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7:55AM, 20th January, 1655 — Edo, Japan.
His hands tremble as he pours. Grasping the porcelain handle with a stiff grip, fingers carefully placed upon the lid of the teapot, Akaashi sits, and he pours. The small cup before him, a delicate white porcelain painted with simple flowers, fills quickly, and he moves to fill a second cup. The wind howls, and he’s sure it must be snowing. Though the kotatsu he nestles under is warm, it doesn’t shut out the biting cold of January completely. The room is dimly lit dark, and an oil lamp burns softly in the corner of the room. He finishes pouring, setting the teapot down carefully before placing his icy hands against its heated sides in attempts to eke out its warmth. He lets out a small sigh, staring into the plumes of steam erupting from both cups.
All he can think about is Bokuto. Freezing, shivering Bokuto, out on the courtyard, just about finishing up his morning training exercises. Thoughts of Bokuto consuming Akaashi’s every waking moment is nothing particularly out of the ordinary, though the worry still eats at him all the same. He doesn’t think he’ll ever not feel it. He was almost certain— in fact, completely certain— that Bokuto was out there clad in nothing but a thin hakama, trembling whilst vehemently denying any accusation that he might be cold. He releases the sides of the teapot to gently cup one of the teacups, bringing it close to his face, allowing the steam to warm his nose and blowing softly before taking a careful sip.
Just as he’s beginning to think of excuses to pull Bokuto away early, the door to Bokuto’s room slides open with a loud wooden clack as it hits against its frame. A swift draft sweeps through the room as a result of the movement, and though Akaashi shivers, the cold quickly becomes something distant. He smiles.
“Ah, Bokuto-san. I was waiting for you.” He breathes, smiling calmly. Bokuto, as predicted, stands before him in his simple ( not weather appropriate) black hakama. His nose, cheeks, and the tips of his ears are tinted a sharp pink, and he’s clearly shivering slightly, though remnants of the training session remain in the slight sheen of sweat across his brow. Both swords are sheathed securely into the belt wrapped around his midsection, and his hair is in a state of disarray. The oil lamp flickers, illuminating his face in a shifting, warm glow. He’s downright radiant like this, Akaashi thinks.
“Akaashi!” Bokuto exclaims in surprise, face breaking into a large grin despite the temperature. “I was just coming here to bathe before I went to wake you!”.
“Beat you to it. Are you cold?” Akaashi asks, his pleasant smile unwavering. Bokuto looks like he wants to deny it, but he takes one long look at Akaashi’s face before the pink staining his cheeks deepens and he looks away, slightly embarrassed.
“Well— I kept telling the guys on the yard that I wasn’t. They were making fun of me for not dressing properly!” He frowns, before a small smile emerges, a laugh breaking through his chattering teeth. “But truthfully, I’m absolutely freezing.” Akaashi smiles back, nodding lightly to himself. He knows Bokuto far too well, it seems.
“I stoked the hearth under the kotatsu for you, and I’ve poured you some tea.” Akaashi offers, gaze turning to look towards the delicate teaset placed upon the kotatsu’s table. “It’s the nice tea, I made sure to have some brought to me from the kitchens last night.” He adds, as if Bokuto would need any convincing.
Bokuto’s grin is almost too bright to look at. With one swift motion, his belt tie is undone and his swords rested carefully against the stone wall next to the door. He kicks his geta off and flops downwards rather dramatically, knees colliding against the tatami flooring before he scoots enthusiastically towards Akaashi to bury as much of himself as he can manage under the kotatsu’s cotton blanket. He’s practically nestled into Akaashi’s side, stuffing himself into the same side of the kotatsu. He always does. Even when the kotatsu in question isn’t quite big enough, he always seems to find himself a space right next to Akaashi.
“Akaashi!” He whines, elongating the final syllable for effect. “We’ve been over this! I’m the one supposed to be serving you and protecting you ! And here you are, making me tea and stoking my kotatsu for me!” Though he protests, and loudly at that, Bokuto’s affectionate tone betrays him every time they have this discussion. Akaashi merely smiles softly, as he always does, eyes focused solely on Bokuto’s gilded irises. Bokuto seems to sense he’s not moving Akaashi one bit, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “At least get one of the servants to do it for you…” He mumbles, hands finally raising above the blanket to grasp around his teacup.
“But I really don’t mind, Bokuto-san. I like to do things for you, too.” Akaashi placates, sipping at his own tea for a second. Bokuto seems to physically brighten at Akaashi’s comment, eyes warming as they graze over Akaashi’s face.
”Does anyone even know you’re in here?” Bokuto quizzes. It makes Akaashi balk for a single second before returning to his usual, carefully perfected cool demeanor. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that Bokuto seems to know him far too well, too.
It’s true that Akaashi was known for disappearing around the castle without a word. Both of his parents had long since given up trying to force that particular habit out of him. It was almost an inside joke around the castle’s grounds, actually. If you want to find Akaashi, the first (and usually last) step is to give up and go look for Bokuto instead. It’s convenient that practically being stuck to Akaashi’s side is Bokuto’s duty already, though even if it wasn’t, Akaashi is sure things wouldn’t change much.
