Filth
When he looks back up, there are tears in his gorgeous eyes; the ice thaws and gives way to a well of sharp emotion, even though the rest of his features struggle to maintain their usual calm and composure. “I can’t.”
“So, like…” Bokuto begins, ignoring the way Akaashi lets out the softest of sighs as he once more begins to speak, his hands behind his head and gaze cast skywards as both spirit and deity tread through the grass in the light of the still-setting sun, the sky awash with fiery colours of gold and red that have started to make way for purples and pinks and blues in preparation of the coming dark. “Didn’t Beom-kun say that Shun was asleep?”
Akaashi frowns. “He probably went out again. He does things like that often; I doubt they’d bother to question him anymore at this point.”
Bokuto barks a short laugh, shaking his head. “I guess that does sound like something he would do.”
Some people never change.
Though he doesn’t know where these thoughts are coming from when he’s never met Shun until today. However, Bokuto can say with confidence that the Zhen is one good-looking man, and this is coming from him, who is also a very good-looking man. At least, that’s how he likes to think, and it’s what a lot of people say. With a face like that, it would be a wonder if he didn’t have any admirers at all! Not to mention his figure, though, really, he’s maintained it more for the satisfaction of seeing his hard work bear fruit.
They walk in comfortable silence for a few moments more; both footfalls inaudible, though one is as solid as a rock. Bokuto wonders briefly how Akaashi Keiji can be so quiet, so calm, so small, yet so big and stifling and loud (at least to Bokuto) at the same time. It’s like his very presence knocks the breath from the former athlete’s lungs, robbing him of the ability to breathe, to think. In fact, the more time they spend together, the more confused Bokuto gets. He can’t quite fathom why he’s such a mess in his presence. It’s in the way he takes one look and thinks, fuck, how is he so gorgeous? And in the way he wonders Why is it that I notice every small thing he does? Because whenever Akaashi Keiji moves to tuck a lock of long, dark hair behind his ear, or when he fiddles with his fingers, he finds his luminescent gaze following his every movement regardless of its significance.
He wonders if Akaashi notices.
He wonders if he cares.
He wonders why he wonders if he cares.
Then he wonders Akaashi, what are you thinking?
Do you see me the way I see you?
Do you see me and think of me in ways no one else would?
What do you see in me?
Sometimes, sounds come to him, out of nowhere. Visions, fleeting, that flash before his mind’s eye. Ragged breathing, soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips, hands tangled in his hair, scratching down his back, someone calling Kou in a low whine by his ear as a chest presses against his own. And then the thought disappears just as quickly, leaving him hard of breathing and confused and frustrated as he wonders what the fuck is happening and who the fuck was that?
In a poor attempt to clear his thoughts, Bokuto clears his throat, asking, “So, uh, why, exactly, are we walking through the forest? We’re going to Miyagi, right?”
Unsurprisingly, he’s met with silence. Bokuto breathes a chuckle, shaking his head and not understanding why all he’s feeling is endearment when he should really be pouting about being ignored. Akaashi’s figure is slender; Bokuto supposes that he’s not wearing too many layers of clothing beneath his silken robes, which make him look slim and long. It’s dark out now; Akaashi simply raises his hand, his finger alight with a cold, blue light, as he draws a few characters in the air. The light forms a trail in the air that lingers, and soon, a complicated-looking character appears in the air, its appearance not unlike calligraphy. The way the colour of gold and fire seeps into the trail it leaves behind like ink on paper is oddly mesmerising, but vaguely unfamiliar, unlike the rest of Akaashi’s movements. And though he feels like he should know the character, Bokuto can’t read it, but a moment after, as Akaashi gives the hovering symbol a small blow, it dissolves into a hovering ball of fire.
“How did you do that?” Bokuto blurts out, eyes wide. “That’s really cool!”
Akaashi looks back with a raised eyebrow, then back at the fireball hovering in front of him. Bokuto catches up to him; his shadow looms over the shorter male as he stares at the little, sun-like object. It dances around Akaashi like a creature with conscience; the immortal’s gaze is amused as he follows its movement, watching as it finds its perch in the space between Akaashi and Bokuto’s shoulders. It’s warm, but not too much so, and not too cold, either. It’s just right. “It’s a basic spell. One of the first I learned at the Academy.”
Bokuto blinks. “Academy?”
