boundless || bokuaka

“You have taken lives, Akaashi Keiji. How are you any different from us, assassin? Have you not killed? Have you not stolen that which is not yours? You live a fool’s life, Dragon Lord. A fool’s life.”

It’s burning. 

He’s on fire. 

It stings. It’s painful. 

But Bokuto Koutarou doesn’t know if the pain is from his head or his heart. 

The sounds of the world around him dim into nothing but white noise. At the back of his head, vague thoughts like that’s a lot of attacks at once and yikes are drowned out by the rising symphony of absolute pain flooding his head. If not for him being a spirit, Bokuto has a feeling that his nose would be bleeding by now. He clutches his head, blinking his eyes in a futile attempt to clear his mind. The pain is so overwhelming that he can’t hear anything but his laboured, haggard breathing as he curls in on himself. Because all he can think right now is it’s painful it’s painful it’s painful and I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry—

His form flickers ever-so-slightly. Like he’s going to disappear, or… something. No one notices. Bokuto can vaguely make out a new voice; Kageyama, perhaps. Probably him. Hinata and him are barking orders, so in tune with each other that they move and speak together; they don’t even need to look at each other before they’re simultaneously changing their attire into one that’s more battle-ready. Kageyama palms the sheathed sword at his hip, and Hinata, the twin blades crossed on his back. Their expressions are grave as they continue to shout orders. 

“—san. Bokuto-san.” A gentle, strong voice pierces through the cacophony of thoughts and sensations in his brain. Bokuto clings onto it like it’s his last hope at life, like it’s his gods-damned anchor, hoping it will drag him from the dark well of pain and onto the shore where the waves are gentler and he can be unaffected by the sea’s storms. “Bokuto-san!” 

He gasps. Rises so quickly he almost bumps his head against the person leaning over him in concern, delicate eyebrows creased together. He’s heaving for breath, hand clutched to his chest, eyes blown wide as he looks here and there. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. 

Akaashi is frowning. “... Bokuto-san? Are you alright?”

He opens his mouth once, then closes it, one foot in the real world and another still trapped in the storm of his mind. He clears his throat and shakes his head in an attempt to gather his bearings, forcefully taking slow breaths. “... Uh. Yeah. I think so.” 

The dark-haired immortal raises an eyebrow, unconvinced as he tilts his head to the side. He looks as though he’s about to question the spirit further, but when he opens his mouth, he’s interrupted by Hinata, who asks, “Akaashi-san, are you coming with?”

He closes his mouth, pursing his lips as the corners of them curl downwards ever-so-slightly. Then he turns to face Hinata, already shifting from casual clothing to silken, dark robes with billowing sleeves as he says, “Yes. Where are we going?”

“How about Bokuto-san?” Kageyama asks, turning to look at the spirit, who looks paler than a spirit should, somehow. “Will he join us?” The rest of his words remain unspoken, though they hang in the air. He’s been tagging along with us this whole time, anyway.

So he nods before anyone can answer for him, shaking away the remnants of his distorted symphony of pain and apologies as best as he can as he gives a faint smile. “D’you really think I’d chicken out because of this?” He doesn’t mention how he’s still going in and out of that little space of his mind. Doesn’t mention how his head still stings, how his heart still burns. Doesn’t mention any of it. Somehow, it doesn’t show on his face, either. 

“Where are we going?” Akaashi asks, stepping forward, hands already reaching into his sleeves to pull out the cross-crescent-shaped blades. Bokuto finds his hand going to his hip, only to settle on air, and even as he bashfully puts it away, his body remains tense and alert. He doesn’t bother to wonder why when he’s a little too out of it to question it. Even the way he and Akaashi are moving right now, in this time of chaos, with one asking the questions and the other silently waiting for orders(though for some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right in this way) is familiar. 

Hinata gestures for a demon; his horns are curled high above his head, his pupils horizontal. A goat. “This street has three ghouls on-site.”

“That’s a rich district,” Akaashi says, frowning. “Are they targeting a family?”

Bokuto’s blood runs cold at the thought of innocent children losing their lives so quickly to these dreadful things. Gone, before a full life could be lived and enjoyed. Sucked so dry and thoroughly that not even they could enter the Wheel of Reincarnation. It’s a fate worse than death; they’d be completely wiped out of existence. No one to see them again in their next life. A barely lit candle flame snuffed out before it can even start to truly burn. Who will remember them when they’ve passed for good?

