boundless || bokuaka

“They started moving the moment the clock hit four in the evening. So about fifteen minutes ago,” Akaashi begins as they tread through the halls, footfalls inaudible as usual. Delicate hands tie up his long, dark hair into a ponytail, ribbon caught between his teeth. Bokuto resists the urge to run his hair through those dark locks, spilling from the deity’s delicate fingers as he wraps the ribbon around them, securing them in place. Somehow, the dark-robed immortal makes even the simplest high ponytail look good. It’s almost absurd. “I don’t think any of us expected them to start moving so quickly. It’s fortunate that we’ve already made preparations prior to this, else we’d be in quite a bit of trouble.” 

Bokuto tilts his head to the side, forcing his gaze away. To the carpeted floor, maybe, the soft ding the door makes when the lift arrives. “Why’s it still so calm, then?” One would think that if ghouls were going to start attacking a city, their headquarters would be bustling with activity. But no, it’s almost as though nothing’s happening at all. It’s clear that the other is disquieted, too, because his brows furrow just so as his lips curl down slightly into a frown. “They’re… waiting, we think. For their leader, I suppose.” Akaashi folds his arms in his sleeve as he walks into the lift, Bokuto naturally following in his footsteps. “A signal, too, perhaps. Some order to move.”

“Well…” The spirit starts. “... At least they’re not being subtle, right?” It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but he can’t help himself. Now that the battle’s at hand, Bokuto suddenly feels all nervous. His undead heart beats so rapidly and loudly in his chest he fears the deity might hear it, though his face shows no such indication. It’s like he’s about to start a match with a particularly strong team that he’s familiar with on national television. It’s the same thrill, the same rush of exhilaration, the same excitement. But now there’s the fear of the unknown, the fear of all the what-ifs that might become a reality. 

And Akaashi. 

Deities, Akaashi. 

“It’s because the mortals can’t see them anyway.” The deity’s voice cuts through his thoughts, tearing him from his reverie. “... And because they think they’ll win. They outnumber us by more than two times, and even if we do manage to fend them off, there’s a very high possibility of reinforcements. Unless they’re foolish enough to think they’ll be able to win with what they have now.” The deity’s long fingers comb through any knots in his ponytail. Bokuto’s fingers twitch as he resists the urge to help him. Braid his hair, too. 

“Will they?” The words come thickly from his throat. He clears it, reddening slightly and hoping that Akaashi doesn’t notice his embarrassment. “Um. Win, I mean.”

The deity raises an eyebrow, then shrugs one shoulder, the hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “Well, let’s hope not.” The lift opens and the both of them step out in tandem. “All the preparations have been made; all that’s left is to play the waiting game. On our end, too, because Kuroo’s reinforcements should be here by now, if not soon.”

Bokuto still can’t quite believe that the rooster fucker is a fucking god. A deity! A deity with clout! A whole team of other small deities to back him up at his behest! Kuroo fucking Tetsurou! 

Well. Okay, maybe he can sort of see why they’d make him their leader. But the idea of his life-long friend(and even after that, apparently, since the ex-athlete is technically dead) being so much more than he is and the fact that Bokuto had never noticed is just fucking trippy. Not to mention Kenma being an actual demon—if you’d told the spirit last year shit like, hey, you’re going to die on your birthday and meet a man that you feel like you should know but don’t! He’s a god! And your life-long bestie, your real homie, bro, BFF and all that shit, is also a god, and his boyfriend is a fucking demon. Also you’re getting weird dreams that feel like memories! How about that?

In conclusion, it’s a rollercoaster. 

The sound of echoing laughter(once again) interrupts Bokuto’s trail of thought, prompting him to startle. Akaashi breathes a sigh before stepping into the lounge of Hinata and Kageyama’s suite, delicate fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, expression akin to something like “here we go”. The spirit picks out a few new voices he doesn’t exactly find familiar. 

There are a few new people lounging on the couch, all men. One is around Kenma’s height, with pale hair the colour of peaches(?) and light brown eyes, bickering heatedly with Kuroo. Another is tall, dark-skinned, watching the discussion in silent amusement. Someone who looks less Japanese and more foreign with long limbs, silver hair and green eyes attempting to join in on the fun, only to be dissed by the small, light-haired one. A guy with a mohawk dyed blond. A lanky boy with brown hair that stands up and bright eyes, another bald boy with thick eyebrows, and another with dark hair parted in the middle. Bokuto takes it all in in a split second and blinks when he realises he recognises none of them for once. 

“They your reinforcements?” The ex-athlete’s voice cuts through the chatter as he sits down. “They’re fast.”

“They came just in time,” comes Kuroo’s smug reply, winking. “Right on the dot like I knew they wou—”

“Right on the dot a few hours late,” Kenma cuts in dryly, crossing his arms with a raised eyebrow as he tilts his head to the side. “You don’t have to try and look good in front of Bokuto.”

“Or any of us. Yaku-san.” Akaashi emerges from the dark like a wraith, footsteps inaudible. A hush falls almost immediately, and, like clockwork, Bokuto watches the faces of the newcomers go from pale surprise to outright shock and disbelief. The peach-haired male only nods numbly in acknowledgment as his gaze flickers between Bokuto and Akaashi. The ex-athlete assumes this guy to be Morisuke. 