“No. It’s not necessary.” He replies, eyes flitting to stare back at his cup in order to avoid the look Bokuto is giving him. He pauses for a moment, and begins to fiddle at the obi sash adjoining his kimono when he can still feel the weight of Bokuto’s lingering stare. ”I have no duties today, Bokuto-san. It’s always quiet for me when my father is gone for the year. I just wanted to come and find you, to save you having to find me.” He stops again before continuing, voice smaller and more unsure this time. “I thought- ah, I thought you might have been cold, and I worried.”
“Aw, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto coos, the nickname slipping easily from his tongue in the secluded privacy of his room. Akaashi wishes he’d curl closer, closer, closer . Instead Bokuto maintains a, whilst perhaps slightly inappropriate for someone technically subordinate to Akaashi, overall respectful distance. Except for where their legs brush under the kotatsu, of course.
The room falls into a comfortable silence. Bokuto finishes his tea quickly, as he always does, and Akaashi moves wordlessly to refill his teacup. Bokuto sings out a thanks as the green liquid swirls around the cup’s rim as it fills, steam again billowing from the refilled cup. Between the heat radiating from the hearth nestled under the kotatsu’s blankets, the heat radiating from Bokuto’s body, and the warmth of the tea on his tongue, the chill in the air seems to have dissipated entirely. He settles into the silence, basks in it, even. Bokuto’s not known for being quiet, but he’s more attuned to Akaashi’s silences than anybody else has ever been. He drains the last of his own teacup before speaking.
“Did anything interesting happen during training today, Bokuto-san?” He asks. Bokuto leans in to take a quick sip of the fresh tea before replying, immediately scalding himself in the process and letting out a loud hiss at the heat. He hastily drops the teacup back onto the kotatsu’s table, green tea spilling over the sides as he unceremoniously places it down. Akaashi laughs, softly, placing a tentative hand against Bokuto’s shoulder. It’s firm and warm under his fingertips, thin hakama fabric rough to the touch.
“Oh! Um, well, Hinata managed to slice himself on his blade again!” He chirps, recovering quickly. He glances at Akaashi’s hand for just a second, eyes softening even further before they return to Akaashi’s face. “He’s just no good at carrying more than one sword at once. Not like me! I’m the best!” He laughs, gingerly reaching for his teacup again to blow carefully at the top this time. Akaashi smiles earnestly, hand unmoving.
“You are.”
Bokuto, like every time Akaashi throws praise his way, looks like he might burst at the seams with pride. He tends to throw a lot of praise Bokuto’s way now that he’s thinking about it, far more than is normal.
He’s completely and utterly in love with Bokuto Koutarou, of course. This, he knows more resolutely than anything else he has ever known. He knows all too well, infact, and has known for some time. Bokuto had served under the Daimyo— Akaashi’s father —as well as his family since childhood, born to a Samurai family with longstanding ties to the Akaashi clan. There was no warrior quite like him, possibly never had been. Out of combat he was loud, excitable, boisterous, prone to forgetfulness and largely lacking in any degree of appropriate formal conduct. With a blade though, he was undeniably skilled. He cut fast, with unbelievable strength and precision. When Akaashi had been 14, Bokuto 15, he’d seen Bokuto take the head off of their sturdiest training dummy with his blade like it was nothing more than a sheet of paper. It hadn’t taken long for him to be promoted to a position as Akaashi’s personal guard upon his ascension to adulthood. If Akaashi was remembering the old castle gossip correctly, he might’ve even been the youngest in recent memory to be entrusted with a task as important as protecting the Daimyo’s only son and heir.
Maybe that’s when the feelings had started, now that he’s really thinking about it. With that beheaded dummy. He wishes they were anyone else. Anyone. Two farmhands in a field, two servants hidden in a storage cupboard, anyone , any two people for whom love wasn’t so wholly… complicated. He can’t change what is true, though, and Bokuto remains his ever loyal guard, whilst he remains the heir to the Akaashi clan’s territory, wealth and lordship. Bokuto’s whole life was already dedicated to serving him, to protecting him, to laying down his very life to ensure Akaashi’s safety— he couldn’t bring himself to attempt to claim ownership of Bokuto’s heart, too.
“Oh, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto starts, snapping Akaashi from his thoughts. He should be used to the nickname by now, but he can’t stop the warmth from rising to his cheeks every time it slips from Bokuto’s mouth anyway. “I have the greatest idea! I don’t think Ukai-sensei has the authority to deny a request directly from you, right?”
Akaashi cringes slightly at the reference to his supposed superiority, though he nods his head lightly anyway. His hand is still on Bokuto’s arm, having slipped from his shoulder, and he admonishes himself before returning it to his lap.
“Perfect! Well then, you can summon me away from morning training and afternoon patrols, and I’ll take you to the lake and you can skate! It’s probably frozen, right?” Bokuto sings, eyes sparkling with brilliance.
Akaashi flushes immediately at the suggestion.
“Bokuto-san, it’s kind of you, but… isn’t your training important? I don’t want Ukai-san to be displeased with you…” He replies, trailing off at the intensifying look on Bokuto’s face.
“Nope! It’s my duty to protect you, right? And if you’re going to the lake, I have to be there! In case you need protection against… uh, lake things?” Bokuto’s nose crinkles, and Akaashi’s heart swells. It’s all he can do to concede, offering Bokuto a small noise of agreement. The resulting smile is, as Bokuto always is, utterly radiant.
11:48AM, 21st January, 1655 — Edo, Japan.
