boundless || bokuaka

“My, my. It’s nice to see you again, General.”

Akaashi is quick to provide a very brief summary of the events that transpired in their absence(though it’s only been a little over a week, it feels like it’s been forever. Time is odd that way). Shun listens silently as he easily weaves through the streets of Tokyo—it’s well past noon at this point, and Bokuto isn’t sure if others can see him or Akaashi. But it’s clear that the deity before them hasn’t bothered hiding himself from mortal eyes. Dressed in casual-formal mortal garb and with his looks and height, their eyes are naturally drawn to him. Girls glancing away to whisper and men whistling in appreciation. And yet, he pays none of the attention any mind. Bokuto wonders if he revels in it, if he enjoys it, or if he truly doesn’t notice it at all. Because he knows that if it were him, he wouldn’t be so apathetic. No, he’d be preening with all the attention he’s getting. 

Though he does seem a little lost in thought. “Is that really all of it?”

“No. But I’d rather not repeat the entire story three times, so until we’re all in the same place, that will be all I have to say for the time being,” comes the cool reply. Shun nods in understanding as he makes a turn. “Have either of you been able to find out who was behind it?” 

The immortal shakes his head. “No. We’re still looking. I’ve asked Beom to look for Junya—there’s no way he doesn’t know where he is—but he’s not having it. You know how he is. How they are.” He cringes a little. “Beom doesn’t usually let his feelings interfere with his work ethic, but those two are too much like water and oil. They don’t mix.” 

“Who is Junya?” Bokuto frowns. “I keep hearing his name, but I don’t actually know him.” 

The two deities exchange a glance before Shun gestures at Akaashi, like, “go on”. So the latter sighs and folds his arms into his sleeves. “He’s a nine-tailed kitsune. An informant, too.”

“What makes him so special then?”

“Well for starters, he’s ancient.” Akaashi casts his gaze skyward. “He existed far before I did. Far before Shun. Not many in the heavens are as old as he is. I doubt anyone knows how old he is.” The deity shrugs. “And, well, they won’t admit it, but they seek him for information, too. Even if they preach about their distaste for demons, they seek him out. He isn’t, but it feels like he’s all-knowing.” 

“Though everything usually comes with a price,” Shun adds, cringing. “And not all those prices are good. I’ve heard some things. That he’d ask for you to cut off your finger or something in exchange.” Akaashi cringes a little here, but none of them catch it. Nor do they catch the way his hand latches onto the ring finger on his left. “And that’s calling it mild. But I’ve also heard that he’s never once asked you to repay him, Keiji.”

“No,” the deity shakes his head. “And he’s refused to tell me why. I guess being old also comes with the ability to keep your mouth shut in the most effective way possible.”

“What else?” There’s a vague sense of familiarity in his mind. Has he met this guy, too? In the past? Pale hair, seductive, sly eyes. Long fingernails atop nimble fingers as they trail up his chest, his neck, flicking beneath his chin. The scent of cinnabar in the room.

“He has a lot of connections and a lot of people under him. If the heavens have their emperor, then Diyu and the mortal realm have Junya. And we are all slaves to information.” Shun shakes his head. “Even Oikawa finds himself knocking on his door on occasion. None would dare oppress him at this rate—he might know too much, but he’s more than capable of protecting himself.” 

“You make it sound like the heavens want him gone.”

“They have for quite awhile now. And they’ve tried.” Akaashi scoffs. “But he’s still here.” 

Silence falls. All Bokuto can think is, he’s got a point.

“Another thing,” Shun adds. “Junya doesn’t give out information if someone’s already paid him to seal his mouth shut. You can’t buy it out of him unless you give him what he asks for, and it’s usually a price as high as what he was offered to keep his mouth sealed. And it doesn’t always have to be money.” His amber eyes flicker between the two once. “It’s best that you visit him as soon as possible before it’s too late.”

Akaashi sighs. “I will. But it’s difficult to—”

“Yes,” Shun frowns. “Meeting with him is difficult.”

“Why?” The spirit asks, tilting his head to the side in inquiry. “Is he like, super busy?”

“Well, that and the fact that he’s always moving around.” Shun runs a hand through his hair. “He does settle in a few places, but never for long. He has too many enemies and too much information. Everyone’s always looking for him. And, well…” His nose scrunches. “He has quite the harem. Accidental, of course—he rather enjoys having pointless bedroom activities regardless of gender. It helps that he’s handsome, I suppose.”

“Reminds me a little of Beom,” Bokuto blurts, to which Shun laughs. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t disagree.” 