And then, of course, the chatter. Voices overlapping as they yell over each other in an attempt to be heard. The tall guy with the green hair turning to Kuroo and going, “Senpai, that’s Akaashi Keiji, right? With… you told us that he’s the Bokuto Koutarou? In the flesh?” A pause. “Well. Sort of in the flesh. Spirit flesh?” And ‘Yaku’ slaps his back, which causes him to yelp. The peach-haired male brings his gaze back to the deity and spirit, expression mixed. The other one with dark skin is flabbergasted, but silent, gaze flickering between the two. 

Bokuto finds it a little comical how, every time people realise he’s with Akaashi, or Akaashi is with him, they go absolutely ape shit. Even if he doesn’t know why and no one is willing to tell him. And among all the chaos of flabbergasted faces, there’s the sound of Kuroo’s echoing, obnoxious laughter as he doubles over in his seat, clutching at his stomach and laughing away to his heart’s content. Akaashi grimaces at the loudness of everything, but Bokuto doesn’t take much notice of that. Not when he’s too busy being amused by this carnage. 

“Is that how I looked?” He asks between peals of laughter as he’s wiping tears from his eyes. “Is that really what I was like when I first saw you two together?”

“Yes,” comes Kageyama’s curt reply. “You looked like… you looked like you didn’t know where you were for a moment at one point.”

“Yeah! Like you were completely blanking!” Hinata adds enthusiastically. “You looked like you short-circuited. But we did, too, so…”

Damn, he wishes he knew why everyone’s always freaking out about Akaashi and Bokuto meeting. 

“Kuroo,” Yaku starts. “I think you should introduce us.”

“Y’all got mouths, don’t you?” Kuroo huffs. “Introduce yourselves.”

The peach-haired male gives the other a dirty look that screams with ‘I’m going to fucking punt you’ before rolling his eyes and taking charge. “Yaku Morisuke.” He grins at Bokuto, walking forward as he sticks out a hand(which the ex-athlete easily accepts). “I’m under that idiot’s—” he gestures at Kuroo “—faction. Or whatever you want to call it. I’m in charge of our defense strategies and stuff.” A flick of his chin towards the hall, non-Japanese male sprawled next to him on the couch. “This idiot with the green eyes is Haiba Lev. He’s half-Japanese, which is why he doesn’t look Asian. As in, he’s half-Russian. And the only thing that makes him intimidating is his height.” 

“Oi!” Lev whines, only to cross his arms and pout, eyes cast aside as he grumbles to himself. “I can be plenty intimidating without my height to back me up!”

“Not when you can’t even get your simple defense maneuvers right, you dumb fuck,” Yaku snaps back just as quickly. The entirety of the Nekoma teams seems rather used to their banter, because their expressions barely change throughout the exchange, but Bokuto finds his eyes flitting back and forth between the two in infinite amusement that he can’t seem to temper down. 

And the banter continues, of course. Even as the rest of the team introduces themselves, even as the sun begins to set. Even if it’s hours after that. It’s a shame the team isn’t as adept at hiding their sill-baffled, in-disbelief state when they set their eyes upon both Akaashi and Bokuto sitting next to each other. Though the former, dark-robed deity doesn’t seem to have much shift in expression, the ex-athlete can tell that he’s getting just a little annoyed. But he doesn’t voice out his irritation. And because he doesn’t, no one catches on. No one but Bokuto Koutarou, as it always is. Somewhere along the way, Kageyama and Hinata were whisked away, and now there’s only Bokuto, Akaashi and the team. The atmosphere is amiable enough, but beneath it is the underlying tension, the anticipation for battle. Some of them are getting reckless, unable to sit still. Some have even gone elsewhere to practice their movements. Even Bokuto is more restless than usual.

“How’s Jingyin?” Lev asks suddenly, out of nowhere. “That’s his name, right? I haven’t seen him in awhile—actually, can he control himself yet?”

The room falls silent and all eyes fall on Akaashi. The immortal merely crosses his hands over his lap, expression neutral and easy, voice as steady and cool as ever when he replies, “He’s doing alright. I think he’s getting a better hold of himself. Still a little unstable, but he’ll be fine.”

“I miss him,” Lev laments. “He’s nice.” A pointed look Yaku’s way. “Nice and gentle.”

Yaku scowls, crossing his arms as he huffs, cheeks puffed out, lips pulled into a small pout, eyebrows scrunched. “Would you listen to me if I’d been gentle with you? I don’t even need your answer—it’s no, isn’t it? Don’t even try to protest, you overgrown chalk. Not unless you mean it.”

Lev opens his mouth, closes it, huffs and crosses his arms. Then he lights up and makes to speak again, but when he meets Yaku’s gaze, paired with the older’s crossed arms, raised eyebrows and expectant expression, the hand he’s lifted up slowly falls and he sinks back into his seat with a pout, allowing himself to (begrudgingly) be rendered speechless. He grumbles again beneath his breath, but Bokuto doesn’t catch it. 

The door bursts open, followed by purposeful footsteps. Iwaizumi steps into their line of view, expression grim and serious as he plops down on the couch next to Bokuto, a hand massaging his temples. “The preparations have been made. Hopefully, they’ll be enough, and we’ll be able to get this over with as soon as possible.” Hinata and Kageyama enter the room, but the general doesn’t so much as spare them a glance. “We don’t have much of a Plan B, so we’re going to have to hope luck is on our side. Because we can’t rely on the gods when we are them.” A sardonic snort at his own dry joke. “Anyway, all that’s left is to play the waiting game.” His dark eyes cast themselves to the window as the prefecture comes alive with lights flickering on, piercing through the dark of the night. Bokuto is reminded of how Miyagi looked from the top of this building—a plethora of lights beneath the dark night sky, not unlike fallen stars made by humans because they couldn’t reach the ones above. Why seek the brilliance of celestial objects when we can simply make our own? 

