Who
“Don’t let him fool you,” Akaashi says. “That snake is more than meets the eye.”
“Hey, Akaashi-kun-san,” Bokuto says, breaking the agonising silence. His shapely arms are raised, hands behind his head as he leisurely follows the “immortal official” in front of him; the man’s steps are so light that there’s no sound, and he almost seems to be floating rather than actually walking. Despite the fact that the former athlete’s steps are also inaudible, he’s fairly certain that that’s mostly because he’s not solid to begin with, as opposed to the dark-robed immortal in front of him who clearly has a shadow beneath the fading moonlight. “Where are we going?”
The silence between the two stretches for several minutes longer as they traverse through the city that’s slowly starting to wake from its slumber. The sun has yet to rise. “We will rest. Wandering souls are more powerful at night, and you will be more useful then than you are now.” He throws a backward glance, those cold eyes like jewels; hard and impenetrable, but not imposing. “The sun will rise soon. I doubt you’ve gotten much sleep following your death; you’re powerful, but you’re weak.”
Because that totally makes sense, Bokuto thinks, trying to wrap his mind around that last sentence. But all he can truly understand is that though he’s never thought to question it, he does feel stronger at night. And, well, no, he hasn’t been sleeping much. It’s a cowardly attempt at avoiding that dream—no, dreams, now, since they’ve started to increase in variety since his death—that keeps plaguing his sleep. It’s been so bad that it happens every time he gets some shut-eye, and even then, he can no longer understand why there are always subtle differences in the dream. Sometimes, it’s the pain, the place of injury, and sometimes, Keiji—no, Akaashi, somehow—isn’t saving him, but wounding him. Driving the tip of his blade into the bleeding wound. Or he’s kissing him and begging him to stay. Or he’s fighting something in a desperate attempt to defend his body.
“By the way,” Bokuto begins. “What even is an immortal official? Where do you work, then? Like, how does this thing even work? I’ve never heard of it in my life!”
Akaashi pauses in his steps, tilts his head to the side. Then he takes a seat at a bus stop; the sky is painted in soft colours of blue and pink and purple, an indicator of the sun’s rising, the beginning of a new day. The immortal is silent as he stares at the sky in an almost tranquil way, his legs closed together with his hands on his lap and his back straight. For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders why he bothers to sit so properly, but another nags at him, telling him that it’s a habit, you idiot, and you should have it, too, even though his parents have never been strict on posture with him.
A quiet sigh pulls him from his thoughts. Bokuto is pulled from his reverie(paired with a very strange sense of wistful nostalgia) and his gaze focuses on the dark-robed man next to him as he speaks. “I’m a deity,” he begins simply. “A heavenly official, if you will. I’m from the Upper Realm of Heaven, which really just means I have a higher rank. I ascended a long, long time ago.” Delicate fingers once more find the pendant beneath his collar; the movement seems to be out of habit, but Bokuto’s luminescent eyes latch onto it anyway. There’s a sort of… feeling in his chest that he can’t quite understand, but it’s like being stabbed with a knife and feeling all that sharp pain while you’re being overwhelmed by some sort of accomplishment, self-satisfaction and happiness.
It’s a bittersweet feeling. One he doesn’t know the origins—or the reasons—of.
“Wouldn’t that make you a god, then?” Bokuto’s eyebrows crease together in confusion. “With all those worshippers and shit? Temples built in your name?”
“No.” Now, their gazes meet; one full of curiosity, so alive despite the fact that he’s actually not, and another calm and apathetic, and almost ancient. “Those with temples built to their name are not of the Heavens that I speak of. They are on a higher plane. It’s rare for those in just the Upper Realm to have any believers at all, really[1]. In the end, we’re only there to do the work the higher-ups tell us to.”
[1] Not accurate to actual Chinese folklore(that I know of); something I made for this story.
