boundless || bokuaka

“It’s funny,” Akaashi starts. “How much I trust you.”

“So… Why did you come back so late?” Shun asks, eyebrows raised. Something about how they’re walking side-by-side like this causes a wave of nostalgia to wash over the spirit; he can’t quite place why. With the exception of Beom, of course. Bokuto fails to notice the uncomfortable, bewildered furrow of Akaashi’s delicate eyebrows, the confused look in his eyes as his eyes flicker between the spirit and Shun. In response, the demon merely rolls his eyes.

“It’s really none of your business, dear cousin. It’s nothing important, anyway.” The snake demon waves his hand dismissively, turning into an alley. Bokuto wonders why they have to go through so many twists and turns; he’s not even visible. But then again, for all he knows, they could just be taking a shortcut that feels as long-winded as a labyrinth. 

“Come now,” Shun responds, eyebrows raised and head tilted to the side. “It’s only fair, since we filled you in on what you missed while you were gone.” There’s no malice in his tone; in fact, it’s mischievous. Soft, of course, but mischievous, like he already has an idea of what happened. “You didn’t come back with Bokuto-san and Keiji, which means you stayed at Junya’s place or went elsewhere. Based on past experiences and the way you came back in a coat that obviously wasn’t yours, though, I’m surmising that—”

“Shut up. Stop fucking asking if you already know, you asshole,” Beom snaps back, though the last part of his sentence is more of a grumble beneath his breath than anything. Bokuto coughs, awkward.

“You know,” Akaashi speaks up for the first time since they’d left the building. “He seems to favour you. In many ways.”

The snake demon scoffs. “Who, Junya? You must be joking. He has plenty of other toys to play with. I just happened to be there, so he made me stay. There’s nothing else to it.” But something about his acrid tone and furrowed brows makes Bokuto think he isn’t as indifferent as he seems to be about it. That, and the fact that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than them. Beom shakes his head, rolls his shoulders. “Anyway, just drop it. It’s not important.” 

Shun’s eyes soften. “You’re terrible at hiding the fact that you care.”

“Oh, wow, is it ‘drill holes into Beom with questions’ day? I wasn’t fucking aware,” he hisses back. “I said drop it. I don’t want to fucking hear about that old man any more than I want to, thanks.”

Bokuto thinks of the way Junya interacted with Beom back at the building. The whispers, the teases. The way the fox demon had looked at him. “You know,” he starts, ignoring the scathing look the snake demon throws his way by looking at anywhere but him. “I think Akaashi’s right. About the fact that you seem like you’re favou—”

“Fuck off. I said I didn’t want to hear about it. And we’re here anyway, so just drop the damn topic already, jeez.”

The temple looks… well. Like a shrine. Medium-sized. The white gate rises before them as the group scrutinises the inside. So much for expecting it to be heavily guarded. “There’s… there’s barely anyone—”

“That’s because we’re outside, dumbass,” Beom cuts, rolling his eyes before trudging forward. Like the others, his footsteps are easily silent, which really makes Bokuto wonder just how they do it. Then again, they’re over hundreds of years old… Plenty of time to practice pussy-footing.  “Stay here. I’ll take them out and we can go in.”

“Be careful,” Shun advises. 

A scoff. “I’ve done this before.” But he pauses, hand on a pillar of the looming gate, eyes straight ahead. “You too.”

One moment he’s there; another, he’s gone. Bokuto blinks, then turns to the others. For a brief moment, he wonders if he was merely seeing things, and he’s about to ask when Akaashi speaks up, sparing him the effort of asking. “Illusion spell. Makes it look empty. That way, mortals won’t see the demons guarding inside, and other passing immortals will think it’s just a normal shrine.”

“Don’t shrines have security guards?” 

By way of answer, the dark-robed deity merely gestures. Someone dressed in the colours of the shrine ambles past, back straight. Normal at first glance until Bokuto realises he— “Where’s his face?”

“It’s difficult and too draining to give an illusion a face,” Shun supplies, crossing his arms. “Not even high-level cultivators or deities would bother. It’s useful if it’s for a short bit and you only have, say, one or two, but in the long run, it’s a waste of energy. Anyway, people don’t normally look at faces when they see the uniform. Most wouldn’t think much of it.” Shun blinks, then turns to look at Bokuto, pausing in his movements. Then, before the spirit can say anything, he reaches behind his back and pulls… pulls something out of thin air. It’s—

Bokuto audibly chokes. “I thought I left that in Miyagi!”

