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Akaashi has passed the point of hunger. His stomach quit grumbling yesterday, and the pains started in the night. Now it’s all he can do not to curl up in a corner and cry. He never truly realised how good he had it Before. Nobody did, he thinks. Sure, you felt pity for the starving children of Africa when they were shown on the TV, but that was easily pushed away with logic, with small donations. There, you’d think, I’ve done my bit. What more can I possibly do? It’s not my fault I live somewhere with easy access to food. It’s not like starving myself would help them.
A bitter laugh threatens, but Akaashi swallows it down, far too afraid to risk even the quietest noise. He’s in an alleyway between two houses, slightly more risky with the reduced visibility, but there are main streets either side, and at least this way he won’t get swarmed by Them. He can hear Them, he can never not hear Them, because They’re everywhere. Main roads, side streets, houses, parks, museums, there is no escape. Half the world has gone to hell, after all.
Reaching the end of the dark path that separates the two houses, he presses closer to the wall, scanning the road ahead. He is in the middle of a residential area, middle class by the looks of things, made up of big houses with fenced in gardens of the picket variety. He remembers how he used to lust after these types of houses, would always slow down whenever he had to walk through an area like this, to get a better look at the clean paint, the cut grass, no litter or graffiti to be seen for miles. Then he would return to his own house, hear the screams and cries that came with the night, and try to forget about them. You’re never getting there, he used to think to himself, so there’s no point imagining.
There’s a bitter twist of irony there, that he has ended up here without choice, having run out of options. The hunger is tearing his stomach apart and he leans against the wall for balance, another wave of dizziness sweeping over him. He needs supplies, and the only way he can get them is to break into one of these houses, somehow without attracting any unwanted attention, and get back out without incident. He can already feel his heart rate picking up, feel sweat beading on his brow and back as he takes one last scan of the area, what little he can see, and heads out.
He’s already picked his target. It’s relatively clean, no smashed windows or broken front door, but there’s also no car in the driveway, or boarded up windows. Hopefully, it means that it will be uninhabited and empty of Undead. Life has taught him about assumptions though, and his right hand carries his weapon of choice, a baseball bat complete with nails driven through the end and tape around the handle for a better grip, crusted and dried blood attesting to its effectiveness at smashing heads.
He stops just shy of the steps leading onto the porch, crouching slightly without thinking as his eyes dart around, paranoia or just nervousness making him triple check the surrounding area. If anything does happen inside, he doesn’t want his exits blocked, even though he knows that just because he can’t see Them, doesn’t mean They aren’t there. There will be plenty inside the houses and garages around here, the evidence in the blood splatters that are everywhere, in the random items no longer of any value that lie scattered around, a lone trainer, a teddy bear with an ear ripped off, a broken bicycle.
Akaashi takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and ascends the stairs, walking over to peer into the front room. There are sheer curtains hanging up, as seems to be the fashion in this part of town, but he can see clearly enough to see there is nothing in that room, a least. Gripping the bat, he holds his breath and tries the front door. Luckily, it’s not locked, and opens without a sound. He pauses for a minute, waiting to see if anything shambles out, if there are any noises that indicate the presence of others. There’s nothing, so he steps in and shuts the door. Walking down the hall, he is surprised by how clean it is. Evidently, the people who lived here left a while ago, and abruptly. It is reminiscent of a museum, of the displays showing rooms from 100 years ago. Exhibit A, showing what people used to live like before the world ended. Finding the kitchen, he forces himself to stop and take a look at all the exits, before giving in and rushing to the cupboards. The first couple reveal pots, pans, and absolutely no food. He keeps going, and tears threaten as his desperate search reveals nothing. Either the former inhabitants took all the food with them, or someone else had the same idea as Akaashi before he got here. Gripping the counter top, he grits his teeth as another pain ripples through his stomach, trying not to cry out. It’s fine, he thinks. It’s fine, there are other houses, there will be food somewhere. It’s not over yet.
