Want
Why is it always you?
Bokuto’s breath comes short, ragged. His blood rushes to his head then, regrettably, down to his nether regions. He hovers above the deity who remains flushed and almost needy beneath his form, realising that, beneath him, Akaashi Keiji suddenly seems very small. The spirit’s mouth is parted in a small ‘o’, pupils dilated. His heart beats in his chest, in his ears.
Badump.
Badump.
Badump.
He’s so fucked. “Akaashi, I don’t think—”
He’s interrupted when the immortal in question abruptly changes their positions, flipping them so that now he is the one hovering above him while Bokuto is left to his mercy beneath him. The deity’s blue-gray gaze almost seems to glow, long hair cascading down his shoulders in waves as he leans down. Their breath mingles. If Bokuto just leaned up, their lips could graze, and—
A jolt of pleasure seizes his consciousness. Oh, gods.
He’s grinding.
And gods be damned, it’s testing what little self-restraint he has. It’s chipping at the edges bit by bit; at some point, he’s going to crack and, trust or not, he doesn’t feel like he should be doing any of what he wants to do to Akaashi. Bokuto hears a soft grunt above him, snapping him from his thoughts and bringing him back to reality, where possibly the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on grinds his crotch against his own. Against his better judgement, the former athlete’s large hands find themselves holding onto the other’s waist, guiding his movement before realising what he’s doing. So, instead, he forces him to stop, pulling a whine of complaint from the deity’s lips, moist from the way he’s run his tongue over it.
I’m so screwed.
He swallows.
Badump-badump-badump.
They’ve skipped as many steps as the beats his heart has in this relationship.
“Akaashi—”
“Bokuto-san, help me.” It comes out so needy, breathless, vulnerable, that it stops the words from escaping his lips; he loses his train of thought. Gold meets gunmetal blue and he’s struck by the presence of another emotion in those jaded eyes; past the lust, the need.
Desolation.
He doesn’t want to do this any more than Bokuto does.
In some moment of clarity, Akaashi leans his head down next to the other’s ear. “I… can’t trust anyone else.”
Silence. In his head, that’s all it is. Silence. He can’t think of anything else but that. White noise, TV static in his head. How is it that the word trust could carry so much weight behind it? On the court, with someone whom you hold dear. Trust is not love, and yet, it is as important.
… He’s going crazy.
“Okay,” he finally relents, loosening his hold so Akaashi can keep grinding his hips against his crotch in that hypnotic fucking way he does. Bokuto bites his lip, fingers digging into the flesh of the other’s hip despite the fact that they’re still fully clothed. He throws his head back, hips moving in tandem with the other’s. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck.
And the lights aren’t fucking off. He can see every minute shift in Akaashi’s expression as clear as day, the flush of his cheeks, his ears, his neck, and his reddened, watery eyes. He can’t do this. He’s going insane. The deity leans down once more, lips hovering dangerously close to the ex-athlete’s ear. Each mewl, grunt, hitched, ragged breath growing more and more pronounced with each grind of their crotches against each other’s. Akaashi’s grip tightens on the sheets next to Bokuto’s head; though intoxicated with lust, the immortal still manages to keep his silence.
For some reason, Bokuto just knows it’s more a force of habit than anything else.
“You know,” he grits out, breathless. “You’re right, ‘Kaashi. It’s hot.” Hot and humid. He’s sweating. How is he sweating? At this point he doesn’t even bother to question it anymore. In response, Akaashi straightens. The only indication of his hesitance is the slight pause when his hands reach for his robes, but shortly after, he throws them off. Inner robes, too. And, well… Bokuto doesn’t wear any of that, so he, too, sits up, discarding his shirt. For a split second, he wonders if he should take off his pants, but that thought is quickly discarded the moment he lays eyes on the other’s form.
Bokuto sucks in a harried breath. And gulps.
Akaashi Keiji’s body looks to be made of the finest porcelain, the smoothest of jades. Toned, lean, sculpted from years upon years and millenia and millennia of hard work and fighting. His graceful, elegant lines are like that of a finely made sculpture, the planes of his muscles prompting Bokuto to run his hands over the skin.
Over the scars.
There are many. More than he’d have anticipated. Some look like whip scars. Some look like stab scars. It seems that even immortals cannot avoid such things as simple as scarring. He thumbs over one on the other’s abdomen. He doesn’t need to know that the other’s back doesn’t look any better.
“It’s ugly, isn’t it?”
