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parkour (into your heart)

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Bokuto doesn't really know how this happened.

One minute, he's flying from rooftop to rooftop; the next, he's hanging from a window ledge. The alley's far below, and damnit, this is why Bokuto doesn't usually parkour alone. 

With a grunt, Bokuto hauls himself up to the (open) window and rolls inside. He's great at parkour, for sure, but he's six stories up and there's no one spotting him.

He's breathing kind of hard, so he curls up into the cream carpet. He kind of needed the rest, anyway. Constant parkour for an hour or two's pretty intense.

After a minute or two, someone clears their throat. Of course, Bokuto looks up. He's expecting — well, Bokuto really doesn't know what he was expecting, but he definitely wasn't expecting this.

"Can I help you?"

The speaker looks down at Bokuto impassively through hooded eyes. He can't quite read their expression. Is it apathy? Disgust? Shock at having someone as bold and handsome as Bokuto barrel through their window?

Bokuto tears his eyes from their (unreadable, gorgeous) face. He can see, now, that they're in a bathrobe and have bare feet. He slowly looks up to their face again. 

When Bokuto wasn't looking, they've arched a brow. Again, Bokuto's not completely sure what this means (annoyance? awe?). Whatever the case, he cracks a smile and rocks back on his haunches.

"Uh. Hi."

Shit. Bokuto's usually cooler about this. (Hot people, not crashing through windows. This is the second window he's crashed through. The first was at Oikawa Tooru's house at that party last year, so that doesn't really count.)

Bokuto rubs the back of his neck. This is kind of awkward.

"Sorry, uh. I was going from that rooftop — " he points to the building across the alley — "to this one, and. I didn't exactly make it?"

Their face is still.

"Well, you know, I usually make jumps like those, but. The wind's blowing today, like, pretty hard! Have you been outside?"

"My window's been open."

Shit, even their voice is hot. Like, it's steady and cool and. Wow. 

"Oh. Uh. Yeah! I noticed!" Bokuto barks a laugh.

"I saw." Their eyebrow climbs a little higher. Bokuto runs a hand through his hair. 

"Are you alright?" 

Bokuto laughs, again, too loud.

"Yeah, of course! Especially now that I've crash-landed in a beautiful stranger's apartment."

He grins, toothy and bright. The apartment's resident sighs and rolls their eyes.

"You're in my apartment. That's farther than most people get."

"Of course it is — no one can resist this!"

Their mouth quirks, a quick movement, but Bokuto has seen it.

"What's your name?" Bokuto asks, earnest. They look maybe a little flustered now, cheeks dusted pink.

"Akaashi."

"Akaashi..."

"Keiji."

"I like that. I'm Bokuto. Koutarou."

"Alright. Bokuto. You're not hurt, are you?"

Bokuto kind of likes (likes very much) the way his name sounds in Akaashi's voice.

"Nah, man, not at all! Just another day in the life! Gotta live dangerously, ya know?"

"Not really."

Akaashi and Bokuto are quiet for a moment. Then — 

"I have leftover pancake batter. Would you like breakfast?"

A grin splits Bokuto's face.

"Yeah, actually, that'd be great! Thanks!"

---

Despite Bokuto's offers, Akaashi mans the stove. They've got these long, slender fingers that wrap around a spatula really well

Akaashi's just. Elegant. Yeah, that's the word. Bokuto supposes that not even Kuroo could have handled someone crawling through his window with this level of grace. Akaashi's threadbare bathrobe hangs from their shoulders and brushes the elastic hem of their sweatpants. They're lanky, but there's just a certain grace to their movement. 

"So. Akaashi. What do you do?"

They huff lightly.

"I'm a writer."

Bokuto racks his brain, but he doesn't remember reading or even hearing of any books by Akaashi Keiji. Bokuto's not the biggest reader, though, so — 

"I write under a psuedonym."

"What do you like to write about?"

Akaashi laughs. Bokuto likes the way it sounds.