“It won’t be much longer now,” Kenma offers, leaning back in his seat. Bokuto wonders if there’s some sort of procedure to these battles. After all, everyone—well, not everyone, but definitely the entirety of the Nekoma team—is dressed like they’re about to go for some midnight jog. Not fight a bunch of ghouls about to commit murder and potentially wipe out an entire prefecture of people. Apart from Iwaizumi and Akaashi, who wear their usual robes. But that’s it. 

“You know what would be funny?” Hinata supplies after a few moments of silence. Bokuto perks up, gaze flicking over to the orange-haired male, his own head tilted to the side as he leans forward in curious interest. 

“What?” He asks. 

Kenma’s feline eyes focus on Hinata and he opens his mouth. “Don’t—”

“If it happened right now!” Hinata says, laughing. “What luck, right? If—”

“They’re moving!” The frantic, oh-so-familiar voice of Kitsu rings throughout the room as the kitsune shuffles in. “They’ve started moving in from the south. We’ve already stationed forces there, but…” He hesitates. “But there are a lot of them. We won’t be enough.”

The entire room collectively releases a sigh, while Akaashi brings a hand to his forehead, which is his equivalent of a facepalm at this point. Hinata’s face is torn between sheepish laughter and the urge to cry, though he also looks fairly guilt-stricken. When Kenma speaks, he says, in a dully amused tone, “That’s why you don’t say things like that, Shouyou.” 

“... Sorry…?” 

“He’s got a crow’s mouth on him, that’s for sure,” Kuroo murmurs beneath his breath, to which Hinata only laughs sheepishly.

“Let’s go.” Akaashi sweeps his sleeves as he stands up, looking as battle-ready and graceful as ever with his dark, silken robes and almost regal bearing. Dragon Lord, they’d called him. Though Bokuto doesn’t quite understand why, it’s oddly fitting for him in this moment. He can almost imagine the horns sprouting from the other’s head, black and high, curling above his head. Almost. When he stands, he is like a beast unfurling its wings, a predator emerging from the depths of the dark that it hides away in. The others, too. Standing, stretching, finally able to battle at last. Bokuto feels like… a potato compared to the rest of them.  

“Bokuto.” Iwaizumi’s rough voice stops him from leaving with the rest. A dadao is unceremoniously shoved into his arms, its hilt and blade intricately carved with patterns, a grey-blue sword tassel with some white hanging from it. The blade is slightly curved, a smooth black. The characters carved onto it glow a faint gold. It’s… strikingly familiar in his grasp. The light it emits is warm and pulses for but a few moments before it fades. The general clears his throat. “... Just use it for now. It should suit your tastes, weapon-wise.” 

“This one! I like this one!” 

“Name it, then.”

“Ehhh…? Can’t sensei name it for me?”

“No. If you do not name it, it will not recognise you as its owner. All divine weapons must be given names for them to truly have power.”

Bokuto scrutinises the dadao in his hand. He’s only sixteen, but he’s already able to handle such a weapon. “Then…” He looks up, golden eyes alight to meet Sakurai-sensei’s eyes. “Let’s name it Wukong.” 

*无恐 means No Fear.

“Bokuto?” 

The male tears himself from his reverie, shakes his head a few times just for extra measure. The flashbacks keep coming. “Yeah, sorry. Just… this weapon’s super familiar.”

Iwaizumi’s expression is mixed between astonishment, guilt, pain and a sort of anticipation. For a brief moment, he looks like he’s fighting with himself, but then he speaks anyway. “It has a name.” He gestures to the blade glowing warmly in the spirit’s hands. “... My old friend named it. Wukong. You should… try calling it that.”

“Wait, wh—” 

“I’ll meet you outside.” Iwaizumi leaves before Bokuto can get another word in edgewise with a sweep of his robes, leaving Bokuto to stand, flabbergasted, in the middle of the room with the weapon in his hand. He tests the name, shapes his mouth and recites it silently. And then he says it aloud and—

It starts with a small trickle of warmth, of power. A whoosh, like someone’s welcoming him home. The blade glows another colour in his hand—cold, hard blue seeping into the colours of fire and gold. He blinks, finding this unfamiliar, but it doesn’t set off any alarms in his head. At least, for now. 

Welcome back.

Bokuto doesn’t even notice that he’s crying until he reaches up to wipe away the tears trailing down his cheeks.

——————

It’s already dark out when Bokuto leaves the building. The rest of the team have dispersed to their stations, leaving only Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Akaashi, Kenma and an anxious Kitsu, who wrings his hands together, eyes darting about. He greets Bokuto with a nod when he sees the ex-athlete, bowing slightly in respect as he always does. “Bokuto-san. Preparations have all been made as you have discussed previously. The power should go out right about—”

The lights sputter once, weakly, and then the night goes dark. It’s eerie how it’s suddenly even more quiet than it was before in the absence of the ever-present whirr and hum of electricity. Their surroundings are plunged into darkness before the deities lift their open palms, light dancing over their fingers in forms of translucent flames. 

“—now.”

