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Bokuto relies on praise. He has always been dependent. And he is unsustainable. He has never been able to function by himself. He would rip himself into shreds, nails pulling back his flesh piece by piece like peeling the skin off an orange. But he doesn’t think his blood would taste as good.
Even when Akaashi is there, even when Kuroo is there, sometimes he still wants to breathe out gold, even if he knows it will burn molten on the way up. He still wants more. He has always needed more. It’s never enough; he must ask for praise again and again and again.
But he is unsustainable.
Bokuto’s leg jumps under the table. He can hear the plastic tip of his shoelace tick tocking against the side of his shoe in time with the clock. His nails are scratching his skin. Sometimes he slips his hand under his shirt just to dig his nails into his hip bones. It only makes him more anxious.
He looks down at his paper. He tells Akaashi everything. He won't tell him this.
Maybe that is where it starts.
A low grade, he doesn’t even care about grades, but he knows Akaashi cares about grades, his own grades, Bokuto’s grades. He will be disappointed. He will look at Bokuto and frown. Or maybe he won’t even look. He’ll just close his eyes and sigh.
No, Bokuto can’t tell him.
It’s such an awful pressure, playing right along his ribs. He has to bite the confession back, swallow it under his skin. He has to tell, but he can’t.
He avoids the subject of academics with Akaashi for a long time. It becomes habit to stay silent.
He goes without that praise, gold ringing, light bringing. It hurts him.
“Kuroo? Hey, Kuroo?” Kuroo hums noncommittally, not looking up from his textbook. Wait until he looks at you . Bokuto waits. The pressure builds in his chest, bubbling and boiling. He needs to talk. But he needs to wait until Kuroo is done, is ready to answer him. Kuroo flips another page. Bokuto knows he has been forgotten. He whispers, “Kuroo?”
“What?” Kuroo draws out the words; It lashes out like a whip, a hardened tip at the end of the last syllable.
Bokuto’s voice shrinks. “I need help with this problem.”
Kuroo sighs, and it hits Bokuto like a hurricane. The amount of annoyance and distaste in that one breath rips through his chest.
“Give it here.” Bokuto hands over the worksheet and watches Kuroo scan over the problem. Kuroo’s hands are tight enough to leave deep wrinkles in the paper. “You left out the y component of your fictional force.”
“Why do I need that?” Bokuto scrunches up his eyes at the problem as Kuroo shoves it back at him.
“To calculate your net force.” Kuroo drags his textbook closer.
“But how do I get the y?”
“Use the angle.”
“Where-”
“God, Bokuto, do you need me to do the problem for you?”
“No.” Smaller, he adds, “I just don’t get it.”
Kuroo flips the next page almost violently, tearing it at the bottom. “I told you that you left out the frictional force, so you left out the frictional force, alright? I’m telling you that’s how you get the right answer, so just do it.”
Bokuto swallows and feels viscous sludge slide down his throat and work its way between his organs. “Right,” he whispers.
He finishes the problem, grabs his phone, and goes into the bathroom. He stays there for a long time, the cold of the tiles seeping into his skin even though he sits on the furry bathroom matt. He means to look through his phone, just to defuse some of the tension, but instead, he just sits there, leaning against the bathtub and staring at the wall.
He gets colder and colder, until a shiver constantly vibrates in his stomach. But he doesn’t move.
“Bokuto? You still in there, buddy?”
Bokuto feels the creak in his joints when he stands, feels the shivers intensify with his self created breeze. (He feels isolated.)
Kuroo’s there when he opens the door. “You were in there for a while,” Kuroo smiles nervously.
Bokuto dully grins in return. “I got distracted on my phone.”
“You still need help with that problem?” Kuroo asks as they walk back to the living room. “I finished my global studies reading; I can help you with it now.”
Something twists viciously in Bokuto’s chest even thinking about it again. “Nah, I think I got it.”
“Cool. Nice job.”
Bokuto smiles but the praise feels sticky and undeserved on his flesh.
