A/N: Rated T for character death and dark themes. Also on AO3 and my tumblr sideblog.
The sirens splash blues and reds across the ink black pavement, wailing - no, it was a roar, a piercing roar stinging his ears and bounding his chest with thick, invisible ropes.
But the only thing he can see is white.
"And what is your relation to the casualty," the policeman says, one sound among many, from the siren to the drizzle of rain dancing rhythmically upon the wet pavement. His eyes are empty of emotion. Every now and then, a dash of color from the light cast by the sirens would cause a small glow in the man's pupils, and then fade away, darkening once more.
White headlights blinking, beaming in a gloating fashion. The road is white, the buildings are striped with white. His knuckles are white from the pressure he's placed upon them.
The boy swallows down tears and the bitter taste surrounding the roof of his mouth. "He... he's a friend." A crack in his wavering voice, caused by the silent torture of denial, and then all was quiet. "I was - he was supposed to meet me here." It's tempered by a bite on the lip and invisible hands grabbing hold of the intensity, controlling the volume with a sleight of hand comparable to the nimble fingers of a pianist.
He hates the moment of hesitation, the caesura of silence. He's not supposed to feel obliged to switch to past tense. He is a friend, is a friend, still is a friend. Not "was", is.
"Any details you witnessed?"
He shivers under the cold lamplight, shaking off globules of rain like a mangled, homeless dog. "The car, it - " he takes a shuddering breath, one that racks his core and runs vibrations along his arm to his fingertips, "- it veered off to the side right there, and then it collided with that tree. That's all I saw."
The policeman nods and places a heavy hand onto the boy's fragile shoulder. The boy catches the shoulder with a limp hand. He's on the brink of collapsing into the canyon below; his hands are running on pure instinct alone. "Thank you for your cooperation."
The rest of the night is a blur, and so is Bokuto's normally sharp vision.
The gym doors are like giant walls blocking his path. Bokuto knows that one light touch would be enough to open them, but when did walls have doors?
"Are you going in?"
Bokuto can recognize Komi's concern, hidden below layers of strained patience. "Of course!" he says; a moment later he realizes how flat his voice has gone. He reaches forward to slide the metal slab open, and a slit of light materializes. Volleyballs are being handled - Bokuto can sense it - and the noises of callouts and encouragement mix in. When he steps into the gym, it is as if an off switch is flicked: everything sits in dead silence, faint shadows trailing escaping volleyballs as they roll off into a corner.
All of their eyes are saying the same thing, "We're sorry." There is nothing to be sorry about.
Komi enters the wave of silence and breaks it, by bringing his hands together in a clap. It reverberates against the walls, and the shock that had frozen time melts. Sarukui picks up the volleyball, and Konoha glances down at his shoes before joining the others in a heated rush towards the equipment room.
A squeak pops out from behind him. The door is being slid open again, but by who? Everyone in the volleyball club is present already, even the managers and the two players scorekeeping.
And then there is a roiling grey cloud that masks Bokuto's eyes and mind, clouding and numbing his senses. Even the pain is now dull in his beating heart. White flashing behind his lids turn black with unfocused confusion.
Apparently, Bokuto has missed someone.
"Sorry I'm late."The man is leaning against the door, dark eyes possessing an otherwise ethereal glint to them. Or perhaps it was a trick of light, but Bokuto does not stop to ponder this. He's running forward, and he can't stop.
"Kuroo, he... Akaashi... I'm so," he sputters, while tears roll down his face. Akaashi feels each sob resonate against his chest as Bokuto grips him harder, choking the air out of him."Calm down, Bokuto-san," Akaashi says softly, stroking Bokuto's hair in an attempt to quiet the sobbing boy down. "It's not your fault." This is the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto cry so unashamedly, in front of him and the others.
This is also the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto.