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Outside, the children laughed and screamed. Their shadows twisted and pranced over the broken toy. The toy had once been whole and good. Now the axle had been snapped, the four chipped wheels scattered away. The daycare instructor knelt in front of Bokuto. In the flickering sunset, the purple tulip patch on her apron became a bruise. In time, he would forgive her. In time, he would understand this. Now, his burning tears disappeared into the rug.
“Because you’re older,” she said, her big hands covering his small shaking fist. “Because you’re bigger. You have to be more careful. You need to have more control.”
In elementary school, the class tended to a rabbit. They took turns feeding her and petting her, stroking the yielding lines of her ears. Everyone, except Bokuto. He was too loud, they said, his voice would hurt her ears. He yelled too much. He ran too fast. He hit too hard. Standing alone in the courtyard, ball in his hands, he watched his classmates cluster around the rabbit. They shrieked with laughter. With her strong legs, the rabbit hopped away. The curl of her body slid into sleek lines. He wanted to touch her soft fur.
When he returned home, he flung his backpack against the drawer. Something clattered on top.
He had a fantasy. In his dream, he was big and strong and quiet. His parents wouldn’t say why couldn’t you be more like. They would say good job. His classmates would all like him. He wouldn’t be happy in one second and sad the next. His emotions would be a placid pool or, even better, he would feel nothing.
Huddled in the corner of his room, he chose the sticker. In school, he never received the golden stars or broad smiley faces. Instead, he had started his own collection and hid them under his bed. They were big and rectangular, shiny and strong. He plastered them over his mouth and dropped his head between his knees. He could only breathe through his nose, twin pinpricks of air. Sometimes he tried to breathe through his mouth, but his lips had been sealed tight. His lungs burned, chest heaving. These stickers were sometimes accurate, but sometimes not. They said, Warning. Caution. Heavy. Dangerous. Fragile.
In daycare, the toy. In elementary school, the rabbit. In high school, Akaashi.
Bokuto leaned closer to hear Akaashi’s response. He loved Akaashi’s quiet voice. Akaashi spoke like feathers floated down from his mouth and they wafted through the air.
“Yes,” Akaashi said. “I’ll go out with you.”
“Really? Really? Yes!” Bokuto gripped his fist to his side. A bird, startled by the outcry, flitted away from a nearby tree. The flutter of its wings sounded like tearing paper. Bokuto stared after the bird, a new sinking feeling in his stomach. His beating heart struggled against the chill, slowing and stopping with a sluggish thump. Too enamored with Akaashi, he had forgotten about himself. He was destructive and hurtful, violent and uncontrollable.
“Is something wrong?” Akaashi asked. He had covered his mouth with his hand, but his eyes were soft and affectionate. Bokuto parted his mouth, but he couldn’t find the words to say that in time, he would hurt him too.
Some facts. He failed math. He bought lunch from the cafeteria. He loved Akaashi.
Some facts about Akaashi, which enthralled him. Akaashi kept a nail file in his bag. When he deemed his nails too long for his setting, he would sit by himself and file them away, finger by finger. His handwriting was neat. Even when scrawling, the curves would always rest easy on the lines. He ate a big lunch every day. He wasn’t a fussy eater. Sometimes rice would stick to his cheeks. With his long fingers, he would peel them away and suck them from his fingertip. He didn’t like kissing.
“I don’t mind it, but I don’t prefer it. But it’s only a slight aversion. If someone needed CPR, then of course I’d use mouth-to-mouth contact.”
He loved how neatly Akaashi had divided his life. Filer for his nails. Homemade food for lunch. Kisses for saving lives.
He loved Akaashi too much.
Bokuto failed a quiz. The teacher called on him when he hadn’t brought his textbook. His serve could have won his team the practice game, but it skidded outside the lines. He endured until the end of the match, and then stomped away into the storage room. He could feel it coming, the storm quelling inside him. He dragged his heavy hands over his face. He wasn’t smart enough. He always forgot things. He wasn’t good enough. The quagmire already drenched his insides, and he crumpled against the wall.
“Bokuto-san.” He heard the soft voice behind him, light as feathers. Even during the match, with his receives fumbling and spikes barely floating past the blockers, he could tell his teammates already knew he would destruct. Before, they would step back. Now, they sent Akaashi.
“I’m fine,” he said, swallowing down the coarseness, “I’m fine, Akaashi. Geez. I just—need a second. I’m fine. I’m really fine. Go back to practice. Geez.”
“Are you sure?” He heard the approaching footsteps, solid against the floor. A surge of panic struck him.
“I said I was fine,” he said into his hands. “Come on, Akaashi. Go back already. I’m fine! I’m really fine.”
“I’ll really go, then.”
“Go, go, geez.”
He could feel Akaashi’s presence, strong and quiet, still in the room. Akaashi waited for a minute, dragging out each reluctant second. Finally, Bokuto could hear the footsteps fade out into the noisy gym. He jabbed his fist into his teeth, hard enough to cut into his knuckle. The blood, bitter, melted into his tongue.
Akaashi was younger than him. He had forgotten that. Akaashi’s notebooks were covered in familiar missing x’s and straight-lined triangles, taking apart equations and jotting them back together. Though more complex, Akaashi was still doing a second year’s math. In his third year, he would solve the problems that Bokuto doodled around. After graduating, he would be successful and happy. Bokuto couldn’t become a burden to him. He knew. He knew he would always be a problem.
But for his last year of high school, he wanted to save Akaashi from that burden. For the remaining months, he wished desperately to become someone else’s problem.
Heard from outside the club room door:
“It’s too bad, really. He could have been a top three ace if it wasn’t for his personality.”
“It’s got to be ice cream,” Bokuto said, pointing down the busy street. “I know one that has all the flavors. All of them. And if you drop your cup, they sometimes even give you a new one. They know me by name, too, it’s great.”
“Come on, Bokuto. Akaashi’s trying to say something.” Komi slapped him on the back. They huddled down the street, wrapped in thick coats and scarves. Bokuto twisted around to where Akaashi had pulled down his scarf, cheeks reddening from the cold.
“It’s nothing important,” he murmured. “Just that it might be too cold for ice cream.”
“Then—then let’s not get it.” He had talked over Akaashi. Wrong. That was wrong. The cold finally crept down into his lungs.
“Well, it’s fine.” Akaashi furrowed his brow curiously. “Didn’t you want it?”
“No. Nope, it was a bad idea. It’s way too cold for ice cream. I hate it. It’s my new worst food.”
They split up with the rest of the team. Small stores hummed in the evening. The paper lanterns swung against wooden doors, brazen against its fire. Their light illuminated the tips of Akaashi’s ears and the curls of his hair. Akaashi typically had a peaceful quiet, every silence a greeting from an old friend. This quiet was a thinking quiet. His eyebrows inclined together and his mouth, barely breaching the top of his scarf, held together firmly. When they turned into an emptier street, the stores shuttered closed with metal locks, Bokuto touched Akaashi’s palm. He traced the crease lines of his palm. Like warmth, he spread his hand and gripped Akaashi’s fingers.
Akaashi’s concerned expression smoothed away. He squeezed Bokuto’s hand, his thumb brushing down the joint.
Bokuto liked Akaashi’s fingers. They were long and firm. When Akaashi set, his hands were relaxed but solid. He formed a triangle, precise and neat, and touched all his fingers to the ball. Sometimes, before Bokuto began his spike, he could still see Akaashi’s form across the court. His fingers would be outstretched like wings, arms thrust out. He sometimes liked to imagine Akaashi was reaching out for him.
His own fingers weren’t as nice. He jammed them into his mouth, cut nails jabbing at the inside of his cheeks. It hurt. It burned. His chest ached and he couldn’t breathe. He scrabbled against the porcelain of the sink, coughing and spitting into the drain. His tears warped the bathroom, the towel bar tilting and bending. The counter shone too bright, glowing effervescent in its marble swirls. He felt numb, brain and limbs heavy.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
But he didn’t look into the mirror.
“We could be playing volleyball right now.”
“We could be.” Akaashi flipped another page of his book. Fukurodani Academy had a sprawling campus. While most of the grass was cut and trees pruned, a gnarled overgrown patch hid behind the science building. Underneath the oak tree, Bokuto rested his arms around Akaashi’s wiry shoulders. Akaashi leaned against him, thin book in his hand. The wind rustled the pages. Bokuto could read some words. Economy. Adjustment. Costs and risks and benefits. Even connected by frail verbs, the sentences jumbled and knotted together in his mind. He admired Akaashi’s intelligence.
“Do you have time this weekend?” Akaashi murmured. “The science museum has free admission for high school students.”
Bokuto wanted to say yes. He wanted to see Akaashi in his casual clothes, the sweatshirt falling neat above his wrists. They’d meander underneath the artificial bones of whales, admiring the replicas of giant squids and floating shrimp, the stubborn flowers of mountains and the fungi of forests. Bokuto could feel Akaashi’s hood in his hands, grabbing him away from reading the plaques to admire the delicate feathers of a still bird. On the second floor, the storm would swell inside him. While Akaashi admired the holographic globe, Bokuto would already be falling apart. His mood would flicker, once, twice, and he would feel the shame in his mouth. On the third floor, his mood would give way between the ancient pottery and the cultivation of rice fields. Somewhere in 300 BC, beside the foreboding statues, he would collapse into wreckage. Maybe Akaashi would be patient, kneeling beside him until the mood passed. Maybe Akaashi would be impatient, sitting beside him and glancing at his phone until the mood passed. Maybe he would destroy the museum with his anger, his worthlessness, his existence. Down would come the whale bones, the pottery crumbling to dust.
“Maybe,” Bokuto said, “we can play volleyball instead. What do you think?”
“It’s free either way.” But for the rest of lunch, Akaashi kept his finger on the same page of his book.
Heard from the bench, second set, fists gripped tight on his thighs:
“What a shame. If that guy was actually stable, he’d probably be a good player.”
He wrapped his arms around his legs, back against the gym wall. The managers had brought treats outside, rice balls wrapped in seaweed and dotted in dried mackerel. The day should have been one of his better days, but sometime between laughing at Komi’s antics and watching Onaga sheepishly push the cart, his mood had dived. The devastation had been abrupt, like a casual misstep on a stairway where his foot plunged into air. His grin crumpled. Something broke away inside him. He wasn’t good enough for this. He wasn’t good enough for anything. He was worthless. He was a joke. He disappointed his friends. He messed up, he messed everything up. He ruined things. He was too loud, too brash, too arrogant. He
Akaashi sat next to him, legs folded up. He rested an elbow on a knee and rested his head on his elbow.
“I don’t need you to stay with me.”
“I’m tired,” Akaashi said. “I wanted to rest. You happened to be here.”
“Go and eat already, Akaashi. Geez.”
“I don’t like rice balls. They’re my new worst food.” Akaashi closed his eyes, signaling the end of the conversation.
He liked Akaashi. He loved Akaashi. When he failed his math quiz, Akaashi had taken the paper and smoothed out the dull edges. He didn’t say, aren’t you stupid. He didn’t say, if only you were smarter. He said, did you fall asleep in class, Bokuto-san. Akaashi’s words were precise, piercing the skin like a surgeon’s scalpel. He would only cut where the punctures wouldn’t hurt, the scars wouldn’t linger. He was kind in ways he’d never know.
But Akaashi had weaknesses, too. Minutes ago, he could have chosen to stay outside. He could have sat on the swaying grass, listening to the snarls of passing cars and shrills of cicadas. Now he sat inside the gym, the air stagnant and the volleyballs lying still on the court. Bokuto sliced off portions of Akaashi’s youth. Akaashi must have spent minutes and hours sitting beside him, sacrificing pages of books and shows watched and laps ran.
One day, Akaashi would break up with him. In reality, Bokuto should break up with him first. He should have salvaged Akaashi’s life. He would have given everything to Akaashi, but he had nothing left to give. But he was scared and greedy. He needed Akaashi’s reluctant compliments, pulled from him in millimeters and murmurs. He needed Akaashi to open the captain’s notebook, circling the errors in brisk graphite.