Bokuto is frustrated. Frustrated enough to want to claw the ground until his fingernails rip off. But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t want to slip on the blood. That would make his performance so much worse.
He slams down another spike, out of bounds again. As he comes down to an impact lessening crouch, he feels his knees whisper that they want to give out. His eyes want to close. He just wants to lay there, until every other player leaves the court and all their athletic body heat leaves with them and he is alone in the dark.
He bounces back to his feet, but not without a chalky grind sounding from his ligaments. He keeps telling himself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, but he needs someone else to say it to him as his heartstrings wind tight as a music box that no one will open.
He needs to get off the court. He needs to get off the court before something, something, something bad happens.
He inhales too deeply on purpose until shoe dust and musk get caught in his throat and force him into a coughing fit. He’s waved off with a firm slap to the back.
He tries to gulp water but he almost throws it back up when he keeps coughing, stomach seizing. He leans against the wall, turning his hands over and knowing a tremble is close enough to the surface of his skin that it would appear if he just willed it. He does and watches his veins shake until he notices Akaashi glancing his way.
He sits down when the same nervous jitter starts to slink down his legs.
Later, Bokuto’s throat runs dry as he waits for Akaashi to tell him he played well today, but then he remembers he didn’t play much at all today. Still, he’s consumed with a thirst no amount of water can quench. It’s fine, he repeats, it’s fine.
He should have kept playing. Then, he wouldn’t feel this desperate.
Bokuto stays late next practice. Akaashi told him that if he wants to get better at his crosses, he has to practice. So he does. Over and over and over. Akaashi stays with him, finishing homework on the sidelines. They only leave when he is dead on his feet.
Akaashi pulls out his headphones, finally, finally, as they leave school premises. Bokuto bounds ahead, feet light and swaying with euphoric exhaustion, eyes not really seeing. Akaashi opens his mouth, smiling, and Bokuto aches to hear what he has to say. But then those green eyes widen, and Akaashi leaps forward, wrenching Bokuto out of the street and back to the sidewalk.
A car whizzes by.
Akaashi wheels on him, so angry. “Idiot, you idiot!” Adrenaline sings in Bokuto's veins, too loud, but far louder is the crushing guilt that Akaashi drags up from his gut. “You can't just walk into the street blind, Bokuto!”
“I know, I-”
“No, you don't! You don't think! I swear, one of these days you're going to get yourself killed and I won't even care!”
Kill yourself, I won't even care.
“Oh.” Bokuto says very, very quietly.
Akaashi blinks, regret washing over his face. “I didn't mean that. Bokuto, you know I didn't mean that.”
“No, no, it's okay, I get it.” He hears the tell tale tremble on his last word. He looks away.
“It's not okay. Bokuto,” Akaashi grips at Bokuto's elbows, leaning to meet his eyes. “ I did not mean that. Do you understand me?”
After a long, long pause, Bokuto realizes Akaashi won't let him go until he says something. He manages, “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Akaashi breathes deeply, hands slacking their hold.
They walk across the street, towards home. (Bokuto looks both ways, once, twice, three times.)
Eventually, when the silence is too much, he utters, “Sorry.”
They're at Akaashi’s house now.
“No, I'm sorry. I spoke very callously and cruelly. It won't happen again.”
Bokuto just nods.
He walks the rest of the way home on sore feet, still so tired that he stumbles up the stairs. He uses his hands to catch himself when his feet slip and stutter.
He wonders if his crosses have gotten any better.
If they have, no one, especially Akaashi, mentions it.
Bokuto empties the dishwasher with Kuroo. He pulls out one of the large serrated knives, the kind used to cut bread and that spans the length of his forearm. Mechanically, he rubs off the water with the towelette he’s holding.
He thinks about stabbing that knife into his gut. The serrations would probably hurt a lot, though. He glances into the dishwasher for a smoother one.
“Careful,” Kuroo mentions offhand as he places a plate into the cabinet.
“Right.” Bokuto slides the knife into its wooden sheath and takes out a fork to clean.