Me. I’ll remember them. 

“A family of five,” the goat demon confirms. But Akaashi is already turning, Bokuto behind him, winding his way through the streets of Miyagi, unseen by its people. At most a small breeze, perhaps. A strong wind at most. They’re weaving through the slowly waking city; Bokuto has no idea where they’re going, but it’s clear that Akaashi does, what with the way he dashes through allies with a striking familiarity. 

And he’s thinking, please let us make it in time please let us make it in time please let them be alive because, gods, it’s a family of five, of two parents and three children who’re probably rife with life and energy and potential and they don’t deserve to get their lives cut short so quickly—

But he can’t stop thinking. Of that dream. Of Akaashi, wrapped in bandages, bruises on his arms, that feral, hateful look in his eyes directed at him. Directed at what he stood for. Of Akaashi, stabbing his knife into Bokuto’s side with that broken look in his eyes. His lonely, injured figure, standing in the dark, swearing loyalty at the cost of a life for a life. Or his own for the death of an entire kingdom. 

He shakes his head. They turn a corner and run further upwards. Bokuto can hardly catch up, but it’s getting easier. Somewhat. He doesn’t know how, but he’s gone from trailing behind the immortal to running beside him. Akaashi doesn’t bother to look his way; instead, he charges forward, jumps over a wall(leaving Bokuto to bite his dust for a few moments before he realises he can just walk through it because, come on, he’s a ghost), before charging forward. 

Except when Bokuto finally catches up to him, Akaashi’s mouth is curled into the ghost of an amused smile as he waits for the spirit. It makes him blank out for a moment. He just stops to stare at that look, akin to a grin, really, and then finds himself returning the smile. 

And then their expressions sour when the sound of something thumping onto a carpeted floor fills the air. Their gazes break, dissolving whatever atmosphere had settled over them, and they look to the house. 

Again, he finds himself praying. 

Please be okay. 

Please be alive. 

Please.

But even he knows chances are slim if there’s already something in there.

And then it hits him. The metallic scent of blood. He cringes, flinches back; Akaashi’s expression merely hardens. Crystallises. His eyes grow cold and he tightens his grip ever-so-slightly on his blades before wordlessly charging into the house through the wrecked window, not bothering to avoid the shards of glass. How had he not noticed that shattered window? Perhaps he’d been too preoccupied with his staring. 

His stomach drops when he enters the room. The smell of blood practically invades his senses, and he flinches back, the smell sickening him to the bone. It’s so strong here, even Akaashi wrinkles his nose ever-so-slightly as he surveys the carnage that Bokuto still hasn’t mustered the courage to properly see. 

Akaashi sucks in an inaudible breath. Bokuto only makes it out by the slight stiffening of his otherwise still body, and when the spirit whips his head around to finally look, his stomach drops all the way to the floor and his hairs raise as he takes a step back. 

It’s terrible. 

They’re in piles. Blood, on the walls. Blood, on the couch. Limbs, haphazardly splayed across the floor. Blood, blood, blood, and not even an intact body. A head of long hair, torn from the torso, from the looks of it, lies to the side, the teenage girl’s mouth open and eyes wide in a silent, dreadful scream as her soul is sucked out of her body. 

Bokuto turns around. 

And he pukes. 

He pukes and pukes and pukes until he sees stars as he tries to cast the images of insides and blood and limbs and bits and pieces of chewed flesh and bones from his mind. Pukes as he grieves for the lives lost and never to be seen again. Pukes as he tries to rein in the anger and disgust at these creatures for doing this. 

Akaashi lets him puke. He doesn’t say a thing as he surveys the carnage, but he puts his hands together and lowers his head, uttering a prayer beneath his breath, even if these souls will never rest when they’re already gone. Forever and completely, never to return. Cast from the Wheel not by Heavenly Decree, but by the cruelty of demons. Devoured. Completely. 

Bokuto rises after a few more minutes of heaving. His head is ringing; he feels like it might be vibrating, too, but that’s probably just him. He can’t speak; his throat is raw. 

