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As Kuroo and Kenma grew older, the moments they once took for granted slowly slipped through their fingers. The carefree high school days where they saw each other every day had faded into memory, replaced by the harsh reality of adulthood. Their once-simple love now had to endure distance, schedules, and responsibilities.
Kuroo, now working in the Japan Volleyball Association's sports promotion division, had a demanding job that required frequent travel and long meetings. He loved his job - he couldn’t argue that - but sometimes his boss gave him too much simply because he was too good at it.
Kenma, on the other hand, had carved his own path, balancing university, a full-time career as a pro gamer, stock trading, and running his own company. Their lives were moving forward, but sometimes, it felt like they were moving away from each other.
Despite the distance, they never doubted their relationship. Kenma wasn’t the type to cheat, and Kuroo would rather die than betray him. It was a silent promise, one they never had to reaffirm out loud.
They made time for each other, calls every night, meetups whenever possible. Sometimes it was once a week, sometimes once a month, depending on how chaotic their schedules were. But Kuroo missed Kenma terribly. Every time he lay in bed alone, he wondered if Kenma ever ached for him the way he ached for Kenma.
Kuroo sighed as he pressed the phone to his ear, his voice coming out rough from exhaustion. “I’m so tired, Kenma. I think I might just die.”
Kenma hummed, unfazed. “Then sleep.”
Kuroo let out a dramatic groan. “I can’t sleep without you.” He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. “I miss you, you know?”
There was a pause. Then, a quiet sigh from Kenma’s side, soft, reluctant, almost like he didn’t want to admit how much the words hit. “…I know,” he said finally, his voice low, the kind he used when he was feeling too much but didn’t know how to show it.
Kuroo smirked, sensing an opening. “You ever think about me when I’m not around?” he asked, voice dipping just enough to be annoying on purpose. “Like... painfully crave my presence?”
Kenma made a small noise, the kind he made when he didn’t want to admit something. “…Maybe.” he muttered, as if the word physically hurt him to say out loud.
“Oh? What do you think about? Be honest.”
Kenma scoffed. “That you’re annoying.”
Kuroo chuckled, the sound low and smug. “Liar,” he said, dragging the word out like he was savoring it. Then he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, pure mischief in every syllable. “Bet you miss me in your bed, don’t you? The empty side, the tragic cold pillow, the absence of my devastatingly attractive presence, it must be hell.”
Kenma’s silence was loud.
“Bet you think about me when you’re laying there at night, all alone…” Kuroo purred, dragging out the words like a bad romance drama. “Missing my lips on you… my hands on your thighs… my cock in…”
Click.
The call ended.
Kuroo wheeze-laughed into his pillow. Kenma was going to text him in exactly twenty seconds, he just knew it. God, he just loved teasing him. He knew Kenma probably found him annoying half the time, but he couldn’t help it, it was his favorite sport. If he could get Kenma flustered from miles away, through nothing but words? That was peak romance, honestly.
His phone buzzed.
Kenma: Stop being gross. Goodnight.
Kuroo shook his head, biting his lip as he typed back.
Kuroo: You’re blushing, aren’t you? Or maybe… turned on? 👀 We can continue if you want, just say the word, kitten. 😏
Kenma didn’t reply. But he didn’t block him either. And that was enough for Kuroo to fall asleep with a smile.
The next night, Kuroo called as usual, propped up in bed, barely keeping his eyes open. He didn’t expect much, just the usual Kenma telling him to sleep, Kuroo ignoring him, and then Kenma falling asleep mid-call before Kuroo could hang up first. But this time, Kenma said something unexpected.
“I’m free next Sunday.”
Kuroo blinked. His exhaustion instantly disappeared. “Wait, seriously?”
“Mm. No classes.” Kenma’s voice was quiet, but Kuroo could hear the tiny smile in it.
Kuroo sat up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. “Oh my god. A miracle. A fucking divine blessing. We have to celebrate. I’ll clear my schedule.”
Kenma scoffed. “You don’t have to. You’re busy.”
“Kenma,” Kuroo said seriously. “You’re my number one priority. If I have a meeting, it’s getting canceled. If I have work, I’m quitting.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love.”
Kenma sighed, but he didn’t argue.
Kuroo stretched out on his bed, smiling to himself. “Hey, since you’re free, why don’t you just crash at my place? You could stay the night…” He let his voice drop again, this time softer, more inviting. “We could make up for all that lost time.”