But maybe it’s the hunger, or maybe it’s the fear that has been his constant companion since he left home, or maybe it’s the images of his family that flash behind his lids whenever he closes his eyes, but the thought of doing this all over again, of walking slower than the dead people he is so afraid of so as to not make a noise when all he wants to do is run, the thought of that is nearly enough to make him sit down and give up. He is halfway through turning around, whether to leave or sit down he’s not entirely sure, when his eyes land on a door he took no notice of before.
He had assumed it led to the back yard, but now he can see that it is too far away, in the wrong place. He can see the yard out the window – empty, thankfully – and the room behind the door must be small, must be some sort of storage or – pantry.
Cursing his stupidity, he straightens up and hurries over, hand gripping the door knob and twisting, hope filling his chest even as he’s readying his bat and telling himself that he’s wrong, that there won’t be anything there. But the universe has decided to give him a break after all apparently, because behind the door are rows and rows of canned food. There’s a bitter, sour smell from vegetables that have started to rot on the bottom shelf, but Akaashi barely notices it, too busy opening his backpack and grabbing the closest things, barely taking the time to prioritise them. He puts the first few into his bag, soup, pasta, until he gets one with a pull ring and can’t resist anymore.
The pineapple slices are heavenly, and an actual groan of appreciation is ripped loose as the flavours burst on his tongue. Within seconds, the contents are gone, and he has to stop himself from gorging on a second can. He knows that if he eats too much too fast he’ll get sick, and he’d rather be somewhere safer when he does have food. He doesn’t know this area, and it’s making the hairs all over his body stand up, the feeling of eyes on him when he knows there’s no one there. Or so he thinks. It’s only when his backpack is full and he’s trying to cram a last packet of pasta in that he realises it isn’t so.
As he wrestles with the zip, a floorboard creaks just outside, and he freezes. He knows that whoever – whatever – is out there has just come into the kitchen, because he stepped on that exact same board when he walked in, and he can clearly remember the spike of fear that came with the noise that time, which pales in comparison to now. There’s nowhere to hide in this stupid cupboard, only shelves that are too narrow for him to squeeze underneath. The adrenaline is making his heart race, but he forces himself to stop panicking and think. There are no groans, no heavy breathing, no shuffling, and that means whoever is out there is alive. He would feel relieved, but he learned long before the apocalypse how dangerous people can be. Swallowing, feeling every second tick by too fast, he drops his backpack to the floor, unzipping a side pocket to get at the weapon he stashed there from under his floorboards at home. The gun feels heavy in his hand, but it reassures him like an old friend, even though he’s only ever fired it twice. As a shadow curls around the corner and a figure emerges he raises it and points it towards the doorway.
He has a moment of pure panic, as the figure moves forward, seeing raised arms grasping towards him, shuffled footsteps - all the trademarks of one of Them – but then he realises with a surge of stupid relief that the arms are raised because they’re holding something, and the shuffle was because they stopped abruptly when they saw him. Bu then he sees the gun, and any relief goes straight out the window. He can’t see the newcomer’s features very well, the light from the kitchen casting their face in shadow, so that all he can see is a mess of black hair and the glint of metal resting in their hands.
It’s a tense stand-off, in every sense of the word, as they both stand with their weapons raised, not saying a word. Akaashi is about to speak, when a second figure appears, halfway through a sentence, apparently not realising the situation.
“Dude I bet the pantry is stocked, I can’t wait – Oh.”
Akaashi’s stomach plummets, because it was bad enough when there was one person but now there are two, and he really doesn’t want to leave this food behind and that probably means a fight and he’s not entirely sure he’s strong enough after a week on barely enough food to survive.
Swallowing nervously, because neither person has said anything, he finally speaks.
“I’m not taking it all, I was just leaving. There is enough left over for you to have your share.” His voice is steady, and he knows his expression will show no signs of fear either. It’s second nature by now, to hide any traces of emotion, even outside his home. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He adds on as an afterthought, and to his relief, it seems to get through to them. There’s some whispering, it looks like they are debating what to do, but eventually they seem to come to a conclusion, and the gun is lowered. Akaashi does likewise, still keeping his finger resting next to the trigger, because you can’t be too careful.