“Let’s go,” Iwaizumi says, already turning around. He makes a gesture with his chin, prompting Kitsu to hurry to the lead. Despite his nervous bearing, the kitsune is still graceful with his feet, movements elegant and sure. The journey takes about fifteen minutes before he halts, arm thrown out to stop them from venturing further. 

“They’re here.” Fox ears twitch every which way as the fox spirit listens for movement. “Be careful. There are more than just the ones we can see right now. Lights, My Lords.” 

The deities hurriedly snuff out the fire in their hands with either a swipe of their wrist or the closing of their hands into fists. Iwaizumi frowns, surveying the area, at the creepy but not very threatening sight of ghouls picking at human clothes and toys on the ground. “Is this all of them?” To which Kenma shakes his head, crossing his arms. Bokuto realises that somewhere along the way, he’d switched from exercise gear to the traditional robes not unlike the ones Iwaizumi and Akaashi always wear. Kuroo, too. They’re silken, a dark red lined with gold, a belt fastened around their waists. Their sleeves are tucked into some sort of cloth wrapped around half of their forearms, fingerless gloves on their hands. 

“There’s no way. There will be more coming in as the night goes on, I reckon. Catch.” Kenma throws a qiankun pouch Bokuto’s way, to which the spirit fumbles for when he catches it and it starts to bounce off of his hand. So much for trying to be smooth. “Let’s get on our swords. We won’t be able to get this in their eyes if we’re ground level with them.”

It’s underwhelming, really, this whole thing, but even so, his heart beats in his chest. There’s more to this, isn’t there? There has to be. It’s too quiet, too easy. Something’s going to happen. 

“Wait.” Bokuto blinks, just before the others can rise, realising something. “How… How do you? Wait. What are you guys going to do with your swords?”

The deities(and fox spirit) blink once, as if remembering something, before Akaashi sighs and waves his hand, gesturing for the others to go first. Kuroo and Kenma exchange a glance, expressions indecipherable, before their swords rise and they’re in the air. Kitsu’s ears twitch once before he sweeps the sleeves of his robes—and then he’s gone. Bokuto shifts his attention to Akaashi, who meets his gaze coolly. “Put your weapon on the ground.” 

“Am I going to learn how to fly on… my sword?” 

“Yes.” The dark-robed deity remains rooted in place, hands crossed as he waits patiently for the ex-athlete to do as instructed, which he does, about a moment later. Tentatively placing the intricately decorated weapon on the ground with a silent apology because he feels like he’s dirtying it. “Step on it. One foot on the blade and another on the hilt. Your body should be facing either to your left or right, but not forward. And keep your weight between your feet.” 

The spirit nearly chokes. “Do I have to?” 

“How else will you fly?” 

He has nothing to say to that, so he shuts up. Tentatively, the spirit steps onto the blade as instructed, wondering if it’s wide enough to hold up the entirety of his build, though he doesn’t say it. Even so, Akaashi seems to take notice of his hesitance, because he says, “I’ll teach you the incantation first. Repeat after me and I’ll teach you how to channel your own spiritual energy. Hopefully it’ll be enough—it’s difficult with non-cultivators.” And then he does. His tone turns singsong, sounding like he’s chanting and singing at the same time in a language long-forgotten and yet so painfully familiar. It isn’t too long—not even two seconds. And, usually, Bokuto would have trouble remembering it, but the words slide easily from his lips not a moment later, his body thrumming with a sort of warmth that he doesn’t know the source of. And then the blade beneath his feet elongates, broadens. Akaashi’s astonished expression causes a rush of triumph to course through the spirit’s body. 

“How…?” The deity shakes his head. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t bother asking when you’ve been an anomaly from the start.” His eyebrows pull together ever-so-slightly as he appraises the spirit standing on the blade(and blatantly ignores the fact that he’s basically preening at the not-compliment slash not-insult). “Who are you?”

I wish I knew, Akaashi. I wish I knew. 

But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he winks. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, ‘Kaashi. You gonna teach me how to fly?” Even though he’s still rather on the fence on the idea of trusting this piece of metal to carry his weight(no matter how much it’s grown in size) and feels like he’s dirtying the intricate weapon, he still asks. Because he has to, and because he needs to change the subject. Bokuto catches the way Akaashi’s eyes narrow, and, though he(thankfully) doesn’t push, he can tell that he isn’t planning on dropping this subject anytime soon. 

“Another incantation. Once you get used to channeling your power, you won’t need to recite them aloud anymore.” The next chant is slightly longer, but Akaashi says it faster. His gaze glints coldly beneath the cover of the night, shrewdly watching Bokuto, who, unsurprisingly, picks up on it in the next second with little difficulty. His sword rises once, and he wobbles, surprised. 

How can someone be so experienced yet new to something at the same time? 

No sense. It makes absolutely no sense. 

Bokuto rises again, the movement of the sword abrupt, and he looks like he’s about to topple over any second now, honestly. But, no, he does something even worse—he lets out a yelp. 

And then suddenly it’s too quiet, too still. Bokuto freezes in place after waving his arms to regain his balance, and Akaashi is already on his way to his own weapons—his oddly-shaped knives. 

An ear-piercing shriek sounds through the night, cutting through the silence of the dark. And then Bokuto and Akaashi are rising high, high, high, because the monsters finally smell prey.  Even the talismans used to veil their scent are useless if they make a sound. 