It’s just as cold as it had been yesterday, but at least it’s not snowing this time. Bokuto is sat, eyes keen and senses rapt. The wilds around them have been coated in a thick layer of yesterday’s snow. The tree branches are sagging with the weight, the dirt glistening with a layer of harsh frost. The lake itself is completely frozen over, the only interruption in the vast expanse of white being a few black birds that have settled in the centre. The silver of Akaashi’s skates catches the sun for a brief moment, drawing Bokuto’s attention away from the broad expanses of white, and back to Akaashi.
A lot of Samurai that Bokuto knows, whilst overall loyal, took dissatisfaction with their class as warriors. It’s a hard pill to swallow, being told that your humanity means less than your superiors, by some kind of divine right, or strength, or wealth. To be the sword, instead of the hand that wields it. The reasons don’t matter. It’s just the way it is. The training was rigorous, battle was dangerous, the stipend of rice mostly unsatisfactory. A life of duty and devotion is not an easy one to live. Perhaps Bokuto would feel similarly to them, if it wasn’t Akaashi Keiji in particular. If not living a life of duty and devotion to Akaashi, Bokuto can’t imagine anything else to spend his years on.
A lot of Samurai find the impervious authority of the higher classes hard to submit to, the natural order of things hard to believe. But when Bokuto watches Akaashi, the only words that come to mind are divine superiority. How can he argue against it, when the proof is skating in smooth circles before him?
Akaashi glides with ease, sharp skates cutting into the thick ice entombing the lake below. The only sounds are those coming from his skates slicing through hard ice, intermingled with the light wind and the subdued buzz of the icy wilds around them. He’d dressed for the weather this time, at Akaashi’s insistence. He was, admittedly, glad for it. The familiar weight of both swords presses into his side, his hand resting just against his side, finger brushing against the wrapped hilt. Though it’s uncomfortable pushing into his side like this, it’s reassuring, and he wouldn’t dare take them off even if he wasn’t duty bound to carry them at all times.
Akaashi circles around again carefully, gliding smoothly closer to Bokuto across the large frozen surface. a small smile tugging at his lips. From his seat on the riverbank, Bokuto could trace every familiar detail. God, he wished he could paint, or write poems, or do anything . Anything to capture this. Akaashi’s kimono, a particularly warm one specifically made for the winter, is a brilliant blue that drapes in oceanic waves across his elegant form. It’s particularly striking against the monotony of his frosted white surroundings. His cheeks are running a light pink from the cold air, his breath coming out in small clouds from the freezing temperature and the exertion.
He’s the most beautiful thing Bokuto has ever seen.
Bokuto had made the skates for Akaashi himself years ago, with geta he’d managed to haggle for at the nearby marketplace and a pair of small blades he’d secured to the bottom. A kind of present to Akaashi during a particularly cold December. He’s sure you could buy better, especially with Akaashi clan money, but Akaashi vehemently refused to wear anything else.
He’s not even sure they’re safe to use anymore, fingers worrying at the fabric wrapping of his sword’s hilt. He watched Akaashi like a hawk at all times anyway, but on those skates? He was, somehow , staring with double the focus. He’d insisted on skating across the entire lake himself first, to check for thin ice and make sure the skates were actually usable. Akaashi had attempted to argue on the matter, eventually giving in when Bokuto made it clear he wasn’t taking the skates off. He wasn’t anywhere near as graceful as Akaashi was, but he was athletic with excellent balance, and just about managed to get himself across and back.
It’s at that moment, as he’s reminiscing on rickety old skates (and the people you gift them to), that Akaashi very quickly and suddenly falls, landing against the ice with a harsh thud and a gasp. He skids across the surface for a moment, before coming to a stop on his side. Bokuto’s reaction is pure instinct, and he’s racing forward, stumbling haphazardly across white ice in his thoroughly unequipped shoes, to get to Akaashi. He runs, slips, regains his balance, skids forward, to land at Akaashi’s side. His hands are reaching for Akaashi immediately, though they stall in the air once he realises he doesn’t know where to place them.
“Akaashi! Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Are your ankles okay? How about your ribs?—“
“I’m— I’m fine, Bokuto-san” Akaashi strains, propping himself up on an elbow and turning to face Bokuto’s terrified expression. “Ah, I think the blade finally snapped.” He murmurs sadly, staring down at his feet with a frown. The offending blade sits against the ice, glinting as if to taunt, about a metre away from the two,
“Akaashi! The skates aren’t important!” Bokuto yelps, gesticulating wildly, almost losing his balance where he kneels at Akaashi’s side before catching himself. “Did you roll your ankle?”
Akaashi sighs softly, grimacing slightly. “A little bit… but I don’t think it’s serious, so please don’t worry Bokuto-san.”
“Please, let me help you!”
Without waiting for an answer, Bokuto places a careful arm around Akaashi’s waist, his shoulder hooked under Akaashi’s arm to carry his weight upwards. He’s grasping into the silk of Akaashi’s obi, and his face is so close to Akaashi’s, so close. Not close enough. Akaashi’s eyes widen for a moment at the sudden motion, and he gingerly leans into Bokuto’s side for support. All Bokuto can think amidst the panic is thank god that he’s finally letting me help him without arguing. Akaashi stumbles for a single second, drooping further into Bokuto’s side, and suddenly he stops being able to think altogether. He can smell him, the soapy smell of his meticulously laundered kimono, of his ruffled hair.