“Bai Ze Academy,” comes the cool reply. Akaashi forges on, prompting Bokuto to follow him as they walk side-by-side. “A cultivation academy from many years ago.”
Not familiar.
Well, obviously. It was probably like hundreds of years ago or something!
“Why isn’t the name familiar?” Bokuto asks eventually.
“Because it’s no longer here, as an academy or otherwise.”
And he elaborates no further. Bokuto frowns, but questions no more as he follows him. He doesn’t last five minutes before he breaks the silence again, this time asking, “We’re going to Miyagi, but we’re walking through the forest. Why can’t we just take the bus? It’s faster that way, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like the bus. Too many people,” comes the brusque reply. “If not for the way I didn’t know Tokyo like the back of my hand, or how the hour allowed very little people on the bus, I wouldn’t have taken one to Beom’s apartment.”
“Why aren’t you going? To the festival.”
His gaze is perfunctory. Careless. Bored. Apathetic as usual, he replies, “There’re too many people there. I don’t like it.”
“But it’s a celebration! You could at least go for the fireworks or something.”
His cool gaze meets a passionate one. Calmly, he says, “No one wants me there. It’s not safe for me, either.”
“But—”
“I don’t care about the view. I have no time for sightseeing.” Gaze softening, he looks away, his pale fingers tracing the wooden windowsill’s shape in a languid, almost dazed manner. “You go on ahead and have fun.”
“K—”
“Thanks.” He rises from his seat, sweeping his billowing sleeves once before linking his hands together beneath them. “For inviting me.” A slight pause, then the smallest curve of his lips. “You’re the first. And last.”
“Then why can’t we walk along the street or something?” Bokuto croaks. Akaashi raises an eyebrow at his odd tone, but says nothing. “Why the forest?”
Akaashi shakes his head. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”
Now, he pouts. Bokuto’s eyebrows furrow and he nearly crosses his arms, but thinks better of it. The fireball flits around the both of them protectively, but when Akaashi holds up his hand, its flames curl into themselves as it hovers above his palm. Tilting his head to the side, he lets it go again to once more dance around the pair of deity and spirit. “Then—”
Akaashi freezes in his steps. “Get down.”
Bokuto blinks. “Wh—”
Akaashi shoves the former athlete’s chest hard, forcing the spirit to soundlessly topple onto the ground as the deity ducks his head low. There’s a whistling sound, then the resounding thump of something colliding with wood. The immortal’s gunmetal blue eyes are alight, like an animal alerted by its enemies, and he scans the area with his sharp gaze. He reaches his hand out and the fireball flies onto it; it extinguishes with a gentle blow.
They’re close. Akaashi’d toppled over; now he hovers over the spirit’s figure, their chests dangerously close as he surveys the area.
He thinks of the soft skin, the feeling of nails down his back as someone breathes his name in a long whine. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks until he has to force himself out of his thoughts so he won’t spiral down a cliff he has no intention of falling off of for the time being.
“Wh—”
Bokuto’s words are muffled as a cold palm covers his lips and he’s dragged aside. Akaashi stands up, some sort of weapon in his hands, and not a moment later, a clang of metal against metal reverberates through the air. Then there’s more scuffling; Akaashi’s soundless steps a stark contrast to the heavy ones beating against the brush. Someone grunts. Akaashi pushes forward; in the scarce light of the moonlight, Bokuto can make out the glint of dark metal.
Akaashi’s movements are elegant, graceful, poised. He blocks, parries, lunges, falls back, his movements swift as flowing water. The blades are unusual; nonetheless, the names come to his head, unbidden, and Bokuto himself wonders how he knows what they’re called.
Deer horn knives. [1]
[1] Look like this. If you want to read the super short wiki on it, it's here.
Somehow, he knows there’s more up Akaashi’s sleeve.
Akaashi jumps, kicks, then falls back when he’s blocked. He steps on the sword and uses his momentum to flip backwards. His landing is graceful. Bokuto stays rooted in place, mesmerised by his grace and ease.
There’s a resounding clang; Akaashi is forced backwards, a grunt leaving his lips. Bokuto’s ears perk at the sound and he straightens, shaking himself from his daze, a sort of protectiveness filling his chest as he hurries to stand. Akaashi holds up his hands. He’s blocking a heavy-looking saber, and the immortal looming before him is masked, his eyes fierce, as the two struggle to gain the upper hand. When he speaks, his voice is distorted. “You dare show your face to me?”
