boundless || bokuaka

“Don’t. Touch me,” Akaashi interrupts, slowly lowering his hand as he clenches it. His knuckles are white, his eyes closed, body trembling. “Don’t.”

Bokuto knows it’s a dream when he opens his eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings of a bygone time. Old-fashioned floors, a bed, snuffed out candles with melted wax at the bases as someone in old-fashioned military garb frantically rushes into the room. “General!” He huffs, then, remembering his position, he hurries to stand at attention, fist poised before his heart in a dutiful salute. “General, His Majesty calls for your presence.”

Bokuto blinks once, then twice, trying to shake the sleep from his mind as he runs a hand through his hair. “His Majesty? What for?”

“Not His Majesty,” another voice cuts in, smooth as porcelain, cool as ice. Both sets of eyes turn to face the newcomer who slides into the room easily with little but a small sound, barely audible. “His head eunuch will be passing the message in his stead. He is royalty, after all.” Akaashi Keiji tilts his head to the side, gunmetal-blue cold against the moon’s dim light. “He has oh-so-many deeds to attend to.”

Bokuto tries to keep the sour look from his face. “What are you doing here?”

Akaashi coolly meets his gaze, raising an eyebrow as he tilts his head to the side with crossed arms as he leans against the wall. “You tell me, General.”

The soldier gulps, tentatively stepping between the two before they set themselves aflame. “General, Akaashi-dono—he merely wishes to assign a task to the both of you. Perhaps it would be wiser to… well, listen to him before you both start fighting?” His next word hangs in the air despite his silence. Again. 

The tension is thick and heavy. Bokuto’s gaze is hot as fire as he glowers at the assassin in his room, and Akaashi’s is all cool ice, cold enough to induce frostbite as he meets his gaze apathetically. One might feel sorry for the soldier caught between the crossfire. “Uh, General…?”

He throws up his hands in exasperation, crawling out of bed. I want my sleeeeeppp. “Fine, fine. Away with the both of you.” He throws a meaningful glance at Akaashi. “Unless you want to see me get dressed.” His lips curl into a smug smirk when he sees the way the assassin sputters, indignantly and haughtily pushing himself off the wall as he begins to leave. 

He pauses before the doorway. Then, softly, his tone acrid and icy, he says, “Who would want to watch an over-built bull undress? You overestimate yourself.”

Akaashi is grateful for the dark.

No one can see the redness of his ears when he leaves.

——————

Bokuto is surprised to see Akaashi still waiting outside his door. He’s outside, in the courtyard, porcelain face turned upwards toward the moon. Its light is gentle, cascades over his dark hair, his dark robes, brings the delicate but sharp features of his face into relief. He is almost ethereal, with his sleeves billowing, expression serene. He is almost empyreal. Inhuman. 

Beautiful, but terrible.

And terribly beautiful.

Bokuto tears his gaze away, clearing his throat. Akaashi doesn’t react; instead, he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. When he turns around, gone is the serenity, replaced by emotionless, harsh cold. “Done? Took you awhile.”

The general smiles back condescendingly. “Impatience is unbefitting of an assassin.”

The other scoffs, turning to lead the way. “I am not on duty. What do I care about how I should act if I am not working?”

Bokuto notices the way the assassin grimaces in pain as he almost slips, the clumsy act uncharacteristic. Naturally, he reaches an arm out to help him; large hands close around a deceitfully delicate wrist as Akaashi straightens. The general’s words are soft, but full of silent fire. “They went for you again, didn’t they?” Rough hands carefully, tentatively pull back long, dark sleeves in search of bruises or wounds or anything that might hint at assault on the assassin again. The thought of his men doing such vulgar things leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. And to think that Akaashi still refuses to tell him who they are. But where are the wounds? 

The assassin winces when Bokuto’s rough hands pass over a particular area. He pauses, then presses down again, watching as the younger’s cold mask shatters. A small gasp of pain reaches his ears and Akaashi moves his arm away abruptly. Bokuto lets him go, voice hoarse as he says, “That’s on your joint. Why can’t I see the bruise?” 

Silence. 

Bokuto frowns and glances down at his hand, rubbing his fingers together, pausing when he realises something. 

Powder. 

He’s covering them up. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto starts slowly. The younger steps away, keeps going, nimbly avoiding the general’s seeking hand. He refuses to stop. “Akaashi.”