“I’ve got you, Akaashi. It’s okay! Just— don’t put any weight on it, okay? Please, just let me help you get back to the bank.” Bokuto begs, and it takes virtually all of his mental effort to get the words together. Akaashi pauses for a second, before sighing in defeat.
“Thank you, Bokuto-san.” He mumbles, almost silently, into Bokuto’s shoulder.
They make it back, by some miracle, with minimal stumbling. He places Akaashi gently against the frozen grass of the bank, wincing slightly as he watches expensive blue silk meet coarse, frosted dirt.
”I should never have cleared you to use those skates, Akaashi!” He worries, fretting once more at Akaashi’s side as he sinks to sit next to him on the bank. He removes the skates from Akaashi’s feet without being asked, turning the broken one over momentarily to scowl at the snapped silver. “I’m so sorry! Are you really sure it isn’t something serious?”
Akaashi stares at him for a moment, eyes filling with an imperceptible emotion. He regains himself quickly, expression shifting to offer Bokuto a soft, reassuring smile. ”It’s not your fault, Bokuto-san. Please, don’t think that. I’m sure it’s not serious, I promise.”
Bokuto looks at Akaashi, searching for something in his face, before nodding. He immediately reaches for his own shoes, taking off both to hold out to Akaashi. Akaashi shakes his head, places a hand forward as if to decline, but Bokuto only presses further.
“There’s no way I’m letting you walk home in those things, Akaashi.” He deadpans, expression uncharacteristically serious. Even Akaashi seems to waver at it, even if only for a moment. They both glance at the broken skates, now held in Bokuto’s lap.
“Bokuto…” Akaashi breathes with a light laugh. The sudden casual address sends a ricochet down Bokuto’s spine, his chest tightening for a beat. “You’re forgetting the geta I wore here… but, ah—“ he pauses, eyes observing his ankle. Bokuto follows the gaze. It’s clearly bruised from the fall, and he winces in sympathy and worry. Akaashi sighs, before continuing. “—I’m not sure how well I could walk either way.”
There’s a silence for a moment, Bokuto’s brain turning before he erupts in a loud ‘ Aha!’.
“I’ll just— I’ll carry you, okay ‘Kaashi? I’m plenty strong! No arguing!”
“Bo—“
“No!”
There’s a momentary standstill, both sets of eyes unwavering. Akaashi’s expression is thoroughly unimpressed, but Bokuto is nothing if not stubborn. Akaashi’s face reddens, his brow furrowing in clear embarrassment, but he finally nods. Bokuto lets out a sigh of relief, before standing, scooping up Akaashi in one smooth motion. It’s easier than he thought it’d be, and the weight of Akaashi in his arms is better than the weight of any sword. The smell of the winter air, the smell of Akaashi’s soap, the warmth of Akaashi held in his arms against his chest, Akaashi’s evidently flustered face and pointed refusal to look him in the eyes, despite leaning in towards Bokuto’s warmth. It’s all almost too much to bear, and the best he can do is try to relish every second. He’s not sure he’ll ever get a chance like this again, to be so close .
By the time he’s placing Akaashi down onto the thick, pillowed futon in his bedroom, the sun is well into its descent across the sky. The orange of late afternoon bounces off the snow outside, illuminating the entire room a golden hue. Akaashi included. He’s said it before, but he really is the most beautiful thing Bokuto has ever seen. He could never say it enough. The air lulls for a second, the very sun seeming to shift directly to match Akaashi’s orbit, to try and reach for him even through stone walls.
Bokuto can’t help but internally question if the other samurai are this poetic. Though he distantly wonders if, perhaps, pathetic might actually be a better word. It’s hard to want something that you just can’t have. Something out of reach. Something divinely superior. He’s just a samurai, after all. No matter how high ranking.
He’s duty bound to protect, not to love. But isn’t that the same thing, really?
“I’m— I’m sorry for being ungrateful earlier, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi speaks, words cutting through the silence, fluttering through Bokuto’s chest. He’s lying down now, sun-gilded black hair splaying out across the futon. “You were just trying to take care of me, like always. Thank you. My ankle feels much better now, too.”
Bokuto holds in a breath, exhales. “It’s okay, Akaashi. If you’re okay, then everything is okay. Okay!” He stands abruptly after he speaks, gazing down at Akaashi. “I’ll be back. I’m going to gather some ice from the grounds, so you can put it on your ankle! And I’ll have someone bring some tea and something to eat, too, so don’t move, okay?”
Akaashi just offers a gentle smile and a nod in response. It’s like a nail in his coffin. By the time he gets back, Akaashi is sipping at a small cup of steaming barley tea, a mostly untouched bowl of soba sitting on a small wooden tray against the tatami mats covering the floor. He’s sat up, ankle outstretched. Without speaking, Bokuto kneels, holding the dripping bundle of ice shards he’d managed to break off of the castle’s eaves, wrapped a large scrap of fabric he’d cut from one of his rattier yukata. He takes Akaashi’s ankle, hands roughened by combat grasping as softly as they’re able, and presses the wrapped ice against it carefully. Akaashi starts at the sudden flash of cold against his flesh, but quickly settles, relaxing into Bokuto’s grasp.
There’s a long pause. “Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi speaks, and Bokuto dares to think, to hope, that he does so fondly.
“S’okay, Akaashi. Just don’t squirm, okay?” Bokuto replies. Akaashi nods in response, though a frown settles on his face.