“Now!” Kuroo yells, frantically tossing down the powder as the ghouls make a mad run towards where Bokuto and Akaashi were just standing, ignoring the pile of mortal belongings completely. The night is filled with more shrieks as everyone tosses down the qiankun pouches to properly blind the creatures. They claw at their eyes, curl on the ground. Their screams are blood-curdling. Bokuto’s skin crawls. 

And this, of course, is when they notice another wave of ghouls rushing towards the scene. 

“Barriers!” Kuroo’s voice rings out clear and loud amidst the chaos, the screeching. “Defense! Soundproof barriers!” But even he is straining to be heard amongst the screams and shrieks beneath them. Yaku immediately throws out his hands as Kuroo, Lev and Inuoka begin their chanting. Something golden falls over the area, akin to a net, but disappears once it’s in place. The others are lobbing the powder like they’re lobbing bombs at this point. Bokuto’s about to go fucking deaf. 

When the ghouls are reduced to a shrieking, writhing mass of black beneath them(since they can’t exactly see in the dark), Kenma speaks. 

“Now.” 

Everyone’s weapons lower and already in their hands as they charge into the fray, slaughtering any ghouls that dare approach them. Blood splatters, limbs fly. It’s disgusting. It’s exhilarating. Bokuto wants to join in. Bokuto wants to puke. He wants to watch. He wants to blind himself. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream and crawl into a hole and wipe this memory from his brain. It’s like he’s being torn in two. 

It’s like he has more than one soul in him. 

His head hurts. It stings. The dadao beneath his feet wobbles and he’s about to topple over. He can’t handle this. The sounds. The smell of blood. The atmosphere. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Blood on his hands. Blood on his armour. Blood on his blade. Blood on his cheeks, splattered. Broken weapons on the ground, the shrieks of his comrades, of his enemies. He wants to puke, but he has to hold his ground. He swings the blade. His opponent shrieks and falls to the ground, cradling his now severed arm. He swings the blade again. His head rolls. 

How can one both love the battlefield and despise it? 

Faces blend into faces. He doesn’t know how many he’s killed. He doesn’t know how many of his brethren have fallen. He’s sixteen. He can’t do this. He can do this. He can’t he can he can’t he can he can’t he can he—

For his country. 

(He’s drowning. Sinking into himself so he doesn’t have to know who he’s killed and who has died. He is drowning, drowning, drowning—)

A cold hand closes around his arm just before he’s about to fall over. A familiar cold hand, calloused and rough despite looking so delicate and elegant at first glance. From years of battle. Decades, centuries, millenia. Golden eyes meet gunmetal blue flecked with green. It tears him from his thoughts. “Bokuto-san.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t have to look if you can’t handle it.” 

He wants to say he can. A part of him thirsts for the thrill of the battle. But, fuck, the heavy, metallic scent of blood in the air, the shrieks of animalistic and wild, blind pain beneath him—he’s going to throw up. He can’t he can’t he can’t. 

“But I can still hear—”

“Look at me, then.” 

And he does. 

He doesn’t notice the hands sliding up his face, covering his ears, until the sounds around him deafen ever-so-slightly. Akaashi closes his eyes, murmurs a soft incantation beneath his breath. He almost misses the coldness of his touch when those hands fall, but at least he can’t hear anymore. Then the deity writes in the air, again, those cold blue trails of light being infiltrated with the colours of gold, of fire. You won’t be able to hear anything for awhile. A pause. I’ll take the spell off of you when it gets better, or if something happens. 

“Wait.” He hopes he isn’t shouting. He can’t hear a fucking thing and it’s scary. “Don’t leave me.” 

“Don’t leave me, Kou. Stay with me. You don’t have to fight them.” 

“If I don’t, who will?”

“You can’t. You won’t be able to handle them alone. Even with the others backing you up. Word hasn’t reached the heavens yet—they’ll be too late. They won’t be able to—what if you—”

“That won’t happen.”

“Don’t leave me.” 

“Then I’ll come with you. You promised. We promised.”

“... Okay.”

Akaashi pauses, surprised. His eyes turn to the battlefield. His eyebrows furrow and he purses his lips, weighing his options. He turns, like he’s about to write his answer, but then his expression changes and the deity whips his head back around, searching for something. He tenses before Bokuto’s eyes. The spirit is about to shout for him to wait, don’t leave, but before he knows it, Akaashi’s closed his fingers around Bokuto’s wrist and he’s pulling him away. The weapon beneath his feet follows his pull, and the spirit can do little but stare, confused, as he’s led away so urgently. When they’re far enough away—possibly out of earshot—the deity’s lips move and the sounds of the wind fills Bokuto’s ears as they cut through the air. 

But even if they’re out of earshot, there’s still that unmistakable twang of metal. It might not even be because the scent’s reached their area—it might be because its caught onto their clothes, their blades. It’s disgusting. 

Then he hears it. That singsong, sly laughter. Another familiar sound from a bygone time, he assumes. But then it distorts, changes. Something steps out from the dark. Some one. Doubled over, hands to his stomach, laughter cutting through the silence of the dark. He’s unfamiliar, this one. With already-rotted skin and glowing amber eyes, greasy dead hair slicked back, cracked lips bleeding from how wide he’s grinning. He reeks of death. A ghoul. 

“Now this,” he starts, making a gesture as though he’s wiping away a tear, despite the fact that his tear ducts don’t work. The living never get used to dying if they have a chance to live again, after all. “This… is interesting. What a good laugh you’ve given me, the both of you! I wonder how the heavens would react when they find out. Oh, deities, they truly never lie when they say you never disappoint, Dragon Lord.”