He needed Akaashi to take apart the wadded math quiz, unfurling the corners like he was pulling fingers away from an angry fist.
In an unused wing of the high school, he gripped the sink with his palm. He shoved his fingers into his mouth. His throat clenched. His teeth cut against his joints. His knees banged against the pipes. More. Harder. Deeper. He tried desperately to breathe. The bathroom tiles wavered. His fingers curled, too deep. He yanked his hand away. His stomach churned. He threw up into the sink. The bile burned his throat and mouth. Stop, he thought. It didn’t stop. He coughed desperately, scrambling for air. He choked, chest heaving. His head felt light. He felt emptier inside.
He grabbed a paper towel, holding it against his mouth. Fumbling in the dark, he turned on the faucet and listened to the water drain through the rattling pipes. His elbow ached. In his haste, he must have banged it against the sink. The good feeling, the numbness, had come again, but a new keening worry buzzed inside his mind. He had never thrown up before. It felt wrong. But then again, his ritual had always felt a little wrong. He couldn’t remember a day without the uncomfortable itch in the back of his throat.
He washed his hands, scraping underneath his nails. When he exited the bathroom, the school corridor stretched endlessly before him. His footsteps echoed off the blank walls. Someone stood at the end of the hallway. With a jolt, he wondered if someone had pushed out a science mannequin as a prank, plastic organs nestled inside like a puzzle. But the moonlight silhouetted messy hair and a tilted frown.
“You weren’t there when I woke up.” Akaashi grasped his fingers. “And you weren’t in the gym.” He looked vulnerable, standing in an empty hallway in a thin shirt. He examined the corner of the doorframe and stroked the knuckle of his finger. He hadn’t taken his usual jacket, typically zippered shut against the world.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Bokuto said. His voice jumped out, raspy and raw. He touched his neck, a new panic surging within him. Akaashi couldn’t notice the ragged edge of his voice. He simply couldn’t. The guilt trickled down his ripped throat.
“Did you eat too much at dinner? I told you to take it slow.”
“Yeah. Yeah! Oops.” Bokuto slammed his hand over his mouth, too late for the echo in the corridor. The relief had loosened the tension of his shoulders. Akaashi nodded to himself, the incline of his head deliberate and slow.
They took a dirt footpath back to the sleeping quarters. The hill cut away into the night sky, blades of grass wreathed in silver. Crickets sawed their wings together, warbling a stuttering tune. The humidity of the daytime had lifted. The sting of pollen and the deep scent of wood mingled together. Bokuto talked about volleyball, constructing the day’s events by sound effects. His hands talked vividly. Akaashi nodded and sighed. He measured out mistakes by hooking his fingers. Sometimes he interjected, sliding blunt facts into Bokuto’s face, and turned his gaze towards the row of glinting windows when Bokuto loudly disagreed.
Bokuto liked the peace he felt, staring at the nape of Akaashi’s neck. Sometimes his happiness took on the visage of a squall, hurtling and whipping through the gym. The words sprang from his mouth and he moved faster than he could think. But this was better. He could stay quiet while Akaashi recounted the angle of a spike, his hand neatly carving into the air. Even Bokuto could enjoy the eye of the storm.
“Next time,” Akaashi said, “if you can’t sleep, you can wake me up.”
“To practice in the gym?” But Bokuto wouldn’t take Akaashi’s offer. Every night, he would want to crawl on Akaashi’s heavy blankets and grasp his slight frame, desperate for his look and his touch. He would need Akaashi too much.
“Not practice. We can talk, if something’s bothering you.” Akaashi touched the handle of the door.
“Come on, Akaashi,” he said, laughing. “Nothing ever bothers me.”
Heard from outside the gym:
“Bet we would have won the game if Bokuto hadn’t messed up.”
Was there a beast inside him?
