Gang Of Youths • bokuaka

8 ~ Achilles Come Down

Bokuto had cried out when they returned with Akaashi's body. His lover was dead, and it was his fault. He blamed himself for it all.

It pained Akaashi, to witness it all. He wanted to scream.

He watched as Bokuto lay on the bed unmoving, his arms still wrapped around Akaashi's cold lifeless body. He had been like this for days, clutching onto him as though if he were to let go all the memories of him would fade.

Let go . Akaashi tried to speak, please let go.

He wanted Bokuto to move on. To continue fighting in this war, he didn't want to spiral into a state of despair.

A day had gone by before Kuroo walked into the tent. Bokuto had not moved, not since Akaashi's body had returned. It had been, what now, three? Four days. He turned away anyone who came by. He wanted to be left alone with Akaashi; with his world.

'Bokuto we should bury the body.'

He didn't get a response. The raven-haired man walked over to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, 'Let him rest.'

'I'll fucking murder him.'

'Don't think so recklessly. You think Akaashi would want you to mourn like this?'

Kuroo was right, Akaashi hated this. His body was already decomposing, his skin was a sickly grey colour. This was not the Akaashi that Bokuto should remember.

Bokuto lay there, his thumb grazing Akaashi's hand, 'It's my fault he's dead. He took my place if I had convinced him no—'

'Stop that,' Kuroo interrupted, 'Stop with the what ifs. He's gone, nothing is going to change that. Getting revenge isn't going to bring him back, and the sooner you accept that the better Bo. Akaashi needs to rest, so let him rest.'

Bokuto's grip on Akaashi's hand tightened. He knew Kuroo was right, that staying like this wasn't what Akaashi would've wanted. But letting go means accepting the reality of his loss, and he wasn't ready for that.

'I can't just let go,' Bokuto mumbled, his voice heavy with grief. 'He's right here. I can still feel him.'

'That's... that's not Akaashi. All that's left is an empty vessel.'

Listen to him Bokuto, I'm not coming back; let go.

Bokuto ignored Kuroo. Pictures in his mind began to rise, memories of Akaashi; that's all he was no, a being made of memories that Bokuto was trying so desperately to cling to. He was afraid that he'd forget what he looked like; how his eyes lit up when he saw the stars, his smile, his laugh, the sound of his voice. Everything about him, Bokuto couldn't bear to lose him... never.

Bokuto envied the earth, at the thought that it can wrap its arms around Akaashi. Holding his corpse closely between its cold fingers. He couldn't let the earth take the only thing he loved– the only thing he truly, deeply, and dearly– loved away from him.

༄

Bokuto did not wait for his men. His eyes filled with tears, rage consuming him.

Akaashi tried to plead with him to stop before he went on a rampage in anger, but he had no voice; no one could hear him. His face was twisted in a way Akaashi did not recognise; this was not the Bokuto he knew.

Corpse, upon corpse. A blood bath. His men, the enemy, and his friends. Each of them lost to the war. How tragic life is.

Bokuto's steps are heavy, looking for his surviving men. He paces the battlefield, seeking something.

Men lie dead, two great armies broken by the burden of war; of anger and fear. Many may have not deserved to die, but it is the price to pay for the war.

He is not alone on the battlefield. In the distance, another battle commences. Nekoma, a cunning battalion, fighting to be the last men standing. Bokuto can already tell that Kuroo has lost some of his men, he can see the anger in his eyes as he gets closer; the fury radiates from inside him.

His opponent smiles, revealing his snakelike fangs, taking one look at the black-haired man before striking. There is a clash of swords, of shields. Both men are fighting to make it out alive; to be heroes.

The man says something to Kuroo, and although Bokuto cannot make out the words that were spoken, he can see from the shift in Kuroo's expression that he was trying to get a rise from him; and distract him. But Kuroo, Bokuto knows him well enough to know that no matter what you say to him he will stay set on his target; he will not—

He did not scream, as the sword pierced his side.

'Kuroo!' Kenma screams, running towards him. But it is too late; the sword has found its way right through him.

Kuroo's mouth drops, as though he tries to speak; to cry, to scream. But nothing comes out; he remains silent even as the sword is pulled from him and a pool of blood surrounds him.

Kenma reaches him, clutching him tightly. His hand covers the wound, but even that cannot stop the bleeding.

It seems the man got what he wanted, the damage was done; he was satisfied, walking away as Kenma cried out for help.

Bokuto stood still. He has seen this before— experienced this before. How the body turns cold in your arms, how the blood stains your clothes, your armour, your skin. It gets under your nails, almost impossible to get out.

The scene in front of him reminds him of Akaashi; again, and again, and again, he sees his world shatter before him.

Kuroo is dead, Kenma clutching onto him with tear-stained eyes was enough to tell him that; Kuroo was dead.

It was as though this was the point that broke something inside of Bokuto. Akaashi tried to stop him, plead with him; he begged and begged but he still could not hear. He held his own life in his hands; it would be his own blood he would spill. He is only mortal after all.

He is frozen in place, unaware of the arrow being drawn, unaware of it as it is sent flying towards him. He could hear the piercing hum as it flew towards him. He has no time to react. And it was too late. His legs gave in as he dropped the floor; his world collapsing around him.