Bōkutō was always complaining. Sore here, sore there—it was a constant refrain. And yet, despite all the resources available to him, despite the perfectly qualified physiotherapists on standby, he remained adamant that Akaashi’s hands were the only ones that did him any good.

—Akaashiiii...—

The drawn-out whine echoed from the other room, disrupting the quiet clatter of dishes as Akaashi rinsed off the last of the soap. He exhaled slowly, feeling frustration creep up his spine. Couldn’t even finish a simple task without Bōkutō demanding attention.

—Akaashi, come here!—

This time, his voice carried even more urgency—almost dramatic, as if he were on his deathbed rather than dealing with whatever minor ache he’d latched onto this time.

Akaashi sighed, wiping his hands on a dish towel before making his way toward the source of the commotion. Knowing him, this was going to be something ridiculous.