Shun raises an eyebrow. “No, it appeared on our dining table shortly after you and Akaashi went to rest. It’s yours.” Gingerly handing it over with two hands and an inclined head, Shun almost looks as though he’s bowing. Bokuto doesn’t know why, but it makes him bristle somewhat. Uncomfortably. “Did General Iwaizumi give it b—to you?” 

Bokuto’s hand closes over the hilt; the familiar weight of the weapon is both comforting and welcoming, and it sends a jolt of power up his arm and straight to his head. He shivers; it’s almost as though the weapon is singing in his hands. He can almost hear it speaking. Murmurings and whisperings of words he should know but can’t quite distinguish. On the hilt, the familiar words Wukong are inscribed. “Uh, yeah, sort of.” Again, tendrils of cold, hard blue intertwine with the colours of fire and gold. Strikingly unfamiliar, almost wrong, yet unsurprising all the same. “He said it belonged to his old friend.” 

“It did,” Shun responds softly, running his hands up the length of the dadao’s blade. “It belonged to someone many people held dear.” Peach blossom eyes meet Bokuto’s for the briefest of moments; the man smiles, inclines his head. “And now it’s in the right hands.”

Akaashi’s paled. When Bokuto meets his gaze to show off his blade, it’s fixed instead on the weapon he holds. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Akaashi?”

No response. Bokuto takes one step forward, waves his hand in front of his eyes. He’s seen the weapon before, so why is he like this now?

“A-kaa-shiiiiii?”

A sharp gasp. Akaashi’s head snaps back up and, when he realises Bokuto is in front of him, leaning forward and obviously invading his personal space, he stumbles back in an uncanny, uncharacteristic display of inelegance. For a moment, the trio stand, frozen and at a loss. 

“Akaashi?” Softer now. Holding up his hands. “It’s just me.” 

“It’s just you,” he repeats, then shakes his head, straightens. Bokuto wants to ask what it means when Akaashi says it like that; bitter and confused, perhaps even a little scared. His hands are shaking when he smooths out his robes. “I’m fine. Just got a little lost in my thoughts.” 

Bokuto opens his mouth to speak, but—

“Looks like I missed a party.” Beom wipes some blood off his cheek, grimacing when he has to rub it on his new clothes. He’s wiping blood off of a slender dagger, shoving it into a scabbard on his hip that Bokuto only just noticed. “Wonderful. Well, I had to kill them because they were being stubborn, so now I’m short on a few fire talismans. I hope you have them on you, Shun, ‘cause if worse comes to worst, I definitely don’t have enough.” 

“I have some,” Shun responds, reaching into his qiankun pouch and handing a few over. Beom shoves them into his own pouch, then inclines his head into the shrine, eyebrows raised.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get this fucking party started.”

——————

“Jeez,” the snake demon groans, running a hand over his face. “It fucking hurts, man. I wish he didn’t go so damn hard.” He’s walking just fine, though; he doesn’t even have a hand on his back. 

“Should you really be discussing debauchery at a shrine?” Shun asks, unimpressed, raising an eyebrow despite the small smile on his face. “You should know better, Kohaku.” They all know he doesn’t and likely never will.

“To hell with that; this isn’t even a proper shrine.” With a roll of his eyes, Beom knocks his knuckle against an incense burner. It’s put off-kilter for a bit and the spirit makes a move to hold it in place, but it looks like the snake demon hadn’t used as much force as he seemed to. He wonders if he held back; it’s hard to tell with him. He never seems afraid of Heaven’s wrath. Sometimes, he wonders if the snake demon knows what the repercussions may be, but then he remembers he’s much smarter than he seems. Why, then, does he hate the heavens so much?

Come to think of it… The spirit glances around. I don’t know anything about these people at all. 

But it definitely seems like they know more about him than he knows about himself. 

“You guys know what to do, right?” Beom’s voice yanks him out of his thoughts. Bokuto looks up, meeting with mismatched eyes and raised eyebrows.  “Then get to work.”

What a brat. 

