Chapter Text
Akaashi Keiji wakes up with a headache.
His eyes flutter open, a bright emerald shade under the harsh late-morning light streaming in through his curtains. It takes about a half-second for him to regain awareness, and then he stops himself from thinking. He’s not going to dive back into that shit storm until he’s had breakfast, at least.
Reaching out for his crutches, Akaashi slips them under his arms and hobbles out of bed in an attempt to start his day normally.
His parents aren’t home, as they most often aren’t. Even when their son needs them. Desperately.
He has never been too dependent on his parents. They’re busy people, both lawyers for the city council. But that also means that they must know of the investigation. They must know how close Akaashi came to dying in a school shooting. Just being in one is stressful enough for anyone, and yet. They’re not here. Fled the house, most likely, so that they don’t have to deal with the emotional fallout. It’s nothing too different from their usual behaviour.
Staring at himself in the mirror, Akaashi's gaze roams over his short black curls and the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He’s mostly uninjured, far from top-priority, considering they let him leave the hospital without an overnight stay. He knows he’s lucky – two of his three most prominent injuries are not even from the shooting. There’s the thick finger-shaped bruises ringing around his wrist, and then the giant, dark bruise blossoming on his hip. There’s also his broken leg, but he’s gotten used to it in the weeks since he’d gotten it.
As Akaashi slowly makes his way down the stairs, he grimaces at the dry feeling in his throat and the pain still pounding at the back of his head. It feels like he’s hungover, but he knows it’s just dehydration and shock. Kuroo's presence might have made things better, but he couldn’t stay the night since his parents were actually concerned about him. So Akaashi took advantage of being suddenly very alone and cried himself to sleep; breaking down while revelling in belated horror and stark loneliness.
Pathetic, considering his guilty conscience.
Akaashi pours himself some orange juice and takes out a carton of Lucky Charms. He doesn’t usually indulge himself so much – it’ll make him fat – but he’s sure that self-care was invented specifically for this sort of situation. There is also a curious sort of freedom that comes with this new day, hand-in-hand with the knowledge that there’s no longer anyone who’ll hurl curses his way for eating something with actual calories in it.
After taking his time savoring every last bite of the sugary sweetness in his bowl, Akaashi takes his juice in one hand and supports himself on his crutch with the other. He deposits the drink on the coffee table before plopping right down on the couch with a satisfied sigh.
It’s a Tuesday, but he won't be going to school. No one else will, either, at least not at his high school. They’re taking the week off because of the shooting, and then winter break follows immediately after. There probably won't be anymore school for the year. It feels good, like a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest.
At this point, Akaashi just wants to forget the nagging thoughts at the back of his mind and melt into the fluffy pillows lining the sofa. But Akaashi also knows that he’s avoided everything long enough. With a deep sigh, he drags his hand over to a side table and switches on his phone. It’s been switched off entirely since he’d gotten home from the hospital the night before, and he left it downstairs so he’s not tempted to reach for it before bed.
The screen lights up. It takes a second for it to connect to the internet, and then Akaashi knows it’s working right because his phone keeps ringing over and over again.
Kuroo (30 New Messages)
Kuroo (5 Missed Calls)
Oikawa (10 New Messages)
Oikawa (3 Missed Calls)
Iwaizumi (2 New Messages)
The list keeps going on and on, rolling down and down the flashing screen till finally, his phone quietens in his hand. Akaashi looks at it in disbelief. Even Sawamura and Terushima had tried contacting him. Even fucking Shirofuku Yukie. There are some unknown numbers as well, and Akaashi really hopes that his phone number hasn’t been leaked anywhere. It’ll be a hassle to change it.
Akaashi types a quick message to Kuroo, telling him he’s awake, before he throws his phone towards the other end of the couch. He doesn’t want to have to deal with this now, doesn’t want to have to deal with his friends and their never-ending drama - maybe even their derision and scorn - while he doesn't even have a handle on his own feelings. Akaashi knows he’s being selfish, but for once he can't bring himself to care.
Contemplatively, Akaashi drums his fingers on the arm of the couch before turning on the TV. He switches the settings from Netflix to local channels and taps in a few numbers to get to the local news. It’s of no surprise that they’re talking about the shooting. Nothing much goes on in their small town, so this story – a story that has almost definitely made national headlines – is something that local journalists are going to sink their claws in.
“The Nation stood shocked, yesterday, when fourteen students were killed and twenty-five more injured in a horrific school shooting in Sendai.” The news castor looks sympathetically into the camera, and Akaashi’s palms start to sweat. The death count last night had been lower – had been at twelve, not fourteen. Akaashi gasps, hands flying to his mouth, as two pictures are blown up on the screen. “Young 17-year-olds Matsukawa Issei and Miya Osamu succumbed to their injuries in Sendai Hospital late last night. Our condolences go out to their families.”
Akaashi hadn’t known the older Miya twin very well. He had been quiet, but always at Kuroo’s beck and call. As had his twin, and oh God. Akaashi wonders how Atsumu is dealing with this. He wonders if Atsumu is even awake yet. There were many who needed treatment immediately after the shooting. Matsukawa himself had been rushed into emergency surgery last night, so had Oikawa; both of them people Akaashi considers his close friends. Akaashi remembers holding onto Hanamaki’s blood-soaked hand and telling him everything would be alright. Fuck.
When the picture on the screen changes, Akaashi freezes up like he’s forgotten how to move, how to breathe. That face is one that Akaashi might never forget, not even in his dreams. Large, bright brown eyes – almost golden – stare at him. They’re using his yearbook photo, so his salt-and-pepper hair is styled up in twin horns. There’s a bright smile on his face, expression free and joyous. It’s Bokuto-san.
