I.
The bundle of carnations in his hands felt heavy again. Kuroo walked silently towards the samesamesamefucking room, a solemn expression on his features.
Once.
There was once that the flowers in hands had meant so much.
That was once.
It had meant hope – their hope.
But as he dies inside, a little each time (more each time, he adds), they gained weight and it had hurt so fucking much.
The doctor (the liar, the bigbig liar) said there was a cure. The treatments were supposed to work and he (why does it have to be him?) should be fine. He should be able to play again.
Kei would've been happyhappydamnit.
But no.
Nothing worked. Nothing.
Kei's body refused everything. His eight years turned to six, then four, then one. And just when he thought they were broken enough, there were only five months left at most.
Breaking the news to Kei had been hard. No. Hard would be such a soft word. Saying it to him was like drowning himself in methane and propane and gasoline andburninghisownbody.
"I'm sorry," he finished lamely, eyes not meeting Kei's. Coward, you trash, you shitty coward.
A sharp intake of breath.
And when Kuroo looked up, some few seconds later that felt like hours, he was met with a flat smile.
It wasn't sarcastic or teasing or any hurtful smile from Kei. It was flat, deaddeaddead. Lifeless.
Oh god no.
Nononoplease…
He reached forward and embraced the fragile body with as much care as possible.
And as the sun sets, serving as the only witness upon the horrifyingly tragic scene, Kuroo pretended he didn't notice the tears cascading down those blank, brown eyes.
He shifted courses immediately. It wasn't easy giving up the three years of university work. It sure as hell isn't easy giving up his dreams of being a professional volleyball player. But he did it.
Did it without an ounce of hesitation.
He shifted to medicine, gave up volleyball for more units. Faster.
Faster.
The faster he finishes, the faster he can try (by the God he would try) searching for a cure.
He was desperate, he knew that. Knew it more than he knows his fears. There was a possibility. A huge possibility that he won't make it.
(Deep inside
He knew he won't make it.
No one can fix this anymore…)
But he doesn't want to give up. He doesn't want him to die as easily as the flowers he brings every day.
He ignored the truth, pushed his body to the limits and isolated himself in favor of his studies. In fact, he has already forgotten how it feels like to spend a day with Kenma. Or society for that matter.
Isolation for Kei. All for him.
Kuroo refuses to remember. Refuses to feel the happiness of human interaction.
He refuses because how could his stomach stand it when Kei can't?
Kei was intelligent, naturally so, and god knows how much he suffered knowing he can't go through university. Knowing he wouldn't even be able to live past twenty-one.
He can't stand the sight of his face when he looks at mirrors anymore. Bags, huge dark bags, pale lips and a ghostly shade of skin definitely don't boost his morale because-
Kei has this hollowness and gaunt sadness that threatens to overwhelm his body whenever he gazes at him and his heart breaks again.
Again and againandagain.
It wasn't fair. They were mere young adults, Kei barely feeling normal. This isn't fair.
This isn't fair.
Why them? Why him? Why does it have to be him?
His frustration irritated him to no end
but
he couldn't do anything about it.
He walked deliberately slower.
Ten steps forward, then thirty-seven steps left.
He slowly breathed, shuddering exhales breaking the norm, then he loosened his strong grip (fuck, there are wounds on his palms again; he should really stop gripping too hard).
Two fast knocks, and two slow.
Rhythm.
Plastering an overused easy-going ("Irritating," Kei comments but kissed him otherwise) smile, he pushed open the doors, creaks reverberating like static in his ears.
Then he greets the figure overlooking the city from the too big hospital windows.
Five months but he won't give up. He can't.