Kenma was silent for a moment. Then, “I have class Monday morning.”
“So?” Kuroo grinned. “Who needs class when you could…”
“Kuro.”
Kuroo snickered. “Fine, fine. But just so you know, you’re breaking my heart.”
Kenma let out a small laugh. “You’ll live.”
“Barely.”
Kenma hummed, already getting drowsy. His voice softened. “You’ll see me Sunday. That’s enough, right?”
He asked like he meant it, like it was a promise wrapped in comfort, but they both knew the truth. It was never enough. Not for Kuroo, who always wanted more time, more touch, more Kenma. And not for Kenma, who could only offer slivers of himself, hoping they’d be enough to hold them together.
“Yeah,” Kuroo murmured. “It’s enough.” A lie, one he told softly, more to himself than to Kenma. Because pretending it was enough felt easier than admitting how badly he wanted more.
Kuroo had been counting down the days, crossing off dates on his calendar like some lovesick idiot. The moment Sunday arrived, he cleared all his appointments, practically shouting in his office about how he finally - finally - got to see the love of his life. His coworkers had groaned, but his boss, hearing the desperation in Kuroo’s voice, had mercifully not sent him on another last-minute business trip. For once, luck was on his side.
Kuroo arrived early at the train station, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His heart jumped when he finally spotted a familiar figure weaving through the sea of people. Kenma, in his usual hoodie and a cap, looking exactly the same yet somehow different. Maybe it was because it had been so long. He took a step forward, grinning wide. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Kenma’s hand, only for Kenma to smoothly pull away, tucking both hands deeper into his hoodie.
Kuroo pretended not to notice. He shoved his own hands into his jacket pockets and fell into step beside him. “You look thinner, Kenma. You eating properly?”
Kenma shrugged. “I eat.”
“Enough?”
Kenma glanced away, pretending to look at a passing train. “I eat,” he repeated, avoiding the question.
Kuroo let out a small, exaggerated sigh. “See, this is why I worry. You’d survive on energy drinks and instant ramen if I let you.”
Kenma hummed, clearly not denying it.
Kuroo shook his head, exasperated but affectionate. “Come on, I booked us a place for lunch. Let’s make sure you actually eat something real today.”
They walked side by side through the city, falling into easy conversation, or at least, Kuroo tried to make it easy. He asked about Kenma’s classes, his stock trades, his streams. Kenma answered in short, quiet sentences, his eyes flickering to his phone every few minutes.
They reached the restaurant Kuroo had reserved in advance. He wanted today to be special. Maybe they’d eat a good meal, then wander around together, maybe even get a few quiet moments where Kenma let himself relax.
They sat down, and before the waiter even left, Kuroo leaned forward, grinning, his gaze lingering on Kenma, soft and warm, like he was looking at the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “So? Miss me?”
Kenma lifted an unimpressed gaze. “We talked last night.”
Kuroo pouted. "Not the same. Talking and seeing are completely different! I need physical proof of your love, you know?”
“Dramatic as always.”
Kuroo smiled, but deep down, he wanted to say, It’s not dramatic if it’s true. Maybe he just wanted to hear it, for once, to know that Kenma missed him out loud, the way he missed Kenma in everything.
As they ate, Kuroo tried to hold onto the moment, but it kept slipping through his fingers. Kenma barely touched his food, pushing it around with his chopsticks. His attention was split, half here, half somewhere else. Every few minutes, his phone buzzed, and Kenma would answer, speaking in a hushed, businesslike tone that didn’t belong in a conversation between lovers.
Kuroo watched quietly at first, resting his chin on his palm. He wanted to believe Kenma wasn’t doing it on purpose. But it didn’t change the fact that even when they were together, it didn’t feel like Kenma was with him at all.
Kuroo reached across the table, brushing his fingers over Kenma’s hand, a small, hesitant gesture, like he was trying to bridge the growing distance between them. A quiet attempt to bring him back, even if just for a moment, even if just to feel something.
Kenma tensed. His fingers stiffened beneath Kuroo’s touch, and a heartbeat later, he pulled his hand away, quick, almost instinctive, like the contact had burned.
Kuroo forced a smile, trying to laugh it off, like always. He was used to this. He should be used to this by now, Kenma’s silence, his subtle retreats, the way affection never came easy.
But still, something thick and heavy lodged itself in his throat. It sat there, aching, unsaid. The question he didn’t want to ask but couldn’t push down this time. Do you not want to be seen with me?
They finished eating in silence, the untouched remnants of Kenma’s meal still steaming faintly between them. Kuroo paid the bill with a tired smile, forcing lightness into his voice. “Alright, what do you wanna do next? Pet café? Bookstore? Fake a wedding and disappear into the woods?”
Kenma pulled his hoodie up over his cap as they stepped into the sunlight. “You’re not funny,” he muttered, already scrolling through his phone. But he followed Kuroo anyway, trailing just a step behind, close, but not close enough to touch.
They wandered aimlessly through the city, hopping from small shops to arcades, Kuroo cracking stupid jokes and trying to draw out anything beyond short, clipped replies. At a candy store, he made Kenma try sour gummies. Kenma winced so hard he nearly spat it out, and for a brief second, Kuroo saw his real smile peek through.
“So glad I didn’t take your photo,” Kuroo teased as Kenma wiped his mouth, still grimacing from the sour gummy. “That face would’ve haunted my dreams.”
“Don’t you dare, I swear I’ll kill you,” Kenma muttered, cheeks still puffed out, voice flat. Kuroo just laughed, at least he got Kenma to talk, even if it was just a threat.
Later, they ducked into a quiet alley between buildings, narrow and dim, a shortcut to the station. The sound of traffic faded, replaced by the low hum of vending machines and the whisper of wind through rusted pipes. No cameras. No eyes. Just them.
Kuroo glanced over. Kenma looked relaxed for once, shoulders loose, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. Kuroo’s gaze flickered down to his lips, soft, parted slightly. The ache hit sharp, and before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned in and stole a kiss.
Kenma shoved him. Hard. His palm struck Kuroo’s chest with jarring force, sending him stumbling back a step. “What the fuck, Kuro?!”
Kuroo blinked, caught between breathless and stunned. “Hey, it was just, no one’s here. I just wanted to…”
“That’s not the point!” Kenma’s eyes flashed, face red, not from embarrassment, but pure anger. “You know I hate that kind of shit in public!”
“It was an alley, Kenma. We were alone,” Kuroo said, trying to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
Kenma’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter. It’s still outside. You don’t get to just do whatever you want because you miss me.”
“I miss you,” Kuroo said quietly, stepping forward, more wounded than defensive. “I haven’t touched you in weeks, Kenma. You’ve barely looked at me all day. I didn’t even think you wanted to be here.”
Kenma looked away, exhaling through his nose. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at it before shoving it into his hoodie pocket like it burned him. “That doesn’t mean you get to ignore what I’m comfortable with.”
Kuroo nodded slowly, biting down on the swell of hurt in his throat. “You’re right. You’re right , I just…” He looked away, his voice tight. “I’m sorry.”
They stood in the alley, silence wrapping around them like fog. Kuroo’s heart thudded in his chest, loud in the quiet, louder than Kenma’s silence. He didn’t reach out again. Not yet.
Kenma exhaled hard, his breath visible in the cool air. His phone buzzed again. He pulled it from his hoodie pocket, glanced at the screen, thumbed a quick reply, then said flatly, “It’s late. I’m going back.”
Kuroo frowned before he could stop himself. Late? It wasn’t even 5 p.m . The city still glowed with daylight, people out, laughter echoing from nearby cafes. But Kenma wanted to leave. Just like that. No explanation, no goodbye kiss, like being with Kuroo was something he had to fit in between real obligations.
He didn’t argue. What was the point? He just nodded, quiet and resigned, and fell into step behind Kenma like a shadow. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach out, but he didn’t. Not after being pushed away, physically and otherwise.
The station came into view too fast. Crowds moving, announcements echoing, that familiar weight of ending already settling in Kuroo’s bones. His steps slowed, something in his chest panicking. This couldn’t be it. Not like this. He reached forward and gently grabbed Kenma’s sleeve.
Kenma stopped, finally looking up from his phone. His brows furrowed. “What?” he asked, tone clipped, irritation barely masked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it hit hard, sharp and cold in contrast to the warmth Kuroo had craved all day.
“I’m sorry,” Kuroo said, voice quiet. “For earlier. I just…” He swallowed thickly, searching Kenma’s face for any softness. “I wanted to feel close to you. That’s all.”
“My train’s here,” Kenma said flatly, already turning to leave. “Talk to you tonight.” His voice held no affection, no weight. It was just another parting, no different than a business call or a text reply.