Reluctantly, stiffly, Akaashi kneels down in the blood, dipping a finger in it and looking for any sign of another person. He blows out a breath, saying, “There’s a family of five, but there’s only this girl and her parents.”  

And then Bokuto feels it. That dangerous, small spark of hope that he so desperately wants to snuff out but can’t. Because there’s a chance that the other two are alive, alive, alive, and they might have a shot at life. Akaashi’s voice cuts through his train of thoughts as he rises, frowning. “They’ve been dead for around ten minutes. But where are the other ghouls?”

Something slides against the floor, then thumps. Simultaneously, they turn their heads to the source of the sound. 

Upstairs.

The two move in tandem; somehow, Bokuto ends up in front as he rushes up the stairs, towards that sound source. His head throbs with his rapid, abrupt movements, but he stomachs it, shoves it aside, as he rushes up, up, up, thinking, please be alive please be alive please. 

But there’s nothing when they reach the top. Nothing but the metallic, dreadful reek of blood. The lights overhead illuminate the gruesome scene before him; a door busted open, barely hanging on its hinges, and blood splattered against the wall, pooled before the door. Clumps of hair on the ground, a wall bashed in, like they didn’t go down without a fight. 

Judging from the severed, half-chewed arm lying in the pool of blood, it clearly didn’t end well. 

Bokuto’s heart drops. His head is positively killing him right now, and he already feels like puking again. 

They didn’t make it, did they?

Akaashi takes over, walking forward to survey the damage. He cringes as he kneels down, gingerly stepping over the arm, lifting his robes so they won’t soak in the blood before peering into the room. Hoarsely, Bokuto asks, “... any survivors?” Even though he already knows the answer. 

Akaashi shakes his head in disgust. “You don’t want to see this.”

“Why?” Bokuto asks, then realises his question is misleading. So he continues. “Why were they torn apart? Didn’t the other one only get her…” He hesitates here; the image is clear as day in his mind’s eye, and he has to tear himself from his thoughts before he spirals too far into them. “She only had her soul sucked out. This family—they’ve been ripped apart.”

Akaashi once again gingerly walks back to the spirit. The former athlete looks so pale he’s almost green. Which makes sense, given that he’s surrounded by blood and severed limbs. The fact that he hasn’t passed out yet is already a testament to his strength. “Not every ghoul is the same. Some just eat souls. Some eat flesh. Some need both.” Akaashi’s eyes, cold but sad and pitying, turn to survey the carnage left in the ghouls’ wake. “This was the last type.”

A bitter, sour taste permeates Bokuto’s mouth and he shakes his head, breathing a shaky breath, struggling to gather his bearings and wits about him. His head hurts. And his world is sort of spinning. Sort of.

“I’m going to keep looking,” Akaashi offers cautiously. “Will you come with, or do you need some time to yourself?” The immortal won’t hold it against him, he knows. After all, this is the first time he’s seen something so… terrible in his life. Heck, he’s never even seen this much blood in one place before. It’s fucking horrible. 

And, again, his head hurts. 

“I’ll—” his voice cracks and he clears his throat “—I’ll stay here for a bit.” Because Bokuto Koutarou knows his limits and they’ve already been pushed to the extreme.

Hesitantly, Akaashi takes a step back, his body already half-turned. “Are you sure?”

A soft laugh. “Akaashi, I’ll be fine.”

He frowns. “Stay here, Bokuto-san. Don’t go wandering around.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

Akaashi stiffens almost imperceptibly. Then he leaves without another word. 

Bokuto waits until he’s out of eyesight and earshot before he kneels onto the ground and buries his face in his hand, heaving for breath. This headache is killing him, and the smell of fucking blood isn’t helping. It’s making shit worse. He keeps seeing things he doesn’t want to see. Blood, on a blade, a severed head at his feet. Screams, around him, calling for him, cursing him. Everything rushes in and goes out at once out of his system, and he feels like he’s going to go insane. 

Okay, Kou. Deep breaths here, he tells himself. A poor attempt to regain control over his body and thoughts. 

In. 

Out. 

In. 

Out. 

In—

Something thumps behind him. 

Bokuto doesn’t stand up in time before he’s toppled to the ground. Something snarls above him. He only has time to register bared, filthy teeth, before he’s kicking it off. Like he’s kicking off a blanket tangled between his legs. Off, off, off. 