Again, the title. Bokuto watches as Akaashi’s lips turn down into a scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Is that not what you are, Akaashi Keiji?” The ghoul crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. His eyes slide over to Bokuto. “Curious, this is. Truly curious. I’m surprised the world hasn’t ended, that nothing’s exploded. How underwhelming, truly.”

“Stop speaking in circles, you old rotten fart,” Bokuto snaps, unable to hold himself back, surprised at his own animosity. “What do you want?”

“And he speaks! General Bokuto Koutarou.” A mock bow, a smirk upon cracked, bleeding thin lips. “Truly an honour it is for me to see you—no, see you and Akaashi Keiji, the renowned assassin of Dong He—in the flesh! Together! I never thought I’d have this opportunity in my life.” He rises. “One wonders if you know why I am so in awe. Do you?”

They don’t. And the ghoul can probably tell from the way they remain silent with almost identical glowers upon their faces. Bokuto’s hands are clenched into fists whereas Akaashi’s folded his arms beneath the sleeves of his robe. “What do you want, ghoul?” The deity’s voice is cold, haughty. Expectant of an answer and every bit as arrogant as an immortal being should be. 

“Entertainment. That’s good.” A sigh. “It’s not fun anymore when I am unable to meet with those from the Old World, my liege. Surely you understand? If you remember, of course.” A cunning, shit-eating grin that Bokuto wants to slap off of his face. “I hear things, Dragon Lord.” He dares to take a step forward. Both deity and spirit tense, and Akaashi is already reaching for his weapon. “Of you. You shelter a being that should not be sheltered in your very home. Do you not fear the wrath of the Heavens? Word may be spread only around the mortal realm, but it is only a matter of time before it reaches those above in the Upper Realm, the Upper Planes.”

“I have no time for your useless stalling.” Akaashi’s gaze is haughty, a little pissed, but his glare is colder than ice, harder than diamond. “Fight, or I will return.”

“And leave the general alone?” He snorts. “How unlike you. Unimaginable, almost. You would never have done so in the past.” 

Akaashi fixes an exasperated gaze on the ghoul. “I have never known him in the past. If you continue with your nonsense, I will make quick work of you and leave.”

A sneer. “You dare look down on me? On me?” He doubles over in laughter again, but his features are twisted, not quite right. Angry, almost. Disbelieving. “How dare you look down on me? Do you know how difficult it was for me to cultivate this cursed body? How difficult it was for me to force my soul in and keep myself from turning into the wild animals I sent here? How dare you!”

And then he lunges. Bokuto blinks and the ghoul is already lunging for Akaashi’s throat. Clawing at it, almost. But the deity catches his hand and throws him aside in one swift movement. The ghoul tumbles onto the ground, laughing maniacally. “You’re looking down on me, now, aren’t you? Fine, then, do what you will.” He glares up at the deity. “I’m just a small fry looking for some entertainment anyway.” He spits black blood onto the ground, surprising Bokuto, because, damn, ghouls can spit blood? 

“But that doesn’t mean I won’t go down without a fight!” 

And then he’s moving again. An ear-piercing shriek cuts through the air. Akaashi crosses his deer-horn knives before himself and a loud clang sounds through the air as the blades collide in the wake of the ghoul’s frenzied lunge, hands clawing at the deity’s face. He hisses. Akaashi pushes him off, but he doesn’t tumble. He lunges again, at the deity’s side. Akaashi blocks. Another lunge, another block. A hiss through fanged teeth, lips pulled back into a sneer. 

And then it’s all a blur. Bokuto’s eyes can’t keep up. The nails of the ghoul are more than just a few inches long now, sharp and lethal. He lunges for Akaashi’s eyes. He misses. Again, another miss. A growl of frustration. 

But then… he turns. To look at Bokuto. 

And then his mouth splits into a disgusting, mouth-splitting grin. 

Oh fuck. 

And then the ghoul’s lunging at him. Mouth open, rows upon rows of sharp teeth, and the gaping hole of the inside of his mouth made visible. Bokuto holds out his arms to block, but the ghoul sinks his claws into them. It stings. It’s fucking painful oh god oh fuck and it’s sinking in oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

He suddenly doesn’t know if the shrieking is the ghoul’s or his own.

The pain worsens. The claws sink further in. But he can’t move them because the ghoul is sucking in air and taking his soul with it and oh fuck oh fuck he can’t feel his arms it reeks of death it hurts it hurts his arms are going weak and limp and—

A screech that definitely isn’t his own. The ghoul falls onto the ground, knocked away by Akaashi’s blade. Bokuto falls, unable to move his arms, unable to think. His mind is everywhere and nowhere at once. He is floating and on the ground at the same time. His eyes are glazed and he can’t focus. Where is he what is he who is he why is he here how is he here what is he doing what's happening who is he what is his name—

It’s all a ringing in his ears. 

Who is he? 

The pained laugh pulls him back to reality. The spirit’s gaze focuses on the ghoul sprawled on the ground, fumbling back into a standing position. A dark-robed figure looms before him, protecting him—or at least, that’s what he assumes he’s doing. He flicks his wrist once. A chain whip appears in his hands and a clink sounds through the dark. The spirit can’t see his face. Who is this person? Who is he? 

What’s my name again? 