The image of obediently kneeling behind a table as a middle-aged man, donned in navy robes lined with the colours of the sunset as he lectures his students, fills Bokuto’s mind. The man is agonisingly thin, but his voice is firm and strong. His voice overlaps with Akaashi’s, and he’s struck with the familiarity of the scene, as though he’s experienced this before. Heard this lecture, spoken about this topic, like some lesson at school.
Which shouldn’t make sense at all. Bokuto’s robes are of no fancy colours, either; they’re a pale grey lined with equally pale lines of blue and the occasional black as he struggles to keep still behind the low table, his hands fisted on his lap with his thighs tucked beneath him as he struggles to sit straight and listen to the topic at hand at the same time.
“Ascension is difficult,” the old man would say as he strolled about the room to make sure his students weren’t dozing off. “One must do a great feat in order to achieve this state. Perhaps they would do an immeasurable, unrepayable amount of good that would shake the world—or they would do an unspeakable amount of evil.” The fan in his hands snaps shut. “Perhaps, in war, they’d taken the lives of countless people, sowing chaos onto the battlefield, their deed shaking the heavens. Perhaps they’d save millions of people at the cost of their own life. This is what it takes to ascend.”
He would fix his gaze on every student, his posture straight, one hand behind his back and another in front as it held its fan. “But ascension is one thing; staying in the Realms of the Heavens is another. The Upper Realms are for those who have earned their ascension, achieved with their own hands. And those that are in the Lower Realms are those that the ascended have taken with them. For example, a general, a trusted aide. But no more than two can be taken.
“Heavenly tribulations are challenges that each deity, or heavenly official, must face, every few hundred years. It tests their power, and those that pass theirs continue to become more powerful still. Those that fail—they lose their immortal lives, doomed to roam as a mortal, like a carnivore with no teeth, no claws, no ability to hunt, and only the memories of its former power and glory.”
The fan comes in contact with Bokuto’s drooping head. “Never mind ascension—if none of you fools can be bothered to listen during my lessons, you’d never pass your earthly tribulations. Your exams are in two weeks. Bokuto Koutarou, will your academics be enough to sustain your existence in this academy, or will you fail your ‘tribulation’ and be cast aside?” The teacher snaps. “I have little care for your lineage or your physical prowess, nor your potential [2]. If you fail another one of my papers, I will have you reported to the Master of this academy. Am I clear?”
[2] Refers to his martial and spiritual powers as a cultivator. IDK how I'd explain what a cultivator is, so please search it up instead.
Bokuto groans. “Sakurai-sensei!”
The man’s harsh, amber gaze pins Bokuto to the seat. With no choice, the student can only nod his head, lips gathered in a pout.
“Are you listening?”
Bokuto startles; he nearly falls off his seat. With a yelp, he regains his balance before he returns his gaze to Akaashi’s. “I get it, I get it! You were talking ‘bout the Realms and tribulations and all that jazz, right? Please don’t quiz me.”
Akaashi’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly; delicately, he tilts his head to the side as he raises a mildly-amused eyebrow. “I spoke nothing of the heavenly tribulations, Bokuto-san.”
“You can call me Koutarou, you know,” Bokuto blurts before he can think better of himself. The words aren’t his own, but they are at the same time, and—oh, deities, his head’s starting to hurt again.
Deities? Since when did my “oh my god”’’s become “oh deities”?
But he just… He can’t describe it. Bokuto-san feels cold. Distant. Something strangers would use to address him, or someone who isn’t his equal, or someone he’s not close to.
But that’s what they are.
Strangers.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but it’s the truth.
So why is he so damn hellbent on being called Koutarou by Akaashi Keiji when they’ve only just met?
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi begins slowly. “I don’t know you.”
It’s like a slap to the face. It’s like a bucket of cold water. It’s like a stab to the heart, and he doesn’t know why. But instead of showing the hurt, the discomfort, on his face, he says, “Then just call me Bokuto. I don’t like the ‘-san’; it sounds stuffy.”