“Leave it, General,” he hisses. “You can’t do anything about it anyway. Just leave it.” He shakes his arm, lets the sleeve fall to cover up his already hidden wound. “It is none of your business.”

“But they are my men. That makes it my business.”

Akaashi whirls on him, eyes ablaze with cold fire. “What am I supposed to tell you?” He hisses quietly, voice cutting through the wind like a hot knife through butter as he stalks forward. He throws out an arm, gesturing to the emptiness around them. “‘General, your men assaulted me today and nearly took my virginity. General, they pinned me down and stripped me and beat me until I was black and blue, choked me so I couldn’t call for help. General, I had to struggle against seven men, nearly naked, as they touched me in places I wish they didn’t and beat me when I didn’t cooperate. Oh, General, they called me such filthy names.’” He scoffs, biting out a bitter laugh. “‘General, I’ve had to borrow make-up from the attendants of the palace to cover my wounds. General, I daren’t seek the doctor for fear of word spreading.’” He steps back, seething. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Bokuto’s skin crawls. “Those are my men—”

“Sure they are,” comes the icy reply. “But if I am to tell you who they are, if you were to make an example of them, what if they twisted your words? Then rumours would spread, and the respect you hold would be lost. And then your title would only be in name as the rest of the kingdom slanders you.” Akaashi turns. “No. I don’t think I will tell you. For your sake moreso than mine.” The last sentence comes out quietly, a small admission. 

“I know someone that can heal your wounds,” Bokuto tries, catching up to assassin, keeping pace. “He isn’t a part of the army. He doesn’t work here. No strings attached.”

A scoff. “I thought you hated me.”

A pause. “I do. Sort of,” Bokuto begins thoughtfully. “But I don’t want you hurt because of my men. That means you’re hurt because of me. ”

“That defeats the whole purpose of hate, then, doesn’t it?”

Bokuto frowns, tilts his head to the side. “It does?”

Akaashi sighs through his nose, but he doesn’t refuse Bokuto’s offer. So the general continues talking. “So is that a yes?”

“... Fine.”

They walk on in silence for a few moments more. It’s only before they have to enter the chamber to meet with the eunuch that Bokuto says, “I might hate you now, but remember this—that can always change if you prove me wrong.”

——————

“General!” The eunuch cries, a small thing as he ambles forward. He is almost thirty, his hair pulled into a bun behind his head as he smiles amicably. He offers a tentative nod Akaashi’s way. “I do apologise for calling for you both at such a late hour, and on such short notice!” He bows apologetically, hand on his chest, another poised behind his back. “We only received the news not too long ago, you see.”

Bokuto smiles charmingly, broad and bright. “Don’t worry about it! I mean, can’t say I’m not sleepy at all, but—” he laughs and shrugs “—guess it’s what I signed up for. What’s the situation?”

The eunuch sighs, pulling a piece of parchment from his sleeves, clearing his throat as he reads. “According to our intel, there is an enemy camp from Dong He—” here, his eyes briefly flash to Akaashi, who steadily and coolly meets his gaze, before he looks away to continue “—and we suspect that they’re planning something. His Majesty wants the both of you to work together to infiltrate the camp and collect any important documents and wipe it out without alerting any of them. Bring the important ones back alive so we can question them.”

Bokuto frowns. “I’m a—no, I’m the General of the Imperial Army. Why am I doing this? Am I not more suited for the battlefield?”

Akaashi raises a bemused eyebrow. “General,” he begins slowly, as though he is humouring a child. “What makes you think being a General makes you any different? Are you not a citizen of this country? You’re still a soldier.” He tilts his head to the side. “You do understand that being a general doesn’t mean you are to fight and control your army only , right? And for the record, I don’t want to work with an airhead either.”

“Hey!” Bokuto whirls on him. “Airheads don’t get to my position by being airheads!” 

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of Akaashi’s lips as he shrugs and looks away, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Sure.”

He’s mocking me. 

The eunuch watches their back and forth with unbridled amusement, his expression mixed, but he laughs all the same. “I see that the both of you are getting along well?”

“Are we?” Akaashi asks sceptically, raising an eyebrow. 