Kuroo stood still, sleeve still warm from where his fingers had held it. He didn’t chase after him. Not this time. He watched Kenma vanish into the crowd, a blur of hoodies and footsteps, his own heart a loud, pulsing thing he didn’t know what to do with.
*****
“So, like I told you before, I haven’t kissed him, not once, and when I finally do?” Kuroo paused to slam back a shot, grimacing like it burned more than it should. “He shoved me, Yakkun. Full offense. Like I was a fucking stranger.” His voice cracked on the last word. “It hurts, man.”
Yaku sat stiffly at the table, swirling a lemon wedge in his soda, seriously rethinking his choice to message Kuroo after flying back from Russia two nights ago. He’d wanted a quiet reunion. Instead, he got front-row seats to Kuroo’s post-breakdown love monologue. “Yeah, yeah. I heard you. You’ve told me, like, a few hundred times now.”
“But it was an alley, Yakkun. An alley,” Kuroo argued, flopping forward to rest his cheek on the sticky bar table like life had fully defeated him. “It’s not like we were fucking in broad daylight!”
Yaku snorted so hard his drink shot up the wrong way. He choked, nearly spraying the poor couple at the next table. One of them gave him a look. He didn’t care. “I don’t want to know that, Kuroo. Jesus.”
“Aghh, talk about fucking…” Kuroo groaned dramatically, stretching his long limbs over the bench like a man in mourning. “It’s been a while, you know? I miss him. Like… his skin, his breath, his shitty sarcasm when he’s half-naked…ugh.” He buried his face in his arms. “Do you think he found someone? Oh my god. Yakkun. What if he found someone who fucks him better? What if he doesn’t want my dick anymore?!”
Yaku pressed his fingers to his temples like he could physically massage the trauma out of his brain. “Stop talking about your dick. You’re drunk, Kuroo. I know it. The bartender knows it. That guy two tables over knows it.”
Kuroo peeked out from under his arms, eyes glassy. “You didn’t deny it though. Maybe he did find someone. Someone hot. With tattoos. A neck vein . God. Veins, Yakkun, veins are dangerous.”
Yaku grabbed his drink and downed the rest of it in one go. “I swear, if I hear the word vein one more time, I’m leaving you here to be adopted by the alley cats.”
Kuroo made a pitiful noise. “Kenma loves cats. Maybe they’ll take me back to him.”
“Great,” Yaku said flatly. “You can meow your way through therapy.”
Kuroo leaned back, slumping so far into the chair it looked like he might sink through it. His voice was thick and slow, the edges frayed by alcohol. “Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore,” he mumbled. “You think so, Yakkun? Be honest. Please.”
Yaku exhaled like he aged five years in one breath. He thought his days of being the love mediator between these two ended after high school, back when teenage heartbreaks still had study halls and practice breaks. He didn’t realize it had turned into a full-time fucking job. “He still loves you, Kuroo.”
Kuroo squinted at him, unconvinced. “How do you know that?”
Yaku leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “Because he still calls you every night, you idiot. He still replies to all your dumb texts. The man runs a company, juggles streams, classes, and probably an army of sponsors, and he still made time to meet you.”
Kuroo blinked, his mouth opening like he had a retort, but nothing came out. Just a heavy, hitched breath. Yaku wasn’t done.
“If I were Kenma,” Yaku said dryly, “and my boyfriend even suggested I was cheating when I’m busting my ass to be there, I’d dump your clingy ass so hard your grandkids would feel it.”
Kuroo winced. He had been jealous, hadn’t he? Not of anyone specific, just of the silence. Of the absence of proof.
“And you know Kenma,” Yaku continued, more tired than angry. “The guy practically flinched when I hugged him after graduation. He’s never been into PDA. He didn’t even hold your hand when you were dating in high school. Did you think he was gonna change just because you’re both paying taxes now?”
Kuroo was quiet now, staring down at the table like it had all the answers he didn’t want to hear.
“He’s still Kenma, Kuroo. Adult or not. He doesn’t do things because the world says he should. He does them when he’s ready.”
Kuroo didn’t answer right away. He just stared at his glass, then tipped it back and downed the rest in one go. His throat burned, but not enough to distract from the ache in his chest. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe since we’ve been apart so much… I’ve just been insecure. I want him to show love the way I do. Like, just say it. Show it. Touch me, goddamn it.”