“The suspect, 18-year-old Bokuto Koutarou, was a star athlete set to graduate this summer with five fully-subsidized football scholarships under his belt.” The news anchor continues, gesturing to the blown-up photo of Bokuto. “He was popular, widely loved and respected at Sendai High. Investigators are trying to figure out a motive behind the violent crimes he committed against the other students. What could possibly have driven this promising young man to murder his classmates, his friends?”
The photo changes, and Akaashi’s heart almost stutters to a stop. It’s their group photo. The one Bokuto had framed on his dresser. Bokuto’s in the middle, signature smile in place and his hand draped over Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi is smiling too, not as broadly, but easily happy. Kuroo’s in the photo, on Bokuto’s other side. He and Oikawa are throwing up peace signs in the back. Iwaizumi is next to them, next to Oikawa, glowing in a smile even though his hands are crossed over his broad chest. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are grinning twin smiles over Akaashi’s head. Sugawara and Sawamura are less conspicuous, arms around each other and bright smiles picture perfect. Sendai High’s golden couple. Terushima is there too, sticking out his tongue at the camera. That was back when he hadn’t gotten his tongue piercing yet.
It looks so simple from the outside, like they’re all this big happy family. But it’s not that fucking simple. It’s never simple.
The photo flashes away, replaced yet again by Bokuto’s goofy yearbook photo. Akaashi grimaces. Bokuto wouldn’t be happy about this, having this photo in particular blown up for the world to see. He would’ve preferred something else, like one of the photos of him – of which there are many – plowing down an opponent on the field.
“Unfortunately, Bokuto Koutarou was declared dead at the scene of the crime. According to investigators, the suspect turned his gun on himself in the moments after the first police units arrived on site.” The news anchor exhales in a deep sigh as the picture disappears. “Our support goes out to the community, as well as the families that have lost much in this shocking incident. Tune in later for more updates on the Sendai Shooting.”
Akaashi allows the TV to continue droning on in the background as he stares blankly at the screen. Bokuto Koutarou, someone bigger and brighter than himself, is dead. He’s dead. Killed by his own hand.
Bokuto Koutarou? Killing himself? A bubble of something like laughter catches against Akaashi’s throat.
Akaashi flinches, reaching for his crutch as a weapon when he hears noises from the front door. He remembers the last time he had an uninvited visitor, and his eyes trail to the dark wooden staircase and the carpet at the bottom of it.
“Who’s that?” Akaashi calls, tensing as the footsteps near. Warily, he holds the crutch in front of him like a very blunt spear.
“Chill, it’s just me,” A familiar voice replies, sounding a little hoarse. Immediately, Akaashi relaxes even before the person has turned the corner.
Kuroo Tetsurou pokes his face in first, black hair standing on his head and drooping into one of his eyes like a rooster’s comb. Bokuto sometimes got acne from all the product he put in his hair. It used to drip down on his face when he was exercising, up until he finally decided to leave his hair soft and natural beneath his favourite Sendai City cap. Kuroo never had that problem. He’s always claimed his hair is natural, and somehow, it actually is.
Kuroo shoots a wry smile at Akaashi before entering the living room proper. He’s tall, taller than Bokuto had been, but leaner with sinewy muscle that's not just there to look pretty. Akaashi has seen him on the ice, once or twice, not to mention that he holds his own in a fight. He has on a pair of ripped jeans and their varsity hockey team hoodie underneath his winter jacket. Overall, he looks normal. Just like any other day in school – even though it’s as far off from a normal day as it can be.
Kuroo shrugs off his puffer jacket as he slips down next to Akaashi on the couch. Without delay, Akaashi reaches to unravel Kuroo’s scarf. He hesitates, then traces a finger lightly against the purpling bruises that line Kuroo’s neck like a noose. It looks even worse than it did the day before, and it’s not going to go away for a while.
“Good thing it’s winter, huh Akaashi?” Kuroo tries to say it lightly, but Akaashi can hear the strain in his voice. He hadn’t been able to talk at all, voice coming out in whispers, at the hospital.
“Don’t speak.” Akaashi frowns at Kuroo. It’s only when the taller boy dips his head in the shadow of a nod, that Akaashi relaxes against him and lays his head on the soft material of Kuroo’s sweater. Kuroo rests his hand on Akaashi’s head and brushes an idle hand through his curls.
They sit there like that, in silence, idly listening to the news. Akaashi doesn’t know if Kuroo feels the same, feels that strong wave of relief that its over. He probably doesn’t.
“Bokuto-san…” Akaashi starts, and the hand on his head stutters. Akaashi licks his lips just to stall. “The news said Bokuto-san is dead. He’s dead because he committed suicide. Can you believe that?”
Kuroo hums. Akaashi doesn’t know if he isn't sure what to say, or that he’s just keeping to his word. Akaashi’s heart hurts, somehow, even though he knows it shouldn’t. Bokuto shot so many people – so many of their classmates and friends. He hurt so many people, killed people and tore up the very fabric of their lives.
Akaashi feels the tears slip down his face. It’s a silent kind of crying, and his chest doesn’t even heave. Maybe he’s in shock, still.
Once Kuroo notices the state Akaashi is in, he gently curls a hand around Akaashi’s jaw and pulls him flush against his chest. Akaashi lays there, listening to Kuroo’s slow, steady heartbeat. It’s comforting and solid beneath him, so Akaashi relaxes into Kuroo’s heat and closes his eyes.
“It’s going to be okay.” Kuroo says, when Akaashi is almost lulled to sleep. “We’re going to be okay.”
Kuroo's voice is totally wrecked, and some of his syllables come out in wheezes. He must have been pushing himself before, or more likely torn up something inside his throat again. Despite this, he sounds resolute, and it's almost embarrassingly easy for Akaashi to believe in him again.