Akaashi’s soft voice tears him from his reverie. Bokuto tears his gaze from the immortal’s body to read gunmetal-blue eyes, drowned in melancholy and clouded with lust and barely-contained self-restraint. Against his better judgement, the spirit places a hand on the other’s cheek, thumbing across the immortal’s cheekbone. “No. To me, you will always be beautiful.”
He doesn’t know where it came from, that sentence.
But he knows he means it.
Akaashi looks away. He can’t tell if it’s in pain, embarrassment, or something else. But then he’s moving again; Akaashi’s cold hands on his shoulders somehow make him feel so much more hotter than he already is. Now that their lower halves are separated only by a layer of clothing each, the other’s erection is much, much more visible. The deity’s underwear is wet.
“Touch me.”
Bokuto gulps. “Are you—”
“Bokuto-san. Please.” The deity grabs hold of the hand on his cheek, brings it down to his crotch, which still grinds against him. The immortal has to hold back a groan; it gets stuck in his throat. He’s surprised he didn’t cough.
He swallows dryly. “Okay.”
And then his hand dives down past the underwear (he, inexplicably, isn’t surprised that Akaashi would choose to wear modern underwear under his robes) and closes his hands around the other’s already-weeping cock. The reaction is immediate; Akaashi becomes putty in his hands, ramrod straight back curling as his forehead thumps onto the athlete’s shoulder. Even then, he thrusts into Bokuto’s loose grip. The deity’s arms wrap around his neck. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He moves. Up, down, up, down. Akaashi mewls into the crook of his neck, meeting the other’s pumps with thrusts of his own. “Tighter, Bokuto-san.” His voice is breathless, husky, intoxicated and barely above a whisper.
Bokuto’s own cock strains against his pants.
Oh, fuck it.
In a flurry of motion, he uses his free hand to take out his own erection, moving it in tandem with his other hand, veins bulging against his arms at the effort. He’s thankful for the bedhead; he doesn’t think he’d be able to sit straight with everything that’s happening.
He’s too lust-driven to recognise the feeling of deja vu. But he will be later.
Akaashi notices. Of course he does. Cold fingers wrap around Bokuto’s hand—the one that’s pumping at his own erection—and help him. It startles his lust-addled mind into clarity, but before he can say anything, Akaashi’s lips graze against his neck and the immortal says, “Let me help you.”
Akaashi pries away Bokuto’s hand to replace it with his own. He needs to use both of them.
The spirit can hardly think straight.
The room’s filled with repressed grunts and groans, the smell of sex and lust. Akaashi’s breath hitches, hips erratic. “Bokuto-san, I’m—” And then he takes his hand off of Bokuto’s cock, which almost makes him whine, because he was close, too.
Then he takes away Bokuto’s hand from his cock, and—
Oh, gods.
He pushes their cocks against each other, grinding. It takes all of him not to groan. He throws his head back, gulping. Akaashi’s lips place a butterfly kiss on the exposed skin of his neck. Then he closes Bokuto’s hand around both of their erections. “Want… to cum with you.”
He almost cums right then and there.
It’s a bit of a blur after; of them grinding against each other’s cocks, Bokuto’s hands wrapped around them both. He vaguely remembers grazing his lips against the skin of Akaashi’s neck, too, and maybe his earlobe, his jawline.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts.
He just knows that when he cums, Akaashi does, too.
… and that they go a few more times. Akaashi Keiji, somehow, has a higher drive than he expected.
They never kiss once.
There are no marks left behind in the wake of their dance of lust.
——————
He knows it’s a dream as soon as he opens his eyes; this isn’t where he fell asleep. How had he fallen asleep? The last thing he remembers is—gods. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to face that shame even if he’s piss drunk and walking in circles, reeking of alcohol.
The second reason he knows he’s dreaming is because his throat is dry, and there are people around him. People, dressed in clothes of a bygone time. Maybe they died because of him; maybe they died by his hand; or maybe, he thinks, a bitter taste in his mouth, a cold glint in his eyes as he surveys the sneering, leering, lot of fiends dressed in human cloth, they passed away in peace.
The ugly part of him wishes they didn’t.
He can barely stand; his knees are wobbly, hands hidden in his sleeves, fingers digging into the skin of his wrist. It’s a dream, a memory (a nightmare, a small part of him whispers; he casts it aside), and even in his own dreamscape, Akaashi Keiji is unable to control as things spiral out of his control… not that he ever had puppet strings hanging from his pale fingers to begin with. His breath comes in ragged fits; he knows what memory this is. He knows why he’s having it. But why now?
