Chapter Text
Kuroo shifts the weight of his backpack over his shoulder, aiming to relieve the weariness that tightens the muscles. He sighs. The receptionist gives him a calculating smile as Kuroo stalks up to the counter, observing Kuroo with steely gray eyes as he detaches his school ID from his backpack strap and hands it to her.
“Tetsurō Kuroo, psychology major student at University of Tokyo. I was told I could come today to interview a patient for my dissertation,” Kuroo’s voice is relaxed as the receptionist inspects the school badge he presents to her. She pushes her glasses up her nose, scratching a finger across the laminated surface.
“Yes, Tetsurō,” she smiles fondly finally, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she nods. “We’ve been expecting you,” her tone is polite, yet her demeanor demands respect as she buries her nose in a nearby file organizer. She slides a thin folder onto the countertop with a friendly smile, “We are honored to have you visiting us today, these are our patients who have met your parameters as well as have consented to participating in your interview.”
“Thank you,” Kuroo laments, settling his hand on the edge of the file to pull it over to him.
Primly kept nails snap atop the manilla file she set on top of the counter just moments earlier, keeping it pinned down. Her lips are pulled into a terse smile, nothing short of a prey drive glinting dangerously in stony eyes. She pulls the file towards herself slightly as she stares down Kuroo, professionalism like a second skin as she watches Kuroo.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Tetsurō,” her voice is stern as she tilts her head to the side, a strand of inky hair slipping from her short ponytail. “But you are expected to remain professional and respect the privacy of those you interview. Being allowed in here to help with your college dissertation is a privilege, one that should reflect positively on the professors that wrote your recommendations to come here as well as your university.”
“Of course,” Kuroo nods, embarrassed as he sneaks a glance at the nameplate on her desk. “Kiyoko, I would never dream of disrespecting your patients here or shaming my professors with my actions.”
Her nod is collected, narrowed eyes surveying the way Kuroo awkwardly straightens out the cuff of his sweater. “Very well,” Kiyoko’s grin feels genuine as she eases herself back into her chair, giving a final wave of her hand in dismissal. Kuroo takes the opportunity to utter a thanks as he snatches up the folder.
Kuroo had called weeks ahead, sucked up to his professors even more than usual in order to secure his time at this hospital. But, suddenly, the folder feels unbearably heavy in his hand as he wanders his way into the waiting room. A few chairs are filled so Kuroo finds an open seat tucked into the corner, trying to observe the right to privacy.
Slinging his backpack onto the floor earns him a few confused looks that he returns with a crooked smile. Settling into the chair, he opens the folder in his lap. They all appear to fit the criteria for his dissertation. Male, afflicted with anorexia, early-to-late twenties. Otherwise unaffected by other major health issues. Most of the information has been blacked out, leaving Kuroo with just a picture and some basic information regarding the three men.
Ryūnosuke Tanaka. 24, male, boxer. College dropout. The accompanying picture has a man smiling in a selfie, a peace sign thrown up with a beanie covering what appears to be a shaved head of dark gray hair. A number of tattoos curl across his skin and adorn his neck. Kuroo finds him oddly annoying yet is impossibly drawn to him.
Shōyō Hinata. 23, male, professional gymnast. The accompanying picture is a full body professional photo; a small male with thick auburn curls pulled back into a loose ponytail. Everything about him appears little, from the slope of his waist to the curve of his thighs as he strikes a pose in black and orange uniform. Kuroo is instinctively amazed by him, an overwhelming desire to protect fills him.
Kei Tsukishima. 23, male, track runner. College student. The accompanying picture is clearly taken by someone else while he himself is unaware, the male’s eyes peacefully closed with a chunky set of headphones nestled over his ears. Calmness exudes from him, chin tucked into his shoulder and the thick fabric of a purple hoodie crowning into view. Kuroo wonders what would have happened if he had opened his eyes.
Kuroo closes his eyes, sighing as he rests his head against the wall. He taps the closed folder on his thigh, his leg bouncing up to meet it. It’s a staggering moment, the thoughts in his head linear and sure as he nods to himself. Confidence in his own decisions comes as easy as breathing for Kuroo as rises to his feet.
Disinfectant burns Kuroo’s nose as he briskly walks through the halls, an unhomely maze of white walls and splotchy paintings. In a labyrinth of unfamiliarity and identical doors, the number eleven emblazoned on the door feels like a beacon to Kuroo as he rounds yet another corner. The room is tucked away, almost out of sight and out of mind. No name is written on the door, nothing to denote anyone in the room. Kuroo’s stomach twists.
“Hello?” Kuroo calls out, hesitant as he knocks on the door. There’s a faint sound and Kuroo accepts that entrance. The door creaks open, revealing a sun-washed room that’s barren, no humanity or personal belongings decorate the room. A lump swells in Kuroo’s throat.
