until your muscles lose all functionality and you’re left limp in a wheelchair, on oxygen until your diaphragm or heart give out because they, too, are muscles. Bokuto has a list of all of Akaashi’s symptoms, and his Internet history is full of experimental treatments, made up of both Western and Eastern medicine. They try acupuncture, chiropractic, essential oils, anything.

“Hey, I found this tea that might boost your CK levels—”

“Koutarou,” Akaashi breathes. His chest must be acting up again. “Enough. No more of that.”

When Akaashi doesn’t feel the symptoms as intensely, he tries to initiate sex with Bokuto every chance he gets. If I don’t do it now, when’s the next time I’ll have the strength to? he reasons to himself every time. Bokuto accepts, of course—not necessarily because he’s constantly horny (he used to be, not so much now), but because he has the same reasoning as Akaashi. He doesn’t mind being ravished at nearly every moment of the day if it means he’ll still have the hickeys to remind him of their intimacy together on the days Akaashi is too weak.

“I want to try being on top again,” Akaashi purrs in Bokuto ear one day, feeling particularly invigorated after a good physical therapy session. Perhaps all those pills he’s been taking are kicking in. Perhaps he’s getting better.

“Are you sure?” Bokuto asks, breathless. He’s never had to work this hard during sex before, and even though missing practice may have something to do with his lost endurance, he doubts it.

Akaashi nods, watching Bokuto flop onto his back before sitting up and tossing a leg over and beside Bokuto’s hip. Even though he had just been laying there and having Bokuto do all the work, he’s already breathless from that one move, his arms cramping up as he leans them on Bokuto’s chest. Flashbacks of their time in Iceland spot his vision. If only he had known back then that he had this disgusting disease…

He shakes that out of his head. He needs to focus on the now. And now, Bokuto was staring up at him with worry, his hands lifting up to Akaashi’s hips to provide him stability. He needs to wipe that worry off his face, and the only way to do that—

“Shit.” And he’s crying uncontrollably again. His arms give out, and he face-plants onto Bokuto’s chest, his left leg useless by Bokuto’s side while the other cramps up. “I can’t—”

He tries to push himself up, shifting his hips backward to try and continue, but the mood was gone. “Just give me a second—”

“Keiji.”

“Hold on, let me just—”

“Keiji.”

“One second! God, y-you act like I can’t do—ugh, did you go soft?”

“KEIJI.”

Akaashi’s head snaps up, his hand stopping its stroking to see Bokuto sitting upright, staring him down. “…What?”

“Stop.” Bokuto’s crying. “Just stop.”

“What, why? If you had just given me a second—”

“It’s not exactly sexy watching you struggle to hold yourself up because your muscles are degenerating.” Bokuto gasps at what he just said, his hand flying up to his mouth much too late. Akaashi just stares at him, his mouth in a small ‘o’. All Akaashi does is slowly sit up straight—as straight as he can—and stare directly into Bokuto’s eyes.

“If you hadn’t gotten into that fucking accident,” Akaashi grumbles, wrestling one of the sheets and wrapping it around himself as he uses all the spite in his body to get off Bokuto without falling over. Luckily, his muscles participate, and he’s off the bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

“Oh, you’re bringing that shit up again?” Bokuto exclaims, lifting his hand up in a show of exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming your stupid disease on me because I couldn’t wake you up.”

Akaashi whips around and stares daggers into his husband, his lips pulled into a scowl. “You heard Dr. Hirose. It certainly didn’t help.”

“I didn’t help? You know what isn’t helpful? Seeing my husband slowly die in front of me, knowing that the person I love more than anything in this goddamned unfair world is leaving me alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it except watch. To think that I contributed—to have you tell me I made this worse as if I’m the one who’s killing you—to know that no matter what fucking home remedy we try or expert we see, we can’t change anything!” He sniffs. “So it doesn’t matter how it fucking happened, it happened.”

SLAM!

The sound of the bathroom door echoes throughout the apartment, and Emiko scuttles out of the room in fear. Bokuto follows not long after because he knows he’s not welcome there, but also because he can’t stand the sound of Akaashi crying anymore. His sobs are quiet and muffled, no doubt trying to hide them, but he’s doing a terrible job. Bokuto doesn’t do that good of a job either.

He’s sleeping on the couch again. This time, Emiko sleeps with him, snoring away on the loveseat next to the couch.

He tries to sleep, but it’s as if something is blocking his ability to. He sits up with a prophetic realization.

This is so fucking stupid. We don’t have time for this.

They don’t have time for arguments. They don’t have time for pettiness. They don’t have time for anything, really, least of all this.

He tosses the thin blanket off his body, standing up and striding over to the door. His hand is almost on the knob before it turns and the door opens, revealing a disheveled Akaashi with a bright red nose and bloodshot eyes.

“I’m—”

“Sorry.”

Akaashi moves first, diving into Bokuto’s arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Bokuto moves cautiously before giving in and wrapping his arms tightly around Akaashi’s frail form. He really does feel like porcelain compared to the built and fit man he was before. He loved Akaashi’s muscles. He’d have to learn to love his bones eventually as well.

…

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

…

Akaashi’s parents come to stay with their dying son, and it’s morbidly silent. Usually, it’d be a joyous time, full of large meals, traveling, and laughing. But Akaashi’s mother can’t stop fussing over her son’s crutches, telling him he should get a walker, and Akaashi says he’d rather die earlier than he already is than use a walker that’s made for old people.

Finally, Akaashi’s father suggests they all take a walk in the park to brighten their spirits. Bokuto, who has taken the season off to stay with Akaashi—against his wishes, but a dead man’s wishes don’t mean much—agrees wholeheartedly. He puts on a wide smile, and even though it’s mostly false, it gets the rest of the family smiling and hopeful as well.

The cobblestones are a little rough to walk with crutches, but Akaashi manages. His forearms are still relatively strong compared to his legs, which degenerated far faster than his arms, even though the latter started to go first. The forearm holders in the crutches are uncomfortable, but Bokuto ordered padding, which should be coming in a few days.

Something to look forward to.

He doesn’t notice Bokuto giving the evil eye to anybody whose eyes linger on the strange man with crutches for too long, puffing up his chest intimidatingly until nobody has the courage to look in Akaashi’s direction.

“It’s a nice day,” Akaashi remarks as he stops in front of the pond. He smiles and giggles softly at the ducks waddling along the bank, hopping into the green water and fluffing up their feathers. A duck followed by an orderly line of yellow ducklings waddles past, stopping by to pick at the grass. “Hey, look, Mom, a mama duck.”

He lifts his arm to point, but the crutch goes along with his arm, leaving him destabilized. Luckily, his father is on his other side, and he holds him up without making too much of a big deal, keeping his face front.

“Oh, will you look at that,” Akaashi’s mother coos, getting out a bag of seeds from her purse along with her phone. “Koutarou, be a dear and take a picture of us with the mama duck, please.”

Akaashi’s smile fades. He knows his mother only used the mother duck as an excuse to take as many pictures as she can with her dying son before he’s six feet under or ashes. He’s yet to figure out which route to take. She had been taking pictures the entire trip. He has to remember to go through her phone and delete all the ugly pictures of himself before she prints them out to use at his funeral.

“For sure, Mama Akaashi,” Bokuto says, taking the offered phone and holding up the phone, waiting for Akaashi to turn around. “C’mon, Keiji, lemme see that pretty smile.”