“Look at him,” one of the soldiers jeers, stepping forward. Against his will, the assassin (right, I’m not an immortal here.) steps back, hands tightening around his wrists, hidden in the sleeves of his robes. “He’s already had so much in him, and he’s still trying to act all high and mighty?” Akaashi can smell the alcohol in his breath; he stumbles back, his grace and elegance cast far, far away. “Look at you, all red and panting. Aren’t you just like a bitch in heat? A dog wanting to get fucked?”
They say the imperial army’s soldiers are benevolent, he thinks bitterly. I’d spit on the first person to say such a thing if I could. The man pushes him. He falls on his butt.
“Oi,” another one—a girl, Akaashi realises, with dread—chides. “Don’t break him. We haven’t even started!”
“Hey, do you think we should make him drink more?” Another soldier asks, peering at Akaashi’s stubbornly furrowed brows. “Feels like he—”
“You idiot, if we give him more, we’ll break his mind!” The girl snaps. “Don’t forget that General Bokuto is personally overseeing his safety, not to mention His Majesty the Emperor is the one who appointed him in the court as an assassin in the first place. You think they won’t notice if he goes dumb! Wake up!”
The soldier flinches back, but the man in front of Akaashi snaps, “Shut up! If you start up a ruckus, you’ll wake the whole damn area.”
Kneeling down, he roughly takes Akaashi’s chin between his fingers, tugging them up in a harsh manner to meet with the assassin’s stubborn gaze. The touch is rough, skin calloused; against his will, Akaashi shivers. Aphrodisiacs, he thinks bitterly. There’s a nasty smile on the man’s face. Akaashi doesn’t know his name, but he knows his face, his voice, his stature, and that’s enough. The girl, too. And his other companion.
“Listen here, bitch,” the man holding his wrist starts, breathing alcohol in his face. He coughs, but he doesn’t have the strength to turn his head away. He’s too busy fighting back the heat, the arousal, the tingling the man’s touch invokes. He wants to vomit. He wants to push him away. He doesn’t want this. Anything but this. Not again. “We’re going to have fun with you, and before you even think about telling on us, we’ll say you’re the one that seduced us, yeah?” His smile is disgusting. Nothing benevolent, everything malevolent. Akaashi wants to spit in his face. “You and me. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
Because why would the soldiers choose to believe an assassin from an enemy country over their own comrade, their peer? Even if he’s an imperial agent, he is not part of the army.
Akaashi spits in his face.
The man stumbles back, his expression one of astonishment before it twists into ugly, ugly rage. He seizes the collar of Akaashi’s robe, tears it so his chest is exposed to the cold air. A rough hand, calloused from days in the army, seizes his neck while another closes around his chest, groping it as he would a woman’s breast. Akaashi chokes; he can’t breathe. “You fucking no-good slut.”
As if calling him by any names would rouse a reaction from him; he’s been numb to insults like these since time immemorial.
The man gestures his head once; his companions come up behind him. Greedy, greedy hands tugging at Akaashi’s robes. The woman’s hands are softer than the man’s and his companion, but it disgusts him all the same. It’s hot, but he doesn’t want this. It’s hot, and all he wants is a cold shower. These are the thoughts that prompt him to move, kicking at the man’s companion, shoving the woman away, hands flying up to painstakingly jab at the neck of the man holding him by the neck.
They fly back. Akaashi staggers, gasping for breath as he stumbles to his full height before hunching over, back pressed against the wall behind him. Right, they’re in a warehouse. Right. He’s sweating and he’s hot all over, but he doesn’t want to be fucked by these filthy bastards.
The ringleader of them all’s expression is one of ugly wrath. He lashes forward, one hand once again on Akaashi’s neck and the other groping his crotch before the assassin can make to push him away once more. Against his will, he lets out a whimper. The man smirks. “What did I say?” He shoves Akaashi hard against the wall. The back of his head hits against the wood. He gasps, dizzying. “You’re nothing but a slut.”
“Then that makes you even more of one, since you’re trying to fuck me.”
“You little fucking—”
“What. Is going on here?”
Silence.
Akaashi’s suddenly very aware of his pitiful state. Pinned against the wall, flushed, ragged gasps, robes askew, torn, with bits and pieces scattered on the floor.
No.
Not this.
Not him.
Why is it always you?
Bokuto Koutarou steps into the warehouse; it’s clear he’s only just returned and was reporting to the Emperor. Akaashi vaguely remembers he was on a campaign. Something about reclaiming stolen land. In the end, it’s all war.
And all wars end in bloodshed.