“Maybe next time, Bokuto-san. ”
And then the edges of Akaashi’s lips curl, ever-so-slightly. And it’s like Bokuto is hyper-aware of his every move, because the moment he sees that expression, that faint twinkle of amusement, in the dark-robed man’s normally dead eyes, his breath leaves his lips and he has to remind himself to breathe. The soft sunlight playing across the immortal’s features is blindingly beautiful, and Bokuto tears his gaze away, ears reddening as he thinks, he’s teasing me and fuck, he’s gorgeous at the same time.
A bus rushes past, tearing him from his reverie, though it passes right by their stop. Bokuto pulls himself back to reality and glances around, blinking as he realises that they’re both surrounded by people, though none of them seem to be casting Akaashi any questioning glances despite the immortal’s odd attire. In fact, they seem to be unable to see him at all, even though none of them have tried to take his seat. As though he knows what Bokuto will ask, the dark-haired man says, “They can’t see us. But they know better than to sit.”
The former athlete blinks. “How, though?”
Akaashi doesn’t bother to spare Bokuto a glance. “Mortal minds are funny things.”
He snorts. “Spoken like someone who’s never been one.”
Now, the dark-robed immortal fixes a cold, hard gaze on Bokuto. One that makes him shift in his seat as a pang invades his heart, thinking, this isn’t right. It shouldn’t be like this and why does that look seem familiar? At the same time. “I have been many things, Bokuto-san,” the cool voice bites out the honorific in a bitter manner. “Mortal is one of them. And I do not wish to go back to a time when the blood I bled could have cost me my whole lifetime. When the blood I bled was filthy and spilled wrongfully.” His words are barely a whisper, a hiss, perhaps, but even so, Bokuto flinches back, maimed by his claws.
Abruptly, the immortal rises swiftly as a bus stops by. He doesn’t even bother to check if it’s correct as he steps onto it; when he doesn’t cast a backward glance, Bokuto thinks, ah, he’s pissed. Maybe it’s in the way Akaashi’s expression is harder than it was before. Or maybe he just knows, somehow. Either way, he follows behind him obediently, like a guilty dog following its owner.
He supposes that isn’t too far from the truth.
He also feels a sort of irony to it, though he can’t pinpoint why.
When they’ve settled at the back of the bus, Bokuto speaks, unable to bear the suffocating, tense silence. “Where are we going, Akaashi?” He pays the way the ravenette narrows his eyes at the abrupt drop of honorifics in the former athlete’s speech. “Do you have a house in Tokyo or something?”
He hesitates. Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as he replies, “Can’t go back there right now. We’ll be staying at a friend’s place. He’s already been informed beforehand.” There’s a reluctant sort of edge in his voice, but Bokuto doesn’t push when he already feels like he’s walking on eggshells.
So he moves the topic elsewhere. “Who’s your friend?”
A tired sort of sigh leaves Akaashi’s lips; the look in his eyes is one of someone who’d rather not ask for help from a friend(this one, in particular), if he could help it. “His name is Beom.” Delicate fingers find one another as Akaashi pulls at them, almost mindlessly, as he keeps his gaze fixed on the passing world outside the confines of the bus. “He’s a handful at best.”
Then his gunmetal blue gaze, flecked with green, meets Bokuto’s golden one, and he lets out a small huff that might have been a laugh. “Like you.”
Bokuto’s (sort of nonexistent?) hackles raise. “Hey! We’ve just met!”
“You’re already a handful,” comes the bemused reply, and before Bokuto can protest even further, Akaashi’s already turned his head to look outside. The ghost of a smile playing across his thin lips doesn’t escape Bokuto’s gaze, and he finds that he can’t stop himself from grinning either. And he doesn’t want to.
“This is our stop,” Akaashi finally says, breaking the comfortable silence and gently rising from his seat. Bokuto blinks once and realises Akaashi’s abruptly changed his attire; rather than the dark, long robes, and the billowing dark hair tied into a ponytail, he’s donned casual clothes and his hair is curly and cut short. He’s exchanged his almost ancient bearing for a more youthful one, though the years and years of life in his eyes remains the same. He doesn’t wait for the former athlete to follow as he gracefully steps off the bus, prompting Bokuto to opt for phasing through the walls of the bus instead of following him out the door.
Akaashi’s unimpressed eyes fix on him and he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. “We walk from here.” He continues walking immediately, not bothering to check(again) if Bokuto is following him, his movements as elegant and graceful as ever. Something about the way they’re walking with one in front and the other, in disguise, is almost too familiar. And again, an inexplicable sort of sharpness penetrates through the walls of Bokuto’s heart, and the image of blood on his hands, dripping through his fingers, as he’s screaming someone’s name fills his mind. Out of nowhere, the deity pauses in his steps. The golden-gazed man doesn’t notice this abrupt change in movements; he’s paused in his steps to stare at his hands. Whose name is he screaming?
Why does he feel so heartbroken?
Where’s all this guilt coming from?
Who am I screaming for?
Whose blood is on my hands?
The questions each hit him like a swift punch to the face that he’s lost the ability to avoid. He’s so absorbed in them that he’s failed to notice his surroundings at all.
Gunmetal blue meets a feline-like gaze, and the two exchange an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. The newcomer’s mouth opens, only for his gaze to latch onto the disoriented athlete behind the now casual-clothed deity, causing those wide eyes to fail to mask their usually carefully hidden emotions, giving way to surprise. His mouth opens, closes, then he scrunches his eyebrows and looks up at Akaashi, his head tilted to the side ever-so-slightly as he appraises him.
Akaashi’s gaze is questioning, but the man before him pretends he’s blind as he shrugs and continues walking. After all, he knows the dark-haired man he’s run into is a busy man, and he can’t possibly in the mortal world just because he wants to guide a spirit back to the underworld. In fact, it’s likely that this task he’s taken up is just a side one, something he’s doing because he might as well, since he’s in the living world.
The deity watches him go, but doesn’t call him back for questioning. Instead, he focuses his gaze on Bokuto, saying, “You there?” in an attempt to bring him back to reality.
The spirit snaps himself from his reverie, jolting. “Yes! Yeah. Yeah, I’m here, sorry about that,” he says, shaking his head several times, his eyes bewildered. He hurries to follow Akaashi, and the two walk side by side. Only then does the former athlete realise he’s taller than the deity.
He doesn’t bother to suppress the delight he feels at this.
And… something else.
He knows better than to explore that feeling now of all times.
“By the way,” Bokuto starts, ignoring the sigh Akaashi lets out next to him. “Did you, like, come down from your heavens or whatever just to get me?”
“No,” comes the curt reply. “I was flipping through the books of the recently deceased in the Life Registry[3]. Your name was there, and you hadn’t been collected yet. I thought I might as well help out since I was going to go to the mortal realm anymore.” Akaashi fixes a cautionary gaze on Bokuto. “For now, all you need to know is that the mortal realm is no longer as safe as it once was.” His delicate eyebrows furrow and his lips curl downwards into a frown. “Something strange is happening among the demons[4].”
[3] Again, a name I borrowed. For me, this is a place with books which contain names of the living and the dead, souls and etc that are written by workers of the Underworld.
[4] Demons, ghosts, devils, fiery ghosts, spirits and etc are different in Chinese mythology. For Boundless, I guess just associate them with smth like fae?
“Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.”
“No,” Akaashi agrees. “It is not.”
It takes them about five more minutes to get there. The place is huge; an apartment complex for the filthy rich, clearly. One he would have bought for himself if not for the endless discouraging, saying it wouldn’t be worth it, especially if he were to live alone, so he settled for a nice, cozy house in the suburbs instead. In the end, he was glad he went with that choice.
It takes them another few more minutes before they’re in front of the door. Akaashi’s raised fist pauses briefly before he casts a sideward glance Bokuto’s way. “He lives with others. I think they’re all home.” And then his knuckles rap on the door sharply; once, twice, thrice. There’s a pause before the door clicks open.