The man with the black hair steps back into the kitchen, making room for Akaashi to get out, and his friend does the same. Cautiously, because he’s still being watched, he picks up his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, and picking up his baseball bat in his free hand. In a minute Akaashi is back in the kitchen, face to face with the two strangers.
The one not holding the gun must have dyed his hair before the world ended, because it’s the most bizarre colour Akaashi has ever seen, white with black stripes in it, and somehow he’s gotten his hands on hair gel, because there is no way the spikes it is currently sporting are natural. His eyes are wide, and he the open curiosity in them unnerves him, so he quickly looks away, moving to put his back to the wall. He was so busy staring at him, starved of looking at someone who isn’t dead, that he jumps when he speaks. His voice is naturally loud, the sort of voice that projects, and Akaashi immediately feels a ripple of unease at the volume. His partner evidently has no worries, or maybe he’s too busy making sure Akaashi didn’t lie about the food, because he doesn’t say anything.
“Hi! I’m Bokuto, and this is Kuroo, who’re you?”
The curiosity in his eyes is apparent in his voice, and Akaashi stumbles over his words, surprised that this is what he wants to know. Names are something that seem to belong to the world Before, a formality back when meeting people was a natural occurrence, not something that made you point a gun in someone’s face. He takes it as a side effect of being on his own for so long.
“A- Akaashi.” He frowns, already berating himself for the slip up, the old thoughts of never tell them your real name floating around insistently until he shoved them to the back of his mind. Not like it matters now, he thinks.
“Oh wow, that’s a cool name! What’re you doing here?” Bokuto’s energy is catching him off balance. He hasn’t spoken to someone so enthusiastic in – well, maybe never. Even at home, there was always the quiet, the oppressive atmosphere that came with his brother’s absence and his mother’s refusal to see it for what it was. Akaashi had figured out what his brother did for a living when he was 10, but he had never said anything, just reshaped his life around it, never questioned the blood stained clothes, the broken bones, the gradually increasing amount of strangers in his house.
He realises he hasn’t answered, and doesn’t really know how – but before he can come up with some vague half truth, his partner – Kuroo – speaks up from the pantry, calling his name in a warning tone.
“Ah, sorry Tetsu.” He shoots a sheepish grin towards the doorway, boosting himself up to sit on the empty counter. It gives Akaashi a sense of unease, seeing someone make themselves so comfortable in what was once someone else’s home; where kids probably grew up, or a couple lived out their retirement; there are signs of life all around them, and it feels like the house is just waiting for them to come back. He knows it’s stupid, but it’s enough to make him eye the door, thinking that it’s time to leave. He has enough food to last him a while now, and as much as interacting with other human beings eases the loneliness he didn’t even realise he had, it has strong feelings of nostalgia throughout it, and he can do without that and the memories it brings.
Shifting on his feet, he gestures towards the door with the hand holding the bat, and mutters some line about needing to get back. Bokuto nods, his eyes landing on the bat and his expression suggesting he wants to say something about it, but it seems he has taken his friends warning seriously and stays quiet as Akaashi leaves.
Only when he is about to open the door does he hear his voice, loud enough to echo down the hallway and reach Akaashi’s ears. Despite his better judgement, he stops, hovering with his hand on the doorknob, eyes on the frosted glass set in the middle of the door as he listens in on their conversation.
“Hey, Tetsu, Akaashi seemed like a cool guy, right?” He frowns, they barely said three words to each other, but Bokuto sounds as casual as if they’ve just met at a pub. There’s an undistinguishable reply from Kuroo, who is probably still in the pantry, and Bokuto laughs in response.
“Yeah but did you see that bat? It was freaking awesome, we should make something like that!” There’s a childish excitement in his voice, like a little boy suggesting they make a pillow fort like their friends at school, and Akaashi expects to find it annoying but somehow a smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s been a long time since anyone spoke a kind word about him, and he relishes guiltily in the feeling he gets from it. He’s so busy trying to listen to Bokuto’s next words that he almost doesn’t see the figure until it’s too late.