“Anyway,” Akaashi cuts in. “Fill us in on what we’ve missed in the meantime,” Akaashi says, folding his arms beneath his sleeves as the trio trudges on. They turn into a dark empty alley and emerge on a slightly less popular road where people come and go, though not as often as the main one. Shun runs a hand through his chin-length hair, and Bokuto notices that half of it is tied away from his face into a small ponytail, his bangs left to fall and frame his features. The man is absurdly good-looking. Bokuto wonders if all immortals are just natural lookers. 

He purses his lips. “Things here haven’t been any better.” Pausing to let cars pass, he towers over the mortals. He seems thoroughly unbothered by how he might look speaking to air, though. “A few days after the both of you left for Tokyo, we received intel of a new temple.”

“What’s so strange about a new temple?” Bokuto tilts his head to the side. “Isn’t that normal?”

“Yes, if it’s small-scale, nor a huge one that makes a spectacle, if you understand my meaning.” Shun leads the duo down a familiar street, and Bokuto is struck by how this is the very one he usually walks along when he’s going home. He wonders what his apartment is like, now. What happened to it after he died. Is someone occupying it now? Or is it empty? His family would have cleared it out, surely. It’s a grim reminder that he’s no longer of this world even if he may exist in it. 

I miss home, he thinks.

But the musings and wishes of a dead mortal are nothing in the faces of those who have lived an eternity.

“However, this one is… large. Grand. Extravagantly built. I know nothing of its origins, of how or when it was built. It appeared, quite literally, out of nowhere.” Shun frowns. “Honestly, I thought it to be normal, too. Until I was told to visit it myself. Something about it is… strange. The divinity seems forced.” A sigh. “It’s… difficult to explain. Perhaps it would be better for me to bring you there myself.” He casts a glance behind him, examining the duo. Then he turns back with a small huff and a shake of his head, subtle in its action. “Not now. When you are both well-rested and recovered, I will bring you. For now, at least, there has been no trouble.” 

“Who is it dedicated to?” Akaashi asks. The streets are more foreign to Bokuto, now, but he can still vaguely recognise a few things that tell him they’re close to Beom’s apartment building. “The temple.”

“The Goddess of Fortune, Ebisu.” He licks his lips. “But, again, it does not feel like it. Odd. Strange. It’s difficult to put into words. Mortals would not be able to tell, but we… we can. I will bring you both there when you’re both healed. For now, we will see you treated and well-rested. Hwanjae’s already worried himself half to death ever since we received news of the events that transpired in Miyagi.”

“It’s rare for you to be at a loss for words,” Akaashi muses with a delicately raised brow. “Is it so strange?”

A soft chuckle. They’re in the building now, but Shun doesn’t bother going to the lift. Instead, he brings them to a little corner of the building and—

He walks straight into the wall and disappears. 

What is this, Harry Potter?

Akaashi doesn’t even hesitate to follow, leaving Bokuto dumbstruck. He stands there, at a loss for what to do for the briefest of moments, before he sighs, mumbling beneath his breath in discontent about these cursed immortals and their ways before taking a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight and stepping forward, half-expecting to collide with the wall.

He doesn’t. 

“You can open your eyes now, Bokuto-san,” Shun advises, a hint of laughter in his words when he does. “If you’d taken any longer, the doorway might have closed.” 

“Doorway?”

“Yes. It requires an incantation to open it.” Shun leads them down the corridor, stopping before a door as he fishes through his pockets. “It’s convenient and requires less waiting.” A swipe, a beep. The door opens and before the deity can open his mouth to announce his arrival, soft, hurried footsteps reach their ears followed by a figure with long, dark hair and golden, glowing eyes. 

“You’re back!” Hwanjae utters, rushing forward. “Deities, I was worried sick. Sit down.”

Shun chuckles, breaking away to go to the  kitchen as Bokuto and Akaashi sit down on the couch. Hwanjae pulls a kit from thin air and settles it on the coffee table, sighing when he eyes the two once more. “Akaashi seems alright, if not a little exhausted. But Bokuto-san…” Golden eyes flick to the bandaged arms where blood is already seeping through(how does that work when he’s a ghost by technicality?) and the slightly haggard, pained experience. “What happened?”

Bokuto tilts his head to the side. “Eh? Didn’t Shun say that you guys already know what happened?”

Hwanjae shakes his head. “He’s right, but we know only of the more important details. The plan, the execution, the ending. Your injury and whatever happened in between—we don’t know of it. And I’d like to hear it from the both of you while I treat your wound.”

And then he unwraps the bandage. 