Bokuto’s surprised to see that he doesn’t mean it in a bad way.

“I’ll keep watch outside,” Shun says, already heading back out to guard. “I’ll yell if there’s trouble incoming. You too.”

Bokuto, on the other hand, can’t fucking tell where to start. What’s he supposed to do, flip some paintings, lift a few statues? The idea just doesn’t sit well with him, and it’s clear that Akaashi thinks so, too, when he pauses as his hands graze the bottom of a painting. With a groan, Beom stomps forward, yanking it up in the deity’s place. 

Whatever he has to say, it dies on his lips. 

Bokuto doesn’t recognise it. It’s a simple painting; a sword standing upright with a snake curling down the blade. Another circles the sword, mouth opened in an attempt to consume its tail. Somehow, it feels… offensive. 

“That’s… not good.” Beom is the first to speak. With a rough tug, the painting of Ebisu falls, but he catches it before gingerly dropping it on the ground. Like touching it any longer than he has to will burn him. Can paintings of deities burn demons? Bokuto’s never really thought about that. For a moment, the three of them just stare. It’s only when the spirit looks to the side that he realises Akaashi looks even paler than before, his lips dried (of course he notices that; he’s stared at the deity’s lips alone an embarrassing number of times).

“Check the statues,” Akaashi orders, a sharp edge to his voice that Bokuto’s never heard before. It almost seems to border on panic. Almost. “The paintings. Quick.”

Beom is already moving before he can finish his sentence, and, well. Bokuto takes a little longer; he only startles when he realises Akaashi’s moved, too. Shaking his head, he turns his gaze to the side just in time to see the snake demon reaching for something on a statue—why’s he reaching for nothing? Or am I just seeing things?— when it transforms into a snake coiled around a sword. There’s a talisman in his hand. 

The spirit reaches for a small statue, wondering if he can do the same. It takes a while, but when he finds it and tears it off, it’s the same as the one Beom found; a snake and a sword. 

What is going on here? 

“Akaashi?” Beom’s voice is small. Bokuto can’t tell if it’s from the fear or the anger. “Is this who I think it is?”

The deity finally halts his frantic movements, stepping back, running a hand over his face. He looks like he’s about to collapse at any moment. “... Yes.” It’s a breathless, fearful whisper that makes him feel ill at ease. Bokuto doesn’t know why he sounds so grave, why everyone sounds so scared. He just knows that whatever the snake and the sword stand for, it can’t be anything good. Heck, even an all-out fight would be better than the silence right now; it’s suffocating. 

“Oi, Shun!”

“Kohaku! Did something happen—”

“You got us back-up, right? The Susuiro siblings. Are they bringing anyone with them?”

“I think the younger one’s bringing his boyfriend. Why?”

Beom turns his gaze back to the statue at his feet. He looks like he wants to spit on it, kick it, and his hands are clenched so hard they’re trembling, but for once, he exercises restraint. “If this is who I think it is, they won’t… I don’t think they’ll be enough.”

“Wh—”

“Time’s up.” Beom slaps the talisman back onto the statue, nearly knocking it over (what is with him and almost knocking things over?), picks up the painting on the floor and murmurs a small incantation to help him float up before he can return it to its place. “We have what we need. Time to get the fuck out of here before we’re sniffed out.” Mismatched eyes meet with Bokuto’s, who stands, frozen, in place. There’s the rustle of fabric next to him; Akaashi’s already moving. “Now.”

“Guys,” Shun calls out, clearly uneasy. “We have company.”

“Oh, fuck—” 

“Thieves!” 

“Fuck.”

It’s an old, raspy voice; the type that sounds like it hasn’t been used in ages. By the time Akaashi, Bokuto, and Beom reunite with Shun, who already has his weapons drawn, they’re already face-to-face with their new friends. The one in the lead has a rotting body and an affronted smile. It’s a ghoul. And it fucking smells. When its eyes latch onto Akaashi, it barks out a laugh that sounds more like a hacking, dry cough. It whistles as it wheezes. “Thieves and the greatest thief of all. What brings you here? To pray?” The grin is more a bearing of teeth than anything. “But our guards are nowhere to be seen! I wonder why our new believers are so… how do you say… eager?” 