The knock is abruptly knocked out of Bokuto’s lungs as he thinks, holy shit, what the fuck?
He’s agonisingly pretty. Delicate, almost fragile features, paired with a gentle bearing and phoenix eyes[5]. He’s short; perhaps one-seventy at most. His dark hair is gathered into a ponytail, and his bangs, parted to the side, covers one of his eyes. A tattoo peeks up from the collar of his black turtleneck, and there’s a crescent earring hanging from one of his ears.“... Akaashi-san?”
[5] Sort of like this. Phoenix eyes are a sort of Asian eye shape.
Akaashi breathes out a sigh of relief, as though glad to have avoided some sort of confrontation. “Hwanjae-san.”
An embarrassed smile. “I’ve told you to call me Jae, Akaashi-san. You’re many years my senior; I don’t mind.” Then, his molten gaze finds Bokuto’s, and only then is the spirit struck with the realisation that he can see him.
So he must be some divine or demonic being or whatever, too.
The look of surprise in his golden eyes is palpable. His gaze flits between the immortal and spirit, but eventually, he purses his lips and steps backward to open the door further to allow them entry. “Come in, Akaashi-san.” A hesitant pause. “And, ah, Bokuto-san, was it? Your death was on the news a few months ago; it made quite the ruckus.”
Bokuto smiles bashfully. Right, it was only a few months ago. “Yeah.”
“They’re here?” Another voice cuts in; this one is pleasant, a little raspy, but honeyed and smooth all the same. The type that pulls you in, but also keeps you on edge at the same time. A petite figure steps out; his dark, brown hair falls before his mismatched eyes, one pink and another brown. His face is littered with piercings; two beneath his eyebrow, two on this bottom lip, four on one ear and two another. And when he speaks, the metal on his tongue catches the light. His slanted eyes curve as a devious sort of smile graces his lips; the type that tells you he’s up to absolutely no good whatsoever. “Akaashi-san,” he greets, somehow making the respectful term sound…well, not respectful, but teasing, perhaps. “And Bokuto Koutarou.”
“You know me too?” Bokuto blurts excitedly, unable to help the rush he feels upon being recognised.
Beom’s gaze is appraising. “Of course I do. You were from Fukurodani, right? And then you were in MSBY. And news of your death was everywhere. Caused quite the storm, though I doubt that comes as a surprise to anyone at all.”
“Beom,” Hwanjae starts, something in his tone one of warning.
Beom raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. Make yourselves at home, I’ll make some food before you guys head out.”
Only when he’s gone does Akaashi breathe out a breath Bokuto didn’t even know he’d been holding. So that’s Beom, he thinks. Then, sure, he’s a troublemaker, but he’s not that bad?
“Don’t let him fool you,” Akaashi says. “That snake is more than meets the eye.”
“That snake is also my cousin, Akaashi-san,” Hwanjae replies, leading them to the lounge and prompting them to take their seats on the leather couch. “We both know he means well, even though his tongue is sharp.” His gentle golden gaze finds its way to the direction that Beom had left in not long ago, and a sigh leaves his lips. “You can’t blame him.”
“I don’t,” reassures the immortal. “It’s just…” He leans back against the couch slightly. “Well. No point in asking for him to be genuine.”
Hwanjae’s smile is pained. “Sincerity comes differently to demons of his line.”
“He’s a demon?” Interrupts Bokuto, surprised. “Does that make you one too?”
Hwanjae fixes his gaze on the former athlete, then shakes his head. “He’s a demon, but I’m not. He’s—literally—a snake. He was born as one. For me, my true form is that of a reindeer’s. I was a cultivator.” His smile here is a tad more forced. “One of the last, before we were forgotten. I am of the Lower Realm of Heaven.”
“But you guys are cousins…?”
