Chapter Text
Keiji stood in the doorway of the kyudojo. In front of him, he could see the wide expanse of the hall, the floor made of hinoki, the ceiling higher than the requisite four meters and made of the same m wood. The soft LED lighting added a touch of ambience to the dojo, and Keiji’s hands twitched, anxious to don his yugake and go through hassetsu.
If he was being honest, he was pretty fucking nervous. He’d been aiming all his life to be a kyudo, to compete on a national level. He’d worked hard in high school and gotten several scholarship offers, but he had to attend a school that would also be academically rigorous, and so, he chose the only option on his list that made any sense.
However, standing there, at the door to the kyudojo of Chuo University, Keiji couldn’t help but be intimidated.
He knew that he was among the best in his prefecture, but now?
He would have to prove himself to be the best in the nation.
He knew what—or rather, who—he was up against on his own team. As a first-year, he stood very little chance of making the starting five. But he would still try his best to get there—if not this year, then next year, for sure.
The kyudoka upperclassmen were not idle; they worked hard, and trained harder. He’d heard that the captain was a beast, that he barely missed, that, even though he was only a second year, the other, elder players looked to him for leadership. He was the best in the dojo: the best in their university conference, and, maybe one of the best in the country.
Keiji smiled, his heart slowly beginning to thrum with excitement instead of anxiety as he took in the sight.
To shoot here would be a privilege, a dream, a…
Swhoosh.
And then, Keiji heard it:
The tsurune.
It was a bright, sharp sound, one that captured Keiji’s soul and drew him towards it. Keiji would know the sound anywhere: he’d been chasing it since he was eight years old and first held a bow in his hands. The sharpness, the twang, the sound of the string when it struck the upper part of the bow as the arrow is released.
Someone was there.
Desperate to know the source of the tsurune, Keiji looked out into the dojo. There, standing at the far end, so much so that Keiji certainly would have missed him a first glance, was a man.
He was tall, and his keiko-gi was partially removed, exposing half of a very muscular chest and an equally muscular arm. His face was partially hidden as he looked to the range, but Keiji could see the young man had two-tone silvery hair that he wore up, tousled into spikes. His jaw was handsome and chisled, and as he raised his bow, first into uchiokoshi and then, into hikiwake, preparing to shoot, the other sleeve of his keiko-gi slipped down, revealing yet another muscled arm.
Keiji watched, breathless, as the young man drew, hikiwake meeting kai, physical meeting spiritual. When he released into hanare, the sound of the string snapped against the bow again, a perfect tsurune, and Keiji shivered at the sound.
The young man held his position for a moment in zanshin, willing the arrow to go forth and find its mark. An aura seemed to radiate around him, as though he were sending his own spirit forward, along with the arrow. The young man sighed, then brought the bow down, still maintaining eye contact with the target: a perfect yudaoshi, drawing a close to the sequence.
He was a picture in the very practice of kyudo itself: tall, muscled, precise. He and the bow moved as one being, the bamboo an extension of himself.
Never had Keiji seen someone so beautiful, so effortless in the art. He felt a blush creeping over his cheeks.
Who was this man? Was his one of Keiji’s teammates? Or one of the local folk who sometimes came to use the kyudojo off-hours? It was almost time for practice, so he couldn’t…
Commissioned Artwork by im_not_here134
“Hey, hey, hey!” the man called, waving his free hand, still gripping his bow with the other. He was grinning at Keiji, and he could see that the young man had vibrant golden eyes, which seemed to sparkle despite the lack of glaring overhead lights. “Are you here for practice? You must be one of the new first-years!”
Keiji dropped into a bow. “I am,” he said, “and I am sorry for disturbing your hassetsu.”
The young man, to Keiji’s surprise and slight horror, clapped his hands (bow included!) onto his hips and began to laugh. “Oh, you didn’t disturb me!” he exclaimed. “I always like to get in a few extra rounds before practice. Helps me settle, you know?” He paused. “You wanna take a few rounds before we get started?” he asked.
Keiji blushed. “Oh,” he replied, rising from his bow, “I couldn’t possibly—my equipment is still in the changing room—I just came out here to look at the dojo before we got started.”
“That’s okay!” The young man strode up to him; he was only a little bit taller than Keiji, but he was so broad , he seemed the largest man Keiji had ever seen. Keiji’s eyes were irrevocably drawn to his exposed chest, and he felt more than a little disappointed when the young man shrugged back into his keiko-gi. “We’re about the same height,” he said, looking Keiji up and down with an approving stare that made Keiji blush all over again. “Wanna use mine?”