Opposite him, on the other side of the door – which, to his horror, he realises has been open this entire time – either Bokuto or Kuroo didn’t close it properly when they came in, or it didn’t catch – there’s the outline of what used to be a person. Except it’s not, because Akaashi can hear the heavy breathing from here, can smell the faint odour of decay, can see the way it is swaying on the spot, as if having trouble keeping its balance on two feet.
Fear streaks through him, torn between two options. Does he try and shut the door before it comes any closer – but he doesn’t know if it’s already too close, it’s foot could be in the way, and then it would know he was there, and he’s definitely not strong enough to hold a door against a body with strength that has only increased since death, without the limitations that come with being alive. His choice is made for him when the shadow suddenly gets bigger and the door opens further, the weight from the other side pushing it open.
In a flash, Akaashi is in the front room, crouching behind the huge white leather sofa that takes centre piece. Please don’t come in here, he thinks. Please, please, please.
He carefully and slowly peers around the corner, careful not to expose too much of himself - he’s still not sure how they sense their victims, he’s seen some of them doggedly pursue people no matter what obstacle is in their way, and he’s seen others lose interest as soon as they are out of sight. In a zombie movie, they would conveniently all be the same, all move slowly, all detect human flesh the same way. But this isn’t a movie, and from what he can tell there are a lot of differences in the undead.
Holding his breath and hurriedly stuffing his gun in the back of his pants so he can have a better grip on his bat, he watches as the monster enters the house. His whole body is tense, he’s trying to think of a plan to deal with it if it turns right and shambles into the room he’s hiding in, but he isn’t getting further than crawl around the sofa in the opposite direction, but that won’t work if it relies on something other than sight. He hates not knowing how they work, and grits his teeth against a new wave of fear.
But his luck holds out, and he breaths out shakily as it stumbles forwards, down the hallway. He relaxes a fraction – then freezes as he realises where it’s going.
Bokuto and Kuroo.
They’re still in the kitchen, he can hear Bokuto’s laugh and Kuroo’s indistinct reply, no idea what is headed their way.
Walk away, he thinks furiously.
Walk away, you don’t know them, you don’t owe them anything.
They aren’t your problem.
But his body isn’t moving, and time is flying by like it represents their remaining life span. He needs to walk away – but he has a really, really bad feeling for the two strangers in the kitchen, and with a sigh that is more a really forced exhalation of air to get rid of the shaking he can feel in his core, he stands and walks to the doorway, peering around the edge to see where it has got to. With a surge of pure horror, he sees absolutely nothing but empty hallway.
There are no other doorways, nowhere else for it to go, and Akaashi gives up on being quiet and sprints to the kitchen, holding his bat at the ready. His footsteps are loud on the wooden floor, louder than any noise he’s made in a while, but he doesn’t care, because all he feels right now is the panic that he is going to be too late, that it will already be upon them.
He runs into the kitchen just as Bokuto is turning around from where he is standing in the doorway to the pantry, just as he comes face to face with the zombie that is now reaching for him, already grabbing his arm in a move that is faster than anything Akaashi has seen in one of Them before, just as Bokuto’s face screws up in fear and surprise, wide eyes and gaping mouth tearing at Akaashi as he stumbles backwards, tripping over the stairs to the pantry and bringing the thing down with him, both of them disappearing from sight.
Not wasting a second, Akaashi keeps running, dropping his backpack on the tiled floor as he goes, nearly crashing into the pantry doorframe but then using it as a step to jump down the stairs and swing his bat at the head of the zombie that is on top of Bokuto, who is on top of Kuroo.
It connects with a crunch, the nails digging in and doing their job, but one swing is never enough, so Akaashi rips it out and hits it again, and again, blood splattering onto his clothes and face and the impact getting softer each time, until he sees that there is no movement anymore, the body just a body now, slumped over the two men.
There’s a moment of stillness, a moment where Akaashi’s gut clenches, and he thinks, I was too late.