“Second cousins.” Hwanjae takes a seat across from them, clasping his fingers together on his lap. His posture is poised, elegant; a mirror of Akaashi Keiji’s posture. “My mother was his aunt. His father was a snake.”
“What about Shun?” Akaashi asks, creasing his eyebrows in confusion.
Why do I feel like I should know who that is?
Bokuto frowns. Wait. Why do I seriously, really feel like I should know who that is?
Hwanjae sighs. “It’s complicated. Beom’s father was cursed. Shun’s father—Beom’s uncle—” Hwanjae supplies in an attempt to clear Bokuto’s confusion “—was not.”
“Talking about family, are we?” Beom’s voice fills the room. He sets down a tray of food and crosses his arms, though he doesn’t seem too annoyed at the topic. He waves his hand dismissively before anyone can apologise. “What are you guys thinking of apologising for? Don’t say you weren’t—it’s written all over your faces. It’s all old news, anyway. Gossip all you want, but remember that I like my fair share of that, too.” He sits down next to his cousin and crosses his legs, leaning against the couch. His sloppy posture is a stark contrast to that of his cousin’s, brazen and uncaring. “Shun’s probably sleeping. He was out on some errand last night. He got back at, like, four in the morning.”
Hwanjae’s eyebrows crease. “How do you know the time he came back?”
“Didn’t sleep,” comes the snake demon’s dismissive reply. His lips curl to reveal his fangs as he grins lazily at his cousin, who only sighs, shaking his head. “What? You know I don’t sleep. Much, anyway.” He shrugs.
“Eat up. I’m out of rooms, so you guys will have to share one,” he says to Akaashi and Bokuto, ignoring how the former pales a little at his statement, his smirk mischievous and practically challenging them.
“Sick,” Bokuto replies between his mouthfuls of food. “This tastes great, by the w—”
Wait.
How am I tasting this?
“I have my ways,” Beom says, as though he already knows what Bokuto will ask, amused. “Though, technically, it’s because you’re kind of a special case.”
“How did—”
“Your expression had question marks written all over it. Now eat up and rest up, big boy.”
Big boy?
Akaashi has some weird friends.
He doesn’t know why a part of him feels like he should be blamed for that.
“Do you really have no free rooms left?” Akaashi says as they finish their meal, his gaze sceptical at best. Bokuto’s head whips up at the sound of his voice immediately; Beom snickers and Hwanjae gives nothing but a helpless sort of smile. “Or an extra futon?”
“What? Scared?” Beom scoffs. “I didn’t think you’d need an extra futon.”
“So you have one.”
Beom leans back with his hands behind his head, an eyebrow raised as he tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps.”
“Kohaku, let him live.”
A new voice enters the fray; this one slaps Bokuto in the face so hard he feels like he’s going to get whiplash. His posture straightens, abruptly, and he glances to the side in the direction of the voice. It’s gentle, but powerful. Deep. Alluring in the same way Beom’s voice is annoying.
And painfully familiar.
His peach blossom[6] eyes are a deep amber; his hair, dark as onyx, is wavy and almost chin-length, a lock falling before his eyes as he hangs a beige coat on the rack next to the door. If Beom is the sharp sort of danger that constantly keeps you on edge, and Hwanjae the soothing sort of gentle that you know has power beneath it, then this person—Bokuto feels like he already knows who it is—is the sort of confident, gentle danger, forceful in its power.
[6] Also a type of eye shape(AKA bedroom eyes LOL). Looks like this.
He pauses in his steps when his eyes land on Bokuto.
There’s silence.
He hesitates; his fingers flex at his sides. Clenching, then unclenching, with his shoulders tensed. He’s tall, Bokuto realises, with no surprise. Taller than him. By a few centimetres. But with the poise of a dancer, like Beom. But instead of the snake’s delicate, sharp features, his are more angular, and softer around the edges. And there’s a sort of surety to his movements; confident, ceaseless, fluid, and none of them are unnecessary.
