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Anxiety is a peculiar thing sometimes. There are days when Keiji barely notices it, too wrapped up in work and deadlines to spare a time to think about anything that doesn't have to do with e-mails and revisions and publication dates, and there are days where it feels like Keiji's strapped with a time bomb all day, except no one knows when the bomb will go off. Every moment his life goes to shit becomes a guessing game, then, the eternal question of, is this it?
It isn't when Udai goes radio silence for nearly five hours just days before the deadline. It isn't when he overheard Ritsuka from human resources talk during lunch about the possibility of terminating some people from editing due to budget concerns. It isn't when he was stretched too thin, balancing between editing for Udai and scouting for new series, meeting with his manager to discuss which member of his team deserves to be kept and to let go, not even when he came home to find a couple of mails from his credit card company explaining that there's nothing that they can do about the overcharge from two months ago that completely slipped Keiji's mind.
One of those things feels like a rational reason to have a breakdown over, but it's when he realizes the fridge's out of eggs that the bomb decides to just. Explode.
He braces his hands on the counter top, forcing himself to breathe. The solution's simple enough. Text Bokuto—he has to be on his way home, practice must be about wrapped up by now—and ask him to pick up some eggs on his way home, and maybe while he's at it, a couple bottles of those Kewpie mayo that he loves so much—except his hands won't move, frozen where they are, and very, very cold.
He's dimly aware that the way his chest constricts means that he's on his way to a panic attack. He knows the signs—he pays his therapist thousands of yen every month to tell him these things, after all—knows what he's supposed to do to soothe himself out of a full-blown meltdown, but knowing he's having a panic attack doesn't make it easier to breathe and his chest continues to feel tight and there are so many thoughts racing in his head: did he make the right choice in deciding to keep Satou, he's such an asset to the team and he's still so young and full of fresh ideas, and Suzuki's been stagnant for a whole year but what if it's because he has trouble at home oh my God he's a bad person he's—
Bokuto's going to find out and he's going to leave you why did you think your relationship could last you wish on a shooting star but it doesn't have to grant your wish—
—oh, he's breaking down over eggs, you're wasting money on therapy when you could've had it saved for a bigger apartment, like Bokuto wants—
"...Keiji?"
Keiji blinks.
When did he get on the floor?
Get up. He should do that, probably. Except he also feels kind of numb all over, and the floor is cold and biting into his skin and it's something, at least.
"What's wrong?"
Words. He has to use words. His therapist told him it's not a good habit to keep so many thoughts to himself and only say one or two words. Complete sentences. He's pretty sure he's capable of doing so, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.
Humiliatingly, his eyes start to water.
Bokuto drops to his knees, eye-level with him. He doesn't look pitiful, just—concerned. Curious. He's fresh out of practice—he must be because Keiji can smell the cologne he wears, and he's wearing a soft pair of sweatpants instead of those track shorts that Keiji bought for his birthday last month. He's wearing the striped black t-shirt that Keiji packed into his gym bag this morning, just in case, because he knows Bokuto always forgets to bring a spare t-shirt.
Unceremoniously, Bokuto gathers him into his arms. Keiji melts shamelessly into him. He has a fleeting thought that Bokuto's giving him a reverse Bokuto beam, where instead of him hyping Bokuto up, his boyfriend is doing everything he can to cheer him up. Keiji always loves when Bokuto does that during his matches, especially when he changes it up into a finger-heart and blows it to Keiji—or to the camera, when Keiji's too swamped with deadlines to come.
"It's okay, Keiji," Bokuto says. "We can solve it together!"
If only it were that easy.
Keiji buries his face in Bokuto's chest. "I'm supposed to have the tamago kake gohan ready before you came home," he says mournfully.
"That's okay!" Bokuto beams. "We can make it together? After all, it's best served while the rice is still super hot!"
"Not super hot. You'll burn your tongue."
"But it's so soft when it's just out of the rice cooker, Keiji!"
Keiji sighs, closes his eyes. "I guess you're right."
He makes no move to get up. Even so, Bokuto stays where is, humming a low note that Keiji only faintly recognizes. It could be any pop song that plays on the radio every morning, his current favorite song—or Keiji’s—but through the haze in his head, it might as well be the same nameless song. It doesn’t matter—when it’s Bokuto, it never fails to calm Keiji down.
“You must be hungry,” Keiji mumbles.
“I am,” Bokuto admits. “But I like lying down with you like this.”
“On the floor?”
“Anywhere’s fine.”
Keiji snorts. “Cheeseball.”
“But it’s true!” Bokuto protests. “If it’s with Keiji, it’s my favorite.”
If it were anyone else, it would sound like sweet nothing. From Bokuto, who’s always earnest about everything he puts his mind to, it sounds sweetly like a promise. One that Keiji isn’t sure he’s deserving of right now. He wonders if Bokuto’s just really good at feigning sincerity or if he actually thinks that. Keiji would actually feel bad if it’s the latter.
But you just have to work so you’re deserving of that, right?
That comes later, though, when the haze clears. For now, Keiji thinks he’s going to be selfish and soak up the comfort he feels from the strong arms around his neck, the fingers stroking gently at the messy strands of his hair. For now, Keiji holds on tight, and tries to match his heartbeat to Bokuto's own steady beat.