The dark-robed male’s shadow looms. It’s larger than he is. Horns, sprouting over his shadow. A tail, not unlike a dragon’s, curling behind his figure. Only on his shadow, though. The spirit can’t see the person’s face. All he can see is the way the ghoul’s expression changes as he stumbles back, hear the clink of chains rustling against grass. 

He can’t feel his arms. 

“W-wait.” He trips, falls. Backpedals back on the ground so quickly as the dark-robed figure slowly takes his steps forward. The ghoul holds up his hands, ducks beneath them. “Wait! I’m nothing but small fry, my liege—nothing but small fry! I am of no worth. I am not the one you are after. I will tell you everything I kno—” 

A flick of the wrist. The chain whips against the ghoul’s face, throwing him aside. It glows a cold blue. He screeches, clutching his face. It steams not from heat but from the cold.  “M-my lo—” 

Another screech. The chain wraps around his body, burns him with its cold. The ghoul shrieks in pain, head tilted back. But the dark-robed deity does not stop. No, he keeps the chain wrapped firmly around, lets it burn the ghoul with its temperature. Watches the steam rise motionlessly. Then calmly, languidly, like a dragon unfurling from the dark, he brings out an oddly-shaped weapon. Throws it down hard, watches it get stuck in the ghoul’s throat. He chokes, unable to let out a sound. Blood spurts from his wound, black and thick and reeking. He can’t speak. He whimpers in pain, whistles escaping. 

“You might not be who we are looking for.” The deity’s cold voice is oddly familiar. The spirit should know it. He watches the dark-robed figure bend down, watching the ghoul suffer with little to no emotion. “But you will die in your master’s place.”

“You—were—one of us.” He still manages to croak these words out despite his ruined throat. Is this how fantasy should work? “We want the same thing.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“Then him. Perhaps.” A strained gesture the fallen spirit’s way. “Him.” 

He’s compelled to deny, but he can’t speak. The dark-robed deity reaches out a pale, elegant and delicate-looking hand to trace his thumb over the cut of the terrified, suffering ghoul’s cheekbone. 

“We are nothing like you.” 

He pulls the chain. 

There’s a blood-curdling shriek. 

The ghoul explodes. 

Blood sprays. Severed body parts scatter. 

The deity waves his hand once, throws out talismans. There’s the smell of burning flesh, then there’s nothing left but the stench of blood. 

He turns around.

He’s seen this person before. 

“Bokuto-san.” The cold look in his eyes fades into worry and he hurriedly kneels down. 

Ah. Right. That’s my name. 

Bokuto… Bokuto…?

“Bokuto Koutarou. I’m Akaashi Keiji. Do you remember me?” His tone is a little panicked, eyes darting left and right. Hands reaching into his robe in search of a qiankun pouch. Prayers on his lips. Delicate hands hurriedly swipe balm over the wounds on Bokuto’s arm and he winces, cries out weakly at the agonising sting. Akaashi murmurs a soft apology. “I’m sorry. Bear with it for a little. It will help reduce the pain. Speed up healing.” Shaking hands wrapping bandages around his arms. Lifting him and propping him against the tree. 

He remembers now. Bokuto Koutarou. Professional volleyball player. General? He isn’t sure about that. But he remembers now. Slowly. A trickle of memories. 

And then he gasps. 

The battle. The ghoul. Everything catches up and he leans over to vomit, both horrified and slightly touched at what Akaashi’s just done. For him. Was it for him? He doesn’t know. The smell of blood is sickening. 

And then everything else hits him and his head hurts and god his arms are so numb he can’t feel them at all and—

“Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi’s cool voice pulls him from his reverie. He meets those gunmetal blue eyes, still in shock. “Respond. So I know you’re… okay.” 

“I’m not okay,” he replies immediately. “That was terrible, Akaashi.”

A sigh of relief. “... I am sorry. That you had to see that.” 

He thinks back to the horns on his shadow, the curling tail. Dragon Lord. What does it mean to be a Dragon Lord? And just who is he sheltering? 

“Can you… remember everything?”

“Yeah. Sort of. My head hurts.” 

“Well, at least you’re still an anomaly. I suppose that works in our favour.” 

“Haha. Guess… so…” He blinks once, struggling to stay awake. He wonders for a brief moment if the others are done with their fight. But then his vision tunnels and he can’t keep his head up anymore and—

“Bokuto-san. Bokuto-san. ”

And then his vision goes black and he topples over. 

The last thing he feels is arms around him just before he hits the forest floor. 

——————

“Is he up yet?” 

“Sh! He’s twitching. I think he’s up.”

“Man, can’t believe we have to hold back on our partying just because we’re waiting for him.”

“You try having claws sunk so deep into your arms they almost hit bone. On top of having the last remnants of your soul almost sucked out of you and devoured. On top of having absolutely no prior experience to such injuries or… any fighting at all.” 

A sigh of exasperation cuts through the air. Bokuto’s eyes twitch once beneath his eyelids, the movement prompting the entire room to fall silent. And then they snap open and he groans, reaching a hand up to block the light in his face. And then he curses because, holy shit, his arms hurt. So he turns his head away. He tries to sit up, but it’s pretty hard without the help of his arms. Cold hands wrap around his arms, along with another pair, to help him sit up. He slowly opens his eyes, adjusts to the light. His head’s throbbing, too. 

“Fuck, my arms. My head.” He groans again, leaning his head in his hands. His forearms strain, so he begrudgingly tries not to lean all of his head’s weight down. “Please tell me I didn’t go through all of that for nothing.” 

