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in tears, shaking and crying. this is so good. excuse me while i go on a songfic binge

after the beep

character(s): bokuto koutaro x gn!reader

notes: uhm a song fic?? ig?? i’ve never written anything like this before but every time i listen to this song i think of bokuto. i hope this is ok!!

warnings: mentions of toxic relationship (not w bo, he’s an angel)

listen to: i think you’re really cool

one ring. two rings. three.

there’s a beat of silence, a moment where bokuto holds his breath subconsciously, then the recording of your voicemail sounds.

you’ve never not picked up one of his calls before, but a part of him is relieved now is the one time you choose to.

it has him exhaling as he listens to the message you’ve recorded, even not hearing your voice in real-time has him relaxing. if he were smarter he’d curse himself for something so stupid, something so inappropriate.

because what else would you call what he’s doing right now?

after all, being in love with your best friend who has a boyfriend is one level of ignorant in itself. but then writing a song for them and calling them to sing it as if you have any right to confess to them at all?

bokuto is really, really dumb.

still.

“hey,” he croaks out after the beep, clearing his throat through the mask of a laugh. “i just wanted to call you to share this song i’m working on. you’re my biggest fan so i thought that.. uh. anyway, here it goes. okay..”

then his voice gets quieter, tiptoeing the line of being a whisper as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“i love you.”

he sucks in one more breath, closes his eyes, let’s the air slowly seep out of his lips again. then his fingers strum against his guitar strings, and he opens his mouth to do what he’s been too scared to since the both of you were seventeen.

“this song brings on the weather, teardrops upon my sweater. i cry in bed whenever, i see you guys together.”

and it’s probably unfair of him to sing such things, to even dare write you a song like this, but he thinks this is the only way he can tell you, the only way he can gets the words out. he has to do this.

“fuck love it's all a lie, i can't sleep i'd rather die. than see that look in your eye.”

it’s his fault, really. he’s the one that begged you to pick up soup for him on facetime call when he was sick, all watery eyed and pouty. if he hadn’t done that you never would have met your boyfriend in that restaurant.

his lips are a little wobbly and his fingers a little too hard against his guitar.

“it sucks that i'm not your guy, but..”

as his fingers hit strum harder, pick catching on the strings, he can’t help but think of the first time he ever played for you. starry eyed and slack jawed as he fumbled through cords, face hot and ears pink as he messed up in front of you, his very first audience. the two of you were only teenagers then.

and you, well you stared at him with something so warm and sweet in your wide gaze, sitting on the edge of your seat as you told him it was so good, you were so impressed, so proud of him.

he remembers the way his heart swelled, how his stomach flipped, his chest fluttered for that very first time.

he’s pretty sure that’s when he fell in love.

he’d always wanted to find words to tell you how he felt, even just to tell you what he thought of you—to compliment you. and he couldn’t. couldn’t think of anything adequate enough to depict how he saw you. even now it seems all he can settle on is,

“i think you’re really cool like.”

and it seems so mundane, so childish. even as he lets it roll off his tongue again and again he wants to berate himself for not thinking of something better. because surely cool is a benign way of describing someone, in a situation like this.

you used to tell him that all the time, you still do. how cool his hair is, his outfit, his new hobbies. so maybe that’s why his brain has hyper fixated on it, why his mind wouldn’t let him choose anything but this one specific word as his punch line.

you really are the basis of every single one of his decisions, aren’t you?

“i packed my bags last week, sunrise and i'm on my feet. let's skip town and chase our dreams, 'cause this place ain't what it seems, so.”

maybe it’s just his immature hope, the misleading thing that likes to nestle admist his rib cage, but he thinks there’s just something about your boyfriend that is a little.. off.

he’s seen how you smile when you talk about him—even let himself break his heart over and over countless times because of it—but he’s noticed how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, doesn’t stretch your lips as wide, doesn’t make you glow like it used to.

he thinks—prays more like—that maybe your whole relationship is under some sort of perfected facade. which makes his heart ache for you, but also selfishly has it beating for you on the other half of the coin too.

he’d like to sweep you off your feet, take you away on that trip to the bahamas you two have been joking about for years. he’s sure he has a swimsuit lying around ready to go.

he has everything ready for you always though, prepared for the drop of the hat whenever it may be, and that he knows.

“come home, let's synchronize. my soft lips caress your thighs. you get me so fucking high, the voices in my head collide, and..”

he’s desperate, but he’s smiling now. because maybe you’ll listen to this later and never speak to him again. maybe you’ll even block his number without so much as a goodbye text. maybe you’ll laugh about it with your boyfriend for months.

but just saying this, singing out his endearingly boyish heart to you, his chest feels a little less heavy and his stomach not as seasick.

“i think you're really cool like. i think you're really cool like. i think you're really cool like. i think you're really cool like.”

he’ll say it a million times if he has to, scream it from the rooftops like the two of you used to do to make the neighborhood dogs howl and piss of your parent’s neighbors.

“keep your voice down, she don't care, no.”

maybe you don’t, maybe you won’t, and maybe you never will—but that’s okay, really.

“i can't breathe i've got no air. no sympathy for my despair.”

it doesn’t matter if he gets hurt by whatever happens, he just needs you to know.

