Chapter Text
He practiced everyday. Usually in front of the bathroom mirror, sometimes in his camera’s “selfie mode” on the walk to school, when he thought nobody was looking. He stretched his mouth wide, practiced showing teeth, lifting one corner then the other, added a little crinkle of the eyes for effect. He repeated soft “hey hey heys” through slightly chapped lips, adding as much enthusiasm as he dared without alerting his parents or passerby. The process made his jaw hurt, but it was necessary for his charade. He had to be normal. Normal boys can smile and laugh. Normal boys don’t cry in front of others. Normal boys don’t stop functioning if they have a “rough day.”
So every morning without fail, Bokuto Koutarou practiced his smile.
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He overcompensated. A lot. Teachers called him “hyperactive” and “overly enthusiastic.” Classmates referred to him as “loud” and “obnoxious.” What a joke , he thought bitterly, if only they knew. But he refused to give it up, because it was better than the truth. He could hide behind this flamboyant persona, and pretend he was more than a shell of a person.
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Around his second year of middle school, Bokuto discovered volleyball. He had always had good hand-eye coordination. Unfortunately that didn’t help much with his grades, as his nagging mother loved to point out, but it gave him an edge in volleyball. Soon he was able to execute a perfect spike, and the genuine praise from his captain and coach gave him the slightest bit of elation. He allowed himself to believe he could be good at something, if he worked hard enough. So he threw his whole being into training, or rather, about 85 percent of his being; the other 15 percent needed to maintain his facade.
Granted, it was a challenge. The emotional effects of making a mistake were detrimental. At those times, his mind went into overdrive, relying on an over exuberant boost of self confidence to push back the despair that was always lurking in the depths of his brain. It got to be too much of a strain; by the end of his third year in middle school he would frequently
excuse himself during practice to have an emotional breakdown over every missed spike, every botched receive. He knew he needed a new plan if he intended to keep playing.
The solution came to him during the final practice match of his middle school career. His third mistake in a row, but coach had forbidden him to leave during matches. He was at his wits end. There was no way he could keep a smile plastered on his cheeks while complete and utter failure loomed on the horizon. All it took was one offhand comment:
“Looks like Bokuto’s off his game today.”
His mask shattered as he collapsed in a heap, allowing his most prevalent thought to surface:
“WHY CAN’T I DO ANYTHING RIGHT?”
They stared. He didn’t blame them. It wasn’t the shouting that shocked them; he shouted everything. It was just that, in two years of playing together, his team had never once seen an unconfident Bokuto. A Bokuto who wasn’t completely sure of himself. Cautiously, they reached out to him, many attempting to console him with assurances of “it happens to everyone” and “you’re just having a bad day, no worries.”
But there were worries. A lot of them. He cursed inwardly at his outburst. Years of hard work down the drain because he couldn’t hold his emotions down for one freaking practice match. And then it hit him. The solution to his emotional imbalance in the form of a singular snide remark:
“Wow Bo, didn’t know you had an emo mode.”
My whole existence is an emo mode.
Wait.
That’s it.
People have other emotions too. I can be upset and maintain my cover. I just need to be dramatic.
Thus, he was able to push the overwhelming negativity back down his throat, quickly filtering the less harmful expressions of self-deprecation through his mouth, convincing his teammates that yes, he does have other emotions than his overconfident grin would suggest, and no, these emotions aren’t any less annoying.
So he completed his middle school days with two faces, one a Cheshire grin, the other a frown so deep it’s crevices rivalled those of the Grand Canyon. Both served their purpose well.
To serve as a mask for an empty puppet called Bokuto.
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By the time he entered high school, he had it down to a science. His enthusiasm was second nature; some days he almost believed he was happy. Almost.
Likewise, his “emo self” was making more and more appearances.
Tripped down the stairs? “HOW COULD I BE SO CLUMSY?!”
Failed a test? “I’M SUCH A MORON!!”
No lunch money? “I MIGHT AS WELL JUST WASTE AWAY IN THIS HALLWAY.”
Eventually he was able to strike a semi-decent balance between “normal Bokuto” and “emo Bokuto,” which allowed his social circle to grow little by little. In fact, some would say he was popular. But he was careful to keep everyone at arm’s length; no one was allowed to get close enough to be called a “friend.” Consequently, he often ate lunch alone on the rooftop, although about halfway through his first year a few members of the volleyball team had discovered his lone wolf tendencies and basically invited themselves to his supposed solitary rooftop sessions.
He did have a somewhat close bond with the team, yet there seemed to be a glass wall separating him from the others. This invisible barrier that allowed them to interact without getting too close. He wouldn’t allow them to see his true self, not ever.
They would never understand.
They don’t really care.
They just hang out with you out of obligation.
Don’t get used to it.
He repeated these phrases like a prayer, drilling them into his head, forcing himself to remember that he was less than them. He could never be as happy as them, as accomplished as them, as normal as them.
So it really shouldn’t have been much of a shock when he found himself face down in a pool of his own blood one lonely Saturday morning. His parents were out of town for yet another business meeting, and Bokuto had the house to himself. Again. He had gotten home Friday evening after a particularly stressful day. He had failed his second history exam of the month, been left alone for lunch (“I have to run an errand for Hiroki-sensei,” “Sorry, Bo! Makeup exam…”), and accidently fallen asleep in chemistry, missing the notes for the third time this week.