Akaashi smiles, tries to think of the mama duck to get his smile to look halfway real, but when Bokuto shows them the photo, it looks horribly forced. He looks awful, anyway. A smile can’t save the way his body’s contorted with the crutches, how skinny he’s gotten, how sunken his face has grown. Eating has become more and more difficult. The movement of eating used to be the only problem, but now it’s swallowing. He’s mainly eating soups now, and he didn’t even have to tell Bokuto because Bokuto always knows before he does what he’s feeling. The perks of being together for nineteen years.

He turns back to the pond in search of the mama duck, but she had disappeared in the time they took the photo. Akaashi’s face falls, his hand clutching the plastic bag of seeds. A bit of pollen tickles his nose, and he sneezes into his elbow.

“Oh, Keiji!”

His head snaps to his mother, whose hand had flown up to her mouth to suppress her gasp. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

He follows her line of sight down to the crotch of his pants, which had darkened and become wet.

He had peed himself. Slightly, but enough to make him never want to step outside ever again.

The warmth on his legs hadn’t been the sun after all—it had been his bladder leaking from the force of the sneeze, with its host none the wiser.

He had read about the loss of bladder control as a symptom since the bladder is surrounded by muscles, and the bitch of the disease targets those. But he never expected that to happen to him. Bladder incontinence only happens to older victims. Urge incontinence, however, doesn’t have as small of an age range when it comes to ALS.

Only now, standing in wet underwear, does he realize how these diseases are sanitized. The movies he watched of HIV, ALS, cancer…none of them show how disgusting they actually are.

“Get me home,” Akaashi whispers, his eyes welling with hot tears of humiliation. Sweat prickles on his hairline and the back of his neck, a panic attack in the works. Every single pair of eyes is on him. Everybody’s staring, laughing, pointing. Everybody’s full of pity. Oh, poor thing, he can’t help it. He’s never been more embarrassed.

Humiliated, humiliated, humiliated…

“Come, Keiji,” his mother murmurs, leading him to the public bathroom. “Let’s go to the bathroom while your father and Koutarou pull up the car.”

Nobody questions the old woman as she enters the men’s bathroom, mostly because of the man in crutches who reeks of urine next to her. She takes him into the biggest stall and sits him on the toilet, beginning to undo his belt until he stops her weakly.

“Please,” he says, his breathing heavy. “Let me have a little dignity left.”

He has a few months left until he needs a 24/7 nurse to transfer him to the toilet and wipe his ass. He will postpone that until the last minute.

She waits outside while Akaashi cleans himself up. She listens for any sign of struggle and nearly jumps with surprise when the door opens, revealing her son, who smells a little better. The pee is already beginning to dry down.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” she says when they get home. Bokuto places a hand on her forearm, signaling for him to take over, and attempts to wrap an arm around Akaashi’s waist, only to be rejected when Akaashi dodges and nearly trips over his crutches.

Bokuto frowns but proposes, “Come on, let’s take a shower together.”

“Don’t get near me,” Akaashi says as he ambles over to the bathroom. “I’m disgusting.”

Bokuto laughs and shakes his head. “Akaashi, babe, I’ve had to clean up your vomit three days in a row before, both from food poisoning and booze. You literally brush your teeth while I’m shitting in the same bathroom. A little pee doesn’t hurt. Don’t act like a princess—”

“Please, leave me alone,” Akaashi begs, throwing his crutches on the floor of their bedroom and using the doorknob as support as he steps inside and closes the door. Bokuto knocks on the door and tries the doorknob, but it’s locked.

“Keiji,” he mumbles, hoping his quiet voice carries through the door. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“Keiji,” he repeats.

“I’m not letting you bathe me or wipe my ass. I’d rather slip and crack my head open in the shower before letting you do that.”

“Keiji,” he repeats for the third and last time. “You remember what Kuroo said? He was a terrible officiant, but he said some good things.”

The other side is silent.

“In sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part. I’m here for the long game. I’m not leaving you.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Remember what I said in my vows?”

Again, silence.

He clears his throat. “Keiji Akaashi, I will love you until we’re two wrinkly old and ugly grandpas. I will love you, even if we both lose our hair and all our teeth. I will love you, even if we forget each other. Because I will remember you the next day, and I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

Bokuto feels the light spring breeze on his face, almost as if he’s back at their wedding venue. He feels the ancient cobblestones underneath his feet, smells the cherry blossoms surrounding them, tastes the red velvet cake on his tongue when Akaashi smashed it in his face. Nothing has changed. Except they’re not going to be wrinkly old men.

“Really puts everything into perspective, huh? A little piss and shit won’t ever change my vows,” he ends, rapping the door yet again with the back of his knuckles. “Come on, Keiji. Open up and lemme see you naked. That always makes me feel better, at least.”

The lock tumbles and the door slowly creaks open to reveal Akaashi in his boxers. He clearly wasted no time taking off the soiled clothing.

“I needed to take a shower anyway,” Bokuto says with a shrug, stepping inside and closing the door. He strips down to his boxers before walking over and turning on the shower, but as he’s walking back, he feels just how healthy his muscles are. He used to never think about his muscles, except maybe when they were sore from the gym or how to make them bigger to impress Akaashi. Now he feels horrible every time he exists next to Akaashi, almost as if he was mocking his disease or bragging about how healthy he is.

“You know what will cheer you up?” Bokuto asks, ignoring the guilt blooming in his chest. He drops his hand to pinch Akaashi’s rear, causing the man to explode into a red blush.

“Koutarou! My parents are here!” Akaashi whispers harshly, swatting Bokuto’s hand away. “Besides…I won’t be able to…s-support myself.”

“I’ll do all that, baby,” Bokuto drawls flirtatiously, wrapping his arm around Akaashi’s lower back for support and using his other hand to push down both their boxers.

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, the corners of his eyes leaking tears. “I’m…I feel so ugly. I smell.”

“That’s what the shower is for.” Bokuto grins before leading his husband over to the shower, carefully helping him in, shielding Akaashi from the water with his back as he checks to see if the temperature’s good. Once he approves, he moves to let the water drizzle over Akaashi’s pale frame. Akaashi uses the support bar Bokuto installed a couple of days ago for balance as he steps forward into the water, closing his eyes as he feels the stickiness between his legs wash away. He lets out a sigh at Bokuto’s hands on his skin, the smell of fresh cucumber drifting from the lather on his shoulders.

“Turn around,” Bokuto commands, and Akaashi obeys, his eyes still closed. However, they fly open when he feels his body lifting up and the cold wall of the shower pressed against his back. His hand shoots out to grip the support bar, glaring at Bokuto.

“Could’ve warned me,” he grumbles, letting out a gasp when Bokuto ignores his complaint and dives straight into his neck to leave marks. “Not there! My parents will see them!”

“It’s turtleneck weather,” Bokuto replies easily.

Akaashi nearly succumbs to Bokuto’s seducing until he remembers something. “What if I shit on your dick?”

Bokuto tosses his head back and laughs, causing Akaashi to laugh along nervously.

“That’s what the shower is for,” he repeats without a second thought, going back to his seducing. His hand overlaps Akaashi’s on the support bar, squeezing it as both of them forget the trauma of today and melt into each other’s bodies. The sex is a form of amnesia because as Bokuto sets down a thoroughly fatigued Akaashi on the counter to get them both towels, Akaashi can’t for the life of him place why he was sad earlier that day.

He, thankfully, didn’t shit on Bokuto’s dick. And—Bokuto’s right—it’s chilly that night. It gives Akaashi the perfect excuse to cuddle up on the couch in a turtleneck, concealing the evidence of their spontaneous lust in the shower. The night is full of hot chocolate with marshmallows and caramel drizzle, just like Akaashi likes it, cheesy rom-coms he and his mother adore, and playing around with Emiko that he forgets that he’ll die in a few months or years. He talks and talks and talks until his vocal cords are sore the next day. Tonight, he isn’t Keiji Akaashi with ALS. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who can barely form a sentence anymore. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who will die before he reaches middle age. He’s just Keiji Akaashi.