“We were just leaving, actually,” Beom cuts in, easily stepping in front of them. For someone so small, he takes up quite a bit of space with the way he stands and speaks. For once, Bokuto is grateful to have his presence. There’s a smile on his face that’s uncharacteristically friendly; if he’s scared. Bokuto can’t see anything that might give that away. “Don’t worry.”

There’s a hiss. From all directions. Beom doesn’t even flinch, but the three of them toss their gazes left and right. We’re surrounded. And some of these ghouls look fucked. Not to say they all don’t, but something about them… it’s the behaviour. Something that’s just off. Maybe it’s the sharper teeth, the longer claws. Just seeing them makes his arms throb; a painful reminder of what happened in Miyagi.

“Traitor,” the lead ghoul hisses. “You mingle with the gods rather than your own kind!”

“Your sense of smell must be fucked, then,” comes the immediate quip. “Must be a result of old age. Want me to put you out of your misery? I wasn’t aware rotting, dried-up raisins could talk.”

Why are you provoking it? 

The lead ghoul hisses. “Watch your tongue, boy. You reek more of gods than you do of demon.” And then it smiles again; Bokuto tries not to be disgusted at the way flesh seems to fall off with every movement of its facial muscles. “I must say, I pity you. You who cannot mingle amongst your kind nor the deities. If you join us now, you won’t be so lonely.”

“Not happening,” Beom quips, broadening his stance, crossing his arms. “I like the company I have right now. At least I don’t have to worry about being stabbed in the back every few minutes. Is it fun, you rotten old raisin? Walking around in a body that looks like it’s going to collapse any second? Must be hard not having one that’s young and fresh.” 

“Insolent—”

“Ho-ly shit.” 

Akaashi freezes up completely next to him. Beom’s smile suddenly seems like it’s been plastered onto his face, and Shun tenses. Bokuto can’t quite place where he’s heard that voice before, but it fuels him with enough hatred and malice—even the desire to kill—that it surprises him. 

“Is that who I think it is? With…? No way.”

The laugh echoes from all around them. The ghouls seem to back down, and the elder in the lead’s rotting eyes have lit up, somehow. It inclines his head to no one in particular, its tone breathless, reverent. “Master.”

Master. His head is spinning. This is the guy behind everything. 

Then where the fuck is he?

“Bokuto Koutarou and Akaashi Keiji, reunited at last.” The spirit casts his gaze around. There’s no denying it; the voice is disembodied. That, or they’re invisible. “One wonders if Heaven already knows of this miracle?”

“Are you really going to make us fight our way out of this?” At this point, Beom just sounds tired. Bokuto, briefly, wonders whether he’s going to slam his head on the pillar of the entry gate. He looks like he’s considering it. 

“Well, Sakurai, you know the answer to that.” He can hear the smirk in the newcomer’s words. Beom flinches at the use of his surname. “If I let you go, you’ll out me, won’t you?”

“You won’t win.” 

The spirit wonders where the brunette gets all that confidence, especially considering how they’re—

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re hopelessly outnumbered. And besides, I’ve been playing around with a few of the ghouls. It would be such a pity not to test them out, you know?” 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Akaashi speaks up, voice hoarse. It’s the first word he’s spoken since they saw the painting. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white; Bokuto worries his nails will cut into the flesh of his palm again. The last time that happened, it had been because—

Now really isn’t the time for that. 

“Gone. Nonexistent. So how?” He wants to make him stop before he bleeds. 

Stop it.

“Hm.” A breeze brushes past his cheek. The voice is suddenly much, much closer. “Ask me that when Bokuto Koutarou isn’t standing right beside you, Akaashi Keiji. The fact that you are here yourself isn’t helping the logic of your question.”

Akaashi scowls. “What do you mean?”

A pause. And then a laugh; it starts off soft, gentle, but then it spirals into something less sane and more maniacal; a crack in the other’s seemingly calm composure. Bokuto’s positive that, if he saw the owner of the speaker, they’d be throwing their head back in laughter. “You don’t know. You don’t know!” There’s unbridled, twisted delight. The wind picks up, whirls around them. “Oh, deities, tonight is quite the night! It looks like you’ve lost more than I in the divine war after all.” 

