Work Text:
A build up of rubble and debris eventually, and without fail, causes a collapse or cave in, no matter how small.
The thundering rush and thud shatters the stale air as he opens his mouth. Eyes and cheeks stained red as he caves in on himself, tiles warmed from how long the paralysed body has been laid across them.
He was late to work by 4 minutes and 39 seconds.
He stuttered too much talking to a customer.
He didn't put the basket through correctly.
He forgot that an item had been removed.
He filled out forms incorrectly.
He was a burden to the team.
It was enough to hold back the landslide until he went on lunch. Time management and all that. Even so, he would have to go back out onto the floor, his weakness having escaped the small four walls that acted as his buffer from the rest of the fucked up world. If the world was a self imploding tyre fire then how devastatingly worthless does one have to be to fail to meet even those expectations.
Temporary jobs until his streaming and gaming business had crushed was little of his hope for the future that the anxiety and depression had let slip past childhood. Kenma knew that if he couldn't make coffee or rack clothing properly then what hope was that he could do something more skill based? None.
Maybe that's why what began as a two month job became three years. He would turn up and fuck up and then go home and stream and fuck up. Stinging cold iron and warm crimson became his pleas for forgiveness in the universe. He didn't even hide it anymore. The only people who might have actually given a fuck had long since surpassed him. Hinata was a travelling professional volleyball player; he made it to the Olympics. Kuroo was a founding member of one of the most successful lawyer conglomerates in Tokyo. And where was he? Bed bound after saying the wrong word on stream, numb and scratching at his arms.
A waste of space. A waste of oxygen. A waste of food.
His record was not wasting food for six days before his body rebelled and threw something down the waste shoot, compacted by yellowed machinery. It left him shivering in the summer and dizzy if he stood for more than an hour. Maybe Kuroo would care if he saw him now. Maybe.
Kenma laughed sardonically, tears collecting in his eyes.
He laughed until he fell from the narrow bed and onto the hardwood floor. No move was made to get up. He sprawled across the dusty surface and closed his eyes. He had to stream. Maybe he should not do it, not like it would matter anyway. He won't achieve anything from it anyway.
Rumbling growl emanated from his concave stomach. His fingers tingle. His head burnt.
Eyes on him. Angry, disapproving, loathing. Every time he breathed, drank, moved, lived. He felt the same way, had the same look whenever he accidentally caught his reflection in the mirror.
Keys clattered on the keyboard, Kenma blathering on about a specific game mechanic or something, eyes half focused and head a vortex. A text message beeped on his phone at the same time a chat notification popped.
BlackBubbling: Stop ignoring me
Kuro (27 unread)
Have you eaten yet?
Answer me, I'm worried.
It was a trap. Kuroo saw the viewer count, saw the surface level achievements and decided they were enough. If he was allowed behind the scenes he would be so disappointed. Or overjoyed, that he was the successful one.
So he turned his phone to silent and continued creeping through the hall of the new Silent Hill short game. He would die soon to a monster, and die equally inside, black coal shrivelling further until it combusts. Releases in fiery streams and raging rivers.
It was the first time in a while he'd been here. Soon, it'd simply not be again, Kenma and himself, angry and tired and hungry, all self inflicted in varying ways.
Later, Kuroo would come over for the first time in three months. He'd cry and shake him and ask questions that had already been answered.
Kenma just wanted to sleep and stop.