It smells. It’s not just blood in his nose but the smell of rot. His nose wrinkles and he shrinks back, eyeing the disgusting thing on the other side of the room. 

It’s too thin, too pale, too oily. Its hair hangs in oily strands before milk-coloured eyes, void of pupils or irises, and its teeth are bared. It’s snarling, actually. Prowling across the floor, eyeing Bokuto. Even from where he kneels, Bokuto can smell its reek.

There’s blood on its face, on its claws. It’s dressed in nothing. And it’s hungry. 

It’s going to eat me. 

One moment, it’s there.

The next, it’s on him again. Bokuto falls to the floor, in the pool of blood. It’s on his arms, the smell ever-present in his nose, and—

The ghoul opens its mouth. Bites down. 

It’s not painful. It’s cold. 

Involuntarily, he shivers. The ghoul on him heaves, sucking, and immediately, Bokuto’s form flickers. In and out of existence, like a candle. 

He struggles. Tries to push it off. But his fingers are starting to pass through, and—

A loud screech tears at his ears, and the creature is violently thrown off. Akaashi flicks his wrist once and a chain appears in his hands, long and, like his fire, the blue light is interrupted by gold. The creature opens its mouth to scream. Akaashi flicks his wrist again, and the whip is wrapped around its neck. His expression is ferocious. 

There’s a sickening crack. 

And then it just falls. 

Onto the floor, like a bag of rice, with a thump. Literally sucking the life out of Bokuto one second, then lifeless itself the next. 

Akaashi turns around, pale, before he rushes over, kneeling down. “Bokuto-san, can you hear me?” His delicate eyebrows are creased with worry, and, hesitantly, he reaches out to the spirit, but even his hands pass right through. 

“... yeah,” comes the weak reply. Bokuto blinks, sits up, careful to not to press down on anything too hard for fear of it passing through. “I can hear you.” 

Akaashi breathes out a breath of relief. “Can you stand?”

“Uh… probably?” Bokuto rises unsteadily on his feet. The dark-robed immortal with robes stained with blood and skin as pale as porcelain rises with him, elegant features creased ever-so-slightly with worry. “Yeah. Yeah, I can stand. I’m standing, see? All good. Did you kill the other two already?”

“Yes. You’re flickering,” Akaashi replies. “That’s not a good sign.”

“Looks like I can’t fight all my battles, huh?” He offers, laughing. “I could beat those perverts to a pulp, but not this low-level ghoul.” 

Akaashi frowns. “Is it just me, or are you…” He pauses. “You’re fading back.”

“What?”

“Into form. That—”

“Akaashi-sama!” 

The two turn their heads abruptly to the source of sound. It’s the same fox spirit they travelled with the day before. He rushes into the hall, looking sick(no doubt from the gore downstairs and the one before him now), before saying, his words coming out in a rush, “Hinata-sama and Kageyama-sama want you back at our place. Now.”

——————

“Akaashi-san,” Hinata and Kageyama address simultaneously. The orange-haired immortal looks no better than the Akaashi himself, his complexion flushed, his robes filthy. “You… you’re gonna want to see this.”

They’re standing before a door, underground. Bokuto hadn’t known that the apartment had floors beneath the surface, but the moment they’d arrived, the two had dragged them to a lift, punched a few buttons, and then they’d shot down, down, down. 

Akaashi tilts his head to the side, as though he’s saying, go on, then. A moment after, the two of them open the door, and, again, the reek of blood and rot assaults the spirit’s nose. He’s still flickering every now and then, but it’s been ten minutes, and he’s starting to regain his proper form again. Bokuto wrinkles his nose and steps in with the others, only to pause in his steps. “This… this is a ghoul?”

“That’s what he’s supposed to be,” Kageyama replies stiffly, eyeing the man before them. 

His skin is the same shade of pale grey as all ghouls possess, but he’s clothed, though the fabric is torn beyond recognition. He sits on the floor, greasy strands of hair hanging before his beaten-up face, hands between his knees with his legs spread out before him. He looks up when they enter, and a harsh, grating laugh fills the room as the door slams shut. 

“How very kind of you,” he begins, his voice raspy with unuse, but his words clear and pronounced. “To grace me, this lowly subject, with your immortal presence.” He might as well be hissing, at this point. His pupil-less, iris-less eyes gleam with hatred and condescending amusement. 