He had smashed the volleyball against the wall in a cruel fit of anger. His hand stung from the sharp smack and his palm flushed a dull red. The practice had slowed. His teammates swiveled their heads, watching every hitch of his chest and droplet of sweat hitting the floor. He had not intended to hit the ball. What had angered him? The frenzied hatred that fortified his teeth and bones had boiled away. When the fury receded, he was left with the tired stares of his friends. After the fire of anger, the cold drop of fear. Akaashi would step forward, face an impassive shield. Would today finally be the day Akaashi had enough of him? He hated how much he needed Akaashi. When Akaashi turned away, he would grab his shoulder, his elbow, his hand, trying to pull him closer. Though it hurt to admit, he loved the way Akaashi would never need him back.
Was there nothing inside him?
He skipped class again. It was a stupid reason. He simply hated himself too much to sit at his desk and stare at his empty notebook. He needed the time to huddle in the corner of his room and deliberate on all the ways he had ruined lives. His worthlessness, a profound void, needed to be sectioned off into neat categories. He never lacked in complaints, a plethora of hatred available to his every whim. He travelled down familiar roads. He didn’t deserve their kindness. He should have been a better person. He always messed up. Why couldn’t he simply be better? Why couldn’t the anger inside him be chained? Why couldn’t he be nothing? Inside, he could feel the decay and rot. Other people could do things so easily. He desperately wanted to walk their path with ease, but he always lacked so much. On good days, he had been so confident. He regretted his arrogance now. Stupid. Idiotic. Worthless.
It was difficult to explain, so it was easy to understand. He shoved his fingers into his throat and tried to fail to breathe.
A fact. Bokuto Koutarou was either screaming, or he was not.
Heard from outside the second-year classroom:
“Was that third-year here again? Wow. Isn’t that way too creepy and clingy?”
“Hey, keep your voice down. Akaashi’s gonna get mad again and he’s scary when he’s pissed.”
He slammed the door into Akaashi’s face.
They’d been walking to the club room, Akaashi trailing behind with a curling book. Bokuto had been talking, enjoying the reluctant attention from his teammates. He shoved the door closed behind him, and something heavy clattered on the floor. His stomach felt cold. He opened the door.
“I’m fine,” Akaashi said, hand to his nose. The blood gushed down his face, splattering on his tie. A droplet sank into his white shirt, plopping down and spreading like a fragile bloom.
“Are you okay? That’s a lot of blood.” Konoha knelt beside him, digging through his pockets.
“It’s not,” Akaashi said firmly. He lifted his hand, examining the smear of blood with indifference.
“Let’s get you to the infirmary. Hey, Bokuto, could you grab Akaashi’s stuff?”
He mechanically knelt down to grab the strap of the bag and the spine of the book. He didn’t feel anything. That was good, wasn’t it. If he didn’t feel anything. All the sounds became echoes. He felt like he was touching Akaashi’s book with someone else’s hand. The weight of the bag hung off his shoulder, dangling somewhere faraway. He walked, one foot after another, to the infirmary. The window was partially open, curtains billowing in the stirring wind. He placed Akaashi’s bag on the metal folding chair. Someone was talking on the other side of the room. That was fine. The bottom of the bag had begun to fray, threads fanning out at the seams. He placed Akaashi’s book on top. Several tabs poked out from the side. He flipped through the pages, creating a waft of air. Some passages had been highlighted. Words glowed in neon yellow, things about self-esteem and disorders and emotions and personality and hope. He wondered if Akaashi had been suffering through something. He hadn’t noticed. He needed to apologize. Across the room, Akaashi sat on a bed and talked with a nurse.
He left the room. The old science classroom at the end of the hallway had been unused for years. He closed the door. He took off his tie. He jammed it down his throat.
The pain struck him, jagged and raw. He bit into the fabric, the end being swallowed whole. He choked, tears in his eyes. He wanted it to stop. He shoved it further into his mouth, drenching it. His throat clutched reflexively, a strange heavy sensation. Every breath was muffled in fabric. He grabbed the end of the tie and yanked it from his mouth. He coughed and hacked, scrambling for air. He spat into the metal sink. The pinprick of pain never left his lungs. His tie curled up on the counter, wet and ripped from his teeth. He had only wanted to spare Akaashi any pain. He didn’t want to be the burden on Akaashi’s back. But with one fell swoop, in one mistake, he saw his destructive path. He would always be the one who hurt Akaashi. He didn’t want to let go of his hand, but he could see the way his nails had dug in, scraping off flecks of skin and blood and bone. But he was too afraid to release him. The endless tunnel stretched before him. He wanted it to end and never stop. The devastation ached in his bones.