The silence of the room is violently overwhelming as the door clicks shut behind Kuroo; it’s disrupted by the clinical beeping of the machines lined up like a miserable parade alongside the mechanical bed. Skeletal, the body that lays motionless between scratchy hospital sheets, refuses to turn to face Kuroo. Instead, they watch the ticking of the clock on the wall as if things could maybe change at any moment; for better, for worse, it probably didn’t matter at this point.
In the noon light that washes through the window, casting a warm honeyed glow into the otherwise dark room, the body remains still- Kuroo feels as if though he’s walked in on something personal, breaking some intimacy. Each ragged breath seems to rattle inside of the body before Kuroo, caught on a bruised kennel of ribs. A pale crown of daisy-blonde hair falls across a wrinkled forehead, unwavering as they crane their head ever so slightly, just enough to grant Kuroo a wicked sideways glance.
Electric blue eyes captivate Kuroo as he’s surveyed with mild uncertainty, though a faint quirk promises to pull on the corner of the blonde’s lips. A thin tube is nestled tight into his left nostril, held firmly in place by equally thin strips of tape. Despite the defeated, battered body that lays before Kuroo- it’s easy enough to see that the fire within has not been doused. The gaunt face turns away from Kuroo just as quickly, a bitterness licking at each shaky inhale. Kuroo senses that it is not wholly directed at him though.
Machinery is hooked up to the blonde, some poor creature trapped in a tangle of webs. It beeps and whines as it monitors various signs of life. The blonde seems unbothered by the noise. An IV line is stuck in his arm, a clear bag of solution strung up on a post nearby. It’s almost like he can sense the way Kuroo’s gaze lingers, noticing the sunken veins and the protrusion of his wrist, because he wearily runs a finger over the gauze that is taped loosely over the IV.
“Who are you, I already told that other idiot nurse that I obviously am not well enough to walk yet,” there’s clear disinterest in his weak voice as he stares blankly ahead at the empty walls. He gazes, devoid of any emotion, at the powered off television that hangs off the wall.
“My name is Tetsurō Kuroo, you accepted my application to be interviewed for my dissertation paper, sir.”
“Ah,” recognition burns dull in his pale eyes, struggling to turn his head to the side. His face remains neutral as he idly taps sickly fingers atop the over bed table. “Don’t call me sir, god no. Tsukishima is just fine.” The greeting feels off but Kuroo shuts the door behind him.
Kuroo can feel the cold heat of eyes as they track him, watch him bend over and set his bag on the floor. They watch him with neutral disinterest as Kuroo tugs a chair discarded on the opposite side of the room over to the bed. Tsukishima’s eyes are unsure as he watches Kuroo settle himself alongside the bed, facing the blonde directly. Kuroo offers a friendly smile as he fishes out a notebook and pencil.
“What methods did you use, Tsukishima?” Kuroo’s pencil stills on the paper as he looks expectantly up at the blonde; Tsukishima merely stares at him. Kuroo clears his throat, scratching his chin as he tries again. “What methods did you use in order to in-”
“No, I heard you,” flatly replies Tsukishima, turning his head on his pillow to watch the black screen once more. Kuroo watches the glassiness in Tsukishima’s stormy eyes as he takes off his glasses with shaky hands, setting them on the over bed table. “I’m on track,” Tsukishima muses softly, tapping the corners of his glasses on the table. “Was on track, I should say. I’m sure that’s in your file somewhere.” He gestures indifferently over to Kuroo’s backpack, the accused manilla folder tucked underneath.
“I see, so exercise was a for-”
Tsukishima cuts him off with a dry tsk, eyes narrowing as he stares numbly at his hands folded in his lap, “Exercise was a control, a release. Don’t assume you know the full story just because you’ve heard some parts of it before.” His gaze is frigid as he turns his head to look at Kuroo with seemingly huge eyes, “I ran because it gave me a reason to be free.”
Kuroo can only manage a dumb nod as he catches the pain reflected in Tsukishima’s darkened eyes while he scribbles in his notebook. The crowded features on Tsukishima’s sunken face relax when Kuroo peers up at him again, delicate as they follow the IV lines that stick out of Tsukishima. “So you felt trapped,” Kuroo’s words are soft as he scans the barren room, ending up at the furrowed brow of the blonde.
“I still am trapped,” cooly responds Tsukishima, fingertips ghosting across the lines that are buried under his skin. The bed groans as Tsukishima shifts ever so slightly to look at Kuroo, eyes cruelly shadowed as he whispered, “I know I’ll never be free, not truly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream of being free of this body, of this mind.”