Bokuto is about to speak before the eunuch cuts in, unwilling to listen to another round of banter. “Alright, alright! Off with the both of you. The Emperor wants this matter settled as quickly as possible, so off with you. Here are the directions to the camp.” He shoves a scroll into Bokuto’s hands before he waves them off. 

The assassin and general exchange a glance. 

And then they’re off.

——————

“You walk so noisily,” Akaashi comments softly as they amble through the greenery in search of the camp. They should be near; if they’ve followed the directions correctly, they should be able to see it very soon. Because if they don’t, the past forty minutes of traversing through this forest and cutting down branches and jumping over bushes would be in vain. “Do they not teach you how to soft-shoe in the military?”

“I wasn’t trained to be an assassin,” he bites back gruffly, to which Akaashi doesn’t respond. Bokuto watches the way he moves, looking for any signs of any other wounds apart from the one on the joint of his arm that the male had found earlier. It’s all occasional winces and small pauses, almost unnoticeable unless you know what you’re looking for(but even then, Bokuto misses it). When he pushes a branch aside with his foot and it snaps back into place, slapping his ankle, Akaashi winces, pulls back slightly before huffing and moving forward. 

Akaashi Keiji is very good at being quiet. 

A part of Bokuto wishes he wasn’t. 

He wants to help. 

He knows what it’s like to be alone. 

An arm shoots out, halting Bokuto in his tracks. His eyes widen as he’s forced to come to an abrupt stop, and he’s about to question Akaashi before the assassin presses his hand to Bokuto’s lips, shaking his head as he holds up a finger to his own thin lips. “Quiet,” he says, then slowly removes his hand. “We’re here.” He gestures to the side, and Bokuto sees three guards patrolling the area. 

It’s a big camp. Bigger than one would think, and Bokuto is equally impressed and horrified. There are soldiers training somewhere far off(Bokuto can hear the sounds of metal clashing, the grunts of soldiers as their peers land a particularly painful hit) while others patrol the area, eat. Everything is as normal, except for the fact that this camp doesn’t belong to Yao Long—no, it belongs to Dong He. 

Akaashi’s eyes coolly scan the area, as though he doesn’t recognise a single person in the camp, despite probably growing up with them. Whether he’d trained with them willingly, Bokuto can’t tell. 

“Follow me,” he says finally, already moving through the greenery, footsteps silent. Bokuto suddenly wishes he learned how to pussyfoot, because this isn’t going to be as easy as the assassin makes it out to be. “I think I know where we can get in.”

It’s too dark to see(save for the lights coming from the camp, which is how they know they’re there), and Bokuto can’t use any of his talismans when they’re trying to sneak through this fucking place. But he can hardly hear the assassin; there aren’t even any crunching leaves, any snapping twigs. It’s eerie and it’s like he’s not even there. In fact, Bokuto has to call out a few times, in strained whispers, only to receive a hiss on the other end. “But I can’t hear you,” he retorts. 

Akaashi sighs, and then there’s the faint sound of rustling and tearing. Something closes around his finger; a piece of cloth, from the feel of it. “What—”

“Just tie it around your wrist. I’ll pull if you’re being too noisy or if you’re going in the wrong direction,” Akaashi quips brusquely, wrapping the rest of the cloth around his palm and securing a grip on it(though Bokuto can’t see him doing that). Miffed, the general obeys his command, tying the cloth around his wrist.

“This from your sleeve?” He asks, the words leaving him before he can think better of them. It’s unwise to have conversation when they’re doing something like this, he knows, but he really can’t help it sometimes. He just speaks before he thinks. 

Akaashi exhales through his nose, probably exasperated by Bokuto’s move. “No,” he deadpans. “They’re from my trousers. Easier to rip them off that way.”

Bokuto is about to say something before he realises how the assassin’s words sound. It’s apparent that they realise at the same time, too, because the other quickly says, “Wait. Wait, not like tha—you get what I mean. I’m not going to explain myself.” He huffs at the end of his sentence grousily, something that greatly amuses the general. He’s about to open his mouth and make a smug little jab before something snaps beneath his feet and the duo freeze immediately. 

Footsteps; not theirs. Slow, orderly, like a patrolling guard. Patrolling guards.

They exchange a glance. Then they duck down.

“... don’t get it,” one of them complains. “Why do we have to do patrols anyway? The others get to eat and sleep and we’re stuck patrolling the entire perimeter until daybreak. How much longer do we have to wait? Why are we even stationed here to begin with?”