The shadows from trailing leaves drifted across the classroom floor.
He splashed his face with water and tossed his tie into the trash. When he arrived at the shoe lockers, Akaashi was waiting for him, dressed in his track suit.
“Akaashi, I’m—”
“What happened to your tie?” Akaashi narrowed his eyes. Almost comically, Bokuto glanced down at his open collar, like he had forgotten.
“I lost it. Somewhere. Doing something. Akaashi, I’m sorry about. You know.” Bokuto scratched his head. “Destroying your face.”
“My face is clearly fine. How did you lose your tie?”
“I don’t know! I forgot! Leave it alone, Akaashi.” Somehow, his apology had twisted into petty squabbling. “How’s—how’s your nose?”
“It’s fine. Where did you lose it? When did you take it off?”
“I’ll walk you home, Akaashi. Don’t worry about it, you don’t need to take care of me.” Beyond the doors, a sports club jogged in a row. Their sneakers kicked up a cloud of lazy dust, clinging to their heels. He leaned against the lockers, pulling at the bent tongue of his shoe. A flock of birds fluttered across the grounds, shadows rippling over the grass. He steeled himself for another day, another cycle, another abyss.
“No.”
Bokuto was thrust into the shoe lockers, clattering against the metal. Akaashi grabbed him by the forearms, pinning him against the lockers. His head dipped down. Bokuto tried to wiggle his arm free, but Akaashi tightened his grip, knuckles paling.
“No. No. No.” Akaashi’s voice was like a feather, the quill forged from steel and small barbs teething with pointed hooklets. “No, no, no. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to do this for me anymore. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? Was I too careless?”
“What?” Bokuto let his hand fall flat against the metal. “Hey, Akaashi, this isn’t funny. I don’t get it.”
“I was happy when you asked me out. But before we were dating, you let me comfort you. You let me touch you. Now, you look at me like you’re afraid. What am I doing wrong?”
“You’ve never done anything wrong—”
“Then why don’t you talk to me?” Akaashi tilted his head, staring him down in the eyes. His strong eyebrows tilted together. His face, as ever, was placid and unmovable. But he had a weakness around the corners of his mouth.
“Akaashi.” Bokuto didn’t know what his next words would have been. A crowd of students clattered down the stairs, trotting towards the lockers. They were still hidden in the corridor, but Akaashi released his hold on Bokuto’s forearms. Instead, he twisted and grabbed the edge of a rolled-up sleeve, pinching the gray jacket between his fingers. It was surprisingly childish.
“Please.” Akaashi bent his head forward. “Please. Tell me anything. It doesn’t have to be important or relevant. Just tell me something. Anything. Please.”
The students passed by, bags swinging and full of dramatic outcries. Akaashi would never beg. Bokuto knew that. So he didn’t know how to understand the fingers clutching his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” Akaashi murmured. But he didn’t release his sleeve.
“Hey,” Bokuto said. “Hey, do you want to come over to my house?”
He thought Akaashi hadn’t heard him over the din of students. Still, Akaashi nodded once, a short jerk. He withdrew his hand, sliding it into his pocket. Bokuto had always been good at talking too much. He tried to coat the silence with his chattering. He talked about his morning and buying his breakfast at the convenience store, though his second favorite selection had already run out. Passing the hydrangeas, he elaborated on his classes and the jokes their teammates had cracked. He had certainly laughed at those. While they wandered down the street with strict rows of telephone poles, he discussed his lunch with some level of seriousness. Lunch, on the whole, had been enjoyable. He had eaten with Akaashi, but Akaashi would have known that. He had been there.
Bokuto unlocked his front gate. He held the door aside for Akaashi to enter. Akaashi hadn’t reacted much to the one-sided conversation. He occasionally nodded, but his gaze was still hidden behind his eyelashes. Though Akaashi had been to his house before, Bokuto still lead the way upstairs to his room. He closed the door to his bedroom after they had entered. He had a bed and a chair, but Akaashi dropped his bag and knelt on the carpet.