Akaashi stiffens. “You talk.”

Another bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, I do. We of the older generation have long since learned the ways of humans,” the ghoul replies, spitting out the last word like venom. “Dare I say, Akaashi Keiji, that I have lived long before even you came into this world.”

“How?” Hinata interrupts harshly. “You’re the first old ghoul we’ve met that can speak. Or even think.”

“Foolish,” he hisses back. “You younger ones are dimmer than a dying candle’s firelight. Just because you’ve met none does not mean we are nonexistent.”

“Who gave you the ability to speak?” Akaashi asks harshly. “You ghouls are of low intelligence by birth. Someone taught you ways.”

Now the laugh is cruel, reedy, rough. It ends with a snarl. “Did you know, Dragon Lord, that if we of low intelligence by birth eat enough humans, devour enough souls, we gain power? Intelligence? There’s a fascinating saying they’ve made, these little mortals: you are what you eat. I have lived as a human for many, many years. Heaven is foolish, corrupted, a sham. And you would know that best, My Lord.”

“I am not,” the dark-robed immortal grits out. “—a dragon lord. Let alone a lord, demon. It would do you well to remember this.”

“No?” The ghoul barks out a laugh. “But those of the underworld call you such. Akaashi-sama. What will the Heavens do when they discover you dare to shelter us of the Lowest Realms?”

“I do not shelter the likes of you,” comes the sharp retort. “I shelter those that are in need of help. I treat them with the respect and kindness they should have, unless they’ve lost it.”

“Pity. No respect or kindness for little old me?”

Akaashi’s glare is as cold as ice. Colder, even. And sharper than even the sharpest blade. “There is no respect to be had for the likes of you after what you have done to achieve this state of awareness.”

“After what I have done!” The ghoul’s voice goes shrill. Bokuto realises that he’s chained to the ground, bleeding from the sides, his neck, his wrists. Is that a dent in his cheek? “After what I have done! Akaashi Keiji, of all the heavenly officials, I would have thought you understood us most.”

Akaashi stiffens. Hinata and Kageyama step forward, gazes one of warning. “You have no right to discuss the matters of an immortal,” Kageyama barks out harshly. 

The ghoul pays them no mind. “You have taken lives, Akaashi Keiji. How are you any different from us, assassin? Have you not killed? Have you not stolen that which is not yours?” A scornful chuckle. “You live a fool’s life, Dragon Lord. A fool’s life.”

The chain whip reappears in Akaashi’s hand, its light warm. Bokuto finds himself drawn to it this time. His headache has finally calmed, and, from the looks of it, he’s not flickering anymore. The ghoul shrinks back, scowling and snarling at the weapon’s light. “Call me Dragon Lord again, ghoul, and I will not spare you any mercy.”

“You are a thief, Dragon Lord. You have only known to take that which is priceless, but not give it back. Shame on the Heavens for allowing your ascension. Shame—”

The demon screeches. Bokuto realises that two blades have already plunged into it, snuffing the ghoul of life, only after Kageyama and Hinata pull it out, expressions tense and disdainful. Akaashi remains impossibly still and quiet at his side, but he swears the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees. 

“Let’s go get washed up before we start talking,” is all Hinata says before he and Kageyama are gone.

——————

His face is burning.

I didn’t see that I didn’t see tha—

I so saw that. 

A pale back. Strong, broad shoulders. An impossible fucking waist. Long black hair falling over it all.

Okay, so Bokuto saw Akaashi undress before he went to shower. 

Maybe he’s a little turned on. 

It’s so distracting that he doesn’t even bother to question how he can use the shower when he technically shouldn’t be solid to begin with. So distracting that he doesn’t realise he’s finally wearing a new set of clothes(given by one of the fox spirits, no doubt) after being dead for months. So distracting that he doesn’t even wonder how one of them got those clothes in when he clearly locked the door. 

And he bumps into Akaashi when he steps out. “Oops.”

The male before him raises an eyebrow. “Bokuto-san, why are you red?”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit—

Kitsu appears in the hallway. “Akaashi-sama, Bokuto-san, are you both finished cleaning? Hinata-sama and Kageyama-sama are waiting for you on the topmost floor in their suite.”