The other one, a girl, says, “This land is untouched by the people of Yao Long. It is rich in natural resources, good for mining. And here, we can intercept outgoing information. There is word that this kingdom has started to use this road to send out their messengers. We are simply waiting, I think. For the right thing to take from them before we retreat.” Her tone is haughty, dutiful, back perfectly straight. Naturally, they’re both dressed in the signature royal blue and white. The emblem—a bow pulled taut, an arrow nocked, set against a roaring wave—hangs from a tablet on their hips, with characters written beneath them, presumably their names. “It may help us win the war.”

“I’m just here to fill up my mandatory enlistment,” the male guard replies, rolling his eyes. “Nothing ever happens to small fry like us, anyway. They just put us out to the less spicy places and we just have to sit still and look pretty in our fancy armour and uniforms.”

The woman sighs. “You should care more. It’s your country. And, for the record, this station is important. I just told you what it was for—”

Bokuto shifts his weight. Beneath him, a twig snaps. He freezes. Akaashi whips over to look at him so fast the general is surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. Nonetheless, they both hold their breaths. 

Oh, deities. 

“What was that?” The woman asks, hand already on her hip, fingers closing around the hilt of a sword. “You did hear it, right? Over the sound of your complaining?”

“Aw, what the hell?” The guy says, reaching for the spear on his back. “Low blow. And, for the record, yes, I did hear it.” The guard steps forward, leaning out, squinting into the dark of the forest. “Think it could just be an animal?”

“Maybe,” the woman responds tightly. “Or it could be spies. We should check to make sure. Just in case.”

“Do we have to?”

“I know children with more balls than you. If you’re not going to, then stay here. I will be the man and check, so you can be a crybaby here,” she quips easily, leaving the male guard absolutely flabbergasted. Bokuto might have laughed if not for the fact that the lady’s walking back to retrieve a torch. He’s about to move, to say something, when he hears a familiar voice whisper in his ear. Slow and quiet. 

“We can knock her out,” Akaashi says, breath gently fanning Bokuto’s ear, sending little shivers down his spine. He swears internally. Oh shit. “Knock her out, and then the guard. There’s no one else around and it’s too dark to see. If we can tie them up somewhere and set down a barrier quietly, the people in this camp would be none-the-wiser. At least until daybreak.” He’s speaking quickly, too, despite his calm tone. “Did you bring your qiankun pouch? Is there a rope in it?” 

“We’re about to find out,” Bokuto mumbles, shaking himself by the shoulders mentally as he digs through his pockets. Focus, dammit, he snaps. Get in the zone! You’re on a mission right now, soldier! Hellooo! “Here.” It’s a little worn, likely unused for a long time. Bokuto doesn’t even remember why he has that on him. Maybe it was for training. Or… something. “It’s not in good shape, though.”

“That’s fine. Be quiet.” Akaashi grabs the fabric tying them together and pulls him further into the dark. He stumbles backwards, but miraculously doesn’t step on any crunchy leaves or snapping twigs. Maybe it’s because Akaashi’s frantically pulling him in a specific pattern so he doesn’t fuck it up. 

The lady trudges through without even bothering to hide her footsteps. Next to Bokuto, Akaashi tenses, tilts his head to the side. The general hears the assassin mumble, quietly, beneath his breath, “They should have taught you that walking like that alerts your enemies.” And then he looks over and nods at Bokuto, and before the latter can react, the assassin is gone from his side. Moving forward, weaving between trees as quiet as ever before he rises behind the lady and brings his hands up, forming a plane, before he hits her in specific places in a specific manner until she sways and falls over by his feet. Akaashi doesn’t even bother to cushion her fall. The loud thump reminds Bokuto to move. 

“What the—” The guard doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Bokuto steps out for but a millisecond into the light before he pulls him back in, knocking him out with a quick hit to the back of his neck. He goes limp, forcing Bokuto to catch him. 

“Here,” Akaashi says, dragging the lady guard along. He drops her in a clearing(not really, since it’s covered with bits and pieces of greenery and surrounded by dark, looming trees) before gesturing for Bokuto to follow suit. Which he does. 

“So?” He asks. “What now?”