Bokuto hesitated. He tossed his bag aside to sit with him.
“How do you feel?” Akaashi asked.
“Me? Okay, I guess. How about you?”
“A little trepidatious. But I’d like to ask you some things. Is that okay?”
“Sure, Akaashi. You’re acting all weird, though. Like you’re reading something out of a book.” Bokuto let his chin rest on his fist. He felt better now that Akaashi actually talked to him. Akaashi smiled grimly.
“I’m saying what I want to say. You don’t have to answer if you’re uncomfortable. But I’d like to know—today, when the door hit me. What did you think about that? How did you feel?”
“Bad, I guess.” Bokuto rubbed the back of his neck. “Really bad. Like, I don’t know. Like I want you to punch me in the face.”
“Would that make you feel better?”
“Well, yeah.” Bokuto blinked at his own quick answer, but he shrugged. “I mean, I think it’d make you feel better, too. If you actually jumped up and punched me right after I hit you, I think that would have been better. But, I mean. You were busy with the bleeding.”
“A little.” Akaashi fiddled with a strand of carpet. “Does pain make you feel better?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Bokuto stared at his floor. “Yeah.”
He started and stopped, and started again, to talk about his habits. Playing volleyball felt good. It was like he could run all his excess energy away and the adrenaline would keep him pumped enough to ward off the bad thoughts. But there was a different kind of good, too, when he played too much and pushed himself too hard. A little bit of pain, like his hands would be smashed into a mess and his legs would give out underneath him. He talked quieter about his habit over sinks and drains, fingers digging inside. Akaashi’s face didn’t move, and encouraged, he continued. It just always made him feel better. It was hard to describe. It hurt, of course, but it was a different hurt. His thoughts would be replaced by the pain. When he had bad days, it was especially good, like he could finally let go. He didn’t really like it, but he couldn’t stop. Maybe that meant he liked it after all.
“Do you think I’m a masochist?”
“No.” Akaashi seemed indifferent and placid, but he gripped Bokuto’s hand tightly. “To be honest, it scares me. It’s dangerous. If you have to feel pain, could you find some other way? Will you tell me?”
“Wouldn’t that be hard on you? I don’t want to hurt you, Akaashi.”
“It’s harder on me if I don’t know. Please tell me. Please.”
“Okay. Yeah. Okay. But it’s not really a big deal. I mostly do it when I have bad thoughts.”
“Could you tell me more about these thoughts?”
“Sure.” He would do anything for Akaashi. This part, at least, wasn’t a secret. Everyone knew Bokuto was some big joke. Akaashi would know this part best. Bokuto was creepy and clingy. He visited his classroom too much, like he couldn’t stand eating lunch alone. And he messed up on games, too. His mistakes were the mistakes that cost them matches. Those few points had been his responsibility. It wasn’t even that he had to do anything good, he just needed to do something very basic, and he couldn’t do that. Before Akaashi had come, he had been pulled out of games often. He was too unstable to be a good player. He might have actually been someone reliable if it wasn’t for his personality. He hated it, and the way his moods would change. He was too stupid to understand why it happened, but it always happened. It was like his emotions would drag him along down a bumpy road, and he was left disoriented and lost. But it wasn’t only his moods. He hit too hard. He ran too fast. He yelled too much. He was too loud. But he was older and bigger. He needed to be more careful. He needed to have more control.
“Nobody told me that or anything,” Bokuto said. “But it’s a fact.”
“And if I said I didn’t believe that?” Akaashi squeezed his hand. “If I said I thought you were an admirable, strong, kind person? That you were the best person I know?”
“Well, that’s nice,” Bokuto said, frowning. “I mean, I wouldn’t believe that. But it’d be nice to hear. You have to be careful, Akaashi. You say stuff like that and I’ll make you say it again and again.”
“Would that be bad?”
“For you, yeah. You’d get sick of it really quickly. Like, when I was a kid, there was this toy. And it broke, and the teacher got mad at me. She said—I don’t remember what she said, but it was right, you know? I should have known better. I can’t be that burden.”