When Akaashi’s gaze sweeps over from Bokuto to the fox spirit, the latter breathes out a sigh of relief. Internally praising Kitsu’s timely appearance, the spirit tosses him a broad smile(which the demon returns, albeit a little confusedly), before turning to the dark-haired immortal next to him, who he realises hasn’t bothered to tie up his hair. His billowing robes hang loosely over his figure, but they’re not as layered as before. He supposes it’s because he might be sleeping soon. The subject of Bokuto’s gaze opens his mouth to speak. “You may take us there now.”

Kitsu nods, then turns, his tail swishing gently behind him. Bokuto holds in the urge to reach out and touch the bushy tail, knowing that doing so definitely wouldn’t end well. Even so, he can’t help but say, “Your tail looks really fluffy, Kitsu-san!” 

The kitsune stops in his steps abruptly, surprised, cheeks reddening bashfully before he turns around. His honey-coloured eyes are fixed onto the floor as he says, “Ah… Thank you, Bokuto-san.”

And then, unable to resist, Bokuto asks, “Can I touch it?”

There’s silence. Shocked, palpable silence. Akaashi breaks it, his words sceptic as he goes, “You do know that that’s usually considered as rude, Bokuto-san?”

Well. He figures it is, but that tail—it’s really fluffy. 

So he doesn’t notice the odd souring of the look in the dark-robed immortal’s eyes as Kitsu says, “Well… I suppose.”

And, good gods, it’s super fluffy. And soft. Bokuto’s grin broadens, his eyes alight with a childish fascination as he runs his hands through the bushy fur of the tail. “Whoa,” he breathes, then looks over at Akaashi. “Akaashi, you should try petting the tail, too! It’s super—”

“I’m quite alright,” the immortal cuts in apathetically, taking the lead. “We have places to be.”

Kitsu, whose face is now akin to that of a tomato’s, awkwardly and bashfully extracts his tail from Bokuto. “Bokuto-san, Akaashi-sama is right. If you so wish, I can ask the rest of the fox spirits to prepare a fox-fur coat for your journeys. Akaashi-sama, is yours still in appropriate condition?”

Akaashi pauses in his steps to allow Kitsu to catch up and lead the way. Only then does he answer, “Yes. Rarely do I use it; the cold doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.”

Kitsu’s eyes dim. “I suppose that is a good thing.”

The ghost of a self-deprecating smile tugs at the corners of Akaashi’s lips. “I suppose so.” 

Naturally, this conversation completely flies over Bokuto’s head as they make their ways into the lift. Kitsu remains silent at their side, his fox ears moving with the sounds around him. The lift is silent, but not uncomfortably so. When the doors open almost soundlessly, Kitsu steps aside, offering a small bow. “This is where I take my leave, Bokuto-san, Akaashi-sama.”

Both immortal and spirit nod their thanks to Kitsu before stepping through. Rather than stepping into a hall where numbered doors are lined up, they’ve stepped directly into a sprawling suite. The walls to the east and west are comprised entirely of windows; the curtains on the left have been parted completely to reveal the first hints of sunset. It occurs to Bokuto that they’re only in what seems to be the living room, and, before he can ask, Akaashi is already leading the way. The entire place is huge, and it’s almost confusing. Has Hinata always been this rich? Or is this an illusion? Or perhaps it’s an accumulation of all the wealth he’s amassed over the years as an immortal. 

Or, Bokuto interrupts himself. It’s just pure godly power.

At this point, it’s not something he’d rule out. 

When they finally find the two immortals, they’re next to each other on a couch. The television is off, and their heads are bowed towards each other, their voices soft. Hinata straightens, then smacks Kageyama, who returns the gesture, ever the bickering duo. But something about the scene is impossibly personal, impossibly intimate, and when the both of them pause their pointless arguing to laugh, Hinata presses a kiss to Kageyama’s lips, and Bokuto’s heart begins to ache. He forces himself to look away, but Akaashi, used to it, steps forward, saying, “Hinata. Kageyama.”

The two jump apart in surprise. Hinata is outright blushing. Kageyama’s face looks more constipated, and his ears are red. To their credit, they don’t stutter as they mumble out their greetings, albeit bashfully so. 