“Bokuto-san… please, eat the soba you had them bring.” Akaashi says, stare becoming pointed as Bokuto begins to decline. His words die on his lips under the overwhelming weight of blue eyes. “You need it. You carried me so far, so please accept it.” Akaashi insists.
It doesn’t sound like a request, and Bokuto almost feels scared to disagree. He’s about to anyway, when the devastating blow comes. Akaashi’s hand, reaching out, landing so carefully against his own to take hold of the ice wrap. His palm is warm, soft, unburdened with long hours of labour and the rough hilt of a sword.
He relents almost immediately, finishing the bowl in silence.
3:06PM, 19th April, 1655. — Edo, Japan.
The cherry blossom trees had begun to bloom across the previously snow-smothered white landscape, hills now instead swathed in vast strokes of pink. The only pink Akaashi finds himself interested in, however, is the pink of the singular petal that seems to have found itself caught in Bokuto’s black hair. He’s sparring outdoors with Hinata, Akaashi seated safely to the side of the courtyard on a pillow and blanket. There’s a consistent breeze, but the petal that currently has Akaashi’s attention remains impervious to all attempts to dislodge it.
Bokuto, in a flash, seems to catch an opening in Hinata’s form. He swiftly has him pinned, knee pressing victoriously into Hinata’s back. Akaashi can’t miss the switch in his eyes as he does so, pinpointing the exact moment to attack. Strong, capable, deadly arms, sweeping Hinata flat with ease. The same arms that carried him gently home three months ago, the arms that are equally capable of breaking through a man’s skull. He’s never not had full confidence in Bokuto, but it’s flattering to not just be told, but to be shown, to know that you’re safe. He suddenly feels warm all over, swallowing uncomfortably and shifting position on the pillow. He loves Bokuto, but when he watches him fight, even only sparring, he can’t help feeling something much more akin to hunger .
“Akaashi! Did you see!?” Bokuto cries, the previous look in his eyes now replaced with something much lighter and more familiar to Akaashi. The petal is gone, he notes.
He offers a smile, larger than usual, as well as a few light claps. “That was very good, Bokuto-san. You’re very skilled.” It’s possibly the understatement of the century, but it’s all that Akaashi can think to say. Bokuto’s face lights up immediately, preening under the praise.
“Get off of me, you big… urgh— just get off of me!” Hinata whines, beneath Bokuto’s knee. If he’s being honest, Akaashi had momentarily forgotten he was there. “Let me up and let’s go again!” Hinata cries yet again when Bokuto doesn’t move, arms moving wildly to swat at Bokuto the best he can.
“Bokuto-san, don’t be mean.” Akaashi admonishes, though there’s no heat behind it. At this, Bokuto grins, leaping upwards and back into sparring stance. Hinata is quick to scramble from his position on the floor and do the same.
“Ahh, alright, Akaashi. You asked for it, Hinata! Loser has to polish the other’s swords, yeah?” Bokuto boasts, grinning triumphantly at Hinata’s infuriated face. He flashes a conspiratorial look at Akaashi, as if to say watch . Like Akaashi could ever look away.
Hinata gives Bokuto an affirmative nod, and there’s a brief pause before both men lunge at each other, tearing through the otherwise serene silence with grunts of exertion and taunts. Naturally, Bokuto wins yet again, once more pressing his knee between Hinata’s shoulder blades with a booming laugh. At Hinata’s insistence, he relents again, allowing him to rise from the floor a final time. Akaashi claps, relishes in the beam Bokuto dons in response, before looking away towards Hinata and offering a sympathetic sentiment of encouragement. Hinata’s demeanor changes entirely in a moment, eyes widening as he abruptly turns, his bickering with Bokuto falling silent.
“Ah! Thank you, Akaashi-san! I’m honored!” Hinata cries, bowing far too frantically for Akaashi’s liking. He’s never known anything else, and yet he hates being reminded of his own supposedly superior class.
“Hinata-san, it’s really not necessary, please…” He utters with a mildly uncomfortable waver to his voice, though it does nothing to budge Hinata. Bokuto’s hand comes down to clap violently against Hinata’s right shoulder, finally shocking him out of his steep bow. Bokuto’s chest rises and falls in yet another laugh, hand lifting to ruffle through Hinata’s hair, eliciting a sharp screech from Hinata.
“You better get running, Hinata!” Bokuto grins, finally relenting and returning his hand to his hip. His grin deepens into something sinister for a moment. “And don’t you worry! I’ll make sure to drop my swords off for you this evening. You better find a cloth.” He winks at that, Hinata’s shoulders drooping severely before he skulks away with a low ‘ yes, Bokuto-san’ and a sigh.
As Hinata’s form recedes across the yard, Bokuto turns his focus to Akaashi.
”Still want me to take you to the market this afternoon, Akaashi?” He asks, still panting ever so slightly from the match. His hair, as it always does after training, has become disheveled, draping softly against his forehead. The smooth black streaks catch with the breeze, and Akaashi is entranced. Only the expectant look in Bokuto’s eyes is enough to spur him into a response.
“If it’s not too much, Bokuto-san.” He replies, voice schooled to be steady and even.
”Aw, Akaashi, now you’re being silly. Nothing could ever be too much!” Bokuto chides, though his tone is one of warmth and he’s smiling, softer than his usual smiles. “Just give me some time to clean myself and change, okay?”
“Of course, Bokuto-san. I’ll wait for you in my quarters.”