Bokuto has to look away, cringing when cold air hits his open wound and trying to ignore the scent of blood in the air. Hwanjae sucks in a breath, clearly not expecting such a deep injury. “Deities,” he breathes, looking up and meeting Bokuto and Akaashi’s gazes. “What happened?”

With a sigh, Akaashi gives another brief summary while Hwanjae leaves briefly to wash his hands by the sink. He returns quickly, opening the kit to reveal a bunch of modern medicine tools mixed with a few odds and ends. And needles, which Bokuto swallows at the sight of because, holy fuck, some of them are huge. “How long has he been injured? Did you sterilise the bandage?”

“I did first-aid on him with Iwaizumi-san, Nekoma’s healer and Kitsu. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. He was injured early this morning… an hour or two past midnight at most.”

Hwanjae frowns, inspecting the wound. Apart from his initial surprise, he seems otherwise unperturbed by the deep puncture. “... Alright. If it’s you, then I have no qualms. Why didn’t you stitch it up?”

“I don’t have the experience.” Akaashi doesn’t mention his hands were shaking. Bokuto wouldn’t have known—he was passed out. But Hwanjae gives him an uncharacteristically pointed gaze. 

“Is that so?” Hwanjae leans back, shaking his head. Somehow, he missed your nerves. Consider yourself lucky, Bokuto-san—or, well. As lucky as you can get in a situation like this. I’ll clean it up and stitch it, and then we’ll perform a few tests. You should heal relatively quickly—faster than a mortal should, at least.”

“Why?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

The healer’s gaze is almost eerie. “Bokuto-san,” he starts. “You’re not human. In more ways than you would think.”

Ah. 

Hwanjae gets to work, carefully applying some sort of ointment. Bokuto’s arm goes numb. The deity threads the thread through a needle before he sets to work, carefully stitching the wound together. The spirit doesn’t feel anything. He looks away. 

Akaashi looks sick to his stomach. 

When he’s done stitching up both his arms and replacing the bandages, Hwanjae pokes around Bokuto’s arm and asks him if he can feel this or that or move his wrist, his fingers. Which, well. He can. Just with a lot of fucking difficulty. 

The door opens and slams shut followed by purposeful footsteps just as Hwanjae is packing up his belongings. “I’m home!” A voice calls, and Bokuto recognises it’s Beom’s. He emerges into view, running a hand through his hair as he plops on the couch opposite to the both of them. Shun brings him a glass of water and pauses. 

“Why do you smell like—”

“Nope. Nope. Don’t wanna talk about it. Fucking crusty-ass old pervert piece of fox-eyed shit. Talk about fucking favouritism.” He throws his head back, groaning, pointing middle fingers in the air. “I can’t fucking believe him!”

“You know,” Shun starts coolly, sitting next to his cousin. “It could be payback for the prank you pulled last time.”

“He deserved it!”

“He didn’t even do anything, Beom.”

“He pissed me off.”

“It’s rare for you to be so hot-headed.”

“What can I say? That fucking fox gets on my nerves and under my fucking skin.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re getting a taste of your own medicine.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

It’s like watching shots being fired with no pause in between. Just shoot, shoot, shoot. If this is what it takes to argue with the snake demon, Bokuto isn’t sure how long he’d be able to stand it. Said snake demon lets out a huff, indignant, before forcing himself to sit upright, brows still drawn with his features still pulled into a nasty scowl. “Heard the wound was nasty,” he finally says, eyeing the bandages. “I’m going to have to make you repeat the whole story from the top to me, Akaashi. I need to see if my info aligns, and if it’s reliable.” Leaning back in his seat, he crosses his arms and legs, chin tilted arrogantly upwards as he scrutinises the unperturbed, dark-robed deity next to Bokuto. 

So he does. With the last person of their party here, Akaashi starts speaking in more detail. Apart from Beom, who looks nothing but entertained and perhaps slightly amused, the others’ expressions grow grimmer as the story continues. By the end of it, Shun turns to his youngest cousin with an eyebrow raised. Their resemblance is uncanny. 

“Does it line up?”

“Yep,” he responds. “Unfortunately, it does. Poor Bokuto. You should start getting back your muscle memory on how to fight and shit, or you’re not going to survive much longer.” 

“What about you?” Jae cuts in. “What were you doing at Junya’s headquarters?”

Beom’s expression sours at the mention of the informant’s name and he almost puffs up, not unlike a pufferfish. He visibly pushes his temper down as he crosses his arms, not unlike a grumpy cat. “... Things. I wanted to get some info out of him—none of the sources here are giving me any useful information about that damn temple. It’s like they’ve been paid to shut up or someone’s blocking the information. But that slimy bitch wouldn’t let me. I even—fuck, man, not even our usual payment was enough. Motherfucker.” 