“Oh!” Keiji shook his head vigorously. “I couldn’t! I just couldn’t! It’s against protocol, and what if I did something? I’d never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense,” the young man scoffed. “You’re on the university team, yeah? So you’ve got to be good.” He grinned, and it was absolutely disarming. “Just one shot,” he encouraged. “I really wanna see your hassetsu!”
Keiji fidgeted. He wanted to show off for this young man, he really did, but…
“Oi, Bokuto!” shouted a voice. Keiji turned, and several more young men, all in their keiko-gi and hakama, strode into the kyudojo. “You givin’ the new recruits trouble?”
“Who, me?” The young man—who Keiji was slowly realizing with aroused horror had to be the Bokuto Kōtarō, captain of the Chuo kyudo club (how could Keiji not have recognized him???)—cocked his head to one side and pouted. It—it was adorable.
“I was just trying to get—” He frowned. “What’s your name, rookie?” he asked, clapping Keiji on the arm so hard Keiji was sure there’d be a bruise tomorrow.
Keiji hoped it never healed.
Keiji cleared his throat. “A—Akaashi,” he choked out. “Akaashi Keiji.”
Bokuto’s grin got wider, and Keiji felt weak from the brilliance. “Well, then, Akaashi,” he said, bowing slightly, “I’m Bokuto Kōtarō, captain of the Chuo kyudo team. Welcome to our club.” He reached out his hand, and Keiji shook it, an oddly Western gesture for such an ancient practice.
Bokuto’s eyes flashed. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Akaashi,” he said. He released Keiji’s hand and gestured to the locker room. “Now,” he continued, “go get your gear, and let’s see what you can do.”
The Bokuto Kōtarō Keiji had met just moments ago was very different from the Bokuto Kōtarō who stood before his club now. He was dressed fully, hands behind his back, pacing before the team, his golden eyes lingering on each and every one of them as he passed them by.
There were…fifteen of them in total, all sitting kiza, watching Bokuto closely. Keiji recognized several of the kyudoka from the tournaments he’d been to in high school, while various schools were scouting him.
At the front of the group, right in the center before Bokuto, was fourth-year Sawamura Daichi, the solid sanban of the starting five. Keiji remembered that, while Sawamura didn’t win any individual events, he held everyone else up during the team competition. He’d also been captain the year before. Keiji wondered why he gave up the title to Bokuto.
He also recognized the other fourth year on the team, Oikawa Tōru, the yonban. Keiji remembered him as brash and a little mouthy, his perfectly coiffed brown hair and angelic features a facade for the way he had behaved last tournament, when he was sure that his arrow had gone farther than his opponent’s.
Keiji shivered. He hoped he would never get on Oikawa-san’s bad side.
The only other player Keiji recognized was a tall young man, with a wild head of black hair. He was Kuroo Tetsurō, the team’s other star second-year, the ichiban, and boyfriend of Keiji’s friend Kenma. Kuroo was nearly as good at kyudo as Bokuto, but preferred the enteki range for shooting, as opposed to the standard kinteki. Keiji supposed it was because of his height; perhaps Kuroo was able to have a stronger draw with his bow.
Keiji also knew that Kuroo liked to provoke, to tease, and, like Oikawa, Keiji hoped he wouldn’t get on Kuroo’s bad side.
Then there was Bokuto…
Shit. Keiji had a lot of work to do if he was going to impress his new captain and make the starting five.
“This year,” Bokuto began, his footfalls light despite the bulk of his body, “we’re up against some tough opponents in our tournaments. In our regional tournament, Waseda has several new kyudoka that were highly scouted, and of course Ushiwaka is just a beast. And Keio also has most of its returning kyudoka, with two phenoms, I heard. So, we’re gonna have to fight hard to make it to nationals this year, but…” He paused in front of Keiji; Keiji could feel the pressure of Bokuto’s gaze, heavy on his face, his torso, and he stiffened. Bokuto broke out into a laugh.
“I think we’re gonna kick all their asses this year,” he grinned, “and show Nationals that Chuo’s still got it.”