There’s a beat, neither moving. Their eyes are locked, the air thick, before Bokuto swallows and seemingly remembers himself. He flushes slightly, offers Akaashi a stiff bow, before retreating with a light jog. The breeze picks up as Akaashi begins the walk to his quarters, a few pale pink petals catching in the breeze to float down onto the courtyard’s stone tiles. The path is short, though tucked through several narrow corridors. He rounds a corner, fingertips tracing gently against the cool stone wall, only to be stopped in his tracks as he faces a small, carved out alcove within the wall.
There’s two men. A kitchen servant, he thinks, and one of the groundskeepers. They’re practically clawing at each other, hidden within the alcove. Desperate hands stretch across flushed skin, and the fabric caught between the two rustles with their movements. They’ve not noticed Akaashi, caught up in what is a very private moment.
He should feel embarrassed, or annoyed at their slacking off, or amused, or something. The only emotions he can feel, however, are a sharp stab of bitterness, intermingled with a deep, sad longing. He swallows, forcing his gaze away as he continues down the hall, pace quickening as he walks.
He makes it to his quarters without further incident, though the bitterness continues to fester. He can’t help it, not in the face of everything he wants but can’t quite reach for. He paces for a moment, rubbing at his eyes and temple before sighing in frustration. He should change, he thinks distantly.
By the time Bokuto appears, he’s half settled into a freshly pressed kimono, the silk a muted brown in tone. He’s fiddling with the obi at his waist when the sliding door opens. He knows it’s Bokuto without looking from the surprised squeak and the ensuing slam of the door quickly being shut. He looks over his shoulder, the silk sagging slightly off of the soft curve. Bokuto is bowing, ears pink, hands grasped to his kneecaps.
“I’m so sorry Akaashi! I’ll leave you to dress!” He babbles, voice laced with panic. There’s something else within the panic, but Akaashi can’t quite tell what.
“Oh, it’s you— It’s okay.” He soothes, smiling reassuringly. At this, Bokuto straightens into a stand, but his gaze remains pointedly lowered to the floor. It’s not just his ears— his entire face is pink, and he’s stammering slightly. “Could you actually help me with my obi, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks, turning away to hold out the two ends of silk for Bokuto to tie.
When there’s no reply, he glances over his shoulder, only to see Bokuto no longer pink, but crimson red. He still refuses to meet Akaashi’s eyes, to look up from the worn tatami, but he nods, leaning forward to grasp the silk with shaky hands. Akaashi lifts the kimono’s brown silk to cover his shoulder once more before Bokuto ties him into the garment, and he can hear a hitch in Bokuto’s breath behind him at the motion. The quiver in Bokuto’s fingers is obvious, though he manages to tie the obi securely.
The path to the marketplace isn’t long. They arrive fairly quickly, Bokuto carrying a woven basket upon his back as he guides. The market is large, bustling. Paper lanterns glow, even through the light of day, and countless voices bound through the air. Salesmen calling out loudly, cattle, carts rolling on the bumpy dirt road, the faint gasps of passersby as they recognise him.
This, of course, is why he tends not to go to the marketplace very often. He can’t stand it, witnessing the change in people’s eyes as soon as they recognise him. Sometimes it’s reverence, but sometimes, it’s fear. He hates it.
They draw near to the thickest part of the crowd, and Bokuto’s steps pause for a second as he turns to regard Akaashi. He holds out a strong, sturdy arm.
“Stay close, Akaashi. Grab onto my arm whilst we push through.”
He doesn’t need convincing. He wraps his arm around Bokuto’s, fingers resting hesitantly on his bicep. Quickly, Bokuto falls back into step, carefully pulling Akaashi along with him. They enter the bulk of the crowd, and he feels himself being tugged even closer. The marketplace is overflowing with goods. Fresh fish with scales of glistening silver laid out on large wooden racks, sacks overflowing with brown and white rice, hung bundles of safflower for dyes. It’s overwhelming, but the presence of Bokuto’s warm arm keeps him tethered.
He buys two bottles of black ink, a small package of paper tied with brown twine, a bolt of undyed silk for his mother, and a small clay jar of matcha powder. Bokuto carries everything without complaint, the basket now clasped underneath his arm. The free arm remains secure in Akaashi’s grasp.
“I think I’m ready to return home, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi speaks, turning Bokuto’s attention away from a particularly lively stall selling warm amazake. He receives an affirmative nod.
Even when they leave the crowd, Akaashi’s arm doesn’t leave Bokuto’s. It doesn’t leave Bokuto’s right up to the moment he absolutely must let go. He thinks he can see a slight frown setting into Bokuto’s brow as his arm is released, but then, maybe he’s just being hopeful. Seeing what he wants to see. Trying to placate his own feelings.
He hopes nonetheless.
10:37PM, 10th June, 1655. — Edo, Japan.
The pleasure quarter is rife with activity, especially this late. The balmy night sings, a symphony of cicadas chirping and trees rustling, all mixed with the persistent rumble of the streets outside. It’s uncomfortably warm, the room stuffy. The men surrounding the kotatsu’s table laugh loudly, bawdily, sake spilling over the sides of their cups as they drunkenly swig with faces shining from the heat. One slams his hand against the table with a particularly forceful laugh, causing the light of the candle held within the paper lantern centreing the varnished tabletop to flicker violently. The cups on the table rattle, even more sake spilling over from the vibration. The only man not laughing is Akaashi, who instead sits silently with a mildly uninterested expression, staring into the clear liquid within his cup.
