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Dread is the spectre that follows him now. Dread, irritation and mockery are the holy trinity to which he unwillingly prays. Anger is the altar at which he sacrifices himself, at which his irrational centres decide to sacrifice the whole of him and for what? Some stupid feelings?
He cannot pinpoint the start, exactly, but he will map the end in excruciating detail, the fight he has with these stupid things, the bullets he shoots to bring them down, to end them and spare him the self-pity.
He will not give in to this war.
Club becomes a battle zone, and in some senses, he dreads going. But he refuses to relent for something so inane, so ridiculous, so unquantifiably stupid.
He never signed up for this. He never chose to have this, and would have happily lived his life alone. He will happily live his life alone, because he refuses to spend his time pining. Mope he will not. He just gets on with his life and ignores it.
The problem is that it does not ignore him.
It creeps up on him in daydreams, when he sits on the train and the music is not distracting enough to pull him from a fantasy, a fantasy in which that person is here and leans into him, smiling just faintly. It creeps up on him in dreams that he struggles to shake off during the day. It creeps up on him in this disgusting awful cloying fondness at something that person will do, has always done. It isn't endearing, or it shouldn't be.
He can't stand it.
He's good at it, at ignoring his whims and his emotions, at denying himself the easiness of acceptance. And why not? He doesn't truly want this. It is a dreamscape concocted by the basic parts of himself, one that he does not wish to walk in. It tries to drag him back and he tries to resist.
So, a battleground. A war.
But wars take resources, and he is not infinite in them. Wars take time, a luxury he does not always have. Wars can be won, but wars can be so easily lost. Frighteningly easily. Petrifyingly easily.
And this? This is losing. This is a white flag held aloft by a soldier so tired of fighting. At the disgust of the army, this is the desertion, the giving up, the giving in.
This is losing his mind to his more basal thoughts. This is a lapse in his defences. This was Kageyama shouting at him. This is now Kei shutting him up. This is Kei with his tongue in Kageyama's mouth, hand fisted into Kageyama's shirt, hating so intensely it almost feels warm. This is craning his head down and forcing, even despite the lack of resistance. This is barely thinking, barely stopping to breath.
This is suffocation. This is weakness, this is folly. This is pushing further, harder, because if he's going to lose, he's at least going to do it well. This is pushing Kageyama against a wall with a knee between his legs. This is biting at his lip, unthinking to consequences.
He will regret this later. He will be horrified. At himself, for doing this, and distantly, at Kageyama for letting him. For refusing to stand down, for pressing into him, for moaning in a way that goes straight down. For gripping his arms so tightly they'll bruise, but not to push him away - no, to keep Kei there, to pull him closer.
It's a war. But while Kei is losing, Kageyama should be too. Except- he never started fighting. He attacked Kei for retreating, for becoming impossible, suddenly. But when Kei lost, Kageyama should have fought and won.
Kageyama has put down his weapons. Normally so defensive, Kei assumed he would see the loss as it truly was and land a killing blow. He hadn't. He didn't, and he doesn't, tilting into it, arching his body, leaning up.
A sacrificial victim for the team? Or a willing martyr?
Kei regains his senses a modicum and yanks himself backwards, growling. Kageyama's eyes are so dark as to be black, his mouth left open and Kei's spit still there. So unguarded, so vulnerable, Kei can't stand it. Why didn't he fight? Why didn't he fight?
Kei frowns, intensely, a tidal wave of horror behind him approaching.
" I don't like you, " he spits, full of venom. He has little doubt his eyes are also that dark, and his heart races, his chest heaving. The hatred turns his blood black, fire in his veins. Kageyama scowls, mouth snapping shut, and taking one step forwards.
He runs, preparing for battle once more. One loss does not mean the war is over.
But this one loss could be fatal. He's lost a lot of ground, ground he'll have to make up, and swiftly too, before footsteps descend upon him. Retreat is the only way for now.
He will not lose again.