Kuroo slips his hand into Bokuto’s while they’re sitting on the couch. Bokuto’s focus slips with it, but his hands don’t hold onto that. Softly, Kuroo kisses his knuckles and Bokuto thinks about knives on the counter and razors in the bathroom and scissors in the drawer.
He buries his face in Kuroo’s shoulder, eyes wide as they stare into his shirt. Kuroo hums, running his fingers through Bokuto’s hair.
He keeps thinking about it. He thinks about being alone with those sharp, sharp things.
“It’s getting pretty late. You’re going home tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” Kuroo sighs. He places a kiss on Bokuto’s forehead and it aches like sunburn. “Guess I should go.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Bokuto stands abruptly, and Kuroo laughs a little, low and breathy.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No, I just know you’re going to complain in the morning, bed head.” Bokuto hears Kuroo following him to the door.
Kuroo laughs again, and Bokuto opens the door. Bokuto is ready to close it when Kuroo stops in the frame, turning back to the other boy.
“You know, Bo, I think I forgot to mention it but you played a great game today.” Bokuto blinks and maybe his spine is being split from his torso because he is cracking in half. “Come on, don’t look like that!” Kuroo grins. “I mean, your crosses were great. Have you been practicing? You’ve been practicing, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Good job, babe.” Kuroo kisses him quickly on the lips. “Love you.”
Bokuto watches him stroll down the empty hallway.
When Bokuto goes into the bathroom that night, he looks at his razor and feels sick.
He feels much better. Same as always, he reminds himself, always nothing, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.
Something about the day tastes cloudy, but it’s sunset clouds, sweet and pink, rich and purple. It sticks to the inside of his lungs, cloying but saccharine.
Bokuto jots down a few more things, palm pounding along to the beat playing from his computer against his breastbone. He breathes out the words, half made sounds whistling out of his vocal cords. Mindlessly, he begins to swing his feet under the table.
“Dance with me?” He says suddenly to Kuroo. Kuroo hesitates, gazing longingly at his book. “Please?” Kuroo looks over to him and Bokuto’s heart swells.
“Yeah, okay.”
Bokuto leaps to his feet, hands dragging Kuroo up with him as the dark haired boy laughs.
They dance around the living room, nothing fancy or even really romantic, just leaping and jumping, brushing fingertips as they spin around each other. Bokuto starts to sing out loud and Kuroo joins him until they’re both near screaming off key.
Bokuto meets Kuroo’s eyes and they’re so bright, gold as the sun, and Bokuto is bursting with the feeling in his chest. He loves him so much.
Kuroo makes a grab for him, for a twirl or a spin, and they both go spiraling to the ground. They fall next to each other, so close that Bokuto can feel Kuroo’s laughter in his own body.
“I love you, I love you.” He giggles, tugging Kuroo closer by his shirt.
Kuroo kisses his cheek. “I love you too.”
He holds onto that moment as long as he can.
But he feels it when that too begins to spin out of control.
Bokuto can taste gray along his tongue, dry and suffocating as ash, coating his lungs. He wonders if the teacher would notice if he just blew away.
He looks back down at his paper but he can’t read a word. The white and black just blend together and the gray on the paper starts to vein out into his desk, and then the floor. Outside the window, he sees a cloud pass over the sun and everything turns to monochrome.
He rips his eyes away and stares at his hands, still flushed with blood and still alive. He’s still alive, he reminds himself. He’s just having a bad day and it will pass. He was fine a couple of days ago. He will be fine again.
As he watches, the gray starts to seep into him.
It’s in his fingernails and oh god, he’s going to have to rip his fingernails out, but now it’s in his fingertips and seeping under his knuckles and in the lines of his palm, he’s going to have to cut off his whole hand, but it’s in his forearm and shoulder and chest, it’s inside him.
He goes blank.
His mind turns to static, gray and buzzing and flat, and he hardly knows what happens for the rest of the day. Everything comes through to him as static, gray and buzzing and flat.
He hears Akaashi say, “How was your weekend?”