“The rope,” Akaashi replies, sticking his hand out. He makes quick work of the two by tying them together. And then he takes out his own qiankun pouch, plants a few talismans on the ground, before he chants an incantation below his breath, fingers curled into a seal. First, the light is cold blue, dim and brief, as a circle draws itself between the laid-down talismans. And when it disappears, the couple's still there, but… they’re not. Bokuto blinks. He can’t see them if he’s looking straight on, but he can see the faintest outlines of their figures if he looks out of the corner of his eye. 

“What did you do? What kind of spell was that?”

“They’re unnoticeable now,” Akaashi says, brushing imaginary lint from the shoulders of his robe. “It’ll last till daybreak. Let’s keep going.”

Akaashi leaves before Bokuto can even ask where and how he came to learn such a spell, but, then again, Dong He is well known for its oddities—especially when it comes to obscure spells like these. Not invisibility, but unnoticeability. The general can’t help but admire both the skill of its wielder and the utter genius of the spell. But.. 

“Would the spell wear off if they started yelling?” He asks quietly, coming up next to the assassin, easily keeping pace. 

“Put a silencing spell on them. Now be quiet.” 

Bokuto huffs indignantly. He’s about to quip, say something clever or whatever, when the other slips out of the shadows and knocks out another guard on duty, dragging them someplace else before rushing into the camp, crouching behind a tent before looking over expectantly, all in one smooth breath, as though he’s used to it. And he probably is. Bokuto is left to stand there(rather dumbly, one might observe) before he comes back to his senses and dashes in. “You could have told me! A warning would be nice,” he huffs, pouting, to which the other doesn’t respond. Instead, he’s scanning the camp.

“It’s too dark,” he says, irritated. “I can’t count everyone. How quickly can you take down an armoured enemy empty-handed?” 

“Wh—”

Akaashi dashes out once. When did he even untie the cloth hanging around his wrist? The one that’s supposed to keep them together? There’s the sound of scuffling, a soft squeak of surprise and indignation, then someone being hit, but no thump of a falling body. Bokuto steps out, alarmed, only to see the assassin holding an unconscious guard. “That’s three,” he says, dragging the guard to toss him into the bushes. “He didn’t see my face. We won’t be able to take down this camp, so we’re going to have to make amendments. But I think I know where the info will be kept.” The dark-haired male brushes imaginary lint from his robes, expression just a little cheeky as he tilts his head to the side, corners of his lips pulled up just so that Bokuto can tell he’s smiling. “You should try and keep up, General.” 

He whirls away before the golden-eyed male can protest, swiftly weaving through the camp. Bokuto is forced to suck it up and follow in his footsteps. Somehow, they make it in unnoticed. 

The main tent is fucking huge. Round and tall, colours dark. Akaashi sighs beneath his breath, murmuring, “Always a flair for the dramatic, these people.” He doesn’t wait for Bokuto. He slips in as quickly as possible and the general is forced to wait a few more moments for guards to pass before he, too, walks in. They can’t slip through the bottom when it’s all pinned down. 

The inside is(thankfully) empty, with a bed on the side, a wooden table in the middle, lamps perched throughout. A few wooden poles are set in place to support the shape of the tent. The floor is carpeted in animal fur. Bare, in a sense, but also screaming of wealth. Boxes are stacked in various directions, no doubt containing food. A tapestry hangs on a carved, wooden board set behind the table, of flowing waters and flowers and the moon. 

As should be expected of a trading country. 

Akaashi shifts his weight. “No hiding spots,” he mutters. “Nowhere to go if someone comes in. I don’t like this.”

“What about the boxes? Spells?” 

“My seals are limited. I don’t want to use any more than I have to when I’m not even the one making them. We could try with the boxes, but there would barely be enough space for the both of us. It’s risky. We’d be…” Akaashi pauses. “Nevermind. Let’s just look for what we need and get out of here.” 

The assassin walks forward, movements quick and brisk, sifting first through various papers. Bokuto steps forward, too, but pauses upon seeing the words written on paper. “Um,” he starts sheepishly. “I can’t read the native language…”

Akaashi blinks. “Oh. Oh, right.” He blows out a breath, then shoves a piece of parchment rather unceremoniously into Bokuto’s empty hands. “Fine. Do you see this seal?” Pale fingers point to a stamp sealed in dark blue; a flower of some sort set against three lines for flowing water, curving upwards and inwards. “Crabapple blossoms for the first emperor’s favourite flower, and because it blooms in spring. It’s the symbol for imperial orders, or anything that comes from the court. We’re looking for these. The ones in red are orders sent directly from His Excellency. You find any more of these, you give them to me, and I’ll read them for you. Did you bring parchment and ink?”