The kyudoka around Keiji broke into excited chatter, but Bokuto raised his arm and his voice, and everyone settled into silence.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “I know we’ve got a fantastic team, but we’ve got a long way to go this year. Sensei said he’d be running a little late today, so we can go ahead and get started. Third and fourth years!” he barked, and Keiji immediately sat straight at attention as the fourth years jumped to their feet. “Go ahead and get started. We’ll be playing around a lot with the order, but for now, let’s have…” Bokuto eyed his teammates closely. “Oikawa, you take ichiban. Washio, niban. Yakkun, sanban. Konoha, yonban. And Daichi, you’ll take goban.” He grinned as the third- and fourth-year members got to their feet and began collecting their arrows for shinsa. “Later,” Bokuto continued, “I’m going to try out our first-years with some of our more experienced kyudoka, see how you all do.” Bokuto’s jovial face turned serious. “I want to remind you all,” he said, “even the fourth years, that every spot in shinsa is up for grabs. Just because you were ichiban last year…” He cocked a grin at Kuroo, who mock-gasped in return, “doesn’t mean you’ll be ichiban this year. I want to see everyone, Sensei wants to see everyone, over the course of a few practices, and then, we’ll make our decisions.”
There was a wave of chatter that arose from the team again; Keiji could hear some grumbles and some dismay. But when Bokuto raised his hand, the group fell silent again.
“Everyone please wait your turn. I promise, we will get to you all.”
And Keiji might have been hallucinating, but he was sure that Bokuto looked right at him when he said that, and winked.
Apparently at some point during the practice, their faculty advisor, Nekomata-sensei, had arrived, but he’d been so quiet, and Keiji’s mind was so focused on hearing his own name, he barely recognized that anyone else had joined them. But when Bokuto did call Keiji’s name, approximately thirty minutes and two very asleep legs later, Keiji looked up, saw a short, round, gentle-looking man standing beside Bokuto, and scrambled to his feet, nearly stumbling when his legs almost gave out.
“Hey, hey, Akaashi!” Bokuto chided him softly. “You gotta get comfy sitting kiza. You’re gonna have to do it for long periods of time, you know. You should be used to it by now, yeah!”
“Yeah…uh, I mean, yes, Bokuto-san.” Keiji dipped his head in apology.
“And you didn’t even acknowledge Nekomata-sensei!” Bokuto added. “You must have really been spacing out, huh?”
Keiji blushed. “I—I do apologize, Nekomata-sensei,” he said, bowing even more deeply. “I want to do well today, so…I may have been too in my own head and focused on what’s to come.”
Nekomata smiled, and Keiji immediately felt himself at ease in the man’s quiet presence. “That is all right, Akaashi-kun,” he replied. “But now that Kōtarō-kun has called you, it is time for you to put aside the future and think about the present.” His smile widened. “All will be revealed,” he added, “because, as you know…”
“Kyudo is the way to the truth,” Keiji finished. “The shooting of the arrow is the seeking of the truth.”
The corners of Nekomata’s eyes crinkled. “You’re a first year, yes?” Keiji nodded at the question, and Nekomata’s eyes turned to Bokuto, who looked thoughtful at the conversation.
“Kōtarō-kun,” Nekomata said, but his speaking of Bokuto’s name seemed laden with a deeper meaning, because Bokuto immediately jumped and stood upright.
“Right!” he shouted. “Aone! Fukunaga! Taketora! And…Kuroo, will you join them?”
Keiji blanched as Kuroo, who gave Keiji a shit-eating grin, collected his things and stood with the first-years. Keiji had only met him a handful of times, as he and Kenma had attended a different high school from Keiji, but he’d always kind of wondered what Kenma saw in him.
But as Keiji watched Bokuto talking softly with Nekomata, golden eyes still fixed on Keiji, Keiji knew that there was never any telling what would attract one person to another, when that red string of fate would make itself known.
Then, Bokuto nodded, and Keiji shook his head, trying to clear it of thoughts of soulmates and Bokuto Kōtarō. The way of the bow was all that should be on his mind, especially if he was aiming to make first team.
“Okay,” Bokuto said then, “here’s your order for shinsa. Fukunaga, you’ll be ichiban. Taketora, niban. Kuroo, you’ll be sanban.”
“But Bo—” Kuroo began.
“Aone, you’ll be yonban. And Akaashi…”
“Goban,” Akaashi whispered.
“Goban,” Bokuto confirmed. “All right!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands once. “Get your arrows, and get into position, everyone. We’ll go five rounds.”
The others immediately shuffled about, getting their arrows and their bows and settling into position, but Keiji stood for a moment, the realization of what Bokuto had offered him sitting heavy in his heart.