Practice wasn’t much better. He couldn’t seem to land a single spike, and after launching into his typical dejected speech, even the half-hearted encouragements from his teammates couldn’t lift his spirits, and he had eventually packed up and left early. He knew his parents were going to be out of town, but coming home to an empty house darkened his already miserable mood.
“Hey hey hey,” he whispered weakly into the gloomy halls. “I’m home!” He tried to sound enthusiastic, to pick himself up, but his voice cracked instead, and he collapsed as tears began to leak down his cheeks.
They aren’t here, idiot!
Why would they be? They hate you!
You are such a disappointment.
No one would want to have you for a son.
Your grades suck.
You are so fake.
You can’t even play volleyball right.
Your team hates you.
People only talk to you out of pity.
You should just hurry up and die already. You’d be doing them a favor.
He didn’t realize he had chewed through his lip until he caught the faint scent of iron. Slowly he picked himself up and in a daze stumbled to the bathroom. Numbly, he opened the cupboard, shifting objects around until he found the small package of replacement blades for his father’s razor. With shaking hands he removed his school uniform, placing it out of harm’s
way on top of the washing machine. Turning, he examined his naked body in the full-length mirror hanging from the door, and allowed his mind to once again slip into his personal hell.
Do it.
You don’t deserve to live on this Earth.
The tears remained unceasing, racing down his face and cascading to the tile below. He traced the veins in his arms, the hair on his stomach, the defined muscles of his thighs.
There.
No one would notice the marred flesh under his knee pads.
He carefully withdrew the sliver of metal and tested the edge by drawing it swiftly across his finger, watching as small rivulets of red pooled in his hand. Once again staring at his pale reflection, he reached down to the smooth skin of his inner knee, and began to draw thin red lines with the blade.
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When his eyes fluttered open, his first thought was to wonder when his bed had become so uncomfortable. Then the rank smell of dried blood hit him full force, and he shot up; an action he immediately regretted as his head began to pound and his vision blur with dizziness. Once he was able to catch his breath, Bokuto realized the gravity of the situation. He hadn’t actually meant to commit suicide, but last night’s thoughts had spiraled dangerously out of control, and he had lost all reason as he made cut after cut on his milky thigh. Speaking of which, he glanced down and immediately felt the urge to vomit.
They had stopped bleeding, thankfully, but the blood almost covered the entirety of the bathroom floor, and he had fainted in it, meaning that he was in desperate need of a shower. His attempt to walk the three feet to the bathtub proved futile; his legs felt like freshly-made jello and when he stood his nausea increased tenfold. So he ended up half crawling, half scooting to the tub, and heaved himself in, turning on the hot water.
An action he regretted immediately as the water came into contact with the fresh wounds. He felt like he was burning alive, but he knew he had to get clean so he could inspect the damage.
After the pain had subsided and the tub was filled with eerie pinkness, Bokuto managed to clamber out with less effort than it had taken to get in, but he still felt like puking and his head was begging for painkillers. He carefully stepped around the mostly dried puddle on the floor
and retrieved some ibuprofen, neosporin, and bandages, before making his way to his room at the end of the hall.
He was surprised by the number of marks. With the amount of blood he thought there would have been more, but apparently a few cuts could cause a lot of blood loss if he wasn’t careful. He spread on the medicine, knowing it wouldn’t prevent scarring but it would at least help keep out infection, and bandaged his legs. After dressing himself in comfy pajama pants, he returned to the scene of the crime.
It took him about an hour to scrub away the blood, and another two hours for the smell of bleach to escape the house, but by then Bokuto had done the laundry, eaten a light snack to replenish electrolytes, and had promptly fallen asleep.
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When Monday morning came around, Bokuto was feeling...strange. Oddly calm, given the events that had transpired a mere two days before. He almost felt okay. Not happy, but okay. Almost as if he didn’t have to work as hard at keeping his usual joviality in place. It was weird, but maybe Friday night’s actions had actually helped, after all.
With those thoughts in mind, Bokuto practiced his smile with renewed vigor, determined to milk the good vibe for as long as possible.
Which ended up coming to a screeching halt at ten to four, when practice was to begin. Bokuto had gotten to the clubroom a little earlier than the rest of his teammates, hoping to get his pads on before they could witness the damage. However, he had run into a bit of a predicament. His shorts were just a hair too short, and as a result, the bandages were visible above the knee pads. He cursed silently as the voices of the team could be heard approaching the hallway. There was no way he was going to be able to explain this without completely outing himself, and that was not a conversation he was ready to have. He desperately rummaged through his bag for another pair of shorts.
What he came up with was a pair of too-baggy sweatpants, but they would do for now. He quickly hoisted them up, just as the others entered the room.
Practice was grueling, even more so considering his recent activity. His thighs were burning and he was sweating profusely from the combined pain of the cuts and the heat of the heavy cotton pants. Noticing his exertion, the coach asked if he wanted to take a break, but Bokuto refused.
He was having the best practice of his life. Every toss, good or bad, connected with his palm and the ball released a satisfying smack as it connected with the wood on the other side of the net. He wasn’t about to stop now.
So he plowed ahead through the pain and sweat and finished practice along with everyone else, going home feeling better than he had in ages. But he knew he couldn’t keep practicing in sweats. He would overheat for sure. He needed a better solution.
He needed new knee pads.