“I know not of who you are,” comes the curt reply. Akaashi sweeps out his leg; the immortal jumps to avoid it. The masked man throws out a kick. The silk-robed official dodges it nimbly. And then their blades crash again and again; the sound deafening.
Bokuto’s throat tightens, his lips dry as he thinks, don’t touch him. Don’t touch him.
The flash of metal. A swift shink. A trail of blood appears on Akaashi’s cheek, and Bokuto stares at the red liquid, dumbfounded.
“No,” comes the reply from the masked man. “But I know who you are. A sinner.” If not for the mask, he would bear an expression akin to a feral animal with its fangs bared. He lunges again, and Akaashi parries with ease. He steps back, kicks, then pushes forward again; it’s an endless but almost soundless dance, save for the chatter and the sounds of metal hitting metal.
“I have done many things,” comes the vague reply.
“Where is he?” Masked Man questions.
“I know not of whom you speak of.”
“Lies,” he hisses, gaze ferocious, movements vigorous. “You dare shelter the tainted sun and pretend you do not? You may have survived Heaven’s wrath once, Akaashi Keiji, but mark my words, there will be no second time.”
Akaashi’s movements are as calm as his words. He steps back, then slices forward with his strange blades. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You shelter chaos!” Comes the shrill cry. His movement is sudden, and the harsh blow connects this time. Akaashi releases a grunt as the hilt of the blade connects with his cheek. He staggers, stumbles to the side, regains his balance just as swiftly. But he’s forced to raise his hand to clumsily block the next blow, stumbling backwards once more. “You shelter a divine being whose blood has run foul, and still you dare to oppose us? You dare to oppose the will of Heaven? Have you no fear? No shame? Heaven forgives, Akaashi Keiji, but it does not forget.” His gaze is piercing. “And you have tested the lines once. One too many times.”
“I shelter no one,” comes the reply, irate in its tone. Akaashi tries—and fails, sort of—to strike back, but the heavy-handed masked man allows him no purchase. His blows are relentless. Stab, stab, stab.
“You lie,” comes the bitter hiss. His ferocious eyes narrow. “You speak of being alone, and yet, the spirit by your side suggests otherwise.”
Akaashi’s gaze involuntarily sweeps over to check on Bokuto, who stands frozen in place. Then, he says, “Picked him up along the way. He is of no importance.”
The words hurt more than any mortal wound could.
They hurt more than they should.
Then, as if to rub salt into the wound, Akaashi follows up and says, “I do not know him.”
It’s like a stab to the heart, though it’s true. And, like every other time Bokuto looks at him, he finds himself robbed of the ability to breathe, but now, he’s gasping for breath in pain, he’s spiraling down a hole he doesn’t know of, he’s submerged in water, and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning.
“Lies are of no use to me, Dragon Lord.”
“I am no such thing.” Comes Akaashi’s reply.
A scoff.
Then, again, “I do not lie.”
“And that, too, is a lie in itself.”
Taking advantage of the split second before Akaashi’s gaze goes back to the masked man, he uses a knife—it’s small, concealed, and Bokuto almost misses it if not for the glint of metal in the moonlight—and he lunges. Bokuto cries out, his voice hoarse, “Watch out!”
But for all Akaashi’s speed, it is not quick enough.
But Bokuto is moving. He’s running. He’s lunging forward and slapping the knife from the masked man’s hand and kicking and punching him while he’s thinking, don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t fucking touch him!
His movements are a blur. He dodges and turns and kicks with a practiced ease, grabbing hold of the blade in a very unorthodox way and ignoring the blood on his palm(though he can’t fathom why when he’s technically dead ). He holds it tight, pulls the deity forward, golden gaze ferocious, before he snaps the blade in half.
There’s silence. Shocked silence.
Bokuto doesn’t fully register what’s happened until he feels the pain. He looks down at the blood, then blinks, and then he blinks again before looking up to meet the surprised expression of Akaashi and the masked man they’d fought. The air is still, pregnant with pause.
Then Masked Man laughs. “Good!” He cries, voice shrill. “Very good!” He points at Akaashi. “You have brought upon a disaster, you! Once is already one too many times, Akaashi Keiji—do you intend to try Heaven’s wrath once more?”
“How did you do that?” Akaashi asks, ignoring Masked Man, elegant features contorted into a delicate frown. “You’re not supposed to be solid. And you never learned to fight.”
“I have no idea,” Bokuto relents helplessly.