Kuroo opens his mouth to ask a follow-up question but isn’t given the opportunity as Tsukishima twists back away from him, the tight muscles on his throat steeled as if struggling to breathe.
“I stopped eating, to answer your question.” Kuroo scribbles hurriedly in his notebook. It’s an awkward confession, one that feels fake as Tsukishima plays with his fingers, bending them back and watching the pale skin bleed white from the strain. He releases his finger and it bounces back slowly, a faint smile on his lips, “Well I didn’t just stop, it was more of a gradual thing- aren’t most changes though? Gradual?”
The sound of Kuroo drawing his pencil across his paper feels distant when compared to the hum of machinery, Kuroo peers up between his words and finds Tsukishima staring at a painting hung on the wall with a look of contempt twisted upon his lips. Kuroo worries his lip, underlining something on his paper before tilting his head back up at Tsukishima.
“What changed for you?” Kuroo inquires, blinking over at Tsukishima. The blonde hums quietly as he readjusts the bed, the gears grinding as he sits himself up further. Now Kuroo can see the shaky breaths the blonde sucks in, the slight bulge to his skeletal throat and the pale body that sits uneasily. His swallows, thick. “What do you think made you engage in these behaviors?”
“Do you ever wonder why you are the way you are?” Tsukishima’s answer is far from an answer as he tilts his head slightly, fingers pressing gently at the tape plastered to his cheek and nose. Kuroo furrows his brow, both in confusion and mild annoyance at the obvious avoidance of the question. Tsukishima blinks over at Kuroo, voice almost childishly small and afraid, “Do you ever wonder why those little things that make you feel so grossly wrong and like you’re nothing but some weird conglomerate of all the bad things that exist?”
Kuroo suddenly realizes that a question can be equally as revealing as any answer.
“Did your family offer any support or try and intervent-”
Kuroo doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Tsukishima snorts, tossing his head to the side, rubbing his fingertips, enchanted, in the valley of his collarbone. “Being alone is much more suitable for some people, though I don’t suspect you’d know anything about that,” there’s a coldness to Tsukishima’s words as he stares, vacant, at the wall. He swallows hard, a lump bulging in Tsukishima’s throat as he focuses on the frame of a picture hung askew. Kuroo can hear how low his voice is, cracking slightly, “Sometimes it’s easier when you don’t have anyone else to worry.”
Vulnerability doesn’t seem to be something Tsukishima allows himself often, a subtle sheen in his pale eyes as his gaze shifts sideways when Kuroo taps his pencil on the edge of his paper, thinking. “Being alone is something everyone experiences, I would imagine,” it dawns on Kuroo how insensitive his statement might be but before he can apologize or worse, attempt to amend his comment, Tsukishima waves a hand at him, vague but inviting.
“Look at this painting,” Tsukishima gestures to the splotchy painting that adorns the wall besides the television, the one that has captivated his attention multiple times already. It’s covered in lifeless colors and abstract shapes that Kuroo would be hard-pressed to admit were such. Kuroo looks at it, waiting for Tsukishima to speak again. It’s a heavy silence that follows for a few heartbeats, lulled only by mechanical beeping. Though it’s shaky and with an unclear endpoint, Tsukishima raises a spindly finger to the painting.
“What about it?” Kuroo clears his throat, obtusely confused in the direction he was provided.
“What environment do you think someone was in to make something like that?” It’s an admission of guilt it feels like, almost as if Tsukishima mirrored himself in the artistry. He continues, his voice more confident than before as he wearily sets his hand on his lap, “Even in the depths of something so awful, looking inside yourself can provide so much insight, don’t you think?”
Kuroo nods, dumbfounded, as he squints. Little dots of color are sprinkled through the bland piece, like veins of life cording through the painting. Scratching a note on his paper, Kuroo nods again, this time more to himself, before he peers back up. Tsukishima is watching him, expectantly. Though the skies of his eyes are not endless, Kuroo certainly feels like the lingering pain shadowed behind the clouds is.
The pencil tips back and forth between Kuroo’s fingers as he gazes cooly at the blonde who stares back, mild curiosity floating in his eyes. “Do you blame your family for not noticing? For not helping?”
Tsukishima huffs and offers a shake of his head, a disheveled crown of blonde hairs falling over his forehead. He does not elaborate. Kuroo decides not to push, instead choosing to scribble down some thoughts on his paper.
“Was it a voluntary act to get help?” Kuroo asks, deciding it best to change the subject from the way Tsukishima closed himself off.
“No,” the answer is short yet the breath Tsukishima stalls with is anything but. Kuroo doggedly looks up at him, respectfully clasping his hands in his lap as he waits for the blonde to continue.
