“Please hold still,” Akaashi requests for the seventh time in five minutes.
Bokuto does not hold still. He’s shifting from foot to foot, hunching his shoulders and cracking his knuckles, and occasionally – and far more of an inconvenience – shaking his head, like a dog trying to throw off water. Since Akaashi currently has his fingers buried in the sticky tangle of Bokuto’s hair as he works shampoo into the strands, this generally results in a hiss of pain from Bokuto and suds being flung in arcs around them to stick and cling to the shower walls.
Akaashi doesn’t protest, other than to offer his level request at a steadily increasing frequency. He knows Bokuto well enough by now to know that the other’s energy is a force of nature, and he knows better than to try to withstand those. This time he sees the movement coming, telegraphed in the dip of Bokuto’s shoulder and the slant of his chin, and manages to extricate his fingers from the remnants of the gel standing Bokuto’s hair on end as the other pivots on a heel to blink wide gold eyes down at Akaashi.