Yaku leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “You’re being greedy, Kuroo. That’s not how this works. You don’t get to rewrite how someone loves you just because you’re lonely.”
Kuroo winced, a humorless laugh escaping him. “...I guess I am.” His voice was quieter now, thick with guilt. “I mean, I know how he is. I’ve always known. I just… wanted more. Like an idiot.”
“Wanting more doesn’t make you an idiot,” Yaku said, rolling his eyes. “But demanding more from Kenma without saying a damn thing? That’s on you. You want affection? Try communicating like a functioning adult.”
Kuroo groaned and slumped forward, dragging his hands down his face. “Okay, okay, damn. You sound like a therapist. Or my mom. Actually, my mom’s nicer than you.”
“Your mom’s not cleaning up your emotional vomit at a bar,” Yaku deadpanned, then flagged the bartender again. “Get him a water. If he starts crying, I’m not holding his hand either.”
“Too bad,” Kuroo mumbled into the table. “I’ve got a thing for aggressive short kings.”
“Say one more thing like that,” Yaku warned, “and I’m texting Kenma to let him know you tried to cheat on him with me.”
Unfortunately, threatening him did not shut Kuroo up.
Instead, Yaku was held hostage for a full hour as Kuroo ricocheted between ranting about volleyball association meetings and a deeply detailed analysis of the boardroom politics that, somehow, tied back to how much he missed Kenma. Every single anecdote ended with “Anyway, I wish he was there.”
At some point, Kuroo got passionate about an upcoming youth volleyball campaign. Then, without transition, he went off about how Kenma used to warm his hands inside Kuroo’s hoodie pocket during winter. Yaku wanted to cry, mostly from boredom, but also because it was weirdly touching.
By the time Kuroo was explaining how a sports sponsorship reminded him of Kenma’s hair during third year - “like, it just stuck up all cool, you know?” - the bartender finally walked over, looking exhausted. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “Some of the other customers have… expressed discomfort. We’re going to have to ask you to wrap it up for the night.”
Kuroo blinked slowly. “Wait… are we getting kicked out?”
“Yes,” the bartender said flatly. “Respectfully.”
Yaku blinked. Then looked around and realized half the bar was staring at them. One woman looked like she was five seconds away from crying in secondhand heartbreak. “Right,” he muttered. “Thanks. Sorry. We’ll get him out of here.”
Dragging Kuroo outside was a chore in itself. He kept stopping to dramatically sigh at the moon like it held the answers to his heartbreak. “She’s so far away… just like Kenma…”
“Okay, you’re done,” Yaku muttered, dialing a taxi with the speed of a man who had done this before. He half-carried, half-dragged Kuroo toward the curb while muttering, “You better not puke in the cab. If you do, I’m charging Kenma for emotional damages.”
Kuroo slurred, “Kenma would pay it. He’s rich. He’s my sugar nerd.”
Yaku pushed him into the backseat with zero mercy. “If you say that to his face, I’m not stopping him from kicking your ass.”
Yaku slammed the taxi door with a little more force than necessary. He leaned through the passenger window, slipping a folded note and a few extra bills into the driver’s hand. “This is the address. Apartment building, unit number, everything.”
The driver glanced at the cash, then the paper. Before he could ask anything, Yaku’s expression darkened into something uncomfortably close to a threat. “Take him to the front door. Not the building. Not the lobby. The door. If he passes out in your car, you carry his lanky ass up there.”
The driver blinked. “Uh… y-yeah. Of course.”
Yaku smiled, slow and dangerous, like he had bodies buried under a gymnasium floor. “Good. I work with Russians now. If you think of trying anything, stealing, dumping him somewhere, looking through his phone, just remember: we will find you.”
The driver nodded so fast his cap nearly flew off. “Understood. Straight to the door. No funny business.”
Yaku gave him a thin, satisfied smile, the kind that made grown men flinch in training camps. “Good. Because if anything happens to him, Kenma will be the least of your worries.”
Kuroo groaned from the back, one arm flung dramatically across his eyes like a tragic romance lead. “Yakkun, you’re so hot when you threaten people. Do it again. Like, look me in the eyes and say ‘we will find you’.”
Yaku rolled his eyes with the force of a man who had absolutely hit his limit. “Say that again and I’m recording it. Sending it straight to Kenma. You know how he gets when he hears you being a dumbass.”
There was a pause. Then, softly, Kuroo muttered, “Maybe I don’t know him. Not anymore.”