“I collapsed on a morning run,” Tsukishima stares numbly, unaffected as he flexes his fingers atop his lap. Kuroo holds his breath, waiting for the ball to drop. Tsukishima blinks away the glossiness in his eyes when he pointedly turns to Kuroo, a sick amusement in his confession as he smiles dumbly, “I fell so hard and my bones were so weak from malnutrition that I broke my leg. At least, that’s what the nurses tell me.” The smile fades slightly, a quiver to his lips as he pats what Kuroo can assume to be the afflicted leg. “A broken bone is easy enough to fix, I guess; a broken body, now I suppose that’s a bit harder,” Tsukishima carefully taps at the tubing that sticks out of his nose.
Kuroo can tell Tsukishima is attempting to make a lighthearted joke but Kuroo can’t bring himself to laugh as he glances up at the blonde that limply lays cradled between the hospital sheets.
Tsukishima continues, his smile wilting pathetically as he realizes Kuroo isn’t going to laugh at his expense. “I woke up here a day or two later,” fingers crawl across the sheets before they tighten around the frames of his glasses. Kuroo can just make out the hairline fracture in them as Tsukishima toys with them, turning them in the slowly setting sun. “Haven’t really gone anywhere else since.”
Kuroo opens his mouth to ask his next question but is abruptly cut off by the loud rumble of his stomach. His mouth snaps shut quickly, eyes wide as he places a hand over his stomach. Any embarrassment or rudeness Kuroo feels is quickly evaporated by the shaky, breathy laugh that escapes Tsukishima. It’s a wheezy sound but it’s the first positive reaction he’s given Kuroo all day; the machine taking his blood pressure beeps angrily as it rises.
Silence follows and it crawls cruelly across Kuroo’s skin. There’s a fire stoked in the depths of Tsukishima’s eyes when he looks over at Kuroo, before allowing his gaze to fall to his lap, pulling at the loose gown billowing around him. “Control is something we as humans strive to have, isn’t it?” Tsukishima’s voice is small as he fiddles with his fingers, pulling at the pronounced knuckles.
“What do you mean?” Kuroo’s voice pitches in the empty room, a low rumble that feels like something just shy of a mockery.
“There so much that we want to control, to own and possess and demand more out of,” he murmurs quietly, slinking his gaze out the window. A parking lot dwindles with cars as the evening wears on with a hazy pastel cloak that blankets the sky. Kuroo hums, cautious and slow as he eyes the blonde curiously. Tsukishima nods, perhaps only to himself, sunken eyes peacefully shutting as the last rays of the day warm his skin.
Quiet settles comfortably between the two of them as Tsukishima smiles, piecemeal, to himself. Kuroo scratches notes onto his paper, occasionally peeking up to watch the fading light of day as it dances across his hollowed face. Thinning strands of hair spill across Tsukishima’s pallid skin, Kuroo quickly forgets the cloying hunger that grips his stomach in favor of admiring the softness of Tsukishima’s upturned face, eyes fluttering shut.
“We go to the same school, you know,” Tsukishima’s voice is fragile, decidedly uncertain as he opens cloudy eyes to the window, to the world. Kuroo knits his brow together in deep thought, he certainly doesn’t recognize Tsukishima. He can’t place this blonde head anywhere in the sea of his student body.
“We do?” Kuroo wants to bite back the words as soon as they leave his mouth, they sound so much colder, incredulous and disbelieving than he intended for. Tsukishima’s laugh that follows is divine and sounds almost human before it tumbles into a wheezing cough. The blonde nods jerkily against his pillow.
“We had a gender studies class together two semesters ago with Professor Takeda,” Tsukishima’s head turns worryingly slowly until he faces Kuroo with a softness draped across his gaunt features. A thin strand of blonde hair slips across his forehead as he offers Kuroo a lopsided smile, “Who would not remember having the top student at our university, in our prefecture nonetheless, in their class?”
A blush rampages silently up the tips of Kuroo’s ears as he blinks, embarrassed, at the pencil cradled in his hand.
There’s a sudden knock, a jarring sound compared to the soft rumble of Tsukishima’s nuanced answers. A messy bun peeks in, a pair of glasses perched on a button nose as a nurse ticks her lips into a wilting smile. Around her forearm, a basket dangles- it’s filled with paraphernalia that Kuroo cannot recognize offhand but it’s a punch to his gut when he understands Tsukishima would know what the silver glint of a capped needle would mean for him.
“Oh, Tsukishima, I didn’t know you had a guest today,” the nurse stammers an apology when she spots Kuroo tucked beside Tsukishima’s bed, pad of paper cradled on his lap. Kuroo gives a nod of acknowledgement as he scrawls on his paper. She clears her throat, obviously thrown off by Kuroo’s presence. “Would you mind stepping out of the room then, just for a moment while I administer his treatment?”