…

The sense of normalcy continues for the rest of the year. His symptoms seem to have plateaued, and thankfully, he doesn’t have any more run-ins with urge incontinence. Bokuto attributes the slowing progression to his daily physical therapy sessions, and he finally feels comfortable enough to go to practices again and leave Akaashi to his work. Typing is difficult, and it takes him three times as long to edit a page of a manga, but it feels nice to be of use. To not be completely inept and earn his own keep. He always hated being doted on, but he’d have to get used to the idea soon enough.

Akaashi’s parents go home a month after their arrival once they see their son’s condition stabilizing, making him promise to call them every day and tell them updates. He struggles to muster up the courage to call their closest friends to break the news because he knows that the second he says the words ‘I have ALS,’ they’d be knocking down the door. And that’s exactly what happens.

“Why the actual hell didn’t you tell us the second you got the diagnosis?!” Kuroo shouts, causing Kenma to smack the back of his head and apologize for his partner.

“The man’s sick, Tetsurou. Don’t scream.”

Akaashi appreciates the gesture since Kuroo’s voice is much too loud for their little apartment, but he also doesn’t want to be labeled as ‘sick.’ He’s already had enough of being treated like porcelain from Bokuto; he doesn’t want his friends to do the same.

“Kuroo, calm down,” Bokuto warns, but he was in the same position Kuroo not too long ago. When Akaashi refused to go to the doctor and admit he had a problem. He can’t blame the frustration. “He’s doing fine. The crutches are working out well, and his motor skills are good enough to type and write. He’s improving.”

The initial shock of the diagnosis undoubtedly made every single symptom seem worse and did nothing to slow the progression. It racked Akaashi’s body like cancer, and he wishes he did have cancer because then he might have a shot of surviving and living a normal life. Cancer seems like a blessing compared to the curse his body harbors.

“Well,” Kenma starts with a sympathetic smile. He picks up a controller from the coffee table and sits down next to Akaashi, handing it to him and picking up a controller for himself. “Ready for me to kick your ass in Mario Kart?”

Akaashi laughs. Genuinely. Not caused by those random bursts of laughter or crying he gets. He was so worried about getting treated as if he’s breakable that the comment caught him off-guard—of course Kenma would beat him. Not only because he’s a savant at anything video game-related, but because Akaashi literally has almost zero motor skills left. And Kenma knows this very well. They ate together. Kenma watched Bokuto help wipe Akaashi’s mouth and cut up a bit of the tougher side of the steak. He winced every time Akaashi dropped his fork, the clatter causing the conversation to come to an abrupt stop. And yet, he still proposes to beat him in a game that is all about motor control. Because Keiji is still Keiji. And he deserves to play a game of Mario Kart.

Kenma, of course, wins. Bokuto promises to avenge Akaashi’s honor, but he, too, loses his honor when he’s defeated horribly by the video game developer. Kuroo is the only one who puts up a good fight before ultimately losing as well from all the practice the two do on a daily basis. Kuroo and Bokuto busy themselves playing another round while Kenma helps Akaashi stand up, and the two walk over to the small patio in the kitchen.

“Have you been smoking?” Kenma asks, motioning to the ashtray populated by a few cigarettes as he sits down. Akaashi sits down across from him, his hand absentmindedly stroking Emiko.

“No, that’s Bokuto’s,” he replies with a disappointed shake of the head. “I’m trying to get him to stop. But even if they…were mine, it wouldn’t matter. I’m going to die anyway.”

Kenma stiffens. He can sense the distaste dripping from Akaashi’s tone like acid. He knows Akaashi would never wish sickness on Bokuto, least of all lung cancer. But Kenma can tell how frustratingly ironic it is that Bokuto, whose diet consisted of the most sugary and fatty foods before Akaashi stepped in, who smokes nearly every day, is the perfectly healthy one. He’s healthy, not the one who meditates and does yoga and cooks homemade, healthy meals every day. Even Kenma has a frown of consternation, irritated at how unfair the world can be.

He needs to ask. He needs to be able to brace himself for when the time comes. “How long do you think you have?”

Something Akaashi always appreciated from Kenma is that he never beats around the bush.

“The way I’m going, Dr. Hirose says three years. I’ll hopefully make it to my 40th birthday,” he explains, staring down at his hands. “I’ll probably n-need…a wheelchair in a year. And a 24/7 nurse a few months after that.”

He’s planned out the whole timeline in his head. He finds that expecting changes in his body is a lot less shock-inducing than just waiting for them to happen.

“I won’t be able to talk soon. Sometimes I d…on’t want to talk anymore. My vo…voice is starting to sound so ugly.” He thought he didn’t have any more tears to shed, but he finds himself choking back tears, his eyes red-rimmed.

He was trying to speak as much as possible before his voice eventually gives out, but he was never talkative to begin with, so it all comes off as fake. As a desperate attempt to redeem himself, say all the things he never got to say his entire life. He compliments Bokuto every day. Tells him how amazing of a job he’s doing. Bokuto is, of course, pleased to receive the compliments, but they’re soured when he realizes why he’s receiving them in the first place.

He baby talks Emiko, even though he only ever spoke to her like an adult human. Baby talking allows him to showcase more of his vocal range, which is getting smaller and smaller each month. But after a while, he goes days without uttering more than ten sentences. What’s the point if he’s going to lose his voice anyway?

Kenma reaches forward and grips Akaashi’s hand in his before letting go, gazing into the sunset splashing rays across the horizon. “You should make a bucket list.”

Akaashi lets out a sigh. Finally, somebody who doesn’t bring up Stephen fucking Hawking. Somebody who’s realistic, who offers solutions instead of false hope. He’s going to die whether he likes it or not—he needs to stop pitying himself.

“A bucket list isn’t a half-bad idea,” Akaashi says, stroking his chin pensively. He needs to shave, but last time he tried, he nicked himself so many times that he looked like he had a beard of toilet paper. “I don’t even know where I’d go. It’d be so expensive, too.”

“Are you going to use that money when you’re dead?” Kenma asks. “You have a savings account, right?”

Akaashi nods.

“Problem solved.” Kenma smiles and gets out a small leather-bound notebook, handing it to his friend. “I brought this for you. For your bucket list.”

Akaashi’s looking down at the notebook, but when he looks back up, Kenma’s crying. He’s never seen Kenma cry before.

“Go live life, Akaashi. Live the life people who live eighty years will never have.”

…

First, it’s the Alps in Switzerland for New Year’s. Akaashi’s strapped to Bokuto’s chest as they ski down a hill made for children, but Akaashi can’t wipe the smile off his face even if he tries. He’s laughing, begging Bokuto to go again. Bokuto agrees, but he’s wary of anything and everything now with Akaashi’s declining health. His bones have started to rise underneath his skin, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing ever darker. The common flu could have him bedridden for a week.

Bokuto still has hope that Akaashi will live for years and years. His stabilizing condition only further cements that hope, and if he doesn’t pay too much close attention, he completely forgets about Akaashi’s condition. They say that people who get it early in life live longer…

Akaashi can’t drink with his medications—and even though his motto is now “I’ll die anyway,” he’d much rather complete his Switzerland trip before offing himself. So he’s left to take care of Bokuto, who gets much too drunk off eggnog, and Akaashi loves it. He loves being the one fussing over somebody else. He loves being the stronger one, the caretaker. And now, he finally has a reason to take care of Bokuto and drag him to the bed.