He’s still in his armour.
“General!” The girl, a quick one, steps forward with an innocent smile. “You see, Akaashi didn’t look so well, so we—”
“Let go of him.” He shrugs off the arm she’d placed upon his, coldly making a beeline towards the assassin. The grip on his neck loosens. In a flash, he jabs at his neck, causing him to choke, before he kicks him in the groin. Hard. That’ll teach you.
Bokuto surveys the three of them.
“I’ll deal with the three of you after dawn. Get out of my sight.”
“But—”
“I don’t like repeating myself.”
It’s only when they’ve scrambled away that Akaashi allows his knees to weaken, falling in a heap on the floor, heaving, making ragged breaths. The heat surges into him anew, and when Bokuto reaches forward in concern to help him up, a hand flies up to stop him. “Don’t touch me.”
“What were they doing to you?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of rape?”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Anything but that. It’s the goddamn terror. Akaashi doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sees the droplets seeping into his tattered robes. His mind is a mess of heat and terror and disgust and hatred. Anger. Sorrow. He wants to be fucked. He wants to fuck. He wants to be left alone, gods-dammit. He fought tooth and nail to return to his home country, only to be treated like this the moment he arrived.
He hates it here.
But he doesn’t want to go back.
Wow, Akaashi thinks. I truly must have been a bad person in my last life to receive this sort of torment in this one.
“Let me help y—”
“They drugged me, General,” he clenches out, voice hoarse. “An aphrodisiac. Too much.” Just leave me alone.
“Can’t you wait it out?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” Just go already. “Stop talking to me. I already can’t think straight.” His words are sluggish; his mind struggles to keep up with the things he wishes to say.
Akaashi tries to rise. His knees wobble. Bokuto catches him before he can topple back onto the ground. He gets a noseful of his scent. His body surges with heat. Oh, deities.
“Let me help you.”
“Are you daft? There’s only one way to help me.” He shouldn’t have said that, either. But maybe a part of him wanted to. Maybe it’s because it’s Bokuto.
Maybe he isn’t fucking thinking straight at all.
But Bokuto pales. “I can’t. Not after all that you’ve gone throu—”
Akaashi’s already rotten mood tanks. Spurred, he snaps, “Then leave me alone.”
“But—”
This guy and his hero complex.
He can’t tell if he finds it foolish or endearing.
“But what if I hurt you?”
Bokuto’s hand subconsciously tightens around Akaashi’s waist; his touch tingles and spreads, causing him to shiver. His scent in his nose isn’t helping much either. “You won’t.” It’s a soft admission. He doesn’t know where it comes from; he just knows it to be true. And, unbelievably, and to his own horror, he continues. “You’re not like them. I don’t have to… you don’t have to…” He pauses. Then, using the excuse that the drugs are impeding his sense of self, he buries his head into the crook of Bokuto’s neck. “You can just touch me.”
Bokuto gulps. “Akaashi…”
Akaashi doesn’t move. Just this once, he prays. Let me find some solace even if it’s out of pity.
Bokuto moves, sitting them back down on the floor. Akaashi leans against the wall of the warehouse; he can make out the other’s concerned expression. But there’s something else. Almost like…
Almost like desire.
But that can’t be.
Isn’t this just out of his good of heart, his stupid hero complex, his pity?
Bokuto reaches out his hand, gently parting the ruined robes. Akaashi’s hard already, his cock seeping precum. Bokuto takes a sharp breath. He swallows.
Akaashi’s heart beats in his chest.
In the dark of twilight, in the shadows of a warehouse far from the palace but within its grounds, the esteemed general of war and an assassin returned to his home country find their heartbeats beating in tandem. Each beat skipped, each hitched breath, is something the both of them are suddenly painfully aware of.
“Just touch me,” he chokes out.
Bokuto does.
Rough, warm, calloused hands wrap around his erection. Akaashi’s lips part, eyelids fluttering, arching into his touch. Bokuto swallows. It’s like his first sip of godly nectar, of ambrosia fit only for the gods. And Akaashi feels like he’s been set free.
“Bokuto-san—”
“I’m here.”
Bokuto’s eyebrows are furrowed. He positions himself between Akaashi’s parted legs, eyes never leaving the way his hand pumps the other’s cock. The assassin’s breath hitches, chokes. The aphrodisiac makes it feel so much better than it should.
Maybe it’s not just the aphrodisiac.
Akaashi thrusts into the man’s grip, choked moans leaving his lips. Bokuto’s eyes are hooded, his gaze flitting to the assassin’s face. Flushed, lips parted, pupils dilated, eyes hooded, staring at the movement of Bokuto’s hand on his cock. His lips are moist.