“He can stay,” Tsukishima is quick to interject, a hoarseness to his words as if they were tripping over his tongue in the effort to get them out in time as he spies Kuroo begin to tuck away his notebook. Kuroo stills, hand still in his backpack as he raises his head, questioning. There’s a momentary worry clouding the boundless skies of Tsukishima’s eyes when he quietly adds, “if he wants.”
Kuroo’s eyes soften, not sure what to make of the sudden expedited weakness that Tsukishima has afforded him. Leaning back in the chair, Kuroo nods wordlessly. When he locks eyes with Tsukishima once more, the thank you that swims in ebbing lakes in unspoken but volumes loud. The nurse hums, satisfied with the arrangement as she busies herself.
Watching the nurse had no interest in Kuroo- not because he had no interest in the procedure, in the treatment Tsukishima was receiving. But because he found himself far more interested in Tsukishima himself, the broken way he gazes to the ceiling as the nurse raises the bed all the way up. The gears grinding in protest sounds a lot like a shriek in Kuroo’s ears. Kuroo grimaces.
The nurse babbles on but, in all honesty, none of it makes it to Kuroo. Tsukishima’s head is thrown back and he breathes awkwardly through his mouth as he casts a wary sideways glance to the nurse, who continues to spout her gibberish to an uncaring room. While Kuroo flinches when she dons a pair of gloves, brandishing the thin needle, Tsukishima remains steadfast, unwavering as he sighs.
Tsukishima dangles a hand over the edge of the bed, inches from Kuroo’s knee. His fingers twitch in the air, grabbing uselessly at nothing. Staring at the thin arch of bone as it settles beneath the pale curve of skin, Kuroo sucks in a breath as he leans forward in his seat. The nurse continues to prattle on about the procedure, worrying herself with the technicalities while Kuroo worries himself with the unsteady rise and fall of Tsukishima’s chest.
Tsukishima does not move when Kuroo slides his fingers against the cool flesh, precarious and overly-cautious as he laces his fingers into the blonde’s. Stealing a peek up at Tsukishima, Kuroo watches the way he hurriedly blinks away the tear promising to drop as Kuroo gives a feeble squeeze of Tsukishima’s hand. Kuroo can feel each bone as they slip against his palm, tangled effortlessly together.
It’s a soundless endeavor but the way Tsukishima refuses to look at the nurse, to acknowledge what she was doing as if by not seeing it would rebuke the effect speaks volumes. A new sound is added to the impersonal, medical cacophony of the room and Tsukishima gives a pathetic, weary squeeze of Kuroo’s hand. The nurse leaves and the door closes, leaving the pair lost in the easy way their fingers remain laced together for a sacred beat.
Tsukishima is the one to pull their hands apart.
“No one’s visited me since I was admitted.” The sudden confession seems coerced as Tsukishima limply lays upon the bed, head turned back out to the window. Hurt fills his voice, despite how hollow it sounds. Kuroo can see the way his fingers curl and uncurl in the sheets, bunching the fabric up slightly before smoothing it out once more- just to do it again.
“How long ago was that?” Kuroo does his best to sound casual as he asks but his heart thunders in his chest, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. His eyes narrow, confusion evident as he muses aloud, “No one? No one at all?”
“What day is it? Tuesday?” A pensive look shadows Tsukishima’s face as he stares at the ceiling; Kuroo wants to correct him and say it’s actually Thursday but the forlorn, heartbroken look that dashes momentarily across Tsukishima’s face before fading just as quickly makes Kuroo bite his tongue for the first time. Tsukishima turns his head slightly to look at Kuroo with big eyes, wider than the ocean’s horizon and with so much more depth, his voice fracturing when he glances down to the spot where their fingers previously intertwined, “It’s been about a month.”
Silence sits amicably between the pair of them as Tsukishima peers out the window and Kuroo watches Tsukishima with vibrant interest. The fading light illuminates the sunken hollows of Tsukishima’s cheeks, his pale hair haloing his head on the pillow is almost angelic. Peace seems to settle over him for once as he dances a finger through the air, tracing out some impossible sigils.
Kuroo flexes his hand on his knee, a poor mimic of the way Tsukishima draws in the air. Kuroo makes no attempt to further his inquiries, satisfied with the way Tsukishima has answered him. Also, Kuroo doesn’t think he could bear to tear his gaze away to reach for his notebook. He’s awestruck in the pallid glow Tsukishima offers him, a sickly comfort that Kuroo has come to appreciate in their short time together as he stares at the blonde with nothing short of admiration in his eyes as Tsukishima looks out the window with a blank expression on his face.