And he replies, “Fine.” Minutes, minutes, later he remembers that he should have continued the exchange. He should have asked Akaashi the same, but it’s too late now. Akaashi has returned to his work and Bokuto has been sitting here for minutes already.
And he doesn’t want to.
He just wants to sleep.
More than anything, he just wants to sleep.
At practice, he feels heavy and useless, and as the team takes a water break, Bokuto excuses himself for a quick recharge. He means for it to be short but he curls up in one of the storage closets and doesn’t go back.
The dark whispers him to oblivion.
“Bokuto! Bokuto?! Where is he, Akaashi? Where the fuck-”
“His stuff is still here, he must-”
“He could be fucking anywhere-”
“Kuroo, calm down-”
“Where the fuck were you? You didn’t see where he went?”
“I already told you, we were all-”
“What if he’s hurt? He doesn’t even have his phone! What if- God dammit, where the fuck is he? Bokuto!”
Bokuto blinks, and blinks again into the unending darkness. He shifts and his body protests weakly, sore elbows and hip bones. He feels something drag his eyes back closed and he listens.
“I swear to fucking god, Akaashi, if he hurt himself, I’ll-” The words bang around in Bokuto’s skull, yanking him away from sleep.
“You’ll what, Kuroo? You’ll what?” Bokuto hears Akaashi’s patience end and the tension snaps like a rubber band against his skin. “This is not my fault,” Akaashi hisses.
There’s silence and Bokuto curls his body tighter into itself. Unconsciousness trickles back into the folds of his mind.
“Wh-ere is he?” Kuroo sobs.
There’s a fierce tug right on Bokuto’s heart, pulling him to his feet. His muscles almost give out on him, straining and buckling, but he fumbles his way through the dark to the door and forces it open.
He stumbles out into the hallway and there is Akaashi and Kuroo. They whips towards him. The bright light burns Bokuto’s retinas.
“Jesus, jesus, Bokuto-” Kuroo rushes over to him, his embrace strong and unyielding. “What the hell, Bokuto?” He releases Bokuto to shake him by the shoulders. “Where the hell were you?”
“Just… napping.” Bokuto mumbles weakly. He gets a good look at Kuroo’s face, tearstained and flushed too red on his cheeks. Almost devastated.
“In the storage closet?” Akaashi asks harshly.
“I… guess?”
“I don’t think you get it, Bokuto.” Akaashi’s eyes rip into Bokuto, awful and accusing, and Bokuto’s thinks that at least his blood isn’t gray anymore, even if it’s spilling all over the floor. “You were gone for hours. We didn’t know where you were for hours.”
Kuroo leans his forehead against Bokuto’s collarbone, and Bokuto feels the other boy’s breath echo shakily on his skin. “We were so worried. We didn’t know what happened to you.”
“Sorry,” Bokuto whispers. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“What did you mean to do, then?” Akaashi intones.
“I just wanted to sleep.” His murmur is barely a reply at all.
“You can’t just… leave, Bokuto. It’s like you have no concept of the world around you!”
“Hey,” Kuroo interrupts. “Tone it down, Akaashi.”
Akaashi just holds his gaze for a few more moments before he grabs his backpack.
“You’re leaving?” Kuroo asks.
“It’s ten o’clock, Kuroo, I should have been home hours ago. I need to finish my work. Bokuto, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bright and early, too, since I’m sure you got enough sleep.” He storms out of the room and Bokuto swallows the zap of ozone he leaves in his wake.
Kuroo gently takes Bokuto’s hands in his. “Let me walk you home.”
“Okay.”
Kuroo’s grip stays warm and firm the whole way back to his house. His nails sometimes scratch along the back of Bokuto’s hand, but Bokuto doesn’t say anything about it.
“Do you want me to stay?” Kuroo whispers.
Bokuto shakes his head. “I think… I’m just going to go to bed. And sleep.” He almost leaves that last part out as the sting of guilt plays along his heartstrings. Maybe he shouldn’t sleep. Maybe not for the next few days. Or weeks.
Kuroo hesitates. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m always here for you.”