“Shun.” Comes the whispered name from Bokuto’s lips, possessed by something even he is unaware of.
He doesn’t notice the way the others look to him in surprise. Doesn’t notice the stab of surprise and pain in the man’s eyes, though brief. Then he lowers his head, saying, “... Bokuto-san.”
Beom’s gaze is curious, intrigued. Hwanjae’s is pained. And Shun is… a mix of complicated emotions too difficult to pinpoint. Naturally, the snake demon, ever the speaker, cuts the silence short. “How’d you know his name, Bokuto-san?”
A bashful laugh. “Um… lucky guess?”
You knew him.
How?
You knew him.
“Sakurai-san,” Akaashi says, rising to bow. Shun’s expression changes and he stops the younger from doing so almost immediately. The scene, Bokuto realises, is familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. And ironic. What’s with all the damn irony?
“You don’t have to bow, Keiji,” Shun reassures. The name is a knife to Bokuto’s heart, and again, he thinks, I want to call him that and you can’t call him that at the same time, along with that’s not fair! “Really. And you can just call me Shun. We’ve been over this.”
Akaashi hesitates, then sighs. “Apologies. Force of habit.”
“From where?” Beom asks carelessly, rising from his seat to stand swiftly. With his back turned to him, Bokuto notices that the back part of the snake demon’s hair is styled into an undercut, unlike his bangs, which fall past his chin. “Habit from where?”
“Kohaku,” Shun warns at the same time Hwanjae says, “Beom.”
But alas, Beom gives zero shits as he keeps his too-keen, too-sly gaze on Akaashi Keiji with his arms crossed. Despite being the shortest in the room, his presence is almost suffocating. Like a snake coiled around its prey, squeezing it to the point of suffocation. His mismatched gaze pins the deity to the ground, and Bokuto feels a surge of protectiveness, though a part of him knows he can fend for himself.
But Akaashi doesn’t fight back. Instead, he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then frowns, a delicate finger pressed against the side of his head as he tilts his head to the side with furrowed brows. “... Somewhere.”
Beom lets out an unimpressed(and unsurprised) huff, stepping back and giving the rest of the room to breathe as he shakes his head. “Thought as much.”
“What’s your problem, man?” Bokuto blurts, without thinking better of it, rising from his seat. Shun’s gaze is surprised, pained. Akaashi’s is one of warning. The spirit pays neither of them any mind as he walks forward to look down at the snake demon, who remains relaxed in the face of his imposing physique and wrath. “You keep asking him questions that he doesn’t seem to be able to answer.”
“Because he can’t answer them,” Beom replies coolly, tilting his head to the side. Gone is the mischievous, pushy brat; this one is more a snake than ever, with its cool gaze and cool head and dry smile. “And neither can you.”
Bokuto’s hand clenches.
Shun steps forward abruptly between the two, shooting his cousin a gaze that says, you and I are going to have a talk after this before he looks at Bokuto. “Alright, that’s enough, both of you. G—uh, Bokuto-san. I think it’s best you and Keiji rest for now. You’ve a long night ahead of you when you set out for Miyagi tomorrow.” Then he turns his amber gaze on the deity behind Bokuto’s form. “You did tell him why you were here, right? You can’t possibly have expected to bring him to the Underworld before you settled things with how the situation is right now.”
Akaashi hesitates. “I’ll tell him before we set out.”
Shun sighs. “Paranoid as ever, aren’t you?”
The deity places his cool and agonisingly familiar gaze on the former athlete. “He’s been here for four months.”
Shun waves them off. “Sure. Just go rest. I trust that Bokuto-san doesn’t mind sharing a room with Keiji?”
He doesn’t.
In fact, he’s almost eager.
Something is very, very wrong with me.
“Why don’t you care whether I’m bothered or not?” Comes Akaashi’s jab, interrupting Bokuto’s thoughts.
Shun smiles. “Keiji, you’d be bothered even if you had a dog instead of a spirit. Now get going.”