“i'm outta my mind.”

he’s so in love with you.

“i'm outta my mind.”

it’s driving him crazy.

“i think i'm outta my mind.”

he just needs to get this out.

“i think i'm outta my mind.”

and it’ll all be okay.

so with one last breath, his fingers nearly slipping and messing up his final few strums and chords, he pushes out the finishing blow.

“i think i'm outta my mind.”

and ends the voicemail without another word.

you’re so tired.

you’re tired of screaming and watching your boyfriend’s face get redder and redder as he yells at you about god knows what at this point. you don’t remember when it got like this, but the two of you have been unhappy for a while.

always at each other’s throats, starting arguments over something petty, fighting over something minute.

you’re so so tired.

“are you even listening to me?” he spits at you, lips curled up in a deep snarl. you’ve forgotten why this bout was even started now.

“i’m trying,” you sigh, exasperated. “i just don’t understand what’s wrong. why are you even—“

“unbelievable,” he scoffs, throws his hands up in the air like you’ve said something offensive, even though he’s the one who was being rude by cutting off your sentence. “if you’re just going to stand there and stare at me like i’m stupid maybe i should just leave.”

you’ve heard that line before, and every other time this was where you’d ran to him, wrapped your arms around him and begged him to stay, not to leave, that you were sorry.

but now you’re tired. so fucking tired of being trapped like this so you just,

“yeah. you should.”

and you didn’t think it was possible, but it looks like he’s even angrier now, jaw clenched and brows cinched and then—then he’s turning on his heel, grabbing his keys off the ring, and slamming the apartment door without so much as a reply.

it isn’t quite relief that washes over you as you fall onto the couch and sink into the cushions, but it’s something.

you grab your phone, innately curious as to how long the two of you have been at it this time, and as you gaze at your lock screen you see it’s been nearly three hours (which explains why your throat feels so sore). but then you notice something else.

you aren’t sure you’ve ever missed a call from your best friend before, and the notification on the screen makes your heart pang out of guilt.

the one right above it though—voicemail: kou!! :D—makes it jump against your ribs.

he’s never left you one of those. ever.

your heart is racing, and you aren’t even sure why. maybe it’s a slight hint of panic, what if something was wrong, an emergency? perhaps it’s a small tinge of curiosity, because what could he have to say that he couldn’t just text? or, by some off chance, it’s something you’ve tucked away long ago, but you shouldn’t be entertaining that thought, should you?

and yet.

your fingers tap away at your screen until you’re on the list of voicemails you should really clean out. at the top is bokuto’s, bright red like it’s teasing you, daring you to press play, daring you to listen.

so you do.

you’re not sure when it happens, but at some point within the recording, you start crying. tears streaming down your heat flushed cheeks as you let the message play on speaker in your lap. and you feel foolish, so irrevocably so, that you’re in this situation.

because you remember the first time koutaro ever played guitar for you with clumsy fingers and shaking hands in his bedroom back in highschool, and you remember falling in love with him in that moment precisely.

the irony of it all has you laughing through your tears, shaking your head at yourself because, fuck.

you’re really, really dumb.

when the message ends, bokuto’s voice cutting off with the abrupt end of the voicemail, you’re not too sure what to do. you know what your heart wants and what your mind is thinking and what your gut is telling you to act on.

and for once, they’re all pointing in the same direction.

so you call your boyfriend—and have to bite your lip to hold back the laugh as a beep sends you straight to voicemail, the irony of this all is just too unbelievable—and tell him what you’ve wanted to for months now.

(we’re over, i’m done, come get your shit when you’re done being pissed).

then, with a grin that’s probably a tad bit wider than it should be right after a break up, you scroll through your recents and click on your best friend’s contact, then the call button.

he answers on the first ring.

“uhm, hey—“

“can i come over?” you interject, instantly, the words blurting out of your lips before you can stop them.

“wh-what?” koutaro stammers, and your stupid dopey grin widens as you imagine the blush on his cheeks right now.

“can i come over?” you repeat, already standing up to try to find your keys without an answer, slipping your shoes on. “i wanna hear you play your song for me in person.”

there’s a beat of silence, then a muffled thud.

“yeah. yeah, yes, of course. come over,” he rambles out, and you can hear the smile in his voice, the upturn of his lips from just his tone.

“okay, great,” you reply, finally locating your keys and all but running out your door. you’re frantically pressing at the elevator’s down button, bouncing on your heels. “i’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“alright,” koutaro hums, “i’ll see you then.”

and you’re about to pull your phone away from your ear, the elevator doors finally sliding open as you jump inside and press the correct buttons, when you quickly make sure he doesn’t end the call first.

“hey, kou?” you rush out, and his half distant reply of ‘yeah?’ means you caught him just in time before he hung up. you bite the corner of your lip, head falling back on your shoulders as you stare up at the reflective ceiling of the elevator, foot tapping against the tile.

“i love you too.”

bokuto literally cheers so abruptly loud you have to yank the phone back from your ear, but the sound simply makes butterflies blossom in your stomach.

and if you’re replaying his voicemail the entire drive to his apartment, well, he doesn’t need to know that.

reblogs appreciated !!