“Why would I do that?”

Akaashi deadpans. “To copy the documents so they don’t notice that anything is missing. We can’t just steal documents sealed with the court’s stamp. They’ll know we were here, if they don’t already. Which means we should hurry.” With that, Akaashi turns to sift through the documents, eyes quickly skimming through content. Most of which he tosses away, but others, he’ll linger on before copying them onto a piece of parchment of his own, using a brush from the table, dabbing it in ink. His script is flowing but legible. 

Stop staring, Bokuto chides, turning to sift through the papers. The both of them work in silence but in tandem, synced. The general doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

Akaashi pauses, then curses. His movements go frantic—he arranges the papers in a certain order, puts the brush back just so, shoves his copied documents into his qiankun pouch. “Footsteps,” he hisses, before grabbing hold of Bokuto’s wrist and pulling him into a corner. The both of them are pressed close in the tight space between the tent wall and the boxes before them, just enough to obscure their forms. Chest against chest, close enough that Bokuto can count every long, thick fluttering eyelash on Akaashi’s eyelids. He gulps.

“Is this why you didn’t wan—” 

“Shh! Yes. Now be quiet.” 

Bokuto doesn’t notice that Akaashi’s hands have started to shake. 

“... can’t believe it,” someone exclaims, a man. He’s tall, another guard, no doubt. “Why are we still searching for that guy anyway? He fled our country. Stabbed us in the back. Who knows what sort of intel he’s already given Yao Long.”

“Punishment, probably,” someone else replies, a lady again. “Think they’d do what they did to that Gu Mang in old military tales? The whole subjecting to experiments with dark magic, scattering three of his ten souls, give him the intelligence of a mythical female wolf. Wouldn’t put it past our country considering we’ve done shit like that already.” She steps forwards, sifting through the documents on the table. “When will the General be coming back? I heard we’ll start making ‘negotiations’ with Yao Long soon. I wonder what we’re supposed to be doing.”

*this might be a little confusing. Here's the link, though I'm not entirely basing it off of this. I think?

“Don’t know. Word is that he’ll be back in a few more hours.” The guard shrugs and looks around the room. “What are we even doing in here? We’re supposed to be on patrol.”

“I just wanted to see what’s going on behind the scenes. The General doesn’t mind if we step into his tent anyway.” She drops the documents and turns to the male guard, crossing her arms as she leans against the table behind her. “I wonder what made him defect. Heard he was the best fighter, the top assassin, or something. He killed when he was, what, a child? Was he even thirteen when he first shed blood? And he’s been raised here all his life.”

“What can you expect from the son of a nameless mother? He was raised in a brothel, mind you.” The man shakes his head. “Akaashi Keiji. Top assassin, brothel’s little bitch. Think he’d be better in bed than he is at killing people?” He blows out a whistle, laugh twisted and cruel, a little perverse. “I don’t even like men, but, deities, he is one pretty man. I’ve seen him a few times before he defected, and when I tell you he’s an absolute jewel, better than even the Emperor’s harem, it’s no exaggeration.” He splays his hands, eyebrows coming together as he tries to think of appropriate words. “He’s tall and slim, and he’s muscular, but he isn’t too much so. Pale skin and eyes like jewels. They’re like, blue-grey, but I remember seeing some green in them.” He sucks in a breath. “And don’t get me started on his voice. He’s so cold, too. Those types are always the spiciest in bed.”

“You’re disgusting,” the woman retorts, rolling her eyes, though her words lack fire. “Hearing you describe him like that makes you think you do have a thing for men. And now I want to meet him, too.” She pulls out a knife, twirls it in her hands, grin lecherous and amused. “Heard he does whatever job he’s given as long as he gets paid. You think he’d be down for a threesome if we gave him a bunch of gold? Do his services include the ones made in bed?” 

It takes every inch of Bokuto’s strength not to knock the both of them out right then and there. His hands are curled tight into fists, the veins of his necks popping, expression no doubt ferocious—it’s a stark contrast to the assassin’s cool indifference as he listens, arms neatly tucked in his sleeves, more composed and unruffled than ever. 