He knew it was only practice, but goban was the position upon which so much hinged. If the round had gone badly, it was essential for the goban to hit the mato so that they could begin the next round on good footing. If they were tied with another team, the goban’s shot could make or break the entire tournament.
Plus, goban was Bokuto’s place in the order. Keiji remembered with a start that tournament he’d witnessed before he committed to Chuo: Kuroo was ichiban. Washio had been niban. Sawamura sanban. Oikawa yonban. And Bokuto…goban.
His place in shinsa.
And now Bokuto…wanted Keiji to…
A sharp clap to his shoulder jolted Keiji back into the moment. “It’s just practice, eh, Akaashi?” Bokuto said, still holding onto Keiji’s shoulder. He was, for some reason, shirtless again, and Keiji’s heart beat much too quickly than what could possible be medically acceptable. “So don’t take it too seriously, okay? Nekomata-sensei and I are just trying to see where people are the best fit.”
“But—goban is—” Keiji started.
Bokuto squeezed his shoulder, and Keiji’s knees weakened at the sheer force behind such a simple touch. “No overthinking,” Bokuto reminded him. “Just go out there and be one with the bow, ‘Kaashi. Use your breath.” He ran his hand down Keiji’s arm, and Keiji shivered. “Feel the arrow as an extension of your arm,” Bokuto continued softly. “When you hear the tsurune, it’s your own body flying towards the mato, not this thing that you held and that you’ve now let go. It’s all connected, Akaashi.” He turned Keiji slightly so that they were facing each other. Bokuto’s eyes shone, a brilliant gold. “ We’re all connected too, you know.”
Keiji was bright red, he was sure of it. But Bokuto’s words stirred in him, calling deep in his soul to that part of him that loved kyudo, that sought the perfect tsurune, that sought the truth with hanare.
He closed his eyes, and opened them, only to see Bokuto’s own, gold ringed with fire and gazing at him with something akin to hunger.
It ignited a fire in Keiji’s core, and he smiled.
“All right, Bokuto-san,” he said. “I will be the goban, and I will do my best.”
Bokuto smiled at him in return.
”I know you will, ‘Kaashi,” he said, “so let’s impress Nekomata-sensei, too!”
Keiji gathered up his arrows and his bow and slipped on his yugake, then headed to his place at the end of the line. He sat kiza, along with the other four, and waited for Bokuto to give the signal.
Bokuto looked to Fukunaga, who lifted his bow; they all followed suit and moved into yatsugae. Keiji could feel the arrows moving through his fingers, along the bow. He heard the small, soft click of the arrow nocking into place.
The air zinged with anticipation; Keiji kept his focus on Fukunaga, who slowly rose and began the round.
One after another, the kyudoka in the row rose and went through the stages of hassetsu. He kept especially close watch on Kuroo, who was the sanban, and at his tsurune, Keiji would need to stand.
Kuroo rose and went through the steps; in front of Keiji, Aone readied his bow. Kuroo’s tsurune rang through the kyudojo; it was crisp and sharp, the sound cutting through the air. Keiji had to fight to keep his mouth from dropping open. Kenma had said Kuroo was good, and Keiji had seen him when they’d gone to the tournament last year, but even here in practice, Kuroo kept up his high skill level.
His attention had to turn from Kuroo to Aone, though; the tall, muscular, first-year was, like Keiji, trying to make the team. But Keiji could see that his arms trembled as he formed the toritake and moved through the steps. His tsurune rang much more hollow in comparison to Kuroo’s, and Keiji slowly sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them, then began the steps to form the toritake.
Slowly, he slid his hands, gripping the bow, turning his head to gaze at the target. He imagined his arms as extensions of the bow and arrow, as Bokuto had suggested, and when he raised the bow overhead to prepare for the draw, Keiji’s body, the bow, and the arrow, all moved as one. He took his time; he closed his eyes again, checking his balance positioning through his other senses. He adjusted his stance slightly, shifting his feet until the pressure on both was equal.
Then, he opened his eyes again, and he released.
The sound of the bowstring hitting the bow rang in his ears. It was sharp, like Kuroo’s, but there was a lightness to the tonality that told Keiji he’d done well. His eyes followed the arrow, which hit the mato, one right away from center, with a zing that shook the target. Keiji remained, still in position, until the arrow found its mark.
When he lowered his bow and returned to seated, he saw Fukunaga ahead of him, moving into his own hassetsu.
But he also saw Nekomata looking at him appreciatively, and Bokuto?
There was a knowing twinkle in his eyes, one that seemed to lift his entire face into a broad, satisfied grin.