“I’ve seen enough today,” spits the masked man. He raises his finger, moves to touch the hilt of his blade at its sheath, only to remember it’s lying in pieces on the ground. “The Heavens will hear of this, Akaashi Keiji. There will be no escape.”
“I stand by my words,” comes the cold reply. “If you doubt my truth, you are free to call for Iwaizumi to test me. No one will believe you. They did not before, they will not again.” Akaashi tilts his head to the side, lips curled ever-so-slightly in a condescending manner. “Would you dare test the former marquis’s patience? He is, after all, the direct subordinate of the Upper Court’s Overseer [2].”
[2] I don't think this is a thing in xianxia novels, but I made this on my own. It's fairly literal. Overseer I guess would be like
the "king" of the Upper Court. They are the only ones who can contact those of the higher plane.
A hiss. “A forked tongue knows no truth. You speak ill as though it is gospel. Your truths are lies, and your lies are truth. Soon, all will see this. Your crimes will come to light.”
“You may frame me as you wish, but only General Iwaizumi’s whip may tell if I am of ill intentions or not.” Akaashi sweeps his sleeves, steps forward, his gaze piercing. “Are you afraid of something?” He tilts his head to the side, apathetic as ever. “Are you afraid I might find something I should not?”
“Snake,” comes the reply. “I have no intention of answering to the likes of you.”
“Then you best be on your way, lest I call for a true snake to investigate your identity.”
“Sinner!” Masked Man cries. “You are filthy, Akaashi Keiji. You have always been.”
“Then so be it.” He raises his chin, gaze steady and calm. “If I am filthy, then rolling in the mud will bear no consequence.”
If I am filthy, then no matter how much I cover myself in dirt, there will be no difference.
If I am filthy, then I will indulge in the mud that birthed me and rise as the best of my own, rather than pretend to be clean and try to be something I am not.
If I am filthy, so be it.
The masked man leaves in a fit of anger. One moment he’s there, then, a gust of wind after, he’s gone.
——————
“Are you alright?” Bokuto asks after a short bout of silence. Akaashi turns his gaze to him, as though looking at the spirit in a new light. Even so, there’s an uncertain suspicion and hesitance in his eyes, and his delicate lips pull downwards into a frown.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asks instead of answering the bicoloured-haired male’s question. Akaashi sweeps his arms and the crossed-crescent blades in his hands disappear, concealed in his sleeve [3]. His gaze is piercing. “That… I have not seen that style of martial arts in a long time, Bokuto Koutarou.”
[3] Yk how in traditional clothing, the sleeves can be huge and wide and shit?
The sleeves are sown on the bottom and half of the front and just a bit on the back. (Or smth like that). Either way, you can store shit in there.
Calling me by my full name even though you’re younger than me—where’s your respect? Bokuto wonders bitterly, only to remember that Akaashi is older than him, by several centuries at the very least. And so, he shoves the thought aside, clearing the frown from his face as he tilts his head to the side in thought. “I said it already, didn’t I? I have no fucking idea.” I just know I didn’t want them to touch you.
Why?
Because you’re…
What?
… what are you, Akaashi?
What are you to me?
Akaashi frowns, unconvinced, oblivious to the spirit’s conflict as he turns around and sweeps his billowing sleeves once to gather his bearings, hooking his hands together beneath them as he looks around to survey the remains of the clearing left in the wake of their previous battle. But he questions no further, instead opting to turn around. Taking a hand from beneath his sleeve, he ignites his finger and once more draws the character in the air, blowing on it to breathe life into the flame that hovers before him. “Let’s keep going,” he says finally, after the flame perches on Bokuto’s shoulder.
“Are we almost there?” The former athlete asks, hurrying to follow Akaashi, lest he lose him(seeing that the latter clearly has no intention of waiting for him to follow). “We’ve been walking for ages.” We even got into a fight!
The immortal’s gaze is scathing. “Be patient.”
“Patience isn’t my thing, Akaashi!”
An apathetic snort. “Now’d be a good time to start practicing it, then.”
“Akaashi!”
“Calling me without honorifics. You’re rather daring, aren’t you?”
But honorifics don’t feel right when I’m talking to you.
The woods in front of them once more make way, revealing a stone far taller and wider than the both of them combined. In the moonlight and flames of the fireball, Bokuto can only barely make out a few carvings on it. The jagged boulder is worn from the forces of nature, but even so, the ink on it remains as good as new.