Bokuto is stationed against the back wall of the teahouse, his eyes fixed steadfast to Akaashi’s face. It’s an official outing of sorts, a meeting with three other daimyo turned into a glorified drinking session. He should’ve known, meeting at this hour in a teahouse. In his father’s absence, Akaashi had been invited to attend instead, accepting only after being convinced by his mother that neglecting to do so would be considered insulting. Bokuto isn’t the only guard, with three other samurai stationed against the other walls of the room, one for each daimyo at the table. A tall, black haired man whose eyes seemed to glint in the dark like a cat’s, a sturdy looking brown haired man, and a particularly tall blond with a particularly foul expression. They all stand still, silent, as if stone statues. His hand rests, as it usually does, gripped around the weight of his sword’s hilt, and he runs his fingers up and down its cloth wrapping. It’s the only thing stopping him from going insane from boredom.
The candlelight finally stabilises, the soft light catching against Akaashi’s cheekbones. One of the daimyo leans over with a wide grin, hand clamping down on Akaashi’s shoulder, who jumps slightly at the sudden contact. He looks uncomfortable, nervous, out of his depth. It might be funny if it was anybody else- but it’s Akaashi. Bokuto frowns, itches to move forward, to cut the offending hand clean off. That seems a tad of an overreaction, though, so he remains still, fingers falling still and grip tightening around the sword’s hilt.
“Aw, Akaashi-kun! You’re too serious, just like your father!” At this, another laugh erupts around the table. “Come on! Drink with us!” The man insists, whistling for a servant to bring another bottle of sake. She returns quickly, a fresh bottle clutched to her chest, leaning forwards to refill Akaashi’s cup to the brim before placing the bottle down. Akaashi smiles weakly, nodding to say his thanks. Delicate fingers grasp around the sides, bring the cup to his lips as he takes an unenthusiastic sip. Bokuto’s frown deepens. His fingers resume tensely picking at the sword hilt’s cloth.
“That’s more like it!” The man sings, encouraging Akaashi to take a deeper swig. There’s a resounding cheer, another harsh clap across Akaashi’s shoulder. The man, seemingly placated by Akaashi’s willingness to drink, turns to face the other daimyo once again. The laughter and animated conversation resumes, interrupted only by the sound of the paper door sliding open. A small maiko steps through, blonde haired and clearly nervous to be speaking to such a boisterous group.
“Kiyo—“ She begins, stammering before steeling herself slightly. “Kiyoko will be with you in just a moment.” The declaration spurns a loud round of cheers from the men at the table, and the maiko nods with a tremble before quickly excusing herself.
Bokuto hates standing still like this, fading into the walls, his and the other guards’ presences ignored by the men at the table. The only man not ignoring them is Akaashi, who glances up periodically to meet Bokuto’s unwavering eyes. It’s ironic, to have a personal guard who feels so strongly against, well, guarding. It’s more so that he can barely stand it, to be so close to Akaashi yet unable to speak to him, to fill his cup for him, to slide next to him under the kotatsu. It also simply doesn’t help that standing still as a statue is unequivocally boring. If nothing else, Bokuto thinks, he’s glad for the coolness of the stone wall pressing into his back.
He itches to lean forwards, to take Akaashi away from the situation he’s clearly loathing every second of. It seems like he’s now swigging back his sake, just to have an excuse not to talk and to not draw further attention to himself. An attendant is quick to appear every time his cup empties, eager to refill it. Akaashi is the only one at the table to say thank you.
The door opens once more. A woman (presumably the aforementioned Kiyoko) enters, bowing. Bokuto tends not to look twice at women, but even he can admit she’s beautiful. Smooth black hair pinned elaborately, sparkling glass beads and flowers adorning the pins securing her hairstyle. Her kimono is a deep red silk, her lips painted a similar shade, stark against the powdered white of her face. Her entrance sparks an even louder round of cheers, the men clapping, entranced. He looks away from her, turns to look back towards Akaashi, finds Akaashi’s eyes secured firmly on his own face, unwavering for even a second. If Bokuto’s counting correctly, he’s had more than a few cups of sake now, but his eyes are crystal clear. The very air suddenly feels almost electric, and he’s thankful for the darkness of the room obscuring his warming face.
Kiyoko kneels onto a small dark blue cushion, taking a shamisen out of a wooden box. She fiddles with the strings for a moment, before starting up a steady rhythm, elegant fingers plucking at the strings with skillful ease. The men quieten as she performs, her mouth opening as she recites well known folk-song, sung with crisp notes accompanied by the soft strings of her wooden shamisen. The drunkest of the four daimyo joins in with her singing, laughing as he does so, only to be quickly told to shut up by the same daimyo who’d clasped Akaashi’s shoulder earlier. Even now, Akaashi’s gaze remains locked on Bokuto as he drinks, this time declining the attendant’s services to refill his cup of sake himself.
Kiyoko sings, dances, plays beautiful music. She’s enchanting, and clearly well versed in her craft, but Akaashi’s eyes only sway from Bokuto in brief increments. Under the warm candlelight, softened by the paper lantern covering, Bokuto can see the drunken flush spilling into Akaashi’s pale complexion. He can’t even step forward to try and tell him to slow down, and the tense thrum of contained energy stiffens his shoulders. The more Akaashi drinks, the harder he seems to stare. Bokuto can’t tell if it’s a cry for help, or something else. Either way, Bokuto doesn’t move an inch.