Bokuto tightens his grip on the hilt of his dadao. He’d almost forgotten he was holding it. “Shut up and show yourself, you coward.” Red. Red. Red. The metallic smell of blood, the warmth of liquid life on his hands, below his nose, on his clothes. Bodies at his feet. 

Not liking war is not the same as not being capable of death.  

“Ooh, looks like you’re just as protective as you were back then. Pity that your protection cost you more than you could handle, then, Bokuto Koutarou.” Where is he? I’ll fucking—

A feral growl falls from his lips. He’s seconds away from reaching for thin air in hopes of ripping that fucker’s throat out. If he can find him. If he’s here. Nothing but a coward if he isn’t.

“Hey, hey,” the voice starts. “I wonder what’ll happen if the heavens find out about your tearful reuniting?”

“No.” It’s the first time Shun’s spoken up since the exchange started. When did he get his spear out? “No, you wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, yes I would.” 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Beom snaps, throwing his cousin a pointed look that clearly asks him to shut the fuck up. “Telling the heavens wouldn’t benefit you at all, so why would you?” He’s stalling for time. Bokuto can almost see the gears turning in his head; anyone can tell that telling Heaven that the spirit’s ‘reunited’ with Akaashi would definitely benefit their enemy if it hindered them. Which is strange, because the first time he met Akaashi had been weeks ago.

It feels so long ago. 

“Stalling for time won’t do you any good, snake,” the voice hums, getting closer still. Beom scowls, leans away from nothing in particular. “Whatever interferes with you benefits me—”

A pause.

Silence. 

Beom blinks. “What the—”

“Oh, you sly, tricky little fucking snake—”

“Coming from you of all people, I’m going to take that as a compliment, but wh—”

“This one.” Beom stumbles, like he’s been pushed. He nearly falls on his butt, but regains his footing before he can. His glare’s sharper than any dagger. The voice ignores him as it continues. It sounds pissed. “Don’t touch this one.”

The snake demon blinks. Then barks out a laugh, straightening. “Is that some kind of joke? What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t get it,” Akaashi starts, helpless. At least he’s gripping onto the fabric of his robes rather than digging his nails into the palms of his hands. For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders how many of the scars on his hands are self-inflicted. “How are you still alive? You should have died with your clan during the divine war. You should have died centuries ago. So how?”

“Asking me that is the same as asking everyone else how Bokuto Koutarou’s with us right here, right now, when he should have died with me. It’s the same thing, darling.” His voice softens here, a dangerous whisper akin to a hiss. “Do you believe in miracles?”

“You know,” Shun starts, grip tightening on the shaft of his spear. “For someone so old, you’re terrible at answering questions.” 

“Shun,” Beom starts.

“Don’t, Kohaku. I know what I’m doing.” Despite the situation they’re in, he still throws a gentle smile the other’s way. “I’m older than you, you know? We’ve fought before.”

“Oh, definitely.” There’s disdain in the voice, clear as day. “Nearly cost me an arm. My leg. I’ve met you, Sakurai Shun. You were the General’s pretty little bird.” 

“Don’t call him that,” Bokuto snaps before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t moved yet, why he hasn’t already started slashing at air. Maybe because you know you’ll just be offering yourself to die if you do. “He wasn’t.” 

“You know,” Shun starts, leaning his weight back. They’re seated on the floor, cups of tea on the table. The assassin closes his eyes, a soft laugh spilling from his lips. “They called me your bird the other day, in the barracks. They’ve been calling me that a lot.”

“What?” Bokuto snaps his gaze up from the tea, slamming the cup onto the wood; it spills, splashes over his hands. “Who?”

“It’s alright, General. I don’t mind.” He raises his hand to block out the light of the lantern hanging above them; something about his expression is serene, self-satisfactory. “They’re right, anyway. I pledged my service to you, General. I knew what it would cost me. And, who knows? If they cross me, well…” Amber eyes meet with gold; the warmth in them is more like that of a cold fire than the one that burns in a hearth. “They’ll know just how much a zhen’s poison burns.”

“Still defending your precious subordinates, Bokuto Koutarou. It’s that ridiculous hero complex of yours that always costs you your life,” the voice scoffs. It’s mocking him. “You’re a spirit now, and it looks like you won’t be entering the wheel of reincarnation soon. I wonder what happens to spirits when they die?”