It’s not like the general doesn’t know what Akaashi’s life was like before he came to Yao Long. He knows he was raised in a brothel(hard not to, when the male had hissed those words to him not so long ago), but to hear him slandered this way… He despises what Akaashi Keiji stands for, but this? He loathes this. Or maybe it’s because the assassin is one of Yao Long’s citizens now that he’s feeling all defensive, but he’s very close to exposing their position. Pressed against each other as they eavesdrop. 

The male lets out a nasty laugh. “We raised this fucking dog and he’s turned right back around to bite the hand that feeds him. Like I said, we shouldn’t expect anything less from the son of some nameless woman, likely a prostitute, even if she is pretty. You think maybe the Master called him in because he just wanted a pretty, young fuck?” He rolls his eyes. “He was raised in a brothel after all. He probably knows all the ways to make someone feel good,” he purrs, winking at the female guard. “I reiterate my statement. He’s probably a better fuck than he is a weapon.” 

Something in Bokuto snaps. He rushes forward, unable to contain himself. Grabs the guy by the neck, gives him a good fucking punch to the face. There’s a sickening crunch, a yelp, followed by a whimper. The general twists his arms behind his back before he can reach his weapon, kicks him down. “Your mother would be so disappointed,” he drawls, mimicking the other’s formerly mocking tone. “Is that how she raised you? To talk about people like that behind their backs?”

The guard opens his mouth to answer, but Bokuto brings his hand down onto the nape of his neck, and he falls. 

“Who—” 

The girl doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Not when Akaashi’s before her in the blink of an eye, striking her pressure points, knocking her out. Bokuto steps forward, reaching a hand out, but the assassin lifts his hand too quickly, nearly smacking the general’s face in the process. He starts to frown, asking, “What’s wrong with y—”

“Don’t. Touch me,” Akaashi interrupts, slowly lowering his hand as he clenches it. His knuckles are white, his eyes closed, body trembling. “Don’t.” 

“I just wanted to—”

Akaashi grimaces once, forcing Bokuto to halt. It’s only then that he realises that something is wrong with the other. The faint smell of blood wafts through his nose(yes, he can smell it, he’s a cultivator; sometimes even he forgets that he has heightened senses) and he blinks, eyes flicking to his clenched fists. Blood drips down, but it doesn’t splatter onto the carpet, because somewhere along the way Akaashi’s other hand has closed around his clenched one. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he snaps, eyes still closed, still trembling. “Just don’t. Don’t touch me.”

And then he remembers that Akaashi was nearly raped. By his men. Touched in places he didn’t want to be touched. 

“... Do you need me to step away? Give you a little space?”

“... Okay.”

He does. 

The both of them stand there for a few moments in silence. Akaashi’s trembling stops after forever and he heaves a small sigh, exhausted. He’s about to pull out his qiankun pouch to start copying the documents when the tent opens again. 

And now neither of them are hiding. 

Dark eyes narrow. “What are you doing here?”

And then, because his timing is always fucking impeccable, Bokuto Koutarou wakes up. 

——————

He wakes up cursing. He sits up so abruptly he loses balance, and then he puts his face in his hands, heaving a sigh. The pain he feels in his head, his heart, is all too much. What the fuck was that? 

“Bokuto-san,” a familiar cool voice calls. Bokuto takes a deep breath before he lets his hands fall, turning to look over at Akaashi, who clearly just entered the room. “... Are you alright? I have news.” He says it so grimly, the other already knows what he’ll say. He can’t help but think again of the dark-robed male covered in bandages as he curses him out, spilling his past in a fit of heat and anger. And then the soldiers, slandering him not for just defecting, but even his family. Is that his past? Are the dreams the history of a bygone time?

But how would that make sense when neither of them know each other?

“What is it?” He asks finally, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence. 

Akaashi purses his lips. “Get ready. It’s time.” It’s only then that Bokuto realises he slept more than usual; it’s near midnight. But then again, he slept much later than he usually does to begin with. “They’re moving in.”

Bokuto groans. But I just woke up!

“Get ready,” Akaashi turns back to the door. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

He heaves a sigh as the door slides shut. His headache isn’t helping him and he’s starting to see a million images and hear a million things and nothing at all at once. 

Guess it’s go time. 

Pray he won’t die again.