“Keiiijii!” Bokuto sings at the top of his lungs, reaching his arms up as the bedroom spins around him. “Keiji Akaashi, I loooove youuu!”

“I love you, too,” Akaashi murmurs with a chuckle, balancing his crutches against the wall and flopping onto the bed.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Well, that’s quite a change in mood. Akaashi laughs and quirks a brow at Bokuto, whose arms had since dropped to his chest and his eyes closed.

“I’m not leaving—”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Bokuto slurs. His hands fly up to cover his eyes. “Why…why couldn’t it have been me? God, it’s all my fault. If we hadn’t gotten into…that crash. Of all people…why you? Live forever and forever for me. Please don’t leave me, Keiji, please…”

He continues blabbering until snores overtake his sobs, but Akaashi stays silent. Bokuto says it hurts him to see his husband’s decline, but it also hurts him to see Bokuto suffering so much. Perhaps if he died earlier rather than later, Bokuto wouldn’t be hurting as much. He’d have more time to get over him and fall in love again, preferably with somebody without a terminal disease.

He crosses off “go skiing” and “go to Switzerland” in his notebook and smiles as he goes to sleep.

…

Second, it’s Brazil. They coincidentally run into Hinata playing volleyball with his Brazilian friends on Copacabana Beach, but his expression doesn’t change when his eyes drop to Akaashi’s crutches. He just grins even wider and holds up the volleyball in his arms for Akaashi.

“Wanna play a set?”

He gets on Bokuto’s shoulders and misses nearly all the blocks and hits. It’s less about his condition and more so the fact that he was a setter and hadn’t played professionally in nearly fifteen years, but that doesn’t discourage him. He accepts Hinata’s ‘another game?’ proposition until Bokuto puts a stop to it, afraid he’s overworking himself.

Bokuto gets drunk, yet again, off too many caipirinhas, and Akaashi, yet again, has to take care of him. But he doesn’t complain once. As Bokuto sleeps, he gets out his leather-bound notebook as crosses both “meet up with Hinata one more time” and “go to Brazil” off his list. Slowly and surely, his list is being whittled down. It’s bittersweet: he feels accomplished whenever he crosses something off the list, but that just means he’s growing ever closer to his expiration date.

…

Third, it’s Italy. It’s been nearly a year since he was first diagnosed and add on two months for when he first started noticing symptoms. They’re celebrating Akaashi’s 37th birthday in a fancy seaside restaurant, the salty breeze making both their faces glow. They’re in their own little world, ignoring the other customers who either stare at them or ask to be moved to another table.

Bokuto now has to feed him nearly everything, spooning minestrone soup and twirling pasta onto a fork before putting it into his husband’s mouth. He fixes Akaashi’s bib, which has “what’s cookin,’ good lookin’” embellished across it, per Bokuto’s suggestion.

“This…is goo…d-d,” Akaashi says with a giggle, accidentally spitting out a bit of soup that dribbles down his chin.

“I know, right?” Bokuto’s heart aches at the sight, but he forces his acting skills to their maximum as he lifts a napkin up to clean Akaashi up. “We’re coming to Italy every…er, we should come back.”

He keeps catching himself saying presumptuous things that only make Akaashi draw back inside himself. Things like “I can’t wait to do this every day with you,” or “we need to come back here in three years” because, frankly, three years is a stretch.

“I wan…t the c-calamari,” Akaashi continues, seemingly not noticing Bokuto’s slip-up.

“Okay, we’ll have the calamari next. But save me some, okay? Your eye is bigger than your stomach,” Bokuto recites in a motherly voice, making Akaashi laugh again.

“Okay,” Akaashi replies, his eyes sparkling.

Bokuto hesitates to leave to go to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, but Akaashi practically pushes him out the door with the little strength he still had. They’d have to switch to a wheelchair soon.

“I’ll be fine,” Akaashi promises in his now-unnaturally low voice. “I’ll be…on the couch.”

Bokuto bites the inside of his cheek before relenting, bidding goodbye and practically sprinting to the grocery store. When he comes back, his arms carrying a bag full of fruit and pasta, he shouts Akaashi’s name. No response.

“Akaashi?”

He hears a groan, and he can’t drop the groceries fast enough before running in the direction of the sound, coming across Akaashi on the floor in the bathroom, his pants halfway hiked up his legs.

“I h-had to p…ee,” Akaashi sobs into the terracotta tile, and Bokuto bunches him up in his arms, and he finds that his husband’s body feels much too similar to the bag of groceries. Dead weight. He weeps in Bokuto’s arms for a few more moments, and Bokuto’s about to get up before Akaashi lets out a choked wail.

“I don’t want to die!” he shrieks, almost intelligibly with how fast he gets it out in order to not slur his words together. He hits Bokuto’s forearms as hard as he can, which Bokuto barely notices with how light the taps are. He shakes his head, gobs of ugly fat tears and snot trailing down his face. He’s unraveling; all the fear and dread in his body bubbling to the surface like boiling water. The water runs down the sides of the pot, stoking the fire even more until everything eventually burns down into embers. That’s what’s left of Akaashi now. Embers.

“I d…on’t want to die. I’m s-sca…red. I don’t wan…t-t to die…I don’t…”

Akaashi thought dying was what he wanted. But the second he was alone in the dark bathroom, hopelessly and utterly alone and lying on the cold floor, he realizes that death is the furthest thing he wants. He’s scared. He’s been putting off his true emotions for too long. He’s always been terrified.

He dissolves back into quiet tears, hanging his head low over Bokuto’s forearm. For a while, all Bokuto can do is stare, biting his bottom lip until it bleeds in order to keep a stoic face for his husband. But he’s crumbling, too.

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto coaxes into Akaashi’s hair, stroking the locks and cradling him like a newborn baby. For every smile Akaashi gives, he weeps five times. The ratio used to be backwards. He wonders how much bigger the disparity in the ratio will grow.

Bokuto doesn’t leave him alone for longer than five minutes after that.

…

They can only do one more trip before Akaashi needs to be transferred to a wheelchair, according to Dr. Hirose.

“There are many comfortable and intelligent varieties,” he says, but nothing makes Akaashi want to die more than the thought of no longer being able to move on his own.

They end up in England, where they meet up with Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

“Yikes, you look horrible, Akaashi,” Oikawa says with a grimace, motioning to Akaashi’s outfit and bib. “Just because Bokuto has to dress you now doesn’t mean he should get to pick out your outfits. Cargo shorts, really?”

Akaashi laughs and turns to Bokuto, shaking his head. “You h-hear…d the man. I…ge-t-t to choose.”

Bokuto rolls his eyes and glares daggers into Oikawa’s soul as he takes out a tissue to clean up the drool in the corner of Akaashi’s mouth. “I picked out this outfit with a lot of love. I think it shows off his model legs. Doesn’t it, Iwa?”

But Iwaizumi isn’t taking the news as easily as Oikawa. He’s still visibly processing how quickly his friend’s health went downhill, and his hands are fisting the sides of his jeans.

“Um, yeah,” Iwaizumi replies after nearly choking on the lump in his throat. “Maybe a vest would be tasteful.”

Akaashi taps Bokuto on the chest, which would have been a slap back in the old days. He raises his eyebrows in a ‘you hear that?’ motion, finding body language is a lot easier and less awkward for the other person in the conversation than attempting to speak. He ignores Iwaizumi’s reaction—he understands it. He’s gotten enough of those reactions to just laugh it off. But the lingering stares and pitiful glances still hurt.

When they get back to their hotel, Akaashi crosses off “go to England” and “see Oikawa and Iwa one last time” in his journal. Bokuto helps him brush his teeth, holding up a cup of water for him to rinse and spit into and wipes the toothpaste foam off his face.