“Recollecting scattered souls isn’t too hard,” Shun responds, an easy smile. “Not if you know its owner well enough.”

But I don’t know you at all, Shun. 

And yet he does.

Another scoff. “Preach that bullshit all you want, deity. Save it for someone who actually cares. ” Beom flinches away, then scowls. The voice lets out a nasty laugh. Anger bubbles in Bokuto’s throat. “If you don’t die here tonight, dear thieves, then you’ll wish you did. Because everything you see here? That’s only the beginning.” With each word, the sound of the voice fades, as though it’s getting farther and farther away. “I have some business to deal with tonight. If we meet again, perhaps I’ll consider appearing in person. Talk about honour!”

Bokuto explodes. “You fucking—”

“Good night!” 

The wind rushes past his ears, picks up. When it calms, there’s the inexplicable feeling of emptiness, a presence that’s made its exit but which aura lingers. 

The ghouls grin. “And now,” the elder rasps. “We fight.”

——————

Bokuto may have underestimated the numbers by quite a bit, because it’s endless. 

But that’s fine; he’s about to implode from all the rage he’s been keeping in check. What better time than now to let it all out?

But really, it’s ridiculous how he can’t seem to see an end to the wave of ghouls rushing into the shrine. Oh, fuck. 

The ghouls, as they were in Miyagi, are completely and utterly disorganised. Clawing at each other and trampling over their comrades in an attempt to reach their prey first. Hissing and growling and biting and kicking. One of the fucked up ones—it’s got greener skin, Bokuto realises—chomps onto the nape of its brethren; its wound hisses and steams as it topples. It’s only when it’s running towards him that it clicks that that was acid. 

You have to be fucking kidding me. 

Ghouls. With acidic saliva. 

What the fuck. 

“Uh, guys?” Bokuto calls, haphazardly swinging his weapon in a way that probably would make Iwaizumi curse at him. “These ghouls—”

“—are acidic.” The ghoul in front of the spirit topples to the ground, split in half. Beom avoids the splattering blood. “I don’t think that’s the only experiment we have to deal with.” He’s untouched, unharmed. With a jolt, Bokuto realises that, true to the voice’s orders, every other enemy is avoiding him.

But why?

“... Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Beom tosses his blade; it impales something behind Bokuto. “I’m only babysitting you because you obviously can’t fight properly.”

“Hey!” 

There’s a growl. Dangerously close. Bokuto startles, swinging his blade. Three heads topple to the ground. 

“Are you sure I can’t fight properly?”

“You know what? Fuck you.”

Bokuto turns his gaze to the side, looking for the familiar figure of dark robes and long, flowing hair. He finds him slashing away at waves of ghouls, ripping his silken sleeves to bits. Shun, behind him, spearing his enemies and throwing needles that render his enemies frozen.

And Beom, whom the ghouls give a wide berth as they charge at Bokuto.

But the good thing about that is that the snake demon isn’t going to let himself be ignored so plainly. 

Bokuto swings his blade. A ghoul falls; he drops the hilt of his weapon down, splitting its skull in half. Then he swings it to the side, cuts through bone. I never learned to fight like this. But here he is.

It was a good idea to let his rage run wild.

There’s a screech; Bokuto doesn’t have time to turn his head. Beom curses beside him, kicking a ghoul and impaling it with his blade before kicking another one in the crotch. “There’s too many of them. We need to get out of here.”

“You won’t!” The elder’s voice cuts through the din of screeching and of falling limbs, blood, hissing and growling and the whistle of blades. It hasn’t moved an inch from its place, too rotten and old to move without flaking. So unlike the one they’d run into in Miyagi. “You can’t! We’ll just chase you home. You wouldn’t want to endanger the mortals, would you?”

Beom hisses. “Fuck the mortals.”

“Beom.”

“The only reason I’m still here is because of you guys. Don’t fucking talk to me about morals in the middle of a fight.”

Another screech. Blood spatters onto Bokuto’s cheek; it’s warm, first. And then it starts to burn. Bokuto screams, nearly topples to the ground from the pain. Beom curses above him. “Oh, fuck.”

“Try and fly, little birdy,” the elder cackles, bits and pieces of rotting flesh dropping to the ground as its shoulders shake. “We’ll pluck you of your pretty feathers and feed you to the kids!”