“What did he ask for this time?” Shun asks, eyebrow raised. “What does he usually ask for?”

“Not important,” Beom says, waving his hand. “This time he asked for an insane amount of money to top it off.”

“I told you not to mess with his documents,” Hwanjae sighs. “You deserve it.”

“Fuck his documents. All I did was mess up the order—fucking neat freak.”

“You’re being a little hypocritical there,” Shun muses. 

“Whose side are you on?”

Akaashi raps his knuckles on the table thrice, the movement sharp and the sound cutting through the cousins’ pointless bickering. “So you got nothing out of him.” Not a question—a statement. To which Beom flares, because it’s clear he isn’t used to not having information. 

“I did get some, alright? Before the whole fucking… fiasco.” He waves his hand, deflating. “The temple wasn’t built by mortals—before you say, well, duh, it popped out of nowhere—I’m not an idiot. But what I mean is that it was built by a bunch of ghouls. That ring a bell?” His gaze flicks between Bokuto and Akaashi, and, satisfied with the reaction, he leans back in his seat, tucking a lock of wavy, brown hair behind his ear. “They collapsed into dust right after, though, so you don’t have to worry about fighting another wave. All I know about the temple is that there’s no divine energy in there—but there’s plenty of ours. Demonic energy, yin energy, dark energy, whatever the fuck kind of nasty energy there is—it’s there.” He blows a whistle. “If what I think is going on is true, then I’ve gotta say, it’s nasty, but it’s genius. I don’t have the evidence to back up my theory yet, so I’ll be sneaking in after hours to check.” A sly smile graces his lips.

“And what if you’re wrong?” Shun asks, folding his arms in his sleeves. “Because if you are, what you’re going to do is most likely going to be some form of blatant disrespect, isn’t it?”

Beom only shrugs. “What do I care? ‘S not like we got any respect from them. Besides, dear cousin,” he coos, winking. “I know what I’m doing. I’m the youngest here, but this is my field of expertise. And I don’t give a shit about the consequences when the fact that I’m still breathing already pisses the people up top off. What’s a little more pissing, ya know?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day if you keep going like that,” Shun retorts, frustrated. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Beom raises an eyebrow. “Look me in the eye, dear cousin. Do I look like a man who fears death?”

“Fine. But we fear yours.”

He blinks once, then laughs, shaking his head. “There’s your first mistake, Shun,” he starts. “I’m a selfish motherfucker.”

And, well—something about that is sad, too. 

Beom pauses. Then, “I don’t need your protection.” Leaning back in his seat, he closes his eyes. “And I don’t want it.”

Surrounded by people, Sakurai Kohaku seems like a very, very lonely man. 

——————

Akaashi opens the door and blinks once. Before Bokuto can follow him in or even open his mouth to ask why the former looks so irate, he’s turned around and made brisk steps back towards the lounge, where the three cousins sit, heads inclined to each other as they discuss something. Naturally, all three heads turn toward the coldly seething deity. The corner of Beom’s lips curl and he tilts his head to the side, tucking a lock of brown hair behind his ear as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees with steepled hands. “Akaashi?” 

“Where did the futon go? There’s only one bed,” he starts coolly, folding his arms beneath the sleeves of his robe. “In case you forgot, the bed is only slightly larger than a queen-sized bed.”

For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders why Akaashi is so worked up. After all, it’s only natural to put a spare futon back into the store if it’s no longer in use, right? Up until Beom shrugs when all eyes turn to him, leaning back in his seat as he casts his gaze skyward. “Oh, is that so?” Peach blossom eyes curving into crescents as he smiles. “Oops.”

“What do you mean, ‘oops?’”

He shrugs again. “About that spare futon…” He meets Akaashi’s gaze. “I burned it.” 

Hwanjae blinks. “Didn’t y—”

Beom’s leg kicks Hwanjae’s, effectively shutting him up in one smooth motion. All while he says, “Looks like you’ll have to sleep with Bokuto until we find the time to get you a new one.” 

“What?” Now both of them are dumbstruck, Bokuto’s voice louder and more surprised than Akaashi’s with his jaw wide open and a blush already crawling up his neck, his cheeks, his ears. 

Shun purses his lips, looking away, visibly trying not to laugh aloud. His knuckle presses his lips and he clears his throat, hiding a snicker. “We’ll be so busy, though. You might need to get used to sleeping with Bokuto-san for the time being until we’ve solved this problem, Keiji. Apologies.” And, despite the obvious attempt not to laugh, Shun manages to say all of that smoothly, calmly. Easily. 