“Look at those pearly whites,” Bokuto says, grinning in a way that bares all his teeth, and Akaashi copies as much as he can with his limited range of facial muscles. They dissolve into laughter, and Bokuto sits his husband on the foot of the bed and places a pajama set on the bed. “Alright, now because of stupid Oikawa, I have to get your approval on everything you wear because I have ‘horrible fashion taste’ or whatever. So, what do you think?”

Akaashi is silent, and Bokuto meets his gaze and sees his cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Koutarou…” Even with his slurred and irregular voice, his name still sounds like pure gold on his tongue. Akaashi blinks slowly, tipping his chin back and lifting his arms up haltingly until his hands find support by clinging to Bokuto’s face. “Ma…ke love to…to me.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen, and he fights the urge to step back in surprise and tear Akaashi’s hands off his face. He closes his eyes and covers Akaashi’s hands with his own, detaching them from his cheeks and bringing them back down to his lap.

“I can’t do that, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers.

“Why not?” Akaashi asks, his lips pulling into a frown. “Am I…too ugly?”

His face is so skinny. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, his eyelashes even longer than they were before. His lips are chapped, and there’s a growing sore in the corner of his mouth. Bokuto can see the blue-green veins running underneath his skin, feel the spots he missed when he helped him shave this morning.

But he couldn’t be more beautiful.

“Never,” Bokuto breathes, squatting down to be eye-level with his Greek god. “I’m just scared I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Akaashi continues. “I can take it.” When he still sees hesitation in Bokuto’s eyes, he practically begs, “One last time…pl…ease. Hawking still…fu-ucked while in…h-his wheel…wheelchair.”

Bokuto laughs, and Akaashi can see the last glint of reluctance turn into amusement.

“You’re not even in a wheelchair yet,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi nods eagerly. He sighs, the phrase ‘one last time’ echoing in his head. It really will be the last time they make love. Because even though Stephen Hawking was still a womanizer in his wheelchair, Bokuto doesn’t think he’ll have it in him.

He undresses Akaashi slowly, unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt, letting Akaashi fumble with the last few buttons. He tries to take back as much of his autonomy whenever he can, and Bokuto gladly allows him.

Akaashi watches as Bokuto stands back up and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop onto the floor, and leans over to press kisses onto his abs. He runs his fingertips over the muscles, both in admiration and in jealousy. He remembers when he used to have ab muscles like these, how much Bokuto loved touching them. He looks down at his own torso, wincing at the sight of his ribs slicing his skin.

He smiles as Bokuto carries him up the bed, laying him down delicately like a baby. He whimpers at the warmth on the crook of his neck, his shoulders hiking up and his body racking with pleasure. He hasn’t felt so beautiful, so worthy of love, in so long, and it’s all thanks to Bokuto’s soft caresses.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi has a feeling that question will be recurring throughout this session.

He gazes down at his husband, who has reached his happy trail, and nods. He gathers up all his energy to say, “I’ve never felt…better.”

It’s slow and tender, both because Bokuto is afraid he’ll break Akaashi and because it’s their last time together. He wants it to last forever. He wants to imprint every touch, every sound, every taste into his brain. He wants Akaashi tattooed on his body, wants any evidence that he was here, that he was loved, that he was strong until the very end.

He guides Akaashi’s arms to cling onto his back, holding up his bony legs as he locks lips with a particularly noisy Akaashi.

“The whole hotel can probably hear you,” he jokes, and Akaashi needs to catch his breath before responding.

“Good,” he finally replies, using the last of his strength to push Bokuto down into a deep kiss.

Akaashi’s tattooed on his body alright. After Akaashi falls sound asleep directly after finishing, Bokuto cleans him up and dresses him in the pajamas in case it gets chilly during the night. He pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses his forehead, brushing a few locks of sweaty hair out of his face. He smiles and heads to the bathroom, immediately spotting the hickeys Akaashi must have left on him while he was fumbling around with the pillows to make sure he was completely comfortable. He turns around to see scratch marks all over his upper back. He needs to stifle his laughter in fear of waking Akaashi, but it’s more than endearing to see how his husband marked him up. He needs to stop himself from going to the nearest tattoo artist and getting the scratches tattooed immediately.

He slips back into bed, and Akaashi responds by turning over and flopping his limbs over Bokuto’s torso. He smiles and wraps his arms around the love of his life and dreams of him with gray hair, wrinkles, and sunspots. All of which are considered to be the worst things to happen while aging, but what he wouldn’t give to see all three on Akaashi. That would mean he lived long enough to gain them.

…

Akaashi hates the wheelchair. It gets him places faster, yeah, and it’s very high-tech, but at what cost? He can barely move around the apartment without bumping into something and knocking it onto the floor. Bokuto rarely ever leaves the apartment anymore, so he’s always there to help, but Akaashi is still stubborn about doing everything himself. He asks Bokuto to buy him a grabber tool, but when his forearm strength eventually dies out, he has to swallow his pride and call Bokuto into the room to pick up the fallen bowl of cereal.

He celebrates his 38th birthday in their apartment, Emiko on his lap and in the process of trying to steal a slice of cake. She, unlike her owner, loves the wheelchair. It means a seat plus access to human food when he’s in a good mood.

“Mom, Mom, you’re…miss…ssing it,” Akaashi drawls, waving sloppily at the phone Bokuto’s holding up to FaceTime his parents. “I’m gon…na blow it-t out.”

“Go and blow it out, honey!” his mother encourages over the speaker. “Koutarou, did you use sparklers? You better not have, or so help me I’m flying over there—”

“You wound me, mother-in-law,” Bokuto exclaims dramatically, his hand flying up to his chest as if he has just been shot. “Hath you no trust in me?”

“Not after you did that on my birthday,” Akaashi’s mother retorts, giving him the evil eye. “Now flip the camera back to my baby boy!”

“He’s always had a pair of lungs on him, haven’t you, my boy?” his father shouts, and Akaashi laughs weakly.

Almost as if to disprove his father’s words, his lungs fail him in the middle of blowing out the candles. The flames pop right back up mockingly, stronger than ever. Akaashi attempts again but only manages to blow out a few.

“I bought the strong kind, I think,” Bokuto mumbles, trying desperately to make the situation better and to cover up the sound of Akaashi’s painful wheezing. He leans over to prepare to blow the rest out. “Let me just—”

“I want to do it!” It’s rare when Akaashi gets out a full sentence nowadays, which makes his faint shout even more potent. “I want…to do-o it.”

Bokuto steps back slowly, nodding encouragingly and lifting his hand up. “Okay. Go ahead, Keiji.”

Akaashi straightens himself as much as he can in his chair, leaning close to the cake and inhaling for a good few seconds before exhaling it all, leaving himself lightheaded, and with one candle still dancing tauntingly in his face. He slumps back in his chair, thoroughly exhausted, and feebly lifts a hand up to signal Bokuto to go ahead and blow the last one out. Bokuto obeys, and they both say quick goodbyes to his parents before cutting the cake silently.

“I’m…sorry,” Akaashi speaks up after a while, his mouth full of red velvet cake.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bokuto instructs, wiping up the creamy mess around Akaashi’s mouth. He pauses, letting out a sigh. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re frustrated.”

Akaashi stays silent, slowly and methodically chewing his food ever since he had a choking scare a week ago. He swallows, but he doesn’t open his mouth for more. Bokuto raises a forkful of cake, but when he sees Akaashi’s mouth closed, he sets it down and slips his hands into his husband’s, his thumb running over the bony joints.