“You didn’t.” Kuroo shakes his head, face splitting into a grin. “Total fucking victory. I think the ghouls sort of knew when the big guy Akaashi killed died. They just started… panicking all of a sudden. But we think it’s weird. Since they all retreated at exactly the same time…”

“There’s someone else. The ghoul I killed was just a pawn.” Akaashi’s expression is not unlike stone, his arms crossed tightly before his form. Bokuto realises he’s seated beside his bed. “He said it himself. We aren’t the ones he’s looking for. The only problem is finding who is.” 

“So what do you plan on doing next?” Kenma speaks, looking up from the floor to fix his eerie gaze on Akaashi, head tilted to the side. Observing. 

“Go back to Tokyo.” Akaashi taps his fingers against his arms. “Find Junya. We might not know who we should be after, but he might. And, even if he doesn’t, I still have some questions for him. Beom is resourceful, but he isn’t as good or old as Junya is.” 

“Junya…” Kuroo shivers. “The guy’s fucking terrifying. He’s probably older than all of us combined and he still has his nine tails.” 

“Anyway.” Akaashi uncrosses his arms and folds them on his lap in one swift movement. “... You should all party first. Or whatever. I’ll leave too so Bokuto-san can have some space and relax—”

“Wait.” Bokuto shakes his head. “You guys can go. I want Akaashi to stay.” He meets the deity’s astonished gaze with a sly sort of smile, tilting his head to the side. “Won’t you keep me company?”

The deity hesitates in place as the others shuffle out, eager to party, to let loose, tense in his seat. But even as the door slams shut, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, gunmetal blue eyes appraising, analytical. Confused. “Why?” He wrings his hands, looks down as he does. “You saw what I did. What I became.”

“Yeah.”

“I killed him.”

“Yep.”

“Tortured him.” 

“Yup.” 

He fixes a glare on him. “What do you want?”

Bokuto laughs, leans his head back. “Akaashi. I just want your company.”

“Why? Didn’t you know Kuroo-san? Kozume-san? You’ve known them for longer than I have.”

“Mhm.” He closes his eyes. “But I want your company. So stop being so whiny about it and just… make yourself comfortable. We’re in no rush to head out, right?”

“Well, no, but—”

“So sleep.” He finally opens his eyes, golden meeting gunmetal blue. “I’ve never seen you sleep before me or wake up after me. So take a break, Akaashi.” He shuffles his butt to the side, uncovering the blanket, freeing up space. “Sleep.” A pat on the now empty sheets next to him. 

Akaashi hesitates. “Here? Now? There?”

“What?” His heart beats in his chest even as he plays it off with a tilt of his head, gaze challenging when he meets the deity’s eyes. “You don’t want to?”

Akaashi opens his mouth, lips already formed into the shape of a ‘no’. But the words don’t come out. He just sits there, shocked. So Bokuto laughs and gently reaches over to tug him onto the bed with him. He keeps a respectful distance, close but not touching. His movements aren’t too forceful, either—he’s still giving the other a chance to decline. 

But he doesn’t.

Bokuto doesn’t tell Akaashi that the latter ended up cuddling up to him in his sleep. 

Akaashi doesn’t tell Bokuto that he’s never had such a good sleep in millenia. 

(But, deep in their souls, they know it anyway.) 

——————

“Are you ready?” Akaashi’s shouldering on his robes, securing the waist belt in place, double-checking to make sure he still has all of his qiankun pouches. Bokuto catches sight of the jade pendant before it’s tucked once more into his robes. He nods. 

“Yep. Let’s go.” 

Back to the forest. To the array. Akaashi’s movements are swift and quick. And, in no time, they’re already in Tokyo. 

“Keiji!” 

The both of them turn towards the sound, whipping their heads back so quickly they almost get whiplash. Bokuto’s arms still fucking hurt like hell, but oh well. And the owner of the voice is… Shun, was it? Bokuto squints again to reconfirm, then nods to himself when he’s sure he’s remembered right. Shun. 

“Ah. And th—Bokuto-san is here as well. Good evening.” He offers a hasty bow to both of them. “I thought you’d be back. Do you want me to bring you to our place for now?”

“Why? What’s happening?” The deity crosses his arms, tilts his head to the side with a raised eyebrow. 

Shun fixes his gaze on the both of them. “... Well. I’ll tell you after you’ve both gotten an appropriate amount of rest. Word travels fast—even we know of what’s happened in Miyagi already.” He gestures to the spirit’s injured arm. “I’ll have Jae help with the wound. For now, let’s go home.” 

“Are you telling me we have to fight again?” Bokuto groans, to which Shun hesitantly chuckles. 

“Bokuto-san… Whatever you thought you’d seen, I fear this will be much, much worse.” 

“Heroes never rest.” He groans. 

Akaashi pauses in his steps, turning to look at Bokuto with an appraising look. The spirit thinks he’s about to scoff and rebut, but, no. He says something else instead. 

“If that’s what you think we are, then I suppose you’re right.” Akaashi glances skyward. “Heroes. I can’t deny that that has a nice ring to it.” 

And, well.

He can’t help but feel that whoever he’s lost would be proud of him if he were truly to become one. 

A hero. 

If I couldn’t save you, then perhaps I will save others in your place. 

What I couldn’t do for you, I will do for others. 

Yeah. 

Heroes never rest.