“How would I even fit there?” Akaashi’s tone is a little helpless, a little wronged, like he’s being bullied. Which, well. He is. Bokuto doesn’t really mind that he has to sleep with Akaashi, though. He’s never hated the idea—in fact, he rather fancies it—and he never will. From the very start when they’ve been forced to live in the same room together until now, he’s never minded. And they’ve already slept in the same bed together, right? Like… once. And it was a very nice sleep. 

Akaashi throws up his hands, clearly giving up on trying to argue any further before he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine.” He sits down on the couch, clearly intending on forgetting that he has to share a small bed with Bokuto for the time being. Or, at least, until he has to re-enter that room. On one hand, the spirit gets it. After all, Akaashi probably sees him as nothing but a friend or something, right? But on the other… well. Maybe he does want to sleep with him. Just sleep. Like yesterday when they shared a bed and woke up feeling more well-rested than they had been in ages. Maybe it’s ‘cause he feels like he and Akaashi just… fit. 

And maybe it’s because he’s starting to realise what those dreams mean and how he came to know the deity from the very beginning. 

“What are you three discussing?” He asks tiredly, running a hand over his face. “If it’s about the case, shouldn’t we listen in on it, too?”

“Did the Heavens already give this over to you?” Beom asks, eyebrow raised and head tilted to the side. “Since when are they that efficient?” 

There’s a short moment of silence—the feeling of ‘I want to refute what you just said, but now that I think about it, I can’t, because you’re right’—hovering in the air before Akaashi coughs into his hand. “No. My orders were to investigate the cases of the demons acting up in the mortal realm and clear up the mess. They were not specific. I might as well—you know how ambiguous they are.”

“Then can’t you just use their words against them?” Bokuto asks, taking his seat next to Akaashi. The couch is small, like it was left empty on purpose; their thighs touch and the spirit has to calm down his beating heart(however that’s supposed to work, since he’s pretty much dead). “If you tell them their orders aren’t clear.”

“If it’s just Oikawa, then perhaps,” Akaashi responds, clasping his fingers together. “But it won’t be just him. No, I’d sooner receive punishment under the guise of ‘neglecting my duties’ or ‘disobeying orders’.”

Beom snorts. “Wouldn’t be the first time they punished you for doing nothing.” 

The room stills. Bokuto, too, though he doesn’t notice it at first. “What?” 

Beom blows out a whistle. “Whew. If looks could kill, Bokuto.” 

He ignores him. “They do that to you?” There’s a scornful tone in his words that he’s unfamiliar with. “Why?”

Akaashi shrugs coolly. “I haven’t the slightest.” 

“How can you—”

“Because he’s been wiped.” 

Silence, again. All eyes turn to Shun, who calmly sips his tea. Long, wavy hair framing his face and falling before his eyes, making it difficult to discern the expression on his face. “Keiji knows, too. The Heavens are a cruel place, Bokuto-san.” Amber eyes meet gold. Something about it is so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. “It’s why some people want to tear it down. And it’s also why the Upper Realm needs a new ruler. The current has been the overseer for us from times far before the war. He is unjust, he is biased, and nothing but a cowardly old man who clings onto the glories of his past and craves power.” There is a hint of bitter distaste in the male’s usual gentle voice. 

“Who is he?” Bokuto asks, because seeing Shun this way is new. “The current overseer, I mean.” 

“Tenshu-sama.” Shun waves a hand. “Well, that’s his title. His name is Amatsu.”

“You seem familiar with him.”

Shun raises an eyebrow. “We’ve met a few times. For work, mostly. And I suppose I’m important enough to sit in meetings with him.” He sighs. “I say he is a coward, but I could be wrong. He’s… difficult to read. It feels like he’s always lying, but he does it so well that I can’t tell if that’s truly how he is or if he’s just… hiding.” 

Beom snorts. “Well, he is the overseer of the Upper Realm. He’s been the overseer since even before the last war. You don’t get to keep that position for so long by being predictable if you’re not powerful.”

Shun’s lips twitch. “He is biased and unjust. He’s been sitting in his seat for too long.”

“Shun,” Hwanjae cuts in. “That’s enough.”

The older sighs. “I know. Sorry.”

Who’s the oldest cousin again? 

“Talk like that will get you in trouble,” Hwanjae says softly. “Have we not lost enough already?”

Shun purses his lips, falling silent. Akaashi crosses his arms. Bokuto sits like a fish out of water because he has absolutely no idea what the fuck he should be doing or saying at this very moment. 