“I know.” But the rest of the words lodge in his throat and his vision starts to darken at the edges again, color leeching away. And it is not something he could ever express in words.
Kuroo turns away and Bokuto lets him.
Kuroo's hands traces along his jaw, gently, gently. “Do you want to do stuff tonight?”
“What kind of stuff?” Bokuto murmurs into the dark haired boy's palm.
“It's been awhile since we, you know, got it on. And I kind of want to, if you want to.”
Bokuto doesn't really think about it as he quickly utters, “Sure.”
Kuroo kisses him fully on the lips and whispers into his mouth, “Can we go hard tonight?”
“Sure,” Bokuto repeats. He doesn't really think about it.
And he thinks about it even less as a collar slips around his neck, a tiny strip of leather and fur pressing against his windpipe. He stops thinking about much of anything after that.
“Don’t forget your safe word, baby.” Kuroo kisses along his neck. “Say it back to me.”
“Red,” responds Bokuto.
He doesn’t fall so much as sink. It’s the slow slink of unawareness going up his wrists, his elbows, his shoulders. He wants to be there.
His body is responsive to Kuroo, hot and eager and pliable, and Bokuto stays that way too, for a while. Responsive.
And then Kuroo whispers, “I don’t know if you’ve been a good enough boy. I don’t know if you deserve it yet.”
And Bokuto thinks, he’s right.
And that is the last thing he thinks.
They play for another hour, or maybe more, Bokuto isn’t sure. He can’t read the clock anymore, even the digital one that glows in the corner.
The same sludge he was sinking in, gray and thick and unaware, isn’t choking him, but he can’t help it if it’s in his mouth and throat and lungs. It just sits there, still and expanding until he feels full and fake and flat.
There’s something simmering beneath the surface but he can’t see it through all the gray.
Kuroo tugs on the collar. Something jolts through Bokuto’s body, but it is smothered by the sludge. Nothing hurts, just dull, permanent aches that Bokuto knows will hurt forever. How long is forever?
“What do you want, baby? Come on, say it out loud.”
And Bokuto is so deep in already, throat raw, thighs aching, jaw sore, eyes unfocused. He is hazy. He is the static and the gray and the sludge. He is not good enough.
He whispers raggedly, “Kill me.”
Kuroo goes absolutely rigid, until it seems like his muscles will snap under the tension.
“Bokuto, look at me for a second.” Bokuto looks at him but not really because he loves him or because he wants to, but just because Kuroo told him to. He wants to blink to focus his eyes but his body doesn’t want to. “Red. I’m ending the scene. Bokuto, I need you to respond to me, okay?”
Bokuto nods, because Kuroo tells him to. “No, Bokuto, I need you to answer me out loud. Right now, baby.”
And Bokuto’s mind skips back, and he doesn’t remember what’s happening, how was he supposed to answer? What do you want, baby? Come on, say it out loud. “Kill me. Please, Kuroo.”
Kuroo stares at him. Bokuto waits. Kuroo swallows, removing his hands from where they had been resting against Bokuto’s skin. He gets up, feet uncoordinated and clumsy, and grabs his phone from the bedside table. His hands are moving more than they are supposed to. (Shaking?) “Okay, okay,” He mumbles, fingers jerky against the screen before raising it to his ear.
“You’re going to do it?”
Kuroo jumps, like he hadn’t thought Bokuto would respond. Bokuto thought he wanted him to respond? “No.” His voice cracks, scratchy and painful.
Maybe Bokuto hasn’t been good enough yet.
“Do I need to earn it?”
Kuroo doesn’t answer him for a long moment. Bokuto remembers that he doesn’t get to ask for things, he only gets to be thankful for what he receives. He can’t do anything right. That knowledge hits him the hardest, spearing between his ribs.
“I ended the scene, Bokuto. Did you hear me say red?”
Bokuto looks at Kuroo before he blinks. He blinks on purpose. He feels the weight of the scene come off him a bit. “Okay. Can we do it next time, then?”
This time he meets Kuroo’s eyes on purpose. His vision focuses.