But then the body moves, and his bat his halfway down when he realises that it isn’t the zombie, it’s Bokuto, heaving the body off him and struggling up, immediately turning and shaking Kuroo, no regard for himself. Akaashi pants, out of breath due to lack of energy and adrenaline, and he looks at Kuroo, seeing for the first time his closed eyes.
“Tetsu! Tetsu! Come on, come on, Testuro, wake up, please, please…”
Akaashi leans against the wall, keeping a wary eye on the body, as Bokuto lifts his friend up and puts his head on his lap, shoving at his chest in an effort to shake him awake.
Bokuto is covered in blood, but Akaashi doesn’t yet know if it is his own, and reluctantly keeps his distance, inexplicable panic taking root as Kuroo’s eyes stay shut. He doesn’t know why he feels so connected to these two, why he felt the need to protect them, why he feels so much dread at the prospect that Kuroo won’t wake up, but he doesn’t want to think about it, not when Bokuto’s voice is cracking, not when Kuroo is so silent.
There’s a cough, and Bokuto gasps as brown eyes flicker open.
“Tetsu! Tetsu, oh my god, Tetsu!”
Kuroo squints then bolts upright, nearly head butting Bokuto in the process. His breathing slows when he spots the body, and allows Bokuto the crush him in a hug, wincing.
There’s senseless mumbling, and Kuroo squeezes him back just as hard. Akaashi looks away, the strange intimacy making him feel like he’s intruding, but after a minute they break away, and Kuroo is helped to his feet.
“What… what happened? I turned around and you were falling, and there was that thing there, and then I think I must’ve bashed my head good on the shelves, cause I can’t remember anything after that.”
“It was Akaashi!” Akaashi jumps at his name, and straightens when they both turn to look at him. Before he can react, he has been swept up in a bone crushing hug, the air literally squeezed from his lungs as white and black hair rubs against his face. Coughing, he is set down, and sees Kuroo watching him. It’s an expression he hasn’t seen on the raven haired man before, granted they’ve only known each other all of five minutes, but the respect and gratitude shining out of his eyes is more than Akaashi thinks he deserves. It’s a look he feels should be reserved for family, but nods nonetheless, feeling a warmth in his chest at the realisation that he wasn’t too late after all.
They move into the kitchen, Bokuto chattering a mile a minute, the adrenaline apparently taking its toll. In the daylight he can see the back of Kuroo’s head is wet, and moves forwards before he can stop himself.
“Your head, it’s bleeding. Let me have a look.” There’s an authority to his tone, one he usually only used around the younger kids that used to hang around his estate, but he is genuinely worried, and any barriers that were between them before have disintegrated with Akaashi’s act.
Bokuto hovers worriedly as Akaashi parts Kuroo’s hair, bringing him over to the window so he can get a proper look. Luckily, it’s a shallow graze, and has already stopped bleeding. Grunting his satisfaction, he gets some cloth from his back pack – torn up bits of an old t shirt – and presses it to the wound, grabbing Kuroo’s hand and placing it over the temporary covering.
“It’s fine, already stopping. You might have a headache, though.” Surprisingly, Kuroo laughs at that, and gives him a sharp toothed grin.
“Considering what just happened, I think a headache is a pretty easy thing to deal with, don’t you?”
Akaashi pauses and then smiles, moving over to pick his backpack back up. For a moment, there’s an awkward pause, and Akaashi isn’t sure why until he sees the other two looking at each other. They look like they’re having a conversation, eye brows lifting and mouths curling, all without words. He realises with disappointment that they are going to leave, and this feeling of safety, of being together, being connected by a shared trauma, will be gone with their departure.
He stills, unsure what to say, but the other two solve it for him, saying something that makes the warm feeling in his chest bloom all over his body and a genuine smile form on his face.
“Hey,” Kuroo starts,
“Stay with us!” Bokuto finishes.
And as easy as breathing, like he already knew the answer to the question before they even asked it, Akaashi replies.
“Okay.”