- things you said while we were driving
Bokuto bought a motorcycle last weekend.
That’s what Kuroo had said when Daichi’d talked to him last; he’d been halfway into his third bottle of beer, and he’d said it so offhandedly that Daichi’d thought that can’t possibly be true, can it. Kuroo’d been pulling his leg, that was all; they both know how well Kuroo liked to get a rise out of Daichi, and nothing riled Daichi up more than his loved ones doing terribly dangerous things.
Daichi’d given Kuroo a swift kick to the shin under the table, and Kuroo had looked appropriately chastised. Daichi’d thought that was the end of it.
And yet: here he is, squinting into the late afternoon sun as it glances off of the sleek body of Bokuto’s new motorcycle.
Bokuto looks out-of-place in the parking lot of the hospital where Daichi works; in dark jeans and brand-new boots and a leather jacket that must be Kuroo’s (the sleeves are too long for it to be Bokuto’s own), straddling that slicked-up deathtrap, he looks admittedly impressive. Daichi’s willing to give him ten points for style and presentation.
"So?" Bokuto swings one leg over the motorcycle and crosses the few yards between them in a series of excited bounding steps. Daichi, arms crossed and frowning, mirrors none of Bokuto’s usually-contagious enthusiasm, but Bokuto shows no sign of relenting. "Whatcha think?"
"I think," Daichi says, looking pointedly at the hospital behind them, "that this is a bad idea."
There’s a helmet, black and brand-new, in Bokuto’s hand; he raises it, a flimsy assurance of safety, and says, “Say that again after I take you for a ride.”
Daichi’s eyebrows go high, and his arms tighten where they’re crossed, more protective now than defensive. “No. Hell no. Absolutely not, Bokuto, are you serious—”
"Come on, Sawamura. Don’t be so—” and here Bokuto waves his hand in a way that probably is meant to mean spoilsport, but actually just encompasses Daichi as a the whole. Daichi purses his lips, but doesn’t argue. “Just give me one ride. I promise it’ll change your mind.”
"You know people come into the hospital all the time because they were riding these things," Daichi tells him, eyeing the helmet. "And not through the front doors, either."
He’s got a million other statistics he could name in favor of keeping his feet on the ground instead of on that motorcycle, but before he can elaborate, Bokuto fits the helmet onto Daichi’s head, lifts the visor, and kisses him on the mouth.
It always knocks Daichi’s brain offline for a few moments when Bokuto kisses him like that: firm and solid and whole, like kissing Daichi is all Bokuto’s ever had on his mind, like he never intends to stop. Those kisses always seem to be the quickest, though, and that short-lived intensity is what makes Daichi’s head go just fuzzy enough to make agreeing seem like a good idea when Bokuto grins at him, pleading, and says, “Just down the street.”
"Oh my god," Daichi says, defeated in the way he always feels whenever Bokuto manages to talk him into something stupid. "Fine—but if you get me killed, I’m billing you for my funeral."
Bokuto’s grin seems to amp up a watt or two, and he chirps out a carefree “Just trust me” as he drags Daichi towards the bike.
Daichi arranges himself carefully once Bokuto’s seated: thighs clamped tight to Bokuto’s hips, arms around his waist, face pressed against the curving muscle of his back for want of better place to be. Adrenaline is yawning, spurring Daichi’s heart to flutter; against his better judgment, Daichi looks up at Bokuto, who’s turned his head for this last permission.
Voice made short by breathlessness, he says, “Go for it.”
"Hell yeah," Bokuto whoops, and revs the motorcycle to life.
The motorcycle is a living thing gathering speed beneath them, purring and predatory even in its tameness, and Daichi cannot believe he’s doing this. If he makes it back to the grimy hospital parking lot in one piece, he’s going to give Bokuto a thorough lecture about what is and is not appropriate for impulse buying, and then he’s going to give Kuroo an earful for being a smirky bastard instead of warning him properly.
That’s only if he makes it back, though. So, even though it’s a little terrifying, Daichi lifts his visor and levers himself up a little off the back of the motorcycle, leaning forward, fitting himself to the curve of Bokuto’s spine, calling out against the faint premonition of wind: “Be careful.”
"I always am," Bokuto says, too loud, too brash, turning his head so Daichi can see him grinning where the tint on the glass goes thin. "Besides, I wouldn’t let you get hurt, y’know? You’re important to me, so I’ll take care of you."
Daichi’s surprised the visor isn’t fogging over from the heat radiating from his face. He finds his voice too thick to say anything that feels equal in gravity to the words Bokuto had just tossed so easily over his shoulder, so he doesn’t say anything at all; instead, Daichi tightens his grip on Bokuto’s waist, presses so close he thinks Bokuto might be able to feel the rabbit-quick beat of his heart against his spine, and gives him a go-ahead squeeze.
Bokuto gives up a delighted laugh that snags in Daichi’s ear as it whips by in the wind, and Daichi, with a sense of building excitement, does the same.