“Aw, man!” Bokuto offers, grinning. “If you guys were gonna keep kissin’, you could’ve just told us to leave first and come back when you’re done! I feel like I’m gonna get diabetes or something.”

Hinata reddens so much the spirit and immortal fear he might explode. “Uh—um. Uh! S—sorry…?”

“Dumbass,” comes Kageyama’s retort. “If you’re gonna apologise, do it properly. Why are you making it sound like some fucking question?”

Hinata puffs up in response. “At least I’m apologising! What about you? Shitty-yama.”

Kageyama glares. “What did you call me?”

Akaashi clears his throat before the two can continue their bickering, and the two lively youngsters quiet down immediately in response, still looking painfully bashful. “Please sit, Akaashi-sama, Bokuto-san,” Hinata finally offers, gesturing to the other couches. “We have a lot to talk about.” And his professionalism would be impressive if not for the still-present blush on his cheeks. And Kageyama’s. It’s disgustingly cute. 

So Bokuto and Akaashi take a seat next to each other, facing the other two on the couch opposite to them as they lean over the coffee table set between them. Hinata speaks first, clearing his throat in another attempt to gather his bearings. “So,” he starts, then throws a look at Kageyama to shut him up before the latter has even opened his mouth. “There were about four attacks tonight.”

“Five,” Kageyama corrects. “I took down two.”

Hinata sours, a competitive look flashing in his eyes. Bokuto can’t help but think, even as a couple, they’re still competing against each other, in amusement. “Five. That’s more than twice the usual amount of max attacks. And more times than usual this week than last month.” Hinata shakes his head. “Something’s not right.” 

“Have the Heavens been alerted of the situation yet?” Akaashi asks, clasping his hands together and leaning back against the couch ever-so-slightly. In the gentle light from above, the dark-robed immortal looks almost like an angel himself. “Seeing as they thought this was a small matter in the beginning.”

Hinata nods his head. “I sent a crow out about an hour ago.”

“Will they be offering assistance?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “Hard to say. But maybe if Iwaizumi-san is there, he’ll come down to help.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“The demons looked like they were following someone,” Bokuto finally says, unable to keep silent. “You said it yourself that they appeared to be following orders. And Old Ghoul-kun sort of confirmed it. But why?”

Kageyama and Hinata tense in unison. The both of them exchange gazes for a brief moment, looking like they’re having a conversation(read: argument/battle of wills) with their eyes. Finally, Kageyama looks away, pissed. “... We did a little more digging. After we came back. Apparently, it’s got to do with their privileges or rights or… whatever.”

Akaashi tenses. “What?”

“It’s like a repeat,” Kageyama begins tightly. “The demons. They’re—”

Akaashi holds up a hand. “Don’t. Do you know what you’re talking about, Kageyama? That war happened far before you were even in Heaven.”

“What war?” Bokuto blurts, unable to fight back his curiosity. Immediately, three pairs of immortal eyes turn to him, and he offers a sheepish, bashful sort of broad smile. Thankfully, they don’t leave him hanging for too long.

“Um… how do I say this?” Hinata starts, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if this is right, but this happened during Akaashi-san’s time.” At this, he casts a glance at the cold, silent immortal seated next to the spirit. “Apparently, some demons rebelled against Heaven. They wanted to reform the system for their… rights? Or something. And, well. It was a disaster. A lot of people died.”

Bokuto blinks. “Well, that’s rough, buddy.”

Kageyama blows out a breath. “Real rough.” 

“It’s strange that they only sent Akaashi down to investigate this, though,” Hinata says, tilting his head to the side with the slightest hint of a frown. “Normally they’d send a few more just in case, since they probably know by now that it’s been happening for a while.”

“The Heavens don’t like me,” comes Akaashi’s cool reply. “The Underworld favours me more than they do.”

Something about that puts a knife through Bokuto’s heart. Again, he thinks of the beaten assassin, in that poorly-lit room devoid of life. Of that stupid vow to serve so long as he got his vengeance. And then now, of this immortal, who seems to do so much for the place where he should belong, only to be treated as an outcast. “Why?” He asks.

The gunmetal-blue-eyed immortal touches a hand to his chest, where the spirit knows the jade pendant is, tucked securely and carefully into his clothes. “I don’t know.”

