Kuroken Angst ~ Hanahaki

Chapter One

It starts slow - a tickle, pain in his chest when he overpractises. Afterwards, he’ll find himself sitting on the bench in the club room, breathing hard and heavy, sharpness brushing silkily against his throat. The sensation quiets him, stills him. Out of the corner of his eye, Kuroo watches him with mute, blunt concern. Kenma ignores the pain and Kuroo, too; he pulls on his shirt, leaves without saying goodbye. Breathes the fresh air. The prickle in his lungs recedes. His shoulders slump, only partly in relief.

It starts slow, but progresses quickly. It’s been a few weeks of the cough, the metal taste in his throat. It's been easy enough to ignore, but now, Kenma is in the club room - his chest always feels so heavy, in the club room. He’s listening to Kuroo. He’s listening to the voice, rather than the words; it’s deep and low, with a softness that means he’s tired. He’ll go home after this and eat cup noodle, probably - or something sweet, maybe; a burst of sugary electricity, to get him through the evening.

The heaviness in his chest feels as though it's spreading. The prickle feels more like scratching, against his ribs - as though an animal is inside him, scrabbling. He thinks: am I going to pass out? He stands up unsteadily. It’s better to be standing, to meet things head on. He coughs, once, a test - and feels a wetness on his lips. He coughs again - an answer - and feels something in his mouth. He reaches up with a shaking hand, pulls it out. He stares at it, disbelieving and afraid. A petal: blue, and small, and dotted prettily with spots of his own blood.

He stands there, smelling sweat and bodies and body spray. He stares down at his own hand, holding the sweet-smelling token. A bead of blood falls from his lip onto the petal. He thinks of nothing - nothing at all.

He doesn’t notice Kuroo's hands guiding him back to the bench, but he notices when they leave his shoulders. He’s still holding the blood-covered petal, but his fist has closed around it. They are, Kenma realises, the only ones in the room. Kuroo had shouted until everyone left. His voice had been frail, underneath its brutishness. Kenma closes his eyes, and leans back against the wall.

‘Hey,’ Kuroo says roughly, shaking him. ‘Don’t sleep.’

‘Tired,’ Kenma tells him, but keeps his eyes open.

‘What’s in your hand?’  Kuroo’s voice trembles like a violin string. He already knows. 

Kenma thinks: he will find out soon enough. He unfurls his hand. Kuroo steps back, automatic horror forcing a retreat. It’s squeezed thin, but the little blue item in his hand is still, clearly, a petal. It's a fact. 

Kuroo opens and closes his mouth several times. Kenma can see his tongue, his bloodless tongue. There are no flowers in his mouth, just sharp, white teeth. Kenma thinks about his own mouth, the front line of a battle impossible to win. The blood has dripped down onto his clean, white shirt. Everyone will know, when they see him. Kuroo puts his hand back on Kenmas shoulder - heavy and good.