“Have you thought about joining a support group?” he asks. Akaashi scoffs, and he can see that he’s thinking all sorts of nasty things that he’d yell at Bokuto, but he doesn’t have the energy to bicker anymore. Fighting with each other is now a privilege since by the time Akaashi gets out a comeback, they’ve both had enough time to cool down and think about their actions.

“I know you don’t like the idea,” Bokuto says, speaking Akaashi’s thoughts to life. “I know you think it’s stupid, that it’s only for pussies.”

“I…would…n’t put it-t li…ke that.”

Bokuto chuckles and shrugs. “Something like that, then. But maybe if you vent to them, you’ll feel better. You won’t have to bottle everything up inside.”

Akaashi ponders it for a moment before opening his mouth again for more cake, and he thinks about it for the better part of the night while he watches Bokuto perform magic card tricks that he learned on YouTube in lieu of going to volleyball. In the morning, he gives Bokuto the go-ahead to find a group. He doesn’t really have any other reason to get out of the house. He can’t travel, and their small neighborhood barely has any wheelchair accessibility. When Bokuto finds one and signs him up for the following afternoon, he can’t deny that he’s excited to go.

“Hello, Mr. Akaashi, I’m Fumi Sugita,” the woman greets, and he lets out a sigh of relief that she doesn’t put her hands on her knees to talk to him like a child. But he supposes it’s because she’s literally the leader of an ALS group—she most likely knows how to talk to people in wheelchairs.

“Call him Keiji,” Bokuto says for him, and Akaashi confirms with a nod. He’d have to switch to communicating with the computer installed on his wheelchair, and even though the voice isn’t as robotic as the older models have it, it still isn’t his voice. Who is he kidding, his own voice isn’t even his own voice anymore. But he still hasn’t set it up yet.

“Alright, Keiji, let’s get started. Mr. Bokuto—”

“Koutarou.”

“Koutarou, please wait in the living room or come back by 3:15.”

Bokuto nods and places a kiss on the corner of Akaashi’s lips. Kisses are rare now since Bokuto’s so busy keeping house and taking care of Akaashi’s needs. Plus, there’s always something smeared across his lips or a painful sore from too much accumulating drool that it’s flat-out unpleasant to kiss him. But Bokuto got him pristine for the group session, and he didn’t even nick him while shaving. He’s getting better at it.

“Be nice,” Bokuto whispers, and Akaashi rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Everybody, this is Keiji,” Fumi introduces to a room filled with people in varying stages of ALS. A chorus of slurred and robotic greetings follow her introduction, and Akaashi awkwardly waves as he maneuvers his chair with the joystick into the circle.

“We were just talking about fun things you can do in a wheelchair,” Fumi continues, motioning to a woman in a similar model wheelchair to him. “Do you want to show your trick off, Haruko?”

The woman nods eagerly and sticks her tongue out for concentration as she fiddles with her joystick, the chair moving backward, then forwards, then spins in the blink of an eye. Another woman shows off her trick: typing 80085 into her computer, which proceeds to read it out as “boobies.”

That earns a chuckle from Akaashi. Perhaps this isn’t too bad.

After the third session, Akaashi has grown quite close to Haruko, especially after she gladly showed him how to do her spinning wheelchair trick.

“My…hus…band thought-t it wa…s cool,” he says, and Haruko laughs. Akaashi had to tell Bokuto to stop making him do the trick over and over, but it was reluctant since he hadn’t seen that look of pride and excitement on the man’s face in a long while. Bokuto makes him promise to learn more tricks to show him, and he goes so far as to take videos to send to their friends and family. Kuroo replies with That’s dope, Akaashi! Parkour! and that makes both men crack up laughing.

Kuroko looks at her computer, waiting for the eye-tracking technology to start up, and flicks her eyes around the screen.

“I’m glad he liked it,” the robotic female voice replies. “How long do you have left?”

It’s a common question among the group. It’s never a sure answer since everybody still prays they have Hawking’s luck, but there’s usually an empty space when it gets near the time a person says they have left.

“A…year,” Akaashi says, and he suddenly has the urge to just use the computer to have a semi-normal conversation again. He’ll ask Bokuto to set it up tonight. “But…I wan…t to m-make it to-o my 40th…birthd-day.”

“That’s a short time,” Haruko says, her previous smile down turning into a frown. “I mean, I have shorter, but it’s more real hearing it out loud. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Akaashi nods, and that’s the end of the conversation until he can get the computer booted up and figures out how to use it.

After the fourth session, Akaashi approaches Haruko with a brand-new set of communication, and he proves it by picking up on their conversation left from yesterday. “I have decided what I’m going to do.” The voice is, of course, robotic, and Bokuto tried to call Kenma for help on how to fix it, but Kenma’s advice only made it sound creepier. But it’s worth it to carry a conversation and not hear how awful his voice sounds. He tried to use his voice until it gave out, but it became impossible. He had to swallow his pride, and it worked out. He can now hold a regular-ish conversation.

“And what’s that?” she asks, a look of intrigue on her face.

“I want to be cremated and buried under a cherry blossom tree I loved as a kid,” Akaashi replies, a sense of tranquility washing over him. The thought of dying always used to scare him before he was diagnosed, as it does to everybody. But now, he can’t think of anything more peaceful. “I used to read books underneath it, and I fell in love under it for the first time.”

His mind wanders to that one picnic in the humid spring weather. How reluctant their touches were because they were both in love but were too scared to admit it. How the sun lit up Bokuto’s face just in time for him to confess, highlighting the deep blush on his face as he picked up a cherry blossom from the blanket, tucking it behind Akaashi’s ear. How Bokuto smiled and laughed out of pure relief once Akaashi confirmed his feelings as well. How they cuddled, savoring each other’s touches before they had to leave for university. How the light filtered in between the branches of the cherry blossom tree until the horizon swallowed it. How he wishes he could go back to that memory one last time.

“I want to be cremated, too,” Haruko says, breaking Akaashi out of his thoughts. “But tossed in the ocean to be fish food.”

They both laugh, but Haruko interrupts the moment by asking, “Have you told your husband yet?”

Akaashi shakes his head, letting it droop forward in a show of embarrassment. “He still thinks I’m going to be the next Stephen Hawking. Sometimes I get mad at him because he gave us all false hope.”

“I wouldn’t want to live that long like this anyway,” Haruko retorts. “I’m tired. I’ve made my peace. My family has made their peace. I just want to close my eyes and open them in Heaven. Or Hell. I’m not jinxing anything.”

Akaashi stays silent, and the two cease their conversation when Fumi comes by to feed them a few pieces of fruit while both their caretakers come to pick them up. When she leaves to tend to the other people, Haruko turns back to Akaashi.

“’When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me’,” she recites, and Akaashi cocks his head in confusion. “It’s my favorite poem now. I’ve always loved poetry, but this one resonates with me. You should look the rest up.” A man walks into their peripheral vision, a grand smile on his face when he spots Haruko.

“Come on, babe, I made soba! Let’s go before it gets cold,” he says, and Haruko grins and starts her wheelchair toward him. She spins around and lifts her eyebrows in a sign of goodbye, and Akaashi tips his chin in acknowledgment.

Bokuto isn’t too far behind Haruko’s boyfriend, nearly doubling over with how out-of-breath he is. “Sorry, honey, there was a ragin’ line at the grocery store. I had to elbow a middle-aged woman out of the way for a box of crackers.”

Akaashi laughs, and Bokuto laughs with him. He tells him all about his day at the grocery store, the never-ending tale lasting all the way back home. And while Akaashi usually loves listening to Bokuto’s intriguing tales, he finds his mind wandering to the poem Haruko quoted. When Bokuto is washing the dishes, he tries to look up the first lines of the poem as quickly as he can, and when he finds it, he reads it over and over until he can recite it by heart.