“Shun!” Clink. The sound of chains. The collective sound of ghouls in pain, then a loud crack. A wave of ghouls swept aside just like that. Bokuto vaguely registers the sound of footsteps, someone else calling his name. Akaashi, calling his name. “Bokuto!” No honorifics. But his face is burning and he can’t open his eyes or they might burn too and—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Beom curses, kneeling down. His eyes keep flicking between the spirit and something else. His ears are ringing. I can’t die. Not yet. Not like this. But at this rate he feels like the acid might just burn through his skin and—

The snake demon slaps his hands on Bokuto’s cheek, murmurs an incantation. Then Bokuto watches as he grabs hold of his wrist. “This is going to fucking hurt.” Bokuto doesn’t know who he’s talking to; himself, or the spirit. 

And then he bites. Bites into his wrist, draws blood. Bokuto takes a moment to realise the other’s teeth sink so deep because he has fangs. And he’s sucking. 

What is he, a vampi—ow ow ow ow ow ow!

The burning on his face stops, travels down his arm. To his wrist, where—

Oh, gods.

He’s taking the poison into him. 

Beom’s eyebrows furrow. To their right, it’s suddenly gone silent, ghouls falling back. The sound of Shun groaning. The snake demon ignores it; he’s still taking in blood. 

Blood. And acid. 

“Shown your true colours, have you, Dragon Lord? ” 

“Don’t call me that.”

Thwack. Bokuto still can’t move—he desperately wants to see, but all he can register through his blurry vision is a familiar looming, horned shadow. Akaashi’s voice is so familiar, yet…

So cold. 

And so sad. 

“You die first, then the rest can follow.”

Silence. “You wouldn’t dare.”

And then it’s screaming. 

Bokuto realises too late that he doesn’t feel the pain anymore, that his face has stopped burning, that the burning sensation of something travelling down his arm has stopped. Amidst the elder’s screams, Bokuto Koutarou realises Beom’s no longer conscious. And that he’s shivering, his breath coming short and ragged. Oh god.

The screaming stops. Bokuto looks up just in time to see the elder drop to the ground, head no longer on his body, the chains around its body loosening. The absence of the looming shadow is suddenly prominent, and—

Shun, who’s unable to stand, purple feathers scattered around him. Akaashi turns, reaching for him—

“Watch out!”

But it’s too late. A ghoul latches onto Akaashi, bites into his neck. It’s on the ground the next second, dead, but it’s too late. 

Bokuto doesn’t even know how they left. Just that somehow, he’d slashed away at the ghouls that didn’t flee, unwilling to leave the snake demon’s side. And Akaashi, who’d been bitten, had taken care of the rest with him.

——————

Akaashi’s breathing weird.

He can’t even cover it up. His breaths are laboured and he’s almost dazed. Beom’s trembling form is on Bokuto’s back, and Shun’s limping with his arm around the deity’s shoulder. Everything that went wrong went wrong and now the spirit’s so numb, he doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. They got out of it, yes, but at what cost?

When the apartment door opens, Hwanjae stands up. Smiling, at first, and then when he realises the state of things, his expression breaks. “Oh, gods.”

Indeed. 

“Treat—” Bokuto chokes up. Looks like I’m going down the crying route. “Treat Beom and Shun first. The burn on my face doesn’t—” he chokes “—it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Bokuto-san,” Hwanjae starts, already looking like he’s going to cry. “You don’t have any burns on your face.”

“What?”

Beom groans. Akaashi heavily sits Shun down on the couch; apart from his leg being bent at an odd angle and the deep gashes on his arms (claw marks left behind from the ghouls) he seems otherwise alright… Though Bokuto can’t speak for his mental state. “Kohaku,” he says softly. “Kohaku first.”

Bokuto props him on the couch. Beom’s barely breathing. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going to die,” comes the weak quip. “At least, I don’t—ah.” He flinches, his brows furrowing. He’s paler than he was, his lips dry. 

“Beom,” Hwanjae starts, voice cracking. “I’m going to lift up your shirt.”

“Oh, gods, you might not wan—”

He lifts his shirt. 

They all choke. 