The chair squeaks in protest as Kuroo leans forward, hands gripping the frigid metal side rails. Tsukishima curiously turns his head, a rapturous yet faint smile flickering on his face as he meets Kuroo’s gaze in earnest. The familiar cool heat of Tsukishima’s gaunt fingers brushing against Kuroo’s knuckles sends a soft blush on both their faces, a welcomed sensation in the otherwise lifeless room.
Tsukishima makes a sudden wet, garbled sound, thick and gross. Tears pinprick in his eyes as he splutters a cough out, a slick bubble of vomit spewing from his lips and dribbling down his chin and onto his gown. It’s colorless, lifeless- just as the room that surrounds them. Tsukishima chokes on another bit of vomit, much smaller this time as it sticks to his chin. Kuroo’s face softens at the fear, the disgust that quickly shadows Tsukishima’s face.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Tsukishima rasps tiredly, heavy limbs trying desperately to readjust himself in the tangle of sheets. He makes to wipe his face with the corner of his gown but Kuroo’s hand darts out and his knuckles wrap around Tsukishima’s, drawing small circles on the bony swell of the blonde’s own knuckles. Tsukishima hiccups out one more gurgle of pale brown vomit before turning his head from Kuroo, refusing to look at him as he warbles, “I’ll just call the nurse, they can clean it up.”
“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Kuroo reassures, quick to his feet as he murmurs tenderly. There’s so much desire to care that radiates off of Kuroo as he looks at the blonde, disheveled and utterly alone. Blue eyes glance uneasily at Kuroo when he gently settles Tsukishima’s hand back on the bed, taking precaution to set it away from the mess of vomit that has begun to pool in Tsukishima’s lap. “I can help, it’s fine.” Kuroo nods, reassuring himself just as much as Tsukishima.
He rifles through the bedside drawers and finds a spare gown buried beneath a bunch of wipes.
Returning to the bed, Tsukishima’s eyes are misty, defeated as they refuse to meet the kind gaze Kuroo offers him as he tugs out a few cleansing wipes. There’s pleading silence crashing in the pools of Tsukishima’s eyes- Kuroo is not sure what for though as he thumbs away the spittle collected at the corner of Tsukishima’s mouth. A quiet sound, some bastard offspring of a sob and a whimper, escapes Tsukishima.
“Am I hurting you?” Kuroo is quick to ask, pulling back his hand. Even beneath all that soiled fabric, Kuroo can’t mistake the way Tsukishima’s chest quakes as he hesitantly shakes his eyes, pointedly avoiding looking at Kuroo. Kuroo narrows his eyes, inspecting the blonde critically. Pale skin is dusted with a dreamy pastel pink blush that creeps dangerously beneath the wet collar of his gown. Kuroo nods slowly, barely understanding as he tentatively cups Tsukishima’s damp cheek with the wet wipe, “I’ll make sure you’re okay today. ”
Tsukishima’s sideway glance through tear-soaked lashes is enough to make a lesser man pause, it only serves to make Kuroo admire the subtle dip in Tsukishima’s cupid’s bow when he swipes the wipe through the off-white, milky mess. A small sound of dissent warbles out of Tsukishima when Kuroo slips the wipe between his parted lips, intent on cleaning the murky liquid with as much care as he can muster.
When Kuroo gently presses a clean wipe to Tsukishima’s throat, he can feel the hammering of his pulse; he can also feel the wetness of a fresh tear slicking his knuckles as he lightly strokes away the mess. Even in the silence, so much is said as Kuroo wipes away the mess with delicate swipes. Kuroo watches the way Tsukishima struggles to breathe and stares defiantly, desperately at Kuroo with big eyes.
“I’m going to help you put on a new scrub, okay?” It’s a question but it’s not up for debate as Kuroo flaps open the other gown. He looks back over his shoulder at Tsukishima, catching the blonde doggedly staring at him, gaze caught between the wide sprawl of Kuroo’s back.
“Yes, Kuroo,” there’s an unspoken admission in the way Tsukishima meets his gaze this time, there’s a poignant trust and softness that sweeps across his high cheekbones. Kuroo can’t remember Tsukishima having called him by his name this entire time but he realizes quite easily that he couldn’t live without hearing Tsukishima say it over and over again.
There’s intimacy in the most simple of actions. Kuroo begins to fully understand this as he draws his fingertips across Tsukishima’s bare shoulder, mapping the not so subtle dips with warm hands. The bony protrusion of Tsukishima’s collarbone peeks out at Kuroo as draws the thin fabric down, untying the loose knot with unsteady hands. Tsukishima’s breath is short, cool as it washes over Kuroo’s knuckles.