“Kids break toys all the time.”
“I guess. I wasn’t the one who broke it. That’s not really the important part. The kid who did break it was going through stuff, so you couldn’t go blaming them. But that’s the kind of guy I am, Akaashi. I probably would have been the one to break it. Doesn’t it sound like me? I’m just—not good.”
“The kind of guy you are.” Akaashi’s hands, warm and soft, slid up to his wrist. “Will you tell me more?”
The sunlight dipped into the horizon. The furniture in his room faded into shadows and orange drenched his carpet. He talked about the emptiness inside of him, the hollow of his throat. He talked about the bad moods that would take him suddenly, shoving him to the ground and digging its icy grip into his mind. He knew his teammates hated him. He wanted to be the kind of guy that others adored, but he failed so much. He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t enough. He hated himself. Akaashi didn’t say much, but he gripped his hands tightly and smoothed his fingers along the back of his knuckles. The orange faded to a quiet darkness. Shadows enveloped them. They sat, huddled together, on the floor of the room.
“Hey, Akaashi.” He broke from one of his lapsed silences. “Do you think less of me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Akaashi curled his fingers around his hand. “I think—you’re kind. You look out for others. You’re honest and thoughtful. You work hard. I’m grateful to be your friend. I’ve never been more grateful. Your courage and your love inspire me. You’re good enough. You’ve always been good.”
“Wow.”
“Does that upset you?”
“It makes me really happy, Akaashi.”
“I’m glad.”
“To be honest, it’s something I wished for a lot. That I could become someone you could love.”
“You think I don’t love you?” It was the first time he heard Akaashi’s voice crack, the calm façade fading. “Do you think I won’t love you because you’re in pain?”
“What’s wrong?” The peaceful feeling ebbed away. Bokuto leaned over, holding Akaashi’s face with his hands. He didn’t like the new pain in his voice. Akaashi wrapped his hands around his wrists.
“Nothing. Nothing, I’m sorry. I just—I love you. I love you. I love you. Please believe me. It’s my selfish wish, I know. It won’t change anything. This won’t help you. But I love you.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. Was that too selfish?”
“I don’t know. It just—hurts. Inside my chest. It feels really weird. Like it’s all real full, and it can’t hold onto this anymore. Like everything is spilling out.”
“That’s what it’s like when someone is kind to you, Bokuto-san.”
“Oh.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Maybe you should punch me after all, Akaashi. It’s kinda really bad if I feel too much of anything. I might get out of control. So this—thing, feeling, it’s probably not good for me. I think. What do you think?”
“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t like when you hurt yourself.”
“It’s not really hurting if it’s me. I’m sorry, Akaashi. I just feel weird. Like, everything is too much. I don’t want to put it on you, but I think it’d really help. It’s the only thing I think will help and stop me. It’s the only thing I know.”
“Then let’s learn something else. Would you consider speaking to someone else? Telling them what you told me? It might be difficult. But I’ll be there with you. Would you consider this?”
“Sure, Akaashi. I’d do anything for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you—still punch me?”
“Still?”
“I’m sorry, Akaashi. It’s just, you’re going to go home and then I’m going to be here with all these weird thoughts. I don’t know.”
“I won’t go home tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m fine, Akaashi. I’m not in some kind of life or death situation.”
“You don’t need to be in that situation for things to be bad.”
“What if it’s just a single punch?”
“If that’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better. A single punch. I’ll do it lightly. Clench your jaw.”
He gritted his jaw together and closed his eyes. Night had already descended. He felt strange and cold, stomach churning. It was strange to tell Akaashi his secrets, but Akaashi had accepted them calmly. Somehow, while justifying himself, he had told him everything. It wasn’t bad, though. It must have been a burden on Akaashi, like everything he had feared. But despite the heaviness, Akaashi’s touch on his hands had always been light. He still clenched his teeth together, waiting for the solid blow and bitter blood. He waited the hard knock on his cheek, the bruise bursting upon him, tongue scraping against the ragged edges of his teeth. He waited for the pain.
Instead, he felt a trembling kiss to his bare mouth.