And, maybe it’s his imagination, but Kageyama and Hinata’s gazes are a mirror of the sadness Bokuto feels in his heart. But they’re gone by the next moment, and Akaashi doesn’t seem to notice. It’s either that, or he’s so used to it that he’s stopped caring. 

“Just get some rest for now,” Kageyama says, finally. “We can settle this after we’re well-rested. Hopefully, there’ll be help by then.”

Heavens know we need it. 

——————

“Go back.”

Oh, come on, again? Bokuto thinks. Again, he sees those gorgeous eyes, that smooth pendant. The wound at his side is already numb, and there’s blood pooling beneath him. The smell of blood is more vivid than he remembers, but he supposes that’s probably because he knows now how bad this amount of blood should smell. Pale fingers seize his robe, and Akaashi’s expression is one of torment. 

“Damn it, Kou—turn back!”

Those bright green flecks in his gunmetal-blue eyes stand out like stars against the night sky. Bokuto breathes out a breath, thinking, you’re as beautiful as ever, little jewel of mine.

Again, that peaceful feeling settles in his heart as he reaches a hand out to stroke the pendant, cool against his skin. Akaashi reaches for the string, hurrying to remove it. “Take it. Take it back. Take it back and go, Kou. Go back.”

Before it’s too late, go. 

“What did I tell you? It’s yours, Keiji. I gave it to you. Keep it.”

And then those frantic movements, those pleas, the look of absolute and unadulterated love in his eyes as Akaashi Keiji, his little jewel, panics above him. 

And then, from the corners of Bokuto’s dimming line of sight, a shadow dashes by. 

Wh—

“Koutarou!”

Akaashi is pulled away from him. Violently yanked away and tossed aside. Bokuto’s eyes widen and he hurries to rise, only to wince and cough out blood as he collapses back onto the ground. Akaashi reaches for him, calls his name. But the closer they try to get, the further they are. The further it feels. The shadows wrap around his little jewel, constricting him, restricting him of movement. He pulls against the dark tendrils, his expression almost feral and so desperate it’s painful, that it’s a sharp stab to Bokuto’s heart, and he’s screaming for him. 

“Keiji!” Bokuto scrambles, fighting his pain, the dark that threatens to take over his mind to put him to eternal rest. He fights against all of it as he crawls towards Akaashi, who’s gradually being pulled back. Again and again, they’re calling for each other, fighting a desperate battle that neither can win. 

But love is a funny, fickle thing.

It doesn’t stop him. 

“Go back, Kou,” Akaashi cries weakly. “Go back.” Before it’s too late, go back. 

And then the shadows coil around his neck, and they squeeze. They squeeze and Akaashi’s veins stand out against his skin and he’s choking and struggling to breathe and Bokuto is crying because his little jewel is right there and he can’t do anything to help him or save him. 

And then Akaashi is consumed by the dark. 

Bokuto’s vision blackens. 

When his eyes open again, he’s in that room. Akaashi’s wrapped in bandages, his arms bruised. The pendant around his neck is tossed aside onto the floor, and he’s reaching for it, sobbing, he’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over like a mantra as he cradles it close to his chest, his hands wiping away the blood on its cold, smooth surface. Bokuto opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t. 

“I want to go back,” Akaashi murmurs beneath his breath, so wracked and tired with sobs that his voice comes out hoarse and impossibly soft. The sorrow in it is an endless well that squeezes at Bokuto’s heart. “I want to go back!”

And then there’s that pain in his side again, and he’s being stabbed, over and over and over, by Akaashi’s blade. “I hate you, Bokuto Koutarou. I hate you.”

And it’s painful, gods, it’s so fucking painful, but he can’t bring himself to tell him to stop. So he’s just being stabbed, over and over and fucking over, on the ground, with the assassin hovering over him with a ferocious expression.

And it’s sad.

It’s sad how this world can take the humanity out of someone and burn it all away. Until there are no ashes. Until the only remains are the hollow shell of someone who once knew warmth. 

The tears on his cheek are warm.

But the hands on his neck are so, so cold. 

Bokuto once heard a saying.

The people with the coldest hands—

And then Akaashi is sobbing again. Sobbing and pushing him away and throwing away that bloody blade as he buries his hands in his soiled hands. 

The people with the coldest hands have the warmest heart.