“We’re going off-topic,” Beom snaps, rolling his eyes as he dramatically crosses his legs. “How the fuck did we get here all of a sudden? We’re supposed to be discussing what we’ll do when I get the evidence I need.” 

“What’s your theory?” Akaashi asks. 

A wink is all he gets in return. “I’ll keep my cards close to my chest until I have actual information to give you, sweetheart. Informants like me should only give proper information.”

Bokuto prickles. Sweetheart. He doesn’t like Beom’s tone, the way he says it. Like he’s flirting. But when is he not? It’s never bothered Bokuto before—not when it was aimed at other people, at least. But when it’s Akaashi… 

It just doesn’t sit well with him when it’s Akaashi he’s flirting with. 

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi calls. Bokuto blinks once, jolting back into reality. 

“Here! What’s up? Did I space out?” A hand bashfully scratches the back of his head. “Sorry. I was thinking about something.”

Akaashi’s brows furrow ever-so-slightly and he tilts his head to the side. “... Alright. We were asking you if you’d figured out how to control your form. When you passed out yesterday, you were flickering between solid and… well, not.” 

“Ah! Nope.” And, of course, in typical Bokuto-like fashion, his tone is cheery and he shakes his head. “No fucking idea how to control it. It just happens. Aren’t I mostly solid now, though? I wasn’t aware I could, like… unsolid myself.” He presses a finger to his lips and tilts his head to the side, actions almost owl-like, inquisitive. “I thought it was like… once you’re solid, you’re just solid, ya know?”

“Well, technically, yes.” Hwanjae steeples his fingers together with pursed lips. “But you’re different.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just… a hunch.” The deity’s smile is a little helpless. “Well, not really. But it’s difficult to put into words. Our point is that if you could control the way your form presents itself—immaterial or material—it would be useful for you. You’d be able to wander among mortals without being seen. And those that would see you would only be children, animals, and others that aren’t of this realm. And if someone was using a regular, non-spiritual weapon against you while you weren’t solid, you’d be able to avoid injury.” 

Well. It doesn’t sound too bad, right? Bokuto leans against his seat, head tilted to the side. Then, he says, “A’ight. It sounds like a good idea. Who’s gonna teach me?”

“Me.” Calmly, Akaashi folds his hands over his lap as he meets Bokuto’s already excited gaze. “I’ll be teaching you how to control your form—and how to fight.”

“Really?” He practically starts jumping in his seat. His response is immediate, too, garnering varied reactions—a tired deadpan from Akaashi, a small, gentle smile from Hwanjae and Shun, and a roll of his eyes and a stuck-out tongue from Beom. “When? When are you going to start teaching me, then?”

Akaashi blows out a sigh. Bokuto misses the way the corners of his lips curl up just so, too distracted by his own delight to take notice of such little things. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

The spirit deflates on the spot. 

“That’s for your form.” Hwanjae taps nimble fingers against his lap. “Your arms are in no shape for you to start practicing your swordsmanship. The most Akaashi can teach you now is stealth skills—like slyfooting.”

“You walk so noisily.”

“I wasn’t trained to be an assassin.”

He blinks. It’s from that dream he had. Of… the past? 

Bokuto still doesn’t understand how that can make sense when he was, one: born in this century and, two: he has no recollection of such places in his memory. In fact, he’s never had any memories of these things apart from the recurring one where he’s dying and Akaashi is calling for him to go back, turn back, until he’s truly met him. 

I found you, he’d said.

But he still doesn’t know what he meant. 

Not to mention the way he’s been so attached and undeniably attracted to Akaashi, a guy who he’s just met. It’s definitely been more than a week—maybe two, nearing three. Time flies so quickly, he can never truly get a solid grip on it. And it doesn’t help that Bokuto’s spent probably almost every minute of the day with the dark-robed deity. At this point, they’re used to being in each other’s presence. And vaguely familiar with the other’s habits. 

“That sounds awesome,” Bokuto comments, grinning. “I can work with that! Slyfooting is like… walking silently or something, right? For sneakin’ around?”

“Well,” Akaashi sighs. “At least you aren’t a total idiot.”

“Hey! I’m not an idiot!”

Akaashi huffs, amused. “Sure.” 

He’s mocking me! 

“Fuck, I can’t take this. I’m going to vomit, ” Beom bursts out, throwing his hands up. “Go get a fucking room already, lovebirds, jeez. Not everyone here is taken, you know. Or, you know. Pining.”