Akaashi Keiji looks absolutely beautiful.
Bokuto finds himself leaning forward, his hand speeding up. Akaashi finds himself unable to hold back his moans, eyes widening as he gasps and thrusts into the other’s large, warm hands. “Feels—good—Bokuto—”
His heart skips a beat. “I’m here.”
“Bokuto-san.”
“Yes.”
Akaashi’s hands fly to his collar, then opt to grip onto his shoulders, arching into his touch. He can hardly think straight. It feels so good. Too good. He’s crying from the pleasure. “It feels good.”
“Yeah? Want me to go faster?”
“Please please plea—”
His hand speeds up. Akaashi lets out a long whine, keening, hands gripping tighter. At some point, Bokuto finds himself hovering above him, the assassin’s knees around his waist. They’re pressed against each other; somehow, even through his armour, he can feel the heat of the assassin’s body.
Bokuto only vaguely registers the liquid coating his hands; he doesn’t stop pumping Akaashi’s weeping cock. And the latter isn’t stopping him, either. Instead, he thrusts into the general’s hand throughout his entire high, and only when it ends does he realise it’s not enough.
“Bokuto-san—”
“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse. Husky. Dark with desire and tender care.
“Are you hard too?”
That catches him off-guard. He blushes. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You’re more important—”
“I’ll help you.” Those hooded eyes are clear with conviction and determination, swimming with desire and lust. “Let me help you, too.”
“I—”
Before he can think better of it, Akaashi presses his lips to the side of the other’s neck, inhaling his scent. “Please.”
Bokuto gulps. “... Okay.”
And then—
And then Akaashi wakes up.
——————
He wakes up with a start. Akaashi’s breath comes ragged, and the bedsheets are a mess. Sweat beads on his forehead, his cheeks flushed, ears red, eyes wild. Thankfully, there’s no one else to see it.
He glances out the window.
The sky is painted in warm hues of red and gold, as if the sky was a canvas painted with a brush dipped in molten fire. The clouds, like cotton candy, reflect the sky’s colours, blending effortlessly into the horizon. It’s a tranquil sight, but all Akaashi can think about is what happened, how it happened, and how long he’s slept.
And then the dream.
His throat dries at the very thought of it. Akaashi forces himself to swallow, though it feels like he’s swallowing knives. He’s sure it’s a memory of the past—he remembers the events, how it happened as clear as day—but he doesn’t remember Bokuto Koutarou.
Why is that?
Akaashi tries to think back. He remembers the heat. How he’d fought back. Then…
Then what?
He knows he got out of it, somehow. With a frown, Akaashi tries, once more, to recall the events that happened that night all those years ago. He could chalk it up to the fact that it happened a long time ago, but that wouldn’t be right; something so traumatising couldn’t be forgotten as easily as that.
Think.
He’d had dinner with the army, for once. Looked away from his cup for but a moment, but it had been enough for those filthy bastards to slip some aphrodisiacs into his drink. He’d left as soon as he realised—the him back then still had been so naive despite what his profession was—and then they’d tailed him, cornered him. And then they’d tried to rape him, but they’d failed, somehow.
How?
He doesn’t remember Bokuto Koutarou, but a part of him feels as though the dream wasn’t a lie—
A sharp pain cuts through his conscience; a blinding agony that tears him through his thoughts, like someone’s stabbed a needle through his head. He groans, clutching his head. It persists. It doesn’t go away. The more he tries to remember, the more it hurts.
But if the dream isn’t wrong, why doesn’t he remember Bokuto Koutarou?
How could he forget something so importa—
The pain slams into him anew, stopping all his thoughts. Akaashi’s lips part in a silent groan, brows furrowed as he curls into himself on the bed. He just wants to remember, but why can’t he?
And…
Wait. He’s dressed.
His throat’s parched.
In an attempt to distract himself from the pain, Akaashi recounts the events of what happened last night—assuming he didn’t sleep an entire day away. The fiends. That cursed snake, appearing again when Akaashi was sure he’d died, his soul scattered, never to be seen again. And then… and then the ghouls.
Shun’s feathers had been torn off, a wing had been bent, his leg twisted.
Beom had… gods, Beom.
And… and he’d been bitten, somehow.
Stupid ghoul; its saliva had been filled with aphrodisiacs. All he remembers is fighting through the haze threatening to overcome his conscience and cloud his thoughts with lust; he doesn’t even know how he’d made it back. He can only vaguely recall coming home, and then…
He blanches.