Five minutes later, deity and spirit are standing across from each other in the room. Bokuto’s non-functional heart is about to burst out his chest from excitement and something else, despite the awkwardness hanging in the air. Naturally, he breaks it first, asking, “So if Hwanjae-san is a reindeer and Beom is a snake demon, then what’s Shun?”
Akaashi’s gaze is scathingly cold as he strides toward the bed, eyeing it and its size begrudgingly. “He’s a Zhen.”
“A what now?”
He sighs through his nose. “A sort of bird. Poisonous, from head to toe. Mythical.”
Bokuto feels like he should stop being surprised by the word mythical, given that the word itself is slowly starting to mean reality to him, but he finds himself being gobsmacked nonetheless. So he sits down, hesitantly, on the other side of the bed, fidgeting with his fingers like the many times he’s seen Akaashi do(though he’s only seen him do it once or twice). “... I feel like I should know him.”
The immortal’s reverted back to his usual attire; dark hair tied into a high ponytail and dark, silken robes. He’s untying his waist sash and settling it in the cupboard, but he pauses now. Then he says, “He looked like he knew you.”
Bokuto frowns, then unclasps his fingers. “Yeah.”
“Who are you, Bokuto Koutarou?”
An athlete. A Fukurodani graduate. A man who loves volleyball with all his heart. A man who’s been plagued by dreams of dying ever since he turned ten. A man who can’t stop looking at Akaashi Keiji and thinking that he’s gorgeous, breathtaking, but also feel guilty all the same. A man who’s never touched a sword, but knows the feel of one.
Then, quietly, he says, “... I don’t know.”
——————
They wake when the sun sets.
“Where are we going?” Bokuto asks Akaashi, who, in turn, looks to Beom, who’s leisurely lounging on the couch. He hears the latter sigh and walk forward, and naturally, he follows, noting that, although the deity seems reluctant with the snake demon most times, he’s never on edge, and there’s a sort of trust between them that Bokuto doesn’t know how to feel about.
“You heard him.”
Beom whistles. “Rude, Akaashi.” Swiftly, he sits up, then stretches languidly, his movements not unlike a cat as he glances out the window to check the time. Only then does he say, “You’re gonna want to head to Miyagi. That’s where you have to start, anyway. Stay here.” He rises and disappears in the blink of an eye, but when he’s back, he’s giving Akaashi a small pouch of things. “Talismans and herbs for healing from Hwanjae. These are from Shun.” Another pouch, black, is placed in Akaashi’s hand as he mentions Shun’s name. Then another dark green one. “Shun made some poison darts and shit for you in case you run into something tricky and need it dealt with ASAP. I just got you some extra blades and attack talismans, and some protective ones in case you need those.”
This shouldn’t make sense to Bokuto, but it does. Then he asks, “Are those, what do you call them? Qiankun [7] pouches?”
[7] A Qiankun bag (乾坤袋, Qiánkūn dài) was a pouch able to hold more than it appears able to carry. It was used by cultivators to carry large items. Can only hold physical items.
(Taken from MDZS Wikia, but like, it's a common item in xianxia novels LMAO.)
“So you do know,” Beom replies immediately, unfazed, unlike the mild surprise on Akaashi’s face. “Unfortunately, big guy, I got none for you for now until I can be sure you really know your shit. So you just gotta watch Akaashi for now.”
“Thanks for letting us stay over,” Akaashi says, when they’re out the door. Beom waves a hand dismissively as he leans against the doorframe, shaking his head in response.
“‘S nothing. Stay safe out there. Bokuto-san, I trust you to take care of him.”
“I trust you to take care of him.”
“You know I will.”
“I won’t be here much longer.”
“... I know.”
“So you know how important this is to me.”
Softer, he says, “I know.”
Bokuto blinks.
Beom is still waiting.
“You know I will.”
Beom raises an eyebrow. “Then off you go.”
And then he closes the door in their faces before they can muster up a reply.