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It's a perfectly normal day. There are fluffy-looking white clouds covering the sky that block any sunlight from shining through, a biting chill to the air as cold wind blows from the east, and a ridiculous amount of snow blanketing the ground outside of their apartment complex. Bokuto is at practice, as usual, and his absence makes the entire apartment that much quieter. The silence is so imposing, in fact, that Akaashi's brain has decided to fill it, unprompted, with all of his most negative thoughts about life.
He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes, considering that after every quiet period there is, without fail, a spiral. And he isn't surprised, not really, but he is a bit put off by it (as one usually is when their thoughts are telling them that they'd be better off dead, or something along those lines). His hands shake as he turns the stove burner to low, and he almost can't breathe as he takes a seat on the couch, eyes staring unblinking at the empty black TV screen in front of him.
'Idiot' is the first word that he hears, thoughts spewing insult after insult at him about his apparent stupidity. He doesn't know why. He hasn't done anything particularly deplorable today or in the past week. It doesn't matter though. His brain begins to pull back instances from weeks- months- years ago that line up with his current train of thought. The memories are recalled inaccurately from the back of his mind with more embarrassment and less smiles. Some of these memories weren't actually bad until just now, like the ones where he had thought he'd caused a scene but actually hadn't, or instances in high school where he'd been standoffish to people who had just wanted to be his friends. People's eyes which were previously paying no attention suddenly lock onto him. He hears insults where there previously were none, and even though he knows that these memories are false, it doesn't stop the tell-tale prickle of his eyes as tears begin to form.
He takes a deep breath. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… He holds it for one second then releases. He unclasps his hands from where they're wringing together and sets them on opposite sides of his knees. He stretches them high up in the air and then shakes his arms out to the side. He blinks the tears away. He tells himself some lies like everything is alright and I am okay.
Everything is alright. I am okay. Then, out of nowhere, God, I can't believe I thought he needed me.
Memories from nationals play before his eyes one after the other, some made more dramatic than they were, some made to seem less important than they are. He sees golden eyes staring at him with pity. He sees sandy hair bouncing as a head shakes in disappointment. He sees pursed lips. He sees pinched brows. He hears a scream. It is his own.
He doesn't know if it comes from the memory or his present self.
The high school memories don't stop at nationals. They go further back into his first year, his socially awkward self introducing himself to his teachers, his classmates, his team. He remembers replying with "sure" when Bokuto complimented his tosses. He calls himself pretentious. He remembers when Bokuto couldn't get past Kawahori's blockers. He calls himself useless. He remembers when Bokuto asked him for extra sets that day, curled up under a table at the far side of the gym, and how he obliged without a second thought. He calls himself reckless.
Every memory that he has is accompanied with something negative, something distasteful that shouldn't be there. His legs begin to tremble as he recalls them. His brain will not stop.
And as bad as his first and second years were, they're nothing compared to his third year.
His third year, when he couldn't figure out a major. His third year, when he was mocked by his father for wanting to stay on the volleyball team despite not wanting to pursue it as a career. His third year, when his pining for Bokuto reached overwhelming heights. He can't stop thinking about all the ways that he fucked up his life that year. He can't stop thinking about how he shouldn't have continued with volleyball. He can't stop thinking about how he should've decided on a career path earlier. He can't stop thinking about how that year was completely wasted. How, rather than focusing on his studies, he focused his energy on getting back to nationals (and then couldn't even make it to the top four with his ragtag team of first years). That year was full of failures, full of mistakes, full of regrets-
The door opens.
The door opens and Bokuto walks in to see the love of his life sitting ramrod straight on the couch, fists clutching onto the cushions for dear life, gunmetal blue eyes looking straight ahead at the black television before him.
Did he even hear him come in?
He notices, then, that his legs are shaking. Not bouncing like he sometimes does absentmindedly, but trembling, as if he's just encountered something more frightening than death.
Life, perhaps.
Bokuto walks slowly over to the couch, so as not to startle him, and sits down, fully prepared to have to work to gain Akaashi's attention. He doesn't have to. As soon as he takes a seat, Akaashi slumps onto his lap and begins to sob. The sight of it breaks his heart, and as he runs his fingers through black curls, he wants to cry too.
He doesn't (not much anyway), but he does lean down and press as many soft kisses to the man's face as the position will allow. When Akaashi's sobs start to quiet down, Bokuto mumbles words against his cheek.
"Do you need anything, love?"
"I- I don't know," comes his reply. Bokuto nearly flinches at his tone, distress and something borderline terrified running through his words. Akaashi hates not knowing.
"Okay," says Bokuto, and he doesn't push. Akaashi has therapy on Mondays. He doesn't need Bokuto trying to play doctor for him right now. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No."
"Do you want to go wash your face?"
Akaashi nods. "Yes," he says, standing up. He cups a hand over his nose and mouth and heads to the bathroom, and Bokuto stands up from the couch and goes to the bedroom to change into a pair of pants that aren't wet. Akaashi emerges a short time after, face still red from crying. Thankfully, though, the tears have stopped. He walks over to the bed and Bokuto pulls him into his arms, kissing the top of his head. "I'm okay," says Akaashi, face smashed into a strong chest.
"No you're not," Bokuto replies, petting his hair. "But that's okay."
And as Akaashi falls asleep pressed against his boyfriend's chest at 6:34 p.m., he has the fleeting thought that he might be right.