When Bokuto lifts him out of his wheelchair and into bed, draping the blanket over him, Akaashi clears his throat. Bokuto slips into bed and listens attentively, brushing the hair out of Akaashi’s eyes.

“I w-want…to be crem…cremated,” Akaashi says. He pushes on, even though he feels Bokuto stiffen next to him, the mattress sagging under the added weight. “Un…der the cher…ry bloss…som tree.”

Bokuto wants to argue. He wants to scream and yell and repeat over and over that Akaashi’s not dying, he’s not going to die anytime soon until it becomes true. But he knows better. He’s been to group sessions of his own—partners of those with ALS—and knows that denial is the first stage of the grieving process. But all this knowledge doesn’t make the air in the room any less heavy whenever the morbid subject is brought up.

He’s about to reply to Akaashi when he continues. “’When…tomo-rrow start…s…without me…’” He recites the lines Haruko told him today, slowly but surely, until he’s panting with exertion. Usually, he’d be crying whenever the subject of dying is brought up, but just like Haruko, he’s made his peace with the idea. He used to be terrified of the idea of death, but now, he’s expecting it like a visit from an old friend. It’s comforting to know that their suffering will be over soon. He wants Bokuto to be happy. He can see how stressed he is, how he’s been losing weight alongside the actually diseased person. He’s grown paler, and his smile carries the weight of an eighty-year-old man’s. He’s tired. They’re both tired.

Bokuto, however, doesn’t take it as well. He hates seeing how accepting Akaashi has grown over the idea of death. Fight a little harder, he wants to shout. Fight like you mean it. Fight like you want to live.

But Akaashi has no more fight in him left to give. He can no longer make fists with his hands. He can’t move his legs at all. He’s lost almost all his facial muscles. ALS is the grand champion of this fight, and Akaashi isn’t getting up from the floor.

“What’s the rest?” Bokuto asks, but by the time he’s finished wiping away his own tears, Akaashi is asleep.

…

Sleeping next to Akaashi is nearly impossible now. His wheezing is loud and sharp, the sound a constant sheer whistle in Bokuto’s ear. When they get him an oxygen machine, it isn’t much different. The tank makes clicking noises every time he inhales like a clock, ticking down the time until it goes silent, meaning Akaashi took his last breath.

Akaashi snores up a storm, which he supposes is payback for all the times he complained about Bokuto’s snoring. But Bokuto can’t risk moving to the couch and missing Akaashi’s last breath. Akaashi had chosen to have Do Not Attempt Resuscitation status, even though every single bone in Bokuto’s body screamed at him to stop the notary from signing off on the papers. He wanted to claim that Akaashi wasn’t mentally fit enough to have given permission, but he knew that Akaashi would never forgive him if he did that. The official paper framed above Akaashi’s nightstand mocks him every day, jeering at him, saying, “The love of your life will die, and you legally can’t do anything about it.”

Dr. Hirose tells Akaashi he should finish putting all his final touches on his will, but Akaashi hasn’t even started it. Yes, he’s accepted that he’s going to die—it’s another thing to put it on paper.

Akaashi spends his 39th birthday in a musty office, trying to think of everything he owns that will eventually go to Bokuto. Bokuto waits outside the office as he speaks with the drafter about his will. He covers his ears since he can still hear the muffled robotic voice from Akaashi’s wheelchair. If he hums a song loud enough and squeezes his eyes tight, he almost forgets where he is.

Each week, Akaashi recites one more stanza from the poem. Bokuto has to suppress the urge to just look it up and read until the end, wanting to hear it from Akaashi’s mouth. Each week, Akaashi gets sicker and sicker, his mouth nearly freezing up multiple times through his recitations. He chokes on a noodle during lunch one day, and the near-death experience knocks him out for a few weeks, having to skip multiple group sessions. When he shows up again, people nearly drop their food out of pure shock. Akaashi had left an empty space in the group, and nobody questions an empty space. They just move closer together, as if covering up that the space was ever there.

But Akaashi notices Haruko isn’t at the group session. When he asks Fumi, she just purses her lips and shakes her head: the universal sign of ‘they passed away.’ He wonders if she’s in Heaven or Hell. He wonders if he’ll meet her wherever she is and hear her real voice.

Akaashi isn’t too far away from dying either. He’s filled out the paperwork. He’s made funeral arrangements. He’s contacted the cremation place. He’s said all that he needs to all his friends and family. All there is to do now…is wait.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says one day as Bokuto’s giving him a sponge bath. He remembers a time where he said he’d rather slip and die in the shower than let Bokuto bathe him, hire a nurse, fight tooth and nail to the very end. He never expected he’d be so tired by the end. He thought he’d go out with a bang. But it’s quicksand instead: slow, inescapable, and exhausting.

“Yes, Keiji?” Bokuto asks, his breath hitching in his throat. He tries not to cry around Akaashi anymore. When Akaashi’s absentmindedly watching a game show on TV, he feigns needing to go to the bathroom and instead locks himself inside and sobs into the sleeve of his shirt. He wishes he could one day wake up and be the one with ALS, for Akaashi is the last person on Earth deserving of such hell. He feels so helpless—none of his kisses or hugs or feeble attempts at jokes are enough to save Akaashi. He’s going to die, and there’s nothing Bokuto can do about it except watch his soulmate slip through his fingers like watching Akaashi lobbing a perfect set his way, and no matter what he does, Bokuto’s hand goes straight through the ball. The ball falls pitifully on their side of the net—match set point. The point is irreversible. There’s no way to get it back. There’s no way to win the game. They can reflect on the things they did wrong in hindsight all they want—“we should’ve done this,” “we could’ve done this better”—but there’s nothing they can do to change the game. They lost. Both of them.

“I want to go to Iceland again,” Akaashi says. “That’s my final wish.”

The words ‘final wish’ is a gut punch, and Bokuto has to take a few seconds to reel from nausea swirling in his stomach. He squeezes the sponge in his hands until all moisture dissipates from it, his nails digging into the foam. He tries not to splash the computer as he wets the sponge again.

“Dr. Hirose won’t let that happen,” Bokuto replies, returning to lightly wiping Akaashi’s skin.

“He can’t deny a dying man a final wish,” Akaashi defends. “You can’t deny me my final wish.”

Bam. Straight to the heart. Akaashi always knew exactly what would get Bokuto’s blood pressure through the roof. Because that’s exactly what Bokuto is trying to do. If they do go to Iceland, Akaashi will either die onboard the plane, in Iceland, or on the plane back. He’s not surviving the trip. He will die there. And Bokuto will be left cold and alone.

“Okay,” Bokuto relents, bowing his head so Akaashi can’t see the tears pricking his eyes. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”

…

The arrangements with the airline take longer than Bokuto ever thought since the subject matter is a dying man. He shouts one too many times into the receiver that Akaashi doesn’t have that many days left, and even after repeating and emphasizing that point, it’s as if his brain blocks that fact. It substitutes it instead for the idea that they’re simply going on another vacation, and the two of them are coming back together, not with one in a body bag.

He doesn’t let any of the flight attendants touch Akaashi or his wheelchair. He’s the one who folds up the wheelchair. He’s the one who lifts Akaashi into the first-class seat. He’s the one who touches him because any touch could be his last before his husband turns cold.

“Comfortable?” Bokuto asks, buckling both their seatbelts. “I’ve never been in first class before.”

Akaashi nods, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest. However, his eyes flutter open when Bokuto snaps his fingers in front of him, shaking his head.