Like the day it was first made.
Bokuto blinks.
But how would I know that?
“It’s a distance-shortening array [4],” Bokuto blurts, then blinks again. “... How do I know that again?”
[4] Just... imagine an array of symbols drawn in a certain pattern. You need spiritual energy to power it. This one is basically a drawn portal lol.
Akaashi’s gaze is calculating. “You tell me.”
“Well then, Akaashi, I’m sorry, but I really got nothing to tell you when I have no idea what the fuck is happening myself.”
Silence falls between the both of them like a blanket as both cast their gazes on the boulder. The pattern is intricate, but he can vaguely make out a circle as the outermost shape, followed by some geometrical figures within themselves. A circle, an octagon, a few more something-gons with a triangle at the centre. At each point of the octagon, there are a few characters written in ink, and Bokuto is struck by how the handwriting is—
He pales a little, then leans forward to look at it.
What the fuck?
“Is something wrong?” Akaashi asks, coming up beside Bokuto. “Though I doubt you’d be able to tell if there was anything strange. This array is…” Akaashi frowns. “Special. Intricate. One of very few.”
“Do you know who made it?” Bokuto asks in a rush, fearing the rapid rush of his heartbeat as he, for once, finds his attention wholly on something else rather than the dark-robed man next to him.
“He was an expert at war. A distinguished cultivator,” comes the reply. Akaashi’s pale fingers trace the patterns with a frown as he tilts his head to the side, a crease forming between his brows. “He made this array on his own. The others, too—only he had the power to pull it off. And the knowledge; he knew the Old Nation like the back of his hand. I…” The immortal hesitates, frowns, then falls completely silent. Anxious, Bokuto finally turns to glance at him, only to find him lost in thought.
“I knew him, I think,” Akaashi finally relents, his speech haughty, hesitant. “Once.”
Bokuto doesn’t understand why he doesn’t question it further. Perhaps it’s the pain in Akaashi’s eyes, the confusion, the anguish. Maybe it’s his own. He doesn’t know, but he drops the topic in the end, albeit with reluctance. He steps away from the boulder, thinking, … I guess it can’t be helped.
The atmosphere turns sour. Even so, Akaashi lifts his hand to press it against the jagged stone, and it glows with power. The ink on the boulder lights up, the characters engraved at each point of the octagon coming forth. Akaashi moves his hands in a motion not unlike spinning a wheel before he stops it at a certain character. When he brushes it, it splits and branches out to more names. The soft, warm glow of gold from the activated array is a stark contrast to the deity’s cold and hard features.
Finally, he settles on a name(Bokuto can’t help but wonder how old the deity must be to be able to read such old, traditional characters) and, as soon as his fingers brush over it, the rest of the characters disappear. When the former athlete blinks again, the polygons in the circle are gone, replaced by the night view of Miyagi within the circle.
He feels proud, for some reason.
Akaashi walks forward; as usual, he doesn’t bother to look back to make sure Bokuto is following him. He steps through and pauses, saying, “If you don’t come through now, it will close.”
He hurries to follow.
True to the dark-robed man’s words, as soon as Bokuto steps through, the sounds of the forest(which he hadn’t been aware were there to begin with) disappear. He glances back, only to be met with nothing but air and buildings. Akaashi has once more swapped his long robes for casual wear, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting pants and a dark shirt tucked into the waistband. In exchange for his handy sleeve pockets, he has a bag slung over his shoulder; it’s not too big, nor too small.
“Akaashi-san!”
A bright voice reaches their ears, and Bokuto is struck by the familiarity of it. He whips around to meet bright, brown eyes, and before he can think better of it, he blurts, “Hinata-kun?”
Hinata Shouyou stops in his steps as he stares, dumbfounded, at Bokuto. Then Akaashi. Then Bokuto again. And then he goes, “Holy shit, you guys met each other?”
Akaashi frowns. “I picked him up along the way. He was wandering around this realm with unresolved grievances. If I let him stay for too long, he’d be a thorn in our sides.”
Hinata hesitates. “Um, sure he will. I mean—that’s great, though! You’re helping him!”
“Wait, hold up,” Bokuto begins. “You’re telling me that you’re an immortal too? I’ve been playing fucking volleyball with a fucking god?” He pauses, then continues. “What? Wait—I saw you grow up, though? You went from some shitty little crow to a really good ninja!”