Yaku didn’t have a comeback for that one. Not right away. His lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced toward the cab driver, who looked ten seconds away from quitting his job. “Just…go,” he said flatly. “Before I change my mind and leave him in a dumpster.”
The driver nodded quickly and pulled away from the curb, the car’s taillights disappearing into the street. Yaku stood there a moment longer, jaw tense, arms crossed tight over his chest. Then, with a sigh, he dug out his phone.
He tapped the screen and held it to his ear. The line rang twice before it connected. “Yo, Kenma,” Yaku said, rubbing a hand over his face. “We need to talk. About your dumbass.”
*****
Kuroo woke up with a pounding in his skull, like a volleyball match had taken place inside his head. He groaned, lifting his face from the floor of his hallway, squinting as the light stabbed straight through his hangover. “Ugh… my head hurts so much…”
He reached into his pocket, fished out his phone, and nearly dropped it. The screen glowed bright with chaos: dozens of missed calls from coworkers, unread messages, and one blinking missed call from his boss. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, I’m so getting fired,” he muttered, running a hand through his mess of hair.
Dragging himself upright like a corpse mid-resurrection, Kuroo shuffled to the kitchen and downed a glass of water. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He wandered to the living room, flopped onto the couch like gravity had personally betrayed him, and groaned into a throw pillow.
His phone buzzed in his hand. He blinked blearily at the screen. Yaku. Of course. He accepted the call with a weak swipe. “Good morning,” came Yaku’s voice, far too cheerful for this hour, or any hour, honestly.
“Not so loud, Yakkun,” Kuroo mumbled, dragging the pillow over his face like it could block out the shame. “My head’s gonna split in half.”
“Serves you right,” Yaku snapped. “Maybe next time you’ll consider drinking less and talking about your sex life less-er.”
“I don’t need a lecture,” Kuroo groaned, flopping deeper into the couch. “Shut up. I missed work. My boss probably hates me. I’m gonna get fired. I’ll be broke. Kenma will leave me. You’ll see me on the sidewalk begging for money, or worse, doing services in the red-light district.”
There was a pause. Then Yaku said, dead serious, “I agree with the part where Kenma leaves you. The rest? Nah. No one’s paying to see you naked, Kuroo.”
“Whatever,” Kuroo muttered, dragging the pillow off his face and staring at the ceiling like it held the will to live. “If you’re just calling to hurt my heart, I’m ending the call. This is emotional abuse.”
“I talked to Kenma last night,” Yaku said casually, like he wasn’t dropping a nuclear bomb onto Kuroo’s morning.
Kuroo shot upright so fast he immediately regretted it, clutching his skull. “What?! Great. Just great, Yakkun. Now he thinks I’m some desperate, pathetic boyfriend who can’t keep his emotions in check. You ruined me, Yakkun!”
“You are a desperate, pathetic boyfriend,” Yaku replied, completely deadpan. “I didn’t ruin you. You came pre-broken, my guy.”
“I’m ending this call,” Kuroo groaned softly, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes. He wanted to cry, not loud, just quiet little sobs that no one could hear. Fuck, he thought, I love him. I love him so fucking much it’s stupid. Maybe he should start googling how to heal a broken heart.
“He’s not cheating on you, Kuroo,” Yaku said firmly, cutting through the spiral like a blade. “Kenma fucking loves you. I don’t know how many more times you need to hear it.”
“How do you know?” Kuroo whispered, voice cracking. His throat was tight, his chest tighter. It felt like breathing hurt. “What if he’s just… tired of me?”
Yaku exhaled slowly, like he was restraining the urge to reach through the phone and shake him. “Kenma shows love differently. Always has. Maybe you’re just too blind, too wrapped up in your own insecurities, to see it.”
Kuroo didn’t respond. The silence on the line stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the soft static of city noise behind Yaku and Kuroo’s shallow breathing. He couldn’t even find the words to argue. Maybe Yaku was right.
“I talked to him,” Yaku continued, his voice quieter now, but firm. “Last night. After I put your drunk ass in a cab. He promised me - promised , Kuroo - that he’s not fucking anyone else. Not thinking about it. Not even tempted.”
Yaku rubbed at his temple like the memory physically pained him. Kenma had been just as emotionally constipated as always. But beneath the sarcasm, Yaku had seen something real, something cracking.
FLASHBACK – NIGHT BEFORE, PHONE CALL
“Kuroo was crying his whole ass off to me,” Yaku had said bluntly, pacing outside in the cold air. “Again.”