“No, we’re watching Despicable Me 2. No sleeping on my watch.” Partly because he wants to watch their comfort movie together one last time, and partly because the mere sight of Akaashi’s eyes being closed gives him indescribable amounts of anxiety.

Akaashi rolls his eyes, which is one of the few things from his past he can still do now, and leans his head against Bokuto’s shoulders as they start the movie. Akaashi wheezes for a laugh since they couldn’t bring his oxygen tanks on board (it isn’t as if he’s going to need them for much longer, anyhow), and Bokuto senses the other passengers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He couldn’t care less. He’s embarrassed for the other passengers, shifting away from a dying man. Pathetic.

He’s evidently fallen into the anger stage of the grieving process.

When they get to the hotel, the first thing Bokuto asks is when the northern lights will appear. The woman says possibly in two days. He bites his lip and looks down at Akaashi, who blinks slowly to reassure him that everything is alright. He’ll hang on for a little while longer.

They lay in bed those two days, Bokuto listening to Akaashi’s breaths and Akaashi savoring the warmth and fullness of Bokuto’s torso in his arms.

“Are you scared?” Bokuto asks, his voice cracking in the middle.

Akaashi holds up two fingers, meaning ‘no.’

“Will you miss me?”

He holds up one finger, meaning ‘yes.’

“Are you happy?”

One finger.

“Do you regret anything?”

One finger.

Bokuto reaches for his phone and opens the notes app for Akaashi to type. He does it so slowly, Bokuto nearly forgets what question he asked.

“Making you sad. Making you worry.”

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers, setting down his phone and hugging Akaashi close, resting his chin on his oily hair. “You’ve only ever made me happy. And annoyed when you’d steal my secret stash of Oreos.”

A sharp breath comes from Akaashi, signaling a laugh.

“It’s the thought of you being gone that makes me sad. You never made me sad. I’m just worried about myself.” Bokuto chokes back a sob. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.”

They fall into silence again, until Bokuto asks one last question.

“What’s the end to the poem?”

He looks down, and Akaashi’s sound asleep on his chest. He slowly and steadily picks up his phone and takes a picture. Akaashi looks…normal in the photo. He looks peaceful. He doesn’t look tired at all. He looks ready.

They arrive at the same lookout point where they had that transformative crash. It seems only natural to end where everything started. Bokuto sets out a blanket and sits down on it and next to Akaashi’s wheelchair, leaning his head against Akaashi’s forearm.

“Are you excited?”

One finger.

“Me, too.”

Before long, the light show starts. Akaashi gasps, but it isn’t one of those ‘searching for breath’ gasps. It’s one of amazement, his eyes widening as the colors dance across the sky, resuming the previous ballet dance they saw three years ago. His eyes, which had since gone dull many years ago, shine like he’s a child. They shine like mirrors, reflecting the aurora in their blue irises. He wants to tell Bokuto to look.

But Bokuto, once again, isn’t looking at the lights.

“Keiji,” he starts, the lights illuminating the wet film over his eyes. “What’s the end of the poem?”

Akaashi’s head lolls to the side to meet Bokuto’s gaze, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.

Flashes of their life together, all culminating to this moment, streak across the sky in the form of the aurora. White for Fukuroudani’s volleyball uniform, where they first met and became the closest of friends. Green for the pistachio mochi Bokuto always made when Akaashi was sick. Purple for the color of the petunias at their wedding reception. Yellow for Emiko’s collar. Pink for the cherry blossom tree where they confessed their feelings for each other, where he realized his setter was the love of his life. Blue for Akaashi’s eyes. Black for the ink used to sign Akaashi’s will.

Instead of saying the end, the computer recites the poem from the beginning.

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

Akaashi wheezes painfully.

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

Akaashi’s eyes close. I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

Akaashi’s hand on the joystick goes limp.

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

Akaashi’s head drops.

So when tomorrow starts without me Do not think we’re apart For every time you think of me Remember I’m right here in your heart.

Akaashi dies before the computer finishes the poem.

He dies 301 days before his 40th birthday. He dies under the northern lights that he first fell in love with more than three years ago. And a part of Bokuto dies with him.

…

Akaashi’s father digs the hole underneath the tree and watches as his mother tips her son into the earth. The ashes land in a neat pile. Fitting. Everything Akaashi ever did was neat and tidy.

His mother breaks down before she can fill the hole. Emiko rushes to her side, their whimpers resonating together.

His father helps his wife out of the way, and Bokuto takes over. He takes one last look at what remains of Akaashi before scooping the earth into his hands and tipping it over, scooping and patting until the hole is filled. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the dirt underneath him darkens. He nearly collapses on top of the hole before Kuroo catches him by the shoulders. But even Kuroo can’t stop the tears. The two men sob into each other’s shoulders until they have no more tears left to cry.

“Petunias were his favorite,” his mother says. She hands Bokuto a bouquet to lay down. He complies, his body on autopilot.

He sits next to the pile of dirt, even when everybody else has left. They all bid him goodbye, kissing him on the cheek, giving him hugs. But he doesn’t register any of it. He just keeps his hand on top of the pile of dirt, hoping that Akaashi is sitting right next to him, his hand on top of his.

Akaashi gives him everything he owns, minus his money. His money is reserved for his parents—to provide them medical care for when they get old because they’re afforded that luxury—for his favorite nonprofits, and the biggest sum is split among various ALS foundations. Bokuto is left with his wheelchair, his crutches, his medications, his too-smart computer, his photos, and most bittersweetly of all, his memory. His body shape etched into their mattress. His scent—eucalyptus and black tea—that bursts out whenever he opens his closet. He’s everywhere and anywhere Bokuto goes. But he can’t bring himself to leave the apartment.

He buries Emiko next to Akaashi underneath the old cherry blossom tree. It’s bare-bones by now, having shed all its leaves and flowers in the autumn. They say Emiko’s death was from grief, but she was growing old as well. It seems as if everybody’s leaving him. What did he do to deserve this? To see all his loved ones turn into ash?

He enters the depressed state of his grieving process. He’s often too tired to eat the food his neighbors and friends bring him. He stopped smoking, which is what Akaashi would’ve wanted, but it’s less so about making Akaashi happy as it is he can’t even lift an arm up to grab the carton and put a cigarette up to his mouth. He just stares at the other side of the bed, his hand resting on the indent left by Akaashi’s body, wishing for his love to fill it once more.

When he finally gains the courage to get up and clean out Akaashi’s closet, a note falls out of one of his jackets when Bokuto tosses them into a pile on the bed. He picks it up and opens it. Inside is a horrible scrawl, barely decipherable. But Bokuto knows the poem all too well to need to decipher it.

When tomorrow starts without me…

The poem has haunted his every waking moment. He never really listened to Akaashi tell the poem. Mostly because it was too difficult to follow along with how little he could speak by the end, but also because he was too focused on savoring every little moment with him, ingraining it into his head. But as he sits down on the floor and stares at the poem, he now has the time—all the time in the world; wretched, wretched time—to read it in its entirety.

Each day is difficult. But with each day, he gets out of bed quicker and quicker. He eats bigger portions and more frequently. He brushes his teeth. He goes to the volleyball courts to say hello to his former teammates. When he spikes a ball, he instinctively turns his head next to him to seek out his setter. But with each day, he eventually stops looking. But Akaashi isn’t gone. He’s in his husband’s heart, just like the poem says. Akaashi’s body is no more, the ashes gone to feed the nature around him. But his spirit is more than alive. It thrives.

Every time he passes by the tree, he swears the tree grows a few more flowers. And every time he visits the aurora on his annual trip to Iceland, he swears there’s one more flash of light than usual in the sky.

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