The hours slither by excruciatingly slow before it finally hits midnight. Kiyoko finishes with another bow and a smile, the men’s cheering, compliments and shouts of thanks now triple the volume it had been before. Akaashi offers nothing beyond a smile and a polite clap, however. The daimyo briefly return to their lively conversation as she returns the shamisen to its box and leaves, before one finally decides to call the night to an end. They stand, bow, shake hands. Two break away to explore the pleasure quarter further, their guards following in tow, whilst the daimyo who’d drank the most slumps down onto the table with a thud. Bokuto is moving towards Akaashi as soon as he’s beckoned, tense grip finally releasing the hilt of his sword before reaching out to help Akaashi steady himself. Akaashi seems to lean into the touch, pressing part of his weight into Bokuto.
“M’ tired, Bokuto…” Akaashi begins, interrupted by a strong yawn. “—drank too much sake, I think.” It doesn’t happen often, so whenever Akaashi drops the honorifics, it makes Bokuto’s heart skip. He swallows, composes himself.
“I know, Akaashi. It’s okay! Come on, we’ll get you home.” He reassures, arm moving from bracing Akaashi’s shoulder to instead curl at the small of his back.
“I’m sorry you had to just stand there for so long. I know you don’t like to stand still. I hate these things.” Akaashi gripes, scowling as he falls into slow steps alongside Bokuto, guided by the arm at his back. He’s slurring just slightly, his cheeks still flushed. It’s making Bokuto’s heart pound like a drum, how endearing it all is.
The air outside the teahouse is cool, accented with a soft summer breeze, and Bokuto feels both himself and Akaashi sigh gently in relief. The streets, at this point, have become downright rowdy. Laughter, yells, loud singing. The cicadas are almost completely drowned out by the relentless din, and the lanterns illuminating the teahouse’s facade sway softly in the breeze. Akaashi cradles his temple with his free hand, the other clutched at the fabric on Bokuto’s chest as he leads them through the street, his arm remaining comfortably around Akaashi’s lower back.
Their journey home is quick, easy. Getting Akaashi through the winding hallways of the castle and into his futon is less so, but it’s worth it to ensure Akaashi doesn’t stumble on his weakened ankle. Bokuto’s arm hadn’t left the small of Akaashi’s back for a moment, and the closer they get to approaching Akaashi’s room, the more his weight seems to sag into Bokuto’s side. He radiates warmth, the soft silk of his kimono brushing against the rougher fabric of Bokuto’s hakama. His head lolls slightly against Bokuto’s shoulder, and he can feel the heat climbing up his neck as Akaashi’s hair brushes briefly against his jawline. Again, the smell of soap is all Bokuto can think of as he softly places Akaashi down into a sitting position atop the futon.
He leaves the room only for a moment, just enough time for a servant to arrive and help Akaashi disrobe. When he re-enters, Akaashi is lying against the soft cotton of his futon, leaning forward and using his elbows to hold himself up. His face is still flushed with the alcohol, and even drunk, Bokuto can’t help but be completely awed by his beauty.
“Sit with me for a bit, Bokuto-san.” He asks softly, blue eyes meeting gold. He doesn’t need to ask twice. Bokuto kneels immediately, sets his swords down against the floor with a soft clang of metal.
“Thank you, for—“ Akaashi begins, pausing with hesitation, seeming to try and think through the haze clouding his brain for a moment. “— for, well, everything.” He finishes, a small smile creeping across his flushed face. It’s not the same smile he was showing to the other daimyo earlier. This time, it’s real. Bokuto just laughs lightly, tilting his head with confusion.
“Everything?” He questions. Akaashi nods, laying back against the futon and releasing his arms to lay at his sides. He reaches a hand out, cups the side of Bokuto’s (rapidly reddening) face. His palm is addictingly warm, softer than any silk he’s ever had the luxury of feeling.
“Yes. Everything. Protecting me, sitting through awful meetings with me, being such a close friend to me. Everything.” Akaashi looks bashful as he speaks, eyes shying away from meeting Bokuto’s for the first time that night.
It’s sudden, swift. Akaashi’s palm releases Bokuto’s face as he shuffles to sit up once more, to lean in, to press the lightest of kisses against the burning skin of Bokuto’s cheek. He’s certain it’s the sake’s influence over Akaashi, but he commits the sensation to his memory anyway and hopes, desperately, that Akaashi means it. His skin feels like it’s on fire, burning with the heat of June, with a million glances that mean nothing, with want. He leans against him for a single second, before Akaashi is leaning back to return to his former position amongst the futon’s sheets.
Bokuto swallows roughly, clears his throat.
“You never have to thank me for that, Akaashi.” Is all he can muster. There’s a tremor in it, and he can’t help the tension settling in his shoulders.
Akaashi falls into a soft snore quickly after that, Bokuto still knelt quietly at his side. The moon hangs heavily in the sky, pale glow casting a silver line across Akaashi’s sleeping face.
He’s sure Akaashi won’t acknowledge the kiss tomorrow, and so he stays, kneeling, watching the even rise and fall of Akaashi’s chest. Trying to memorise the softness of Akaashi’s lips, the warmth of his palm, the brush of his fingertips. By the time he leaves, the moon has arced a full length across the sky.