Kenma didn’t sound surprised. “What? It’s not like he never cries. You know him, he cried once over that dumb Softlan commercial with the puppy. I was there.”
“I’m not fucking around, Kenma,” Yaku snapped. “Are you cheating? Did you let someone else touch you?”
There was a long pause on the line. Kenma exhaled, slow. “I don’t fucking care if you cheat,” Yaku continued, voice cold now. “But if you made him cry because of it - if you hurt him like that - I’ll make you regret it.”
“Are you threatening me, Yaku-san?” Kenma mocked, voice dripping with that syrupy kind of false sweetness he used when he didn’t want to deal with things.
Yaku didn’t flinch. His voice went cold, icy, clear. “You know me, Kenma. I don’t just go around threatening people. I act when I have to. You’re lucky we’re Nekoma alumni or else…” He let the sentence hang like a blade above silence.
Kenma’s sarcasm faded. He sighed, not defensive, but quieter. “I’m not. I never thought about doing that. Cheating. I wouldn’t.”
“Good.” Yaku said, not softening. “Then do something to reassure him. Kuroo’s not like you. He needs things said. He needs things shown. And he loves you so hard it’s making him dumb.”
Kenma was quiet for a beat before replying, voice lower. “You talk like this is all my fault.”
“It is your fault for not understanding him,” Yaku snapped. “Kuroo gives in on everything when it’s about you. You think I don’t know about your little arrangement? The whole no-moving-in bullshit? He was willing to commute two hours every day if it meant being close to you.”
Kenma stayed silent. There was the faint sound of his fingers tapping against something, nervously. “Is this some kind of lecture?” he finally muttered.
“No,” Yaku bit out. “I hate lectures. Hated them since we were in high school. But I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d be mature enough now to understand him a little better. Fuck, Kenma. That man would die for you. He got shoved in an alley for trying to kiss you and he’s still looking at you like you hung the damn moon.”
“…Did he tell you that?” Kenma asked, his voice lower now. Less mocking.
“He told me everything, Kenma,” Yaku replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the memory still gave him a migraine. “And now he thinks you don’t want his dick anymore. Because, and I swear I’m not making this up, he thinks you met some hot guy. With veins. Don’t ask me what that means. I didn’t ask. I don’t want to know.”
There was a long silence. Then the faintest, “...Veins?”
“I said don’t ask,” Yaku snapped, already regretting every second of this conversation and the fact that he somehow became the designated Nekoma Love Therapist.
There was a stretch of silence. Then, Kenma’s voice came quieter than before. “Lately… some fans have started digging. Looking for my personal info. They know where I study. They figured out where I live.”
Yaku didn’t say anything, just adjusted the phone against his ear and listened. Kenma never offered this kind of stuff unprompted. Not unless it was eating him from the inside.
“I don’t want Kuroo getting tangled in that mess,” Kenma continued, his voice softer. “If someone found out we’re together, really together, I don’t know what they’d do. I don’t want to be… a burden to him.”
Yaku rubbed at his jaw, trying to process it. “So what? You thought hurting him a little now was better than something worse later?”
“Just a few days before I met Kuro,” Kenma sighed, barely audible, “someone took a photo of me with a sponsor, an older woman from the company. It almost went viral. People were accusing me of sleeping with her for deals. She got hit with verbal abuse. My manager had to handle everything.”
“So your plan,” Yaku said dryly, “was to protect Kuroo by making him feel like you don’t love him? To let him spiral into thinking you’re cheating or falling out of love?”
Kenma didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly, “No… I just didn’t want him to get hurt. Not over five seconds of kissing or holding hands. Not if it would blow up into something ugly.” He continued, firmer now. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding weak.”
Yaku let that sit for a moment. Then he exhaled, loud and long. “Oh my god. Both of you are so stupid. You love each other so much it’s turned your brains into mush. You love him that hard, and instead of talking, you’re just hurting each other.”
Kenma made a sound, too close to a cough. “I didn’t say I love him,” he muttered. Yaku could practically hear the blush radiating through the phone, like secondhand embarrassment leeching into the signal.
“I don’t need you to say it. I’ve known since you followed him around like a cat that refused to admit it had a favorite person,” Yaku said, rubbing his temple. “Look. I get it now. Why you act like that. I do. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep using it as a shield. You both need to man the hell up and talk. Like adults. Use words.”