And sits up straight in the bed, the movement so abrupt that the bed bounces with his movement.
The memories, the sensations, crash into him in one fell swoop, adding to his coming migraine. The pleading, the way they’d grinded against each other.
The way Akaashi had almost begged for him to… to “help” him.
Oh, deities, how am I going to face him?
He’s never done that before. Even when he was under the effects of the strongest aphrodisiacs—ones that didn’t even compare to this one—he’d never, ever, asked for this sort of twisted help. And he’d never pleaded.
So why had he?
His mind flashes back to the dream.
“You’re up?”
Akaashi jolts, ears red, eyes snapping to the door. Bokuto steps in, sheepish. “Uh… good evening. How are you feeling?”
Bokuto Koutarou.
Who were you to me?
Who was I to you?
Who are you?
And then, softer.
Who am I?
“How long was I asleep?” His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat, looks away. But Bokuto extends a hand; in it is a cup filled with water. With a soft word of gratitude, Akaashi downs the cup, his mind still in a muted mess as he thinks back to the dream and then to what happened before he’d fallen asleep. Or unconscious. Right now, it doesn’t make much of a difference to him, nor does it seem like something important considering everything else that’s happening.
“Uh… like, more than ten hours? We got guests—the reinforcements. Susuiro siblings and another deity called Terushima. How are you feeling?” It’s the second time he’s asked this, but the spirit doesn’t seem to mind repeating himself.
“Fine.” He sets the cup aside. Silence fills the gap between them; one remains standing at the side of his bed and another stays silent, lost in thought. Akaashi breaks the silence, coughing into his fist. “... I’m. Sorry. About earlier.”
If he’d been looking, he’d have seen the way Bokuto’s charming face exploded into red. “Don’t worry about it! I didn’t mind at all!”
Silence.
Akaashi looks up at Bokuto.
Bokuto stares back, then, slowly, decides that the bedhead is very, very, interesting. His ears are very, very red.
In spite of himself, Akaashi laughs. It’s a soft sound, brief, like he hadn’t meant to, but did anyway.
He stops himself.
Bokuto looks back.
They’re staring at each other again.
Akaashi clears his throat, looks away. “... Okay then.”
“I’ll wait for you outside when you’re ready.”
“Wait.”
Bokuto pauses mid-turn and nearly falls over; he’d lifted his foot, but stopped abruptly at the sound of Akaashi’s protest.
He turns around. “Yeah?”
“... Thanks for… helping.” Deities know how difficult it is for him to say this. He looks away. “And not… going any farther.”
“Oh, that.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it didn’t seem right to, and you were… you weren’t yourself. It didn’t seem like you’d have wanted that either, so… Yeah.”
It takes a moment for Akaashi to register the meaning of his words, understand them. It didn’t seem right to, he’d said.
Akaashi Keiji’s lived his life relying on himself, rarely on other people. Not by choice, but because he hadn’t—hasn’t—trusted anyone enough to rely on them. After all, he’d been turned into a prostitute at a young age, fled from the kingdom that took him hostage, in a sense, and then been rejected by the people from his home country. Not only that, they’d beaten him, used him, despite the fact that they were under the same flag, the same monarch; they say to rely on your comrades in the military, but if he’d done any of that he’d have found himself in a ditch a long, long time ago. They’d drugged him, raped him… If he’d told them it wasn’t right for them to do that, he’d only make things worse.
But here was Bokuto Koutarou, saying he didn’t do something because it didn’t seem right to, because it didn’t seem like something Akaashi would want.
It feels bittersweet.
If someone had been so kind to him in the past, listened to him, Akaashi wonders if he would have turned out this way. Cold, awkward, distrustful of everyone but a few people and only relying on himself.
“Akaashi?”
He blinks. “Right. You can leave first; I’ll meet you outside.”
It’s only when the door closes that Akaashi realises he’s in a set of clothes he definitely hadn’t been wearing when he’d passed out.
… And that his ears are red.
Deities, I’ve gone insane.
And, outside, Bokuto Koutarou leans against the door; the image of Akaashi’s dishevelled, slightly ruffled robes and his long, inky black hair pooling at his sheets with eyes bleary from sheets burned into the his mind, paired with the slight flush of his cheeks, his ears, his neck, with slightly reddened eyes.
Oh, gods. I’m so screwed.
… He needs to go to the toilet before he can head back out again.
And so, the two idiots, in tandem, think—
How am I going to face him after this?