Kuroo looks pale. He looks sick.
“No. We- We can’t do that next time.” The same voice answers him, scratchy and painful. Bokuto’s heart sinks.
“I can be better.”
Something rolls down Kuroo’s cheek. His chest shudders. Suddenly, Kuroo grips tightens on the phone. He keeps his eyes fixed on Bokuto while he brokenly whispers into the phone, “Akaas-hi, I need you to come here. Right now.” His voice breaks between those two words. Every word sounds high and strained. “Something with Bokuto. I just- I really need help.”
Something stabs into Bokuto’s chest. He’s a problem, Kuroo needs help to deal with him. He can’t do anything right.
Maybe he should just kill himself. It was selfish of him to trouble Kuroo with it.
He starts to get up, but Kuroo exclaims, “Bokuto!” Bokuto turns, blinking. Kuroo looks stricken with panic. Bokuto sits down. “I have to go, just come, please, Akaashi.”
He puts the phone down, coming back over to the bed. He grips Bokuto’s hand, pulling him over to the bathroom.
“We’re going to get you cleaned up, okay?” Bokuto nods and mindlessly goes to step in the shower before Kuroo tightens his grasp, almost bruisingly.
“I have to be able to see you.”
Bokuto is confused by all the continuing commands. “I thought the scene was over.”
“It is. This is… This is special circumstances. Just listen to me for now. Please.”
“Okay.” Bokuto mumbles. He lets Kuroo clean his body with a washcloth and dress him into a loose t-shirt and some boxers. He lets Kuroo take off the collar and holds his tongue as he sees Kuroo throw it violently into the trash.
He waits and waits and waits for Kuroo to praise him, tell him he did a good job, was good, but he doesn’t. He thinks Kuroo forgot aftercare. Maybe he doesn’t get it because Kuroo had to end the scene with a safeword. He doesn’t deserve it because he didn’t do a good job; he was so bad that Kuroo had to stop in the middle. That makes sense.
Him and Kuroo sit on the bed, waiting. Kuroo holds his hands in such a death grip that Bokuto wonders if the other boy’s fingers will ever unbend.
“Kuroo?” Bokuto asks hesitantly. Immediately, he feels as if he should silence himself.
Kuroo whips towards him from where he had been watching the door. “What?” Kuroo’s voice is too loud. It’s stiff and nervous and abrupt. “What is it?”
“I… Nevermind.”
Kuroo clenches his hands tighter. “What is it?”
“I… I don’t want Akaashi to come.” Bokuto barely whispers.
Kuroo’s eyebrows crease and he looks more than nervous. It’s something deeper than that. “Why?”
“Because,” Bokuto stumbles on the words and if he scrapes his knees when he falls over them, he doesn't notice. “He’s going to be disappointed in me. And ashamed. And, and then he’s going to be angry, and I don’t want you and him to be mad at me and- and-” He inhales quickly and hot, frustrated tears track down his face.
“I'm not mad-”
“You are!”
“I'm not-” Kuroo takes a deep breath and slows down, squeezing Bokuto's fingers. “Why do you think I'm mad?”
“Because you ended the scene. And called Akaashi. Because-” Bokuto knows why. But he doesn't want to think about it. His teeth dig into the side of his cheek.
(Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.)
“Do you understand why I ended the scene, Bo?”
Bokuto shakes his head even though he knows, he knows.
“You told me you wanted me to kill you. Bokuto… You wanted me to kill you.” Bokuto nods and Kuroo's face crumples. “Don't nod. I'm not- I'm not going to kill you.” Kuroo looks like he's going to cry. There’s a flush too high, too dark, on his cheeks, awful and blotchy and strangling down his neck.
Bokuto just nods again.
Kuroo chokes on his own voice. “Do you even know what you’re nodding to?”
“You’re mad at me.” Bokuto affirms.