Oceanic eyes study Kuroo earnestly. Kuroo isn’t sure if Tsukishima stops breathing or not when he slips the fabric down a slim arm. Fingertips ghost along the faint thrum of Tsukishima’s veins, tracing the blue-green rivers that dance just below the surface of the blonde’s cold skin. The gown slips down Tsukishima’s bony arm, practically drowning the blonde as Kuroo carefully tucks it, covering the small stain of vomit.
Tsukishima manages to lift up his shoulder, allowing Kuroo to ease the gown forward. He unties the knot on the back of Tsukishima's neck, desperately willing the tremble in his fingers to go away. Kuroo swallows hard as the fabric falls, draping down across Tsukishima’s lap. Tsukishima shudders when Kuroo’s knuckles, unfamiliarly warm and soft, drag along his shoulder.
The valleys of Tsukishima’s ribs feel distant as Kuroo tries to maintain an even gaze, unaffected. Yet he can’t stop the phantom crawl of his fingertips as they explore the shallow dips, memorizing the unsteady breaths that catch in Tsukishima’s chest. His stomach is distended, swollen and Tsukishima can’t help the shiver that claims him when Kuroo’s hand, reverent and worshipful, delicately traces the cool skin.
Any of that vulnerability that Tsukishima displayed earlier is gone, replaced with a fluttering touch that trails up Kuroo’s forearm, feebly mapping out the swell of muscle. Kuroo wanders his hand carefully up the flat slip of skin that stretches taut across Tsukishima’s chest, harboring a rabbiting heart. Kuroo delicately settles his fingers against the hard lump in Tsukishima’s throat, tracing the tubing with a sadness clouding his eyes as Tsukishima dances his fingers along Kuroo’s own throat, marveling at the sinew that pulses with vibrant life beneath his touch.
Skinny fingers cradle Kuroo’s jaw, trembling from exertion as Tsukishima nervously draws their faces together. Kuroo knits his eyebrows together in apprehension but melts at the distant longing that has finally risen in the cresting waves of Tsukishima’s eyes. Tsukishima releases a soft sigh, thumb tracing the curve of Kuroo’s lip with an enchanted smile on his face.
Tsukishima’s lips are dry and rough and juxtaposingly warm and inviting as they flutter against Kuroo’s, a shaky inhale sucking all the air from Kuroo’s lungs. Kuroo laces a hand into the bed sheets, overly aware of the fragile body that he masks with his bulk. A hand wanders across the back of Kuroo’s neck, fingers lacing into the scruff on his nape. Where Kuroo struggles to keep preserved, Tsukishima seeks to destroy.
The weight of Tsukishima’s hand is next to nothing by any standards but, for Kuroo, it may as well have been the world on Atlas’s shoulders.
“Kuroo,” Tsukishima’s laughter pours out of him finally, like he’s been purposefully holding back, as he brushes his lips against Kuroo’s in some ritualistic manner. A hand glides through Kuroo’s hair with great effort. His lips curl into a lopsided smile, slotted divinely against Kuroo’s open, waiting mouth. “If the thing that finally broke me was you,” Tsukishima murmurs tenderly despite the sullen words, “I’d consider it a blessing.”
Kuroo swallows, uncertain despite the rapt confidence that had dripped honey-sweet from Tsukishima’s words for the first time. The bed sheets feel so far away as Kuroo overshadows the blonde, spread so thin beneath Kuroo and so pliant as their mouths meet in a broken beginning. Keenly aware of his capacity to crush the other, Kuroo steels himself on the chilling bedside rails.
“Don’t you think this is wrong?” Kuroo’s voice is abruptly unsure as his lips pass against Tsukishima’s, the first time since he arrived. Not having any desire to admit to his own faults of the situation, Kuroo just wants the blonde to tell him this is okay as he feels the labored breathing staggering underneath him. For a moment, Kuroo is not sure if he’s the one struggling to breathe or Tsukishima.
The knuckles that grace Kuroo’s cheek are abrasive, cold; yet, the touch is anything but, sparked with warmth and admiration. “Is there something wrong about just wanting to enjoy being wanted for once?” Tsukishima’s response strikes an unprecedented chord within Kuroo, one that Kuroo hadn’t even realized he had been ignoring, so preoccupied with his studies. Tsukishima lowers his voice as he stalls his crawling hand, letting Kuroo’s hair slip between the scant sprawl of his fingers like midnight ribbons. “Just because you have all that attention on you,” he smiles but it feels like a worry with the way Tsukishima tilts his head, “doesn’t mean it’s the attention you want.”
Dumbly Kuroo nods along, letting the words sink in as he pulls back. The skin stretched taut across Tsukishima’s chest is dusted pink, a color that dances delicately on the tendons of his throat. That disinterest and substantial distance that Tsukishima had presented him with when Kuroo had entered the room has been dismantled with a few invasive questions and genuine interest; Tsukishima gazes longingly up at Kuroo. Kuroo pirouettes his fingers all the sharp line of Tsukishima’s jaw, the bone unforgiving beneath the cautious touch. Even as Kuroo straightens his back, he feels burdened with a knowledge he hadn’t been willing to accept.
