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It’s a lovely Friday evening, the sort where the sky’s just north of purple and the air is heavy and slow and soft, and it’s a lovely Friday evening and every corner’s rife with the kind of good-natured laughter that settles in your stomach, and it’s a lovely Friday evening that’s slowly turning on over into a lovely Friday night and Bokuto Koutarou has gotten himself into a bit of a situation.
This is normal enough. Bokuto Koutarou has grown to be somewhat synonymous with troublemaker has grown to mean rule-breaker and in a pinch can even be used interchangeably with instigator, or- if one is in need of a phrase that is a little more evocative- that asshole over there, yes right there officer. But regardless, he knows enough of himself to know that his general obliviousness as well as his ongoing struggle with social cues (why on earth people don’t just say what they mean he will never understand) mean that it’s not uncommon for him to walk headlong into a situation only to realize halfway through that hey, maybe he shouldn’t be here actually.
Now, this is not a new development. Bokuto as he is is not exactly Bokuto as he was years and years ago- he’d gone and gotten himself some character development 500 yen off at the local farmer’s market, which is to say that at age eighteen he had willingly purchased some carrots and immediately proclaimed himself a Real Adult Now- but some habits stick like glue and some habits grow old right alongside you and some habits are firmer in their conviction than even the sun in the sky, and Bokuto’s habit of getting himself Into Some Shit is lifelong and apparently unshakeable. And like attracts like attracts like, so through the years Bokuto’s picked up other people just as prone to getting themselves Into Some Shit as he is, and because Bokuto imprints at the approximate speed of light they’ve stuck around. They haven’t had a choice.
So he’s got Kuroo and he’s got Shouyou and he’s got Keiji, and then he’s got several other people that he calls up when he’s spilled coffee over someone’s expensive-looking suit or is gearing up to fight an ice cream shop cashier in the parking lot or else accidentally stole a sword from an antique shop through a series of events that really made quite a bit of sense at the time, in his defense. He’s got people in his corner and he’s as blindy loyal as they come which in turn apparently inspires even more blind loyalty, so as it is they’re all just stumbling through their lives with one foot in the grave and a whole host of (slightly more sensible) people shouting at them from the sidelines to get their ass out of the fucking graveyard .
But this time, Shouyou’s part of the problem. This time Kuroo’s in a meeting and Keiji’s at work and no one else is readily available. And in the most damning and least surprising development ever, Bokuto is a bad liar. Bokuto is a really bad liar, and as Bokuto’s struggles with socializing are long-lived and world-weary he doesn’t much like breaking what few patterns he’s managed to establish, and as it is what few patterns he’s managed to establish dictate that when a person is eating a meal with a group of other people then they have to see it through, regardless of how much literally everyone involved wishes that they weren’t there.
That thought process has ended with him here: Bokuto versus Social Norms, round 357, and he’s losing. Badly. He’s worked his socially oblivious magic and he’s gotten himself Into Some Shit and now he’s stuck all alone, with nothing for company but the lovely Friday evening, a stomach that is running on empty, and then three of his teammates who just so happen to be on a date that’s a date in all but name. And the one thing, the one thing that’s keeping this not-date from becoming a full-fledged date- date is-
Well, it’s Bokuto.
So there he is, sitting in his chair and bouncing his leg like it would kill him to stop, and he’s peeking up and over his menu at Atsumu with his best please don’t be mad at me eyes, because Atsumu’s his setter and he can’t exactly spike if his setter is too mad to set for him. And sure he also feels bad for fourth-wheeling Atsumu’s romantic endeavours, but as he so often finds himself saying, it made sense at the time; much in the same way that a car needs four wheels if it's to get anywhere at all, there needed to be four people on this trip to the restaurant if they wanted to get the group discount.
And sure, he’s technically got free meals here for the next six months on account of winning the TONKOTSU RAMEN CHALLENGE! (ONE DAY ONLY) last week (which required six bowls, one hour, and then the will of god and god alone), but he’s a benevolent enough human being that he can acknowledge that not everyone is capable of defeating the TONKOTSU RAMEN CHALLENGE! (ONE DAY ONLY), so when Atsumu had pulled him aside and asked if he knew any good restaurants that he could take Shouyou and Omi-san to, Bokuto had perked up and then, high on the promise of a dinner with his teammates, had blurted out that he knew this fantastic ramen place with all the subtlety of someone who has not been able to shut up about the free meals that they get from the ramen place down the road for several days now.
Well, at least Bokuto understands now why Atsumu had made such a weird face when Bokuto started going on about that four-person discount, and at least Bokuto understands now why everyone had seemed so surprised at his tagging along, and at least Bokuto understands now that they’re all seated, him on one side of the booth and the other three squished into the other (which is not working out all that well for anybody considering that they’re all professional athletes) and they’ve all settled in and it’s too late for him to make an escape.
In short: he realized at some point between the time Atsumu had asked him for restaurant recommendations and the minute that they all piled into the booth that this was meant to be a date. This was meant to be a date between Atsumu, Shouyou, and Omi-san, but the patron saint of volleyball is a cruel one and Bokuto is too busy kicking ass on the court to think about things for long, so he hadn’t noticed. Thus, his current predicament: he’s getting the cold shoulder from Atsumu (his setter, dammit), Omi-san is glaring at him with an open, vitriolic hatred, and Shouyou seems just as painfully aware of the situation as the rest of them, but determined to make the best of it regardless. Good on him. Bokuto sees how this might have been pleasant, were he not also convinced that Omi-san is going to try and murder him the first chance that they get.
“So,” he starts, in an attempt at defusing the tension, because maybe, maybe, against all odds this is still salvageable. “That’s me.”
He points to his picture on the wall next to them, the one beneath the construction paper banner that reads TONKOTSU RAMEN CHALLENGE (ONE DAY ONLY) WINNERS! in a lurid green font. There are exactly two photos beneath it; one of a middle-aged man with his head in his hands (Midlife Crisis Man, Keiji calls him), and then one of Bokuto with his arms raised high in the air- as befitting a champion of the TONKOTSU RAMEN CHALLENGE (ONE DAY ONLY)!- as Keiji claps politely in the background, straight-faced as ever. It’s a very good picture. Bokuto keeps a copy in his wallet.
“We know,” Atsumu says.
“I won a challenge,” Bokuto continues.
“We know ,” Atsumu says.
“It was the TONKOTSU RAMEN CHALLENGE (ONE DAY ONLY)!” Bokuto adds, just for good measure.
“I’m going to strangle you,” Omi-san says, apropos of nothing, and Bokuto shrinks back in his seat because Omi-san is not exactly in the habit of fucking around, and they might have something of a vice grip on their self-control but they’ve also got a stubborn streak a mile wide and all that that really means is that if Omi-san says that they’re going to do something, than Omi-san is going to do something.
Sure enough in the time that it has taken him to compose his internal monologue, Omi-san has gotten half out of their seat and is brushing an invisible speck of dirt off of their sleeve without a care in the world as they swing their glare square towards Bokuto. He feels a shiver run down his spine as time keeps barreling on and on towards his inevitable and probably well-publicized- he’s something of a local celebrity in this particular shop, for reasons that he will not elaborate lest Omi-san pick up on his thoughts and decide that today’s as good a day to snap as any- death when Shouyou’s hand shoots up and grasps at their sleeve, light as can be.
“ALRIGHT,” he bellows, still somehow cheerful, and then he turns and gives Omi-san the best smile that he’s got, one of the ones that reaches all the way up to his eyes. Omi-san relaxes by degrees; first their shoulders drop and they fall back into their seat, and then some of the tension leaves the lines of their neck, and then finally, finally that fever-bright murder spark leaves their eyes and Bokuto can breathe again because holy fuck . “This place is really nice! It would suck if something happened to make it less nice!”
This is all at once very cheerful and very frantic, said through that same wide smile. Bokuto’s also pretty sure that it’s an implicit threat, but for the life of him he can’t figure out who that threat is for.
“So let’s keep it nice! Let’s look at the menu!” Shouyou continues.“Bokuto-san, since you’ve been here before, can you maybe recommend something?”
He looks over at Bokuto and gives a little jerk of his head, a little go on motion. It’s made clear through a few choice bits of eye-widening and head tilting that he does not have a choice. Atsumu, who is sitting on Shouyou’s other side and has thrown an arm around his shoulders in a way that is decidedly non-platonic and very, very pointed, mimics the motion, though it’s not quite as nice when it is executed by someone who looks as though they would quite like to execute you.
“Um,” Bokuto coughs, looking up at the ceiling and down at the ground and then left-right-left in an attempt to buy himself some time. The light of the ramen shop is warm and welcoming, the sort that draws people in by the dozen and then keeps its hold for one, two, three hours before turning them back out again feeling better than they had before- it really is the perfect place for a date. It is also the perfect place to hide a body. As it is, so it goes.
“Um,” Bokuto repeats, too busy writing his own eulogy to be able to do silly things like read . They’re all three staring at him, Shouyou nodding encouragingly, Omi-san looking as if they rather wish they were anywhere or anyone else at all, and Atsumu having looped past righteous fury and right back down into something mindless and placid which is historically very bad for everyone. Bokuto is not sure that he’s going to make it out of this one. He makes a mental note to text Keiji a heartfelt goodbye (bout to get murdered lmao don’t wait up for dinner love you bye <3 <3 <3) the moment that he gets the chance. “The, uhhh. The tonkotsu ramen is, uh. Good.”
Atsumu and Omi-san look supremely unimpressed. Shouyou gives him a thumbs up, an encouraging nod.
“Yeah,” Bokuto says, emboldened by this miniscule show of support and then his own blind confidence. “Yeah! It’s really good! That’s why I was able to win the-”
“OKAY,” Shouyou yelps. NOT THAT, his eyes (which are currently wide enough to swallow the whole rest of the world) say. It’s his scary look. His THINK FOR A SECOND look . Perhaps- and this is just a thought- Bokuto ought to THINK FOR A SECOND. “Yeah, yeah that’s good. That’s great. Yep. Maybe we’ll see what else they’ve got too.”
He reaches for his own menu and props it up in front of himself, far enough away that the other two can scan it right along with him. This little crumb of romance is enough of a distraction to take the spotlight off Bokuto, and for all of thirty seconds he can breathe again as the not-date takes on enough overtures that they can all pretend it’s a real date, so long as they don’t look up.
And that’s what they do, before Omi-san starts getting all glaze-eyed and Atsumu pulls out his phone and taps out something aggressive-seeming, accompanied by all sorts of pay attention to me huffs and groans and eye-rolls that they all ignore, and then Shouyou abandons all pretense and starts about trying to communicate something to Bokuto through some very pointed glances, but try as he might (and emboldened by the protection of his own menu, which he figures makes as good a last resort as any) Bokuto can’t figure out what.
Tap, tap, tap, Atsumu goes as Omi-san slumps against the wall and idly starts fiddling with their mask. The ramen shop keeps right on moving around them, as utterly oblivious as the Bokuto of approximately an hour ago, the clatter of pots and pans and the chatter of happy voices settling into a buzz in the back of his head as he carries on his staring contest with Shouyou and tries to figure out what the fuck he’s meant to be taking away from it.
DID YOU SEE THE GARDENIAS OUTSIDE, Shouyou’s eyes seem to say. Tap, tap, tap Atsumu goes. A twitch of Shouyou’s left eyebrow turns it into I SAW A BIRD PICK UP A TWIG, which is exciting- Bokuto likes birds, don’t get him wrong, but doesn’t seem particularly relevant at the moment. God, they’re bad at this. There should really be some sort of guide for these things, some sort of booklet or a pamphlet or something. Bokuto files that away for later.
They get through another round of this- MY FAVORITE COLOR IS GREEN, Shouyou says with a cheek twitch-eyebrow quirk-pointed glance as Omi-san melts further into the wall; WE’LL SETTLE THIS ON THE COURT Bokuto half smirk-eyebrow twitches-sort of glares back, because that’s really the only thing that he knows how to communicate when he’s got nothing but dramatic glances to work with- before Atsumu gets bored and promptly decides to make it everyone else's problem.
“Hey, Shouyou,” Atsumu says loudly. His arm has reached far enough over Shouyou’s shoulder now that his knuckle is digging into the side of Omi-san’s arm over and over again. They look torn between annoyed and endeared, sinking further into their seat and pulling at their wrists, their hands in that idle way that they do when they’re in a better mood than usual. They’ve got their mask propped up over their face but there’s the barest hint of a smile working up around the edges of their eyes- it’s all very sweet, really, and not for the first time Bokuto thinks that once the three of them finally get their act together the whole thing is going to be insufferable, probably.
Well, they deserve it. Bokuto hopes that they will be insufferable together for a very long time.
And then Atsumu says “Hey, Shouyou,” again, and Bokuto’s little fantasy bubble where everyone is happy and emotionally mature and full of nothing but well-wishes shatters like glass. “Hey, Shouyou. Shouyou. Shouyou. Look at this.”
He shoves his phone into Shouyou’s face. He seems inexplicably endeared by this, which. No accounting for taste.
“Look,” Atsumu says again, more insistent. “ Look at the fuckin’ text and tell me that ‘Samu isn’t the worst, most inconsiderate bastard on the planet, look Shouyou, look .”
Omi-san is trying to catch a glimpse of the screen as well though they are trying very hard to pretend otherwise, and again it’s very sweet and all but as nostalgic as it is to watch them stumble their way through the early stages of their relationship, Bokuto’s already got a great best man speech planned (there might be other best men as well due to the sprawling nature of their collective friend groups but make no mistake, he will be the final boss in this scenario: the Best Man ) so he’d really like them to get their act together sometime soon.
Then he remembers that there is a very good reason that they can’t get their act together at the moment, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“I can’t see the screen,” Shouyou says, very patient. Bokuto could never. “You gotta hold it further back, like-”
He reaches out here and wraps his hand around Atsumu’s wrist, and then the world draws to a stop.
Well, not for Bokuto. But he’s been there enough times himself that he can imagine the slow-motion, the sun bursting through the clouds and the honey-drizzled slip of skin to skin etc etc, he doesn’t really have the time for this. They’re having a moment, easy as that; they’re having a moment, and Atsumu’s arm has gone still over Shouyou’s shoulder, the back of his hand pressed up against Omi-san, and they’ve dropped off into their own little world for one of those seconds that seems like hours. The lighting is as soft as can be, the atmosphere a casual build-up of caution and risk and build and break, and it feels as fragile as a bird. Not exactly the best when all you’ve got to separate yourself from the situation is a flimsy menu and approximately four feet of table (and then another three of emotional distance, which is necessary by all accounts) but Bokuto doesn’t have it in him to snap them back out of it.
Now their waitress has no such qualms, because their waitress has a job to do and that job- much like the Bokuto of approximately an hour ago- doesn’t really care about romance one way or the other.
“Uh,” she says, and Bokuto can pinpoint the second that the other three snap back into themselves. Their waitress is a lanky-looking teenager with a notepad, a tiny stub of a pencil, and not near a high enough wage for the bullshit that she has to put up with, and she seems a little lost, wide-eyed and smiling too large in the way of someone who knows that they’re interrupting something but the world turns on and on and well, there are profits to be made, orders to be taken, limited edition band merch to save up for. She’s new too, he thinks- he’s never seen her before, and he’s here a lot - which means that she’s also meeting their little group for the first time, and the thing about meeting their little group is that it’s met in much the same way that one might meet an untimely end.
Bokuto vows to leave a very large tip.
“Hi,” she says, weakly. Then with more conviction: ”Hi.”
And then she squares her shoulders and presses her pencil to the page, eyes bright with the last-ditch determination of someone who’s had to deal with worse things than this , and then in the most impressive and least coherent series of events that Bokuto’s ever had the misfortune of participating in she manages to wrangle all four orders from them within the span of twenty seconds.
“The fuck?” Atsumu mumbles as she walks away, looking as shell-shocked as the rest of them. “I don’t even know what I got, what the fuck .”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention,” Omi-san says, leaning back in their booth like someone who is about to start a fight because they don’t know how to flirt any other way.
“Oh fuck off, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu- whose tone implies that he very much would not like Omi-Omi to fuck off- snorts. “Like you didn’t just rattle off the first thing you saw ‘cause you were scared of her. She was what, 150 centimeters tall? You thought she was gonna try and fight you, and you didn’t wanna get your ass kicked by someone who comes up to your shoulder.”
“I fought a cashier once. They were about my height though,” Bokuto pipes up, because it seems relevant and it really is a good story. Lots of gesticulation, lots of impressions, and he gets to jump up on a table at some point. Bokuto loves jumping up on tables. There’s nothing quite like it. Regardless, both Omi-san and Atsumu look at him again like two people who do not appreciate their fight-flirting being interrupted by a guy with a really good story and a chronic need for attention.
“Well did ya win?” Atsumu asks, and Bokuto coughs.
“Depends on the point system you’re using,” he says, because he’s gotten very good at evading this particular question. “Physically? No. Emotionally? No. But if you’re counting by like, cool one-liners or best hair or fastest sprint then yeah I won.”
“That’s great, Bokuto-san,” Shouyou says, offhand, and that does hurt a little because once upon a time (all the way back in high school, so like ages ago) that would have been completely earnest, but now it’s just a little indulging, a little insulting . It’s because he couldn’t jump up on the table. If he could’ve jumped up on the table then they all would’ve had to admit that he’s super cool, regardless of any unfortunate situations that tumbled up into unfortunate misunderstandings that culminated in a lifetime ban from the best ice cream shop in town. He’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine .
“That’s fucking stupid, Bokuto-san,” Atsumu mimics, and Bokuto musters up the closest thing that he’s got to a scowl to shoot his way. Omi-san is laughing behind their mask, behind their hand that is over their mask as if to make sure that no emotion can peek through. It’s not working.
“That’s ‘cause you weren’t there, ” he says anyways, because he has to defend his honor. “You had to be there . It made sense at the time.”
“I don’t understand you,” Omi-san tells him, dead serious, “And frankly I hope that I never will.”
This makes Atsumu go all weird and heart-eyed, which Bokuto resents because his feelings have been hurt and now he’s slumping down in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, because it did make sense at the time! You had to be there!
“Alright, alright,” Shouyou sighs. He’s trying to placate them, Bokuto- proudly implacable since 1994- notes as he wilts all the way down to the table. Well, hopefully he’ll have an easier time of that when Bokuto’s gotten himself out of this terrible situation by melting down into a muddy puddle on the floor. He’s gonna get everywhere, and then the scary waitress is going to be angry and she’s going to yell at him and Keiji can’t exactly go to the movies with a muddy puddle now can he, but that’s okay, that’s fine, Keiji can just put him in an old soda bottle or something and bring that to fancy french restaurants and this is getting kinda weird isn’t it, he’s getting a little away from himself and oh shit is that food?
Sure enough, the scary waitress has returned and she’s distributed their food with a scary efficiency and given them a scary smile and then swept off, scarily. She’d placed his bowl of tonkotsu ramen- he’s a creature of habit- down by his head, and the smell of it is enough to rouse him back into something approaching a human being. He unsticks his cheek from the table, and then he wobbles and sways back upright, waves his hand around until it hits on the chopsticks, and then he breaks them and digs the fuck in.
“You alright, Bokuto-san?” Shouyou asks, and he seems much nicer now that Bokuto has some food in his system again. His own bowl is steaming in front of him, his mouth twisted into another indulgent smile. Both Atsumu and Omi-san are currently eating with enough force that they’re jostling him back and forth and back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind- honestly, if past experiences are any indication, the second that Bokuto gets over himself and manages to nod through his ramen-induced feeding frenzy, he’ll probably be doing the exact same thing.
And Bokuto couldn’t stand to deprive someone else of the best ramen in the world, so with effort heaters himself away and manages that nod, and just like that they’re all eating and everything is fine.
For exactly sixty-three seconds.
Then Atsumu, who is physically allergic to peace, starts prodding at Shouyou’s arm.
“Shouyou,” he says, poking at him with the wrong side of his chopsticks. “I wanna try some of yours. Lemme try some. C’mon, Shouyou. C’mon. C’mooonnnnnn.”
This- again inexplicably, though it’s with a chill and a shiver and something approaching horror that Bokuto realizes that this dynamic is starting to look sort of familiar- seems to work. Shouyou stops and turns, smiles a smile that’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. They're having another moment. Bokuto coughs into his ramen.
“Here!” Shouyou says anyways, because the damage is done and now that they’ve started having their moment they’ve got to see it through until the end, and then he twists in his chair and feeds Atsumu a bit of the food from his chopsticks.
And well. That’s definitely a move that he could have made, like that’s certainly a way that people can flirt, and it’s not what Bokuto would’ve done but then again what does he know, he’s only been in a loving, committed relationship for several years now. Atsumu looks like he’s ascended. Omi-san looks thoroughly disgusted and then sort of fond and then right back to a disgust that’s so visible, so complete and intense that it can only be personal. Bokuto is assuming that they’re dealing with the realization that they’ve developed feelings for two people who have it in them to share utensils, and while Bokuto wishes them his deepest , most sincere condolences, he would also like the record to show that he thinks that this is fucking hilarious.
Now, this is also unbearable. It is now painfully, undeniably clear that Bokuto is intruding . This is a textbook violation of the bro code, and the bro court ruled in 2013 that any violations of the bro code could lead to the revocation of one’s bro status, and frankly if Bokuto’s bro status were to be revoked then he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself. He can’t stand this anymore- if he has to sit here and stew in his own awkwardness for a second longer than he’s going to start screaming, and nobody wants that. So he throws his chopsticks down, looks mournfully at his bowl of the best ramen on this cold, cruel earth, and then he begins planning his great escape with all the mindless fervor of someone whose bro status is on the line. Then he decides that planning’s not really his thing, actually, and he’s just going to wing it because that has never gone badly for him ever.