“No, Bokuto. I’m not-”
“And Akaashi will be mad because you’re mad, and you’ll yell at me, and-”
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell him not to come! I’ll do whatever you need me to do, you just have to stay- stay here and not move, okay? Actually,” Kuroo releases one of his hands but only one. With his freed fingers, he grabs his phone from the bedside table. “I’m just going to stay here and talk.”
The phone rings. Bokuto’s ears ring.
“Akaashi? Yeah, it’s me… Bokuto’s okay, and I’m with him- Yeah, we’re both okay, so you don’t need to come anymore… I know, I… I can talk to you about it later, okay? But now isn’t a good time… Yeah, yeah, okay. Thanks, Akaashi. See you.” Kuroo drops the phone on the bed. “See? Not mad, nobody is mad at you. But we’re still going to talk about this. We have to talk about this.”
Bokuto doesn't really want to talk, he wants to sleep. He wants to sleep and forget.
“Bokuto,” Kuroo meets his eyes. “Do you want to die?”
Bokuto doesn’t know why he has a hard time getting the words out. He has a hard time thinking about it. He shrugs but the weight of a world without him in it is still a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Can we sleep?” He asks.
“Not yet, baby.” Kuroo squeezes his fingers but Kuroo’s skin is starting to feel weird against Bokuto’s. Sometimes Bokuto’s own skin feels weird against his skin. “How long have you felt like this?”
Bokuto starts to fidget. He can’t stand the contact between their hands. “Felt like what?”
“Felt like you wanted to die. Come on, Bo, you gotta pay attention to me.” Kuroo sounds desperate, but maybe it’s actually dissapointment, dissapointment that Bokuto can’t pay attention, can’t do anything right. He’s mad, he’s mad that Bokuto isn’t listening and can’t remember things and can’t do anything right.
“I’m sorry,” Bokuto blurts out. “I’m trying to pay attention. I promise, I’m trying, I just- I can’t-” And he can feel Kuroo looking at him and it makes burning tears twinge in his eyes.
He needs his hand back.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Bokuto, it’s-”
“It’s not okay!” Bokuto can feel himself losing it.
He needs his hand back.
“I promise, it’s really-”
“Kuroo, let go of my hand!” He can hear the panic rising in his voice.
“What?” Confusion mars Kuroo’s face.
“Please- just- I need- I can’t- please-”
Kuroo lets go immediately, visibly putting space between them. There’s a terrible silence that’s only filled with Bokuto’s labored breaths.
“Are… are you okay?” Kuroo’s voice is timid and his fingers are clenched in the bed sheets.
Bokuto closes his eyes and tries not to let his hand touch anything. “Yeah.”
Kuroo puts his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. He pulls up his shirt to wipe away the saltwater gathering on his face. “I know it hurts to think about it, trust me, I know. But we’ve got to talk about this. I’m not going to let this slide. I’m not going to leave you in this dark place. I love you too much.”
“Do you? Do you love me?”
Kuroo looks astounded. “Of course I do. Do you think- Do you you think I don’t? I love you, Bokuto. I love you so much I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Why?”
“Why do I love you?”
“Yeah, I mean, I can’t do much of anything, right? I’m not good at school or homework or volleyball or being normal. I’m just-” not good enough, “not good enough.”
“How long have you been feeling this way?” Tears keep slipping down Kuroo’s cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to notice anymore. They’re a constant fixture now.
“I don’t know.” Bokuto starts tracing his fingers over his arm but it starts to feel weird again, so he stops.
“When was the last time you wanted to-” Kuroo swallows, “felt like this? Before today.”
“Um,” Bokuto’s toes brush the ground and he pulls them back to his body. “When you left after we watched the movie the other day. At my house.”
“After I left?”
“Well, while you were there. And then you left.”
“But you asked me to leave.” A sickly pale color leeches up Kuroo’s face.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hurt yourself after I left?”
“No.”
Kuroo’s whole body shakes with his exhale. “What stopped you that time?”
“I guess… you telling me I played good. I didn’t want to do it as much, after that.”
“And what if… what if I hadn’t said that?”
Bokuto shrugs. Kuroo covers his mouth.
“Oh, Bo… I don’t know how… How can I help you?”