"People I see. Space. Existential crises. Whatever people want me to write about."

Bokuto hums, thoughtful.

"Do you like writing what people want you to?"

Akaashi turns the pancake. It lands back in the pan with a sizzle.

"Sometimes."

He pokes at the pancake.

"What about you?"

"I — I'm a bartender. Tadokoro's, in midtown?"

Akaashi hums.

"I've walked by there."

Bokuto grins.

"When you come in, first drink's on me."

Akaashi smiles, again; it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of thing that comes with a quiet exhale. It's kind of really fucking attractive.

"Deal."

---

The pancakes are fucking delicious. Goddamn. Akaashi knows their shit.

"Mm. Akaashi. These are so good."

Akaashi's horror is somewhat thinly veiled as Bokuto crams even more pancake into his mouth.

There's a knock at the door. Bokuto swallows a dangerous quantity with an ulp and follows Akaashi to the threshold. 

"Hey, I got some of your mail — oh, my god."

A thoroughly fucked-out looking Kuroo Tetsurou stands at Akaashi's threshold, envelope held limply in hand. After a moment of silence, he starts to wheeze with laughter.

"Bokuto — Akaashi — I can't believe — "

"We don't even know each other, man! I just came through the window this morning."

Kuroo and Akaashi both look at Bokuto for a moment. Kuroo starts to laugh again before it's cut off in a hacking cough.

"Please don't cough into my apartment."

Kuroo snickers through a torn-sounding throat.

"I'm not sick, I just smoke. God. I cannot believe. Congrats. Both of you!"

Before Bokuto or Akaashi can correct him, he begins to shuffle away, shoulders shaking with either a cough or laughter.

"God — I'm sorry about that — "

"It's fine. He's..."

"An ass?"

Akaashi laughs again, long fucking eyelashes fanning over their cheeks.

"Yeah."

Revelation strikes when Bokuto leans into the now-empty hallway.

"Hey. I've been here before!"

Akaashi fixes Bokuto with a flat stare.

"Did you hit your head?"

"Wait. That means you already knew who I was! No wonder you weren't freaked out. Have you been wanting to get me alone, Akaashi-san?"

Akaashi scoffs, but their face darkens a little.

"I wasn't going to throw you back out of the window."

"Hey, good to know!

Uh. You know what else I'd like to. Know?"

"What?" Akaashi's deadpan.

"I'd really like. To know your. Number?"

Damn, Bokuto's lost his touch. He used to be so much smoother than this. 

Maybe it's not all him, though; maybe some of it's Akaashi, graceful and deadpan and with no fucks given.

"Apartment number 504."

Bokuto grins, a little lopsided, as he steps into the hallway. He's not one to make anyone feel guilty about not being interested in him.

"Thank you so much for the breakfast, and I'm sorry for bothering you — "

He's cut off when Akaashi laces their fingers around Bokuto's wrist and pulls him inside. It's just a few steps to the kitchen, where Akaashi procures a permanent marker from the drawer. They lightly hold Bokuto's wrist as they carefully pen their number across Bokuto's vein and blow a sharp puff of air across the ink before they drop Bokuto's hand.

"There." Akaashi looks mildly flustered. It's pretty cute. 

Bokuto grins, wide and bright.

---

"So. You and my neighbor, huh?"

Bokuto sighs and sprawls against the sofa a little more.

"Yeah. I can't believe it. Akaashi's so perfect, Kuroo, they — "

" — shit ice cream, could take over the world, yeah, I got it. 

We haven't parkoured in awhile, though."

Kuroo pauses to take another hit off the pipe.

"You stood me up first, man. But thanks for that, by the way." Bokuto's sort of looking at Kuroo and sort of looking at the ceiling. He's grinning huge.

"Who knows. Maybe you'll finally meet someone after I stand you up enough."

---

Akaashi's window is still open most of the time, but their bed — the whole apartment, really — is warmer with Bokuto in it.