“Oh,” Beom starts, looking down. “That… looks a lot worse than—than it—” a grunt “—than it feels.”

You have a fucking hole in your stomach. It’s a gruesome sight; it keeps opening and closing at the same rate, the skin rotting away at the same time his body heals it. But there’s a limit to an immortal’s healing abilities. How long did you have to bear with it? Why didn’t you say something?

Hwanjae chokes. “I’m going to get my supplies. Akaashi—”

“Mm?”

Why is Akaashi so red? 

Hwanjae turns back to Bokuto. “Look after him for a bit.” 

Shun’s on the couch, too, breathing ragged. He grabs hold of his busted leg, then—

There’s an odd sound. Shun breathes out a slow, painful breath. 

He forced his leg back into position. “It should… It should heal up just fine now. In a week or so.” He’s pale. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—”

“Don’t apologise,” Bokuto rasps. “I’m sorry, too.”

Akaashi groans, bringing his knees to his chest and curling around them. His sleeves are ruined, his long hair a mess; the cuts on his arms are already healing. He’s so fucking red. “I—I’m not feeling too good.”

“Why?” Hwanjae emerges in a rush, eyes red, though his hands are steady when he spreads his supplies over the coffee table and turns back to Beom. “Are you hurt anywhere, Akaashi? Please don’t lie. I have enough to worry about as is.”

A pang of guilt punches Bokuto in the gut. He curses. 

How did it turn out like this?

“I’m—I’m not,” Akaashi breathes, each word seeming to cost him more energy than it should. “But it’s—it’s hot. I can’t… I was bitten. It’s doing something to me.”

“Bokuto-san, you’re not hurt, are you?”

“No… not physically.”

“Then take Akaashi into your room. Shun, stay here. I’ll…” He swallows. “I’ll take care of you after I take care of Beom.” 

Wordlessly, Bokuto reaches for Akaashi’s curled up form. He’s only laid his hand on him when it’s slapped away. “Don’t touch me.” 

“Oh.” He purses his lips. “I’m sorry, can you… can you walk—”

“Deities,” Akaashi croaks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—” Finally taking his head out of his arms, gunmetal-blue flecked with green meets gold. Akaashi’s eyes are hooded, his lips parted and wet, like he’s been licking them. He looks like he’s about to cry when he peers through his dark lashes to meet the other’s gaze. “It’s hot.”

“Can you walk?”

Akaashi reluctantly unfurls, refusing to meet Bokuto’s gaze as he stands, hands clasped in front of him. His knees give out; the spirit’s already reaching out to catch him by the waist. The soft gasp that leaves Akaashi is— “Just let me carry you.”

“... Okay.”

Bokuto’s arm hooks under Akaashi’s knees, the other at his back. With a soft hup!, he easily lifts the other. The deity’s breathing heavily; the spirit can feel the warmth of it. He’s shaking, too. “It’s hot, Bokuto,” he says, voice softly. It almost sounds like a whimper. “It’s hot.”

Bokuto swallows. You just got out of a fight. This isn’t the time for this. “I’ll start a cold shower for you.” He opens the door, closes it gently behind them as he turns on the lights. Refusing to meet Akaashi’s gaze, he sets him on the bed, movements gentle. 

A hand meekly grabs his wrist before he can pull away. “Bokuto-san.” Ah, shit, the stupid -san again. 

“I’ll run the shower for y—”

“No!” Out of impulse, Akaashi pulls. Bokuto stumbles, caught off-guard, onto the bed. The only reason he didn’t fall onto him being that he stuck out his arms last minute.

Which means, of course, that he’s hovering over Akaashi, and can see his flushed expression up close and personal. 

He looks so vulnerable under me. 

He’s seen this sight before. 

There’s something pressing against hi—their crotches. Their crotches are pressing against each other.

And Akaashi Keiji, is, inexplicably and unexpectedly, hard. 

“Bokuto-san,” he whines. “It’s so hot…” 

“Yeah, I see tha—”

Nimble fingers trail Bokuto’s jawline. He freezes. Oh, god. “It’s funny,” Akaashi starts. “How much I trust you.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

“Akaashi—”

“Bokuto-san,” the deity cuts in, voice dipping low, desperate, as he arches into the spirit hovering above him. 

“Won’t you help me?”