Hinata’s expression looks as though he’s caught between the urge to laugh and cry, but he can’t decide which option to choose. So he goes, “That, uh. Um.” He looks helplessly at the deity next to Bokuto, who offers him no assistance, forcing him to fend for himself as he awkwardly scratches the nape of his neck. “It’s hard to explain, but! But we have ways to—to fabricate… memories…” He trails off, voice getting softer, but still loud enough for Bokuto to hear. He stares, dumbfounded, but before he can get another word in edgewise, Hinata plows on. “And I’m not the only deity friend of yours, Bokuto-san. You’re sort of, uh, surrounded by us.”
He blinks.
“What?”
Hinata grins, albeit a little bashfully. “Yeah! And, well. You never really change.”
“Wh—hey! I’ve changed plenty! I got taller! Better!”
The orange-haired male gives a smile. “You sure did!”
“Hinata,” Akaashi cuts in. “Where are we staying?”
We, Bokuto thinks giddily. He said ‘we’. Not ‘me and him’. Or even just ‘I’.
‘We’.
Hinata snaps out of it. “Oh, right! Well, Kageyama and I decided through rock-paper-scissors, and I lost, so you’re staying at one of my shelters. I’ll take you there now!”
“Which one are we going to?”
“You came here to investigate, right? So you’re going to the one with more of the demons around. They wanted to talk to you, anyway.”
“And Heaven still hasn’t arrested you for sheltering them?”
Hinata laughs. “How could they? I’m not sheltering them, but I’m not oppressing them, either. I’m just letting ‘em hang around. And it’s not like every deity is as rigid as Ushijima-san. But even that dude has more than a few demon friends.”
Heaven is a corrupted system, a voice whispers. It was changed before, and it will change again.
Bokuto blinks.
What?
But there’s nothing.
Was that me? Was I thinking that?
“So what is happening, exactly?” Akaashi asks. “A matter as small as this shouldn’t require my attention.”
“No,” Hinata replies. He doesn’t seem to mind that Bokuto is listening to what he assumes should be a very important discussion, and it isn’t like Akaashi has protested either. “But the thing is, you know how I had to relocate for a few years?”
“You mean ‘take some time off’.”
“Relocate.”
Akaashi’s gaze is perfunctory. “... ‘Relocate’.”
“Right!” Hinata snaps his fingers, then continues. “Anyway. It started a year after I relocated. And, the funny thing is, it still hasn’t been resolved.” He hesitates here, then lowers his voice. “Someone is covering it up.”
Akaashi frowns. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
The orange-haired man nods frantically. “I know! But think about it! It’s been years. And this involves mortal lives. There’s no way a demon could have covered this up for so long without leaks. No matter how powerful, they’d at least need some help. And Heaven has plenty of peo—”
“Quiet. Speak no further,” Akaashi hushes, glancing around in a very subtle manner. “You forget your place. There are too many ears here.”
Hinata obediently shuts his mouth and continues forward. “Anyway, here we are.”
It’s an apartment building. Hinata enters it with a familiar ease, and Bokuto notices the way at least half of the room immediately has eyes on him.
Speaking of, was this building always in Miyagi?
“Kitsu-kun!” Hinata calls. The man at the reception raises his head; his dark locks fall before his honey-coloured eyes, his features sharp and beautiful in a way that humans are not. Hinata turns back and smiles at Bokuto and Akaashi. “This is Kitsu-kun. He’s a kitsune! We just call him that because he forgot his name a long time ago. He’s the manager here.”
Kitsu bows his head, then speaks. “Akaashi-sama. Bokuto-sama. I hope your stay will be to your tastes.”
“Hold up,” Bokuto interrupts. “Has this apartment complex always been here?”
Hinata’s smile is mischievous. “I wonder, I wonder!”
Akaashi shakes his head. “There’s a fine line between illusion and magic, Bokuto-san. This world we live in is rife with both.”
Someone crashes into the lobby. The people around immediately tense up as another fox spirit pants, then glances upward, searching for Hinata. “Hinata-sama!” He starts, hurrying forward despite his painful gasps for breath. “There’s been another attack.”
“Just our luck,” comes the orange-haired deity’s reply. He turns to Akaashi and Bokuto, then asks, hesitant, “... Will Bokuto-san be following us?”
