Bokuto/Kuroo, Zombies
This is hell.
That’s all Bokuto can think, huddled on the grimy floor of a burnt-out department building, barricaded in an old drug store, listening to the moans and growls and crashes from outside. A hastily overturned cooler shudders under a sudden impact and Bokuto balks, scrambling away from it and down the next aisle.
“Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, ibuminophen -- wait, no,” he mumbles to himself as he scurries up and down the aisles, trying desperately hard not to despair at how empty they are, at how well picked-over the pharmaceutical sections are. He wants to cry. One single, dry sob escapes before he tamps it back with a shuddering gulp of air and tries to refocus on his task.
“Bo?” the voice is thin and weak and if Bokuto wasn’t so attuned to it he’d never have heard his name being called over the din of the undead outside. As it is, he angles himself reflexively, listening hard even as he continues scanning the shelves.
“I can’t find anything!” he calls, half-hysterical, knocking over a shelf of hairspray in his hurry. The cans bounce hollowly on the cracked tile floors and go rolling away in all directions. Bokuto ignores it, though, because he’s found what he’s looking for -- an aisle marked “Painkillers, Fever reducers, Anti-allergens, First Aid”. He trips and falls heavily and scrabbles on the floor, practically throwing himself at the rack and rows of shelves, hoping, praying.
It’s empty. Every row of shelves has been picked clean. There’s nothing. He screams in frustration, raking a hand through his hair.
Kuroo tells him that the little premature patches of grey have spread to cover his whole head, and teases him by calling him an old man. Bokuto can’t see it, hasn’t seen his own reflection in months, but he hates the joke. They’re never going to live to be old men.
“Bo?” Kuroo calls again, undercut with worry, this time, and Bokuto hurries back. Kuroo’s propped in a sitting position against what used to be a commercial fridge. There’d even been a forgotten container of margarine, tucked in the bottom, oily and half-mouldy but Bokuto had scooped out the bad bits and fed as much of it as he could to Kuroo before choking the remainder down himself.
Kuroo has their gun in his lap.
They only have two bullets left.
Bokuto is very torn on what they should be doing with those two bullets.
Kuroo sits back with his head tilted against the tempered glass, looking in Bokuto’s direction with glassy, fever-bright eyes. Bokuto skids to a stop next to him. “Hey, hey,” he hushes, trying to be soothing. His hand shakes against Kuroo’s cheek but he doesn’t think Kuroo can feel it at this point. He’s burning. “I’m right here.”
“Y’ok?” Kuroo slurs, touching Bokuto’s cheek in return.
Bokuto isn’t, he hasn’t been for a very long time, and it’s nearly impossible to pretend anymore. He hides the wobbling of his lips by pressing his a kiss to Kuroo’s forehead. It’s so, so hot. Bokuto’s starting to think that it might not be the zombies that kill him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “But I couldn’t find any of the ibuprofen or the… the…”
“Acetaminophen,” Kuroo reminds him, smiling faintly even as the hopelessness settles back in behind his eyes. “Didn’t think you would. W-worth a try, though.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s little more than a whisper, and Bokuto’s entire body shakes. He can’t stop the shaking.
“No,” Kuroo says, and the barricaded door creaks and groans under the onslaught. Kuroo tightens his grip on Bokuto’s shirt collar. It’s still hopelessly weak, under the raging fever and the festering infection that Bokuto can smell, heavy and cloying, like rotten meat, hanging in the air around them.
“I love you,” Bokuto says helplessly, desperately, because that’s all they have left, and Kuroo smiles and closes his eyes and leans limp against him, and whispers it back into Bokuto’s collarbone.