Laying the new gown atop Tsukishima hides the valleys and ravines of his ribs but it does not mask the sadness clinging to sunken eyes; it does not conceal the fact that Tsukishima’s vulnerability is less about the way he looked at his weight and more about the way that his heart weighed on him and his mind. Tsukishima keeps his hands balled in the sheets as Kuroo works on tucking the fabric gently around the sharp edges of Tsukishima’s harrowed body.
“I think it started back in high school,” Tsukishima confesses out loud, though Kuroo wonders who he’s admitting it to- Kuroo or himself. “I recognized something inside myself, something that was different,” that familiar dejection swallowing Tsukishima’s words as he continues, staring at the painting again. A small smile tugs on the corners of his lips as he drapes a hand across his throat, a lazy mimic of the way Kuroo’s hand had laid there just a short while ago, “I wanted things I had never wanted before, things that scared me.”
“And what made you so scared?” Kuroo’s question comes out raspy, his mouth dry as he threads Tsukishima’s arm through the new gown, careful as he hears the quiet pop of joints. Even though Kuroo towers over Tsukishima, even though Kuroo overshadows him with his bulk, even though Kuroo is in every way the bigger person in this moment- Kuroo feels so unbelievably small when Tsukishima shifts his head on his pillow.
“Now?” Tsukishima looks at him, truly looks at him with a sorrowful smile gracing raw, bitten red lips. His eyes are glossy with tears again, they promise to slip out but Tsukishima blinks them away as he reaches up once more to ghost his fingertips against Kuroo’s cheek, savoring the warmth that burns there. His hand falls back to the bed quickly, limp, “I’m not scared of anything, not anymore anyways.”
Glossy eyes like the swirling currents of a low tide drag across where Tsukishima had just rested his fingertips before they devoutly meet Kuroo’s; Kuroo wonders just when he began to be willingly swallowed by the churning waters. Mouth arid, Kuroo focuses unsteadily on knotting the new gown around Tsukishima’s gaunt neck, lightly feathering his fingers across the exaggerated bumps of the blonde’s spine.
The clock reads a time later than Kuroo had intended to stay, guilt riddling his stomach as he throws the dirtied gown onto the floor in the corner. Tsukishima must realize because he nods, self assured and denounced. Kuroo had barely turned around to set his backpack on the chair he had occupied for such a short period of Tsukishima’s life before Tsukishima spoke up, his voice quaking with each syllable like it burnt against his teeth as he admitted them.
“It was nice to finally see your face, Kuroo,” Tsukishima murmurs quietly, offhandedly. Kuroo blinks, confused. Tsukishima looks up at the ceiling with a veil of enviable aloofness on his face. “All that time I've stared at the back of your head in class, just wishing maybe once you’d look at me. And now you finally see me,” there’s a heartbroken crack in his voice as Tsukishima looks out the window, further away from where Kuroo stood. “You finally see me and all I can think about is what I would give for you to have never noticed me at all.”
“Don’t blame you-“
“Stop thinking you know the story, Kuroo,” interjects Tsukishima but despite the harsh words, there’s a silken quality to the warmth of his tone. “This is just another paper to you, I know that,” the shattered smile on Tsukishima’s face could have cut Kuroo a million times and it would never make up for the pain that sinks in Tsukishima’s eyes. “I just ask that you let me keep this moment for myself,” he casts a tearful glance over towards Kuroo, the forced smile on his face slipping at the edges, “the one where I finally meant something to someone, no matter how short that moment may have been.”
The finality in Tsukishima’s words was a goodbye that Kuroo was stunned to hear, a dismissal that Kuroo never received before. “Thank you for your time today, Tsukishima,” Kuroo bows politely, eyes purposefully glued to the ground as he gathers up all his supplies. The backpack is once more heavy on his weary shoulders as he reaches for the door to excuse himself. With a glance over his shoulder, Kuroo is given one last taste of the impersonal room and the struggling life that is sheltered within.
Tsukishima hums, hanging his wrist limply in the air over his head. He spreads his fingers slowly, Kuroo can faintly see the light that bleeds through the webbing of Tsukishima’s thin skin. Kuroo can also still imagine the scant weight of Tsukishima’s fingers laced in his own, can still feel the protrusion of bone as it rides against his palm; he can still feel their coolness settled upon his jaw.
Tsukishima offers only a dreamy, far-off smile as he stares fondly up at his hand, indulging in the fading warmth of Kuroo’s body.