This gives the other pause, and his gunmetal blue gaze sweeps over the spirit’s figure. Something about the way he scans Bokuto sends ambiguous shivers down his spine, even though he knows there’s no meaning to it when he can practically see the gears turning in the deity’s head. Finally, he says, “I want to see what he can do.”
Hinata blinks, but when the fox spirit starts to usher him again, he drops the topic. “... Alright. Then follow me. Lead the way.”
——————
“Quickly,” the fox spirit says as he weaves seamlessly through the alleys of Miyagi with the ease of someone who’s walked through them at least a million times. The three follow him in silence, their movements coordinated, as though they themselves have worked together like this a million times before. “This way.” The further they go, the quieter his voice becomes, and that’s how they know they’re nearing their target.
They stop by a house, resting by the wall of its backyard. The fox spirit fidgets and twitches nervously; his white ears flick in every which way in an attempt to hear as much as possible as his tail swishes about in anxiety. His voice but a mere hiss now, he says, “Inside. They’re still inside.”
Akaashi takes a deep breath. Then he draws another character in the air before jumping up and pushing the character forward with the palm of his hand. A deafening screech fills the air and he’s in action; jumping over the wall and slashing his crossed-crescent blade through… something.
There’s a thump.
In the end, Bokuto doesn’t have to do anything at all.
The three follow into the room. Lying on the bed is a corpse sucked dry. Her skin is sunken, pallid, grey, sickly thin with her eyes rolled up and her wiry hair spread over the pillows. She’s dead at this point. And on the floor is some sort of humanoid creature that stinks of death and the fucking garbage that you haven’t thrown for a week. It’s heaving and growling and its eyes are just black and its fangs are bared in hatred. If anything, it looks like a walking corpse, and judging from the smell of rot, it might well be.
Akaashi casts it no second glance as he sets it alight.
It goes up in flames; its screams are endless even when its ashes have been swept away. Quietly, the deity whispers a phrase, like some sort of mantra, before he turns to the other corpse on the bed. “Her soul has been sucked clean. She will have no way of reincarnating.”
“Hinata-sama!” Another kitsune crashes into the house. “The woman lives alone. The neighbours are preparing to come and investigate the commotion—Kageyama-sama has seen to the other three cases. We must leave immediately!”
Akaashi frowns. “Three?”
“That’s four cases tonight,” Hinata says. frowning. “That’s two more than usual.”
The fox spirit’s expression is helpless as he casts a glance at his comrade, whose expression mirrors his own as he says, “My Lords, we must leave now.”
Hinata turns to the deity and spirit. “Both of you should go back first. You look like you’ve had a rough night—this goes to you, too, Bokuto-san. I’ll investigate this matter for a little more with Kageyama.”
“Report to me first thing in the morning,” Akaashi sighs, relenting after a moment of hesitant silence. Then he turns to take his leave.
——————
Bokuto’s sleep that night is not dreamless, which, really, shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone anymore.
This time, the gunmetal blue-eyed beauty is driving a knife into his side, hissing, “You’re a liar like the rest of them.”
And Bokuto is saying, “I’m not! I’m not. If I’d known—”
“You wouldn’t have done anything!” Akaashi twists the knife. Bokuto chokes out a low groan of pain, his hand over the other’s trembling one on the blade, but he doesn’t force him to pull the blade out. “You wouldn’t. You’re liars, the lot of you. You all hate me.”
The pendant glints around his neck. Even in pain, Bokuto finds it and its wearer breathtaking. “I would never lie to you,” he replies, softly. “Keiji, trust me.”
When he looks back up, there are tears in his gorgeous eyes; the ice thaws and gives way to a well of sharp emotion, even though the rest of his features struggle to maintain their usual calm and composure. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
He reaches up to pick at the pendant. “This is proof. Proof of my trust in you.” His golden eyes meet the tears ones above him. “So why can’t you trust yourself? Trust me? ”
Akaashi’s grip loosens. He pulls the dagger out, sobbing, trembling, and Bokuto gasps for breath as the wound starts to heal itself.
This is different, the Bokuto watching the dream thinks in bewilderment. Because the wound is healing when it didn’t so many times before.
“They’re terrible,” Akaashi whispers, bringing his hands together to anxiously pull at his fingers. “They called me filthy. They said I made them filthy. But what does that have to do with them touching me?”
Bokuto freezes. “They did what?”
Akaashi shakes his head and rises from his position, ignoring the blood pooled on the floor as he stalks out of the room. “Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”
He doesn’t even give Bokuto a chance to ask.