Hwanjae flushes. Shun clears his throat. Beom throws up his arms. “Seriously? I’m seeing myself out, then.” He stands abruptly, checking the time, then scowling. “Fuck. There’s still a bit of time before the temple closes.” But he’s already walking towards the door. Delicate fingers rest on the door handle, but before he leaves, the demon turns around. “I’ll be back later. I know it’s night, but I have a feeling you’re both going to sleep through the whole day. Tomorrow…” His face twitches. “I’ll take you to meet Junya.”

The door opens. Beom leaves. 

It closes with a click. 

——————

“What’s up between Beom and Junya?” Bokuto asks, plopping onto the medium-sized bed that really isn’t as small as it is at first glance. There’s more than enough space for Akaashi. Sort of. If they’re close enough. 

He reddens at the thought. Akaashi emerges from the shower, donning modern sleepwear for once—a worn-out shirt and shorts that show off his pale, muscular legs. 

Aha. Oh fuck. 

Bokuto looks away. 

“I don’t know either,” comes the reply when Akaashi finishes wiping at his hair. “I wasn’t aware that the both of them were so well-acquainted with each other until today. I doubt Shun or Jae know much either, judging from the way they responded.”

“Eh… Well-acquainted?” He laughs. “That’s one way to put it.” Bokuto’s just showered, too. A T-shirt that he got from Hinata and Kageyama’s place paired with his sports shorts. “He seems like he wants to murder him.”

“Well. Not that far.” He pauses thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to get a read on Beom. He seems like he could do anything.”

The ex-athlete lets out a soft chuckle, shimmying to the side so Akaashi has space. The deity sits on the edge of the bed, a little hesitant. Bokuto pretends not to notice, ignoring the small sting in his heart. Get a grip. You barely know each other. “I guess that’s true, too.”

Cold fingers hesitantly take hold of Bokuto’s arm. He jolts, surprised, flinching when the pain spikes through him at the movement. Akaashi’s hand flinches back and he looks away, voice soft. “... That bad?”

“Not as much as when I first woke up.” Bokuto eyes his bandaged forearms. “I don’t know what Jae put on the wounds, but they’re definitely not as painful. At least I can move them without getting dizzy from how much they hurt. I seriously thought my pain tolerance was high up until I got this. Think the scar will heal?”

Akaashi’s eyebrows are furrowed. “... Maybe.” He turns around again, slowly reaching for his arms. They hover, briefly. Bokuto watches, golden eyes keen. He doesn’t move. 

Then, slowly, Akaashi gently grabs hold of those bandaged arms, lips pursed. Subtly, Bokuto pulls his arms back just so, and—

Akaashi moves closer, instinctively. Now he isn’t sitting on the edge of the bed—they’re right next to each other. The ex-athlete smiles, does a little victory dance in his head. It worked! 

“I’m sorry,” he starts. The words pull him from his celebration and Bokuto blinks when he registers what he just heard. He opens his mouth, about to ask, or refute, perhaps, when the deity continues. “I wasn’t fast enough. You were deeply wounded because of it, and… well.” He purses his lips. “Now you have to suffer.”

“Hey, hey,” Bokuto responds, laughing. “What are you apologising for? That guy moved so fast—I’d be surprised if you did make it in time. It isn’t your fault that—”

“But it is. ” Akaashi responds with a fire that Bokuto isn’t quite familiar with, so it shuts him up really quick. “It is my fault. There was no one else around us and this might not have happened if I hadn’t dragged you out with me to chase that ghoul. And, well, okay, maybe you would have gotten throttled or something if you were with the rest, but before you say that, Iwaizumi-san, Kuroo-san, Kozume-san—and the other Nekoma heads. They were there. They would have been able to protect you—I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded.” He lets go of Bokuto’s hand and leans against the bedhead, brows furrowed and hands clenched tight into fists. “If I’d been faster, you wouldn’t have been this badly—”

“Hey,” Bokuto cuts in, nudging Akaashi’s shoulder. “Where are you getting all that from? This is the first time I’ve heard you speak so much, and it’s an apology. And for what?” He laughs. “It wasn’t even your fault. Maybe if it was the others, they wouldn’t have been able to protect me, too. There were so many of them. And besides, you kicked his ass. After that.” Unable to resist, Bokuto reaches over to tuck a lock of hair behind Akaashi’s ear, head tilted to the side as he chuckles and moves his hand up to pat his head. “You’re alright, ‘Kaashi.”

He opens his eyes. Gunmetal blue, flecked with green tentatively meeting gold. 