“Dunno. I guess you could help me with my homework.” He almost laughs but it’s a twisted, gnarled thing. “Unless you’re going to get mad. Because I don’t want you to be mad again.”
A stricken expression passes behind Kuroo’s eyes.
“When I was mad… a couple of weeks ago? While you were doing that physics problem?” Bokuto nods. “Have I made you feel like this?” Kuroo seems like he wants to say more, but there’s only empty air hanging between them.
“No.” Bokuto says too quiet, after too long.
“I know you’re lying.” Kuroo’s voice is wrecked, nothing but a mess of vibrating vocal cords and windpipe whistles.
“It wasn’t just you,” Bokuto finally amends.
“I want-” Kuroo clears his throat and it sounds ragged. “I want to hold your hand. Can I hold your hand?”
Bokuto hesitantly nods. Kuroo’s hand is trembling when he takes Bokuto’s, but at the first touch of contact, the other boy’s whole body relaxes. Something is Bokuto’s throat hitches.
Kuroo’s hurting, so clearly. It's clear in his straining shoulder blades and his muted eyes.
Something sharp pangs in Bokuto's chest, something not gray and smothered, because Kuroo is here and Kuroo is hurting and Bokuto is hurting him. Kuroo is trying and Bokuto is not.
“It’s been a really long time since you told me I did something well.” The words slip between his teeth by accident. “And that’s fine,” he scrambles. “I mean, I get it. I don’t always need you to lie to me, right? That’d be… needy. But sometimes it’s nice to hear. Even if it’s not true.”
“Is that what you think? That you’re not… Bokuto, you are smart and talented and funny and worthy and the world is better with you in it. My world is better with you in it.”
“Hah.” A choked laugh strangles out of Bokuto’s throat and he wipes at his eyes.
“It’s true. I promise you. You have made me happier than anyone I’ve ever met.” Kuroo leans his forehead against Bokuto’s shoulder and his heat seeps into the fabric. Bokuto’s heart warms with it, a tiny glint of glimmering glow. “And I will not lose you. I will not.”
Bokuto muffles his words into Kuroo’s neck. “Okay, okay, okay,” he whispers there.
They stay there, curled into each other, for a long time.
“Alright, let’s go. We’re ready. We can do this.” Bokuto says to his team. Their faces are full of determination and resolve. They have clawed their way to where they are now, ripped away point after point from a team every bit as good as them. But they refuse to lose.
“We believe in you, captain.”
Bokuto glances at Akaashi and sees a smile there that promises victory. The team gives a resounding roar in agreement. Bokuto roars with them.
Bokuto doesn’t score the winning point. No one does. There is no winning point.
After sweat slick collar bones, and bomb beating heartbeats, and sore scraped knees, and jolted jammed finger joints, they have lost, they have lost, they have lost.
Bokuto thinks he might cry.
He turns to his team, thinking of how he will apologize, of how he will work frantically to stitch together open wounds. He catches a glimpse of teeth he thinks might be a snarl. But he looks again, and it is not.
It is a grin.
On Every. Single. One. Of his teammates.
“That was the best game we ever played,” Konoha laughs, eyes still bright with adrenaline.
Stretching out his bruised arms, cracking his knuckles, Komi breathes, “Man, wish we had that kind of competition every day.”
“We’ll get them next time.” Akaashi whispers, but it’s loud enough.
Bokuto’s eyes drift to the stands, where Kuroo beams down at him.
And maybe, maybe it doesn’t matter that they lost because they are all proud and tried and true.
Finally, finally, he lets the glory of it sink down in his bones. It soaks in warm and content, harmonizing with his ragged breaths and raging heartbeat. It murmurs a smile onto his face.
“I’m proud of us.” Bokuto says softly. He meets his teammates’ eyes, alive and joyful and reveling, and he knows that that pride includes every person here. Even himself.
As they leave the gym, Kuroo and Bokuto's fingers intertwine. Behind them, the yells of the team ring pure and golden in the air.
And Bokuto is sustained.