He's hitting his hand against a water tap, washing his dirty, bloody , hands in frantic movements mindlessly, over and over and over again, the soap burning against his wounds. The water in the washstand is vivid red mixed with darkness, and Kuroo watches as dirty streams disappear down the sink, the scratches and wounds on his palms turning bright and swollen against the pale of his skin. He wants to take a shower, he thinks, because the smell is still there, hitting his nose and making the images from tonight flash in front of his eyes, over and over and over again, on repeat. It's sickening.
It's painful, suffocating, his breath heavier with every passing second as he clatches his hands to the washstand so hard his knuckles are just as white, holding himself in place because his weak legs are shaking so hard he can't stand.
He looks up and he thinks he's seeing himself, the hot anger in his chest bursting up because he hates it, he hates seeing himself standing here , guiltily washing away the blood from his hands, while his friend is cold and motionless and dead under the heavy ground. He hates it. It hurts.
It hurts so much he punches the mirror with his fist as hard as he can, leaving the web of cracks forming on surface with a creaky grating sound; but the pain is still there, not leaving, the scalding burn of his chest just doesn't go. He wants it to disappear, so he punches again, harder, feeling nothing but the same suffocating ache.
Kuroo's eyes are itching hot as he keeps hitting, the sharp pieces of glass cutting in his skin, but he doesn't feel a thing. He wants the pain to stop, wants to wake up, he wants to wake up from this nightmare and see his friend scolding him again, voice harsh and preachy and lively. But he knows he's not sleeping.
He is choking, again, the sobs he doesn't hear making are cutting and wet; leaving his body tremble with hiccups. His tired brain doesn't register the quiet opening of the door, because the strenght is abandoning him, leaving him weak and empty and broken against a cold tile floor of Daichi's messed up bathroom.
He still didn't wash off the blood from his body, he remembers, as another choked sob leaves him curled up to himself, not noticing the dark eyes that are watching him in unbelieving shock.