Akaashi pulls away, sinking into the bed, turning his back to Bokuto. “... I’m going to sleep.” A wave of his hand. The room goes dark. 

But this time, the spirit doesn’t miss the red dusting the deity’s ear just before the lights go off. So he smiles, sinking into the bed, too. “Goodnight, Akaashi.” 

Silence. 

Then, softly, a voice calls. “... Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

——————

“Up!” The door slams open, startling Bokuto awake. Akaashi emerges from the bathroom in fresh robes, turning his eyes to the door. “Oh, you’re up already. Okay, then Bokuto, get up!” 

“Waaaaaa… But I just fell asleep!”

“The fuck you did! It’s been an entire day, you blissful fucker! I wish I could sleep that much!” Beom stomps forward, yanking the blanket off of his form. Bokuto lets out a groan, using the pillow to cover his head. But the pillow goes, too. “Get up. I don’t know how long he’s going to be where he is right now—fucking bastard keeps moving around—so if you don’t hurry, we might not be able to catch Junya.”

“Buhh… Now?”

“Akaashi, there’s a bucket in there, right? Could you get me some cold water—”

“Oh, jeez, I’m up, I’m up!” Bokuto sits up so fast he gets dizzy, his vision closing in on him for a good five seconds. He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Geez, is this how you wake people up?”

“Yes. It’s effective and I get to be loud.” Beom steps out of the room. “Hurry up and get dressed. If you guys aren’t done by the fifth minute, I’m barging in again whether you’re naked, half-naked, dicking down or not.”

“Wh—”

The door slams shut, leaving a heavy silence in his wake when Beom’s words sink in. Bokuto jumps to his feet. “What the fuck did he just—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, clearing his throat, ears red as he looks away. “Just get dressed.” 

“... Fine.” And now he’s blushing, too. It takes longer than he’d like because his arms are still hurting like all hell, but by the time Beom barges in, he’s all done. The demon pouts, crossing his arms. 

“Aw, shit,” he sighs. “No drama today.” The elevator dings and they leave the building; the demon walks with both a sense of urgency and surety to where he’s going. It’s clear that he’s very familiar with this route. As always, one of them chants an incantation to render Bokuto unrecognisable—a precaution they took awhile ago when Bokuto was nearly recognised despite being quite dead. 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you wanted to see?”

“Well, either you guys making out, fucking, or at least Bokuto shirtless,” comes the shameless reply. Beom grins and winks. “I’d strike gold either way.” 

“You’re shameless,” Bokuto comments, not without awe. 

“I like to think I am,” comes the next frivolous reply. Beom makes a turn, stopping before an extravagantly decorated corporate building. He walks in, straight past the security guards, who hardly pay him any mind. Then to the elevator. Beom presses a few floor numbers in a specific order, and then they’re going down, down, down. Down to a floor that isn’t displayed there for them to see. 

“You’re familiar with this place,” Bokuto comments, to which Beom scowls. 

“Work things. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

Oho. 

There’s a ding. The doors open into a dimly lit room, dark red. On the wall to Bokuto’s right is a painting and a black, winding horn that isn’t like it’s of any earthen creatures. The room smells vaguely of smoke. To the right there’s a screen, painted, and behind it there’re some dark red curtains drawn shut. In front there’s nothing but desks and paperwork, neatly arranged to the side. More elaborate paintings scattered here and there on the wall, save for the closet closed tight behind the work desk. The curtains on the right are dimly lit, illuminating a vague, blurry, dark form. Nine tails and ears sticking up, someone smoking. There’s the sound of soft, amused laughter. The three watch as the form rises. 

The first thought that fills Bokuto’s mind is that they’re the same height. Definitely around the 190s. 

Behind the screen, the curtains part. Bokuto and Akaashi start coughing from the smoke that billows out—an action that only serves to fuel his laughter. 

“Get the hell out of there, you nasty old pervert,” Beom huffs, crossing his arms. “You fucking stink. There’s no way you didn’t know there would be guests today.”

A hum. “Energetic as ever, Kohaku.” Junya steps out. Silvery hair that cascades over his shoulders, mischievous eyes. The white fox ears atop his head are tipped with red, like the mark between his brow and the marks on his cheeks beneath both his upward-slanting eyes, three lines slashed across. Nine tails sway behind him one moment, and the next, they’re gone, and he’s dressed in a proper suit. An angular face, sharp yet deceivingly gentle. He looks no older than thirty. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, amused. The fox spirit tilts his head to the side, expression screaming nothing but mischief. His voice is like warm honey—the kind that your mother tells you to stay away from.

“My, my. It’s nice to see you again, General. How have you been?”