Step one: he has to interrupt the moment, which by now has spread into several other moments and at this point is at risk of turning on over into a fully functioning experience . It’s for the greater good- one moment interrupted so that he can remove himself from the situation in a way that doesn’t overstep any of those pesky, arbitrary social rules that he’s memorized; one moment interrupted so that they can have more without him lurking at the edges. It’s all math, and something about Bokuto that tends to surprise everyone (most of all himself) is that he’s quite good at math, in the wrong-formula, right-answer kinda way.
So it all makes sense, and if there’s one thing that Bokuto can do, it’s draw attention to himself. It doesn’t have to be anything graceful either, doesn’t have to be subtle or careful or sweet, so high on the freedom of being in a situation where a lack of self-control is actually helpful for once, he ends up bellowing the first thing that pops into his head.
“DID EVERYONE TRY THE CHICKEN,” he yelps, flailing in their general direction. “I THOUGHT THE CHICKEN WAS LOVELY.”
His dish does not include any chicken whatsoever, but he can work with this. Somewhere far, far away (approximately fifteen minutes), Keiji is probably making a similar faux pas. They’re in sync like that. And as it is it works well enough, or at least gets their attention. All three of them are staring at him with enough disbelief to level a building, Shouyou’s chopsticks still hovering near the corner of Atsumu’s mouth and Omi-san’s face tilting dangerously back into murdery territory, and even Shouyou looks as though he’s getting a little sick of this, has plastered on the fakest smile that anyone has ever faked, eyes half-bulged out of his head and all and all looking more like a grimace than a person. And if Shouyou of all people is a grimace then Bokuto is a menace; Bokuto is a menace , and everything is going according to plan.
“YEAH,” he continues, at a not inconsiderable risk to his life and limb. Omi-san looks as though they’re about to raise hell, or at the very least flip the table. “THE CHICKEN IS FUCKING FANTASTIC. GIVE MY COMPLIMENTS TO THE CHEF. I AM GOING TO GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW, AND I SHALL RETURN EITHER WITH MY SHIELD OR ON IT. SEE YOU LATER, ALLIGATOR.”
And with that he stands bolt upright, to the general confusion of everyone within a five mile radius (he can be very loud sometimes) and then makes a quick and inelegant exit, stage left. He thinks he hears Shouyou call after him as he barrels his way through the shop, knocking his hip against the edge of tables and heaving like this is the single most taxing thing that he’s ever done in his life, but step two- get the fuck out- is now fully in action, and he wouldn’t stop for the end of the world itself. So he runs, and he shouts broken-off apologies and stumbles over bags and legs and a small dog, and then he bursts into the bathroom with a flourish and a gasp, folding over and nearly sprawling onto the floor. There is one other person in there, washing their hands, and then they take on look at Bokuto as he plods on over to the counter and soon enough there’s exactly one person left in that bathroom and that person is Bokuto.
He splashes some water on his face first, high on his newfound freedom, and then he whirls around and leans up against the counter and puts his hands on his hips, and then he thinks. He can’t go back out there, not now, and he guesses that he could slip out the front door but that seems too rude so no, he’s got to do something more subtle, something that gives him a few hours of plausible deniability while he tries to think up a reasonable excuse.
So he stands there, tapping his foot idly and tilting his head back and forth and back and forth and he thinks. He thinks so hard that his head starts to hurt, though then again that may just be the light streaming through the-
Through the window.
Huh. Bokuto moves towards the center of the room and stands there all, all alone over the dirty linoleum, his reflection in the mirror staring slack-jawed with the same soft, unrestrained awe at the orange-red light of the setting sun pouring in through the window located a scant few inches above his head- the window that looks to be just big enough to fit a person, if that person is willing to work for it.
And for all that he is, Bokuto’s always been a hard worker.
He’s one of the most stubborn people to ever walk through the doors- or out the window- of this ramen shop too, and he’s got his picture on the wall to prove it. This is his window of opportunity. This is his way out. So he stands there and feels the giddy weight of a problem solved wash on over him, breathes in the cool, processed air and takes a moment to laugh, to pump his fist high up in the air with enough enthusiasm to bring the sky down because fuck it, he’s earned it.
And then he cracks his knuckles, and he gets to work.