Kenma didn’t answer right away.
“I’m serious,” Yaku added. “Next time either of you vents to me, I’m sending a bill. Therapist rates.”
“I’m rich,” Kenma replied without missing a beat. “I can pay you.”
Yaku stared blankly at the phone. Then, without another word, he ended the call. No goodbye. No reaction. Just dead silence and one internal thought: These two motherfuckers.
END OF FLASHBACK
Back in the present, Yaku rubbed at his temples like the memory itself had cursed him. “I talked to Kenma,” he said into the phone. “So quit spiraling. He’s not going to dump your stupid ass. Not unless I dump it for him.”
Kuroo groaned from the couch. “So I don’t need to work as a service boy at the red-light district anymore?” His voice was deadpan, but the relief was obvious, even behind the joke, there was that quiet thread of hope.
“I’m hanging up,” Yaku muttered, already reaching for the end call button.
He did it with the same cold efficiency he’d used on Kenma the night before.
Moments later, Kuroo’s phone buzzed. A text from Yaku lit up the screen: Just tell your boss I’ll cooperate for the next Russian tournament promo if he doesn’t fire your dramatic ass.
Kuroo stared, blinking, not sure if he should cry or laugh. Probably both.
Another buzz.
Go meet Kenma. Maybe he has something to tell you.
Kuroo exhaled shakily, heart doing that stupid fluttering thing again. He stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering. Then he slowly sat up, eyes still heavy, but suddenly more awake. A little more alive.
Time to find out if Kenma really did have something to say.
That thought felt brave when it lived in a message. But once Kuroo had dragged himself into the bathroom, peeled off the clothes that still reeked of sweat and shame, and stood under the hot spray of the shower… it didn’t feel so brave anymore.
After twenty silent minutes of standing still beneath scalding water, he leaned against the wall, whispering to no one, “Sorry, Yakkun. I don’t think I’m ready. Maybe I’m just not grown up enough to look him in the eyes and not fall apart.”
He dried off slowly, toweling his hair without much care. Everything still felt heavy. Pointless. His steps echoed down the hall as he walked toward his room, barefoot, fogged mirror of his own thoughts still following him like a shadow.
Then he passed it, that framed photo on the wall. The one taken under the cherry blossoms back in high school. A few weeks after his stupid, loud confession. Kuroo had dragged Kenma into that park and demanded a photo “to mark the beginning of their forever.”
Kenma hadn’t smiled big - he never did - but he looked soft, gentle. Kuroo remembered thinking how damn cute he was. And that hadn’t changed. He was still that same boy, still cute, still his, except… maybe not anymore.
Kuroo stopped and touched the edge of the frame, dragging a tired hand down his face. “God, I miss him so much,” he whispered. His voice cracked halfway through, raw and hoarse. “It’s pathetic.”
That night, for the first time in years, neither of them called. No sleepy “goodnight,” no half-laughed teasing. Just silence. A thick, aching silence that wrapped itself around both of them like a second skin they couldn’t peel off.
Kuroo lay on his side in the dark, the only light in the room coming from his phone screen. His thumb hovered above a familiar name: My sulky kitten ❤️. He didn’t press it. Didn’t dare. His chest was too tight for words.
Across the city, Kenma sat hunched at his desk, fingers still on the keys but his eyes locked on the phone resting beside his laptop. It hadn’t buzzed. It didn’t light up. He kept typing. Tried to. Nothing made it past the white screen.
Kuroo closed his eyes. He could still picture the way Kenma looked last week, tired eyes, pale hands, voice low when he said “You’ll live.” Kuroo wasn’t so sure now. Not without him.
“I miss you, Kenma,” Kuroo whispered into the quiet, phone still clutched in his hand like it might crumble.
Kenma leaned back in his chair, staring at the unmoving screen. He wasn’t good at words, not in person, not over text, but in the safety of his room, he let them slip out, quiet as breath. “I miss you, Kuro.”
*****
What Kuroo thought would just be a day of space… turned into a week. And after two days of silence from Kenma, he cracked. Late at night, alone in his room, he started watching old videos, clips of Kenma playing, streaming, smiling.
He could survive this, Kuroo told himself. Maybe. But each second without Kenma’s voice made him feel like he was peeling slowly, layer by layer. Maybe I should come clean , he thought. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he’ll be better off.
“You okay?” one of his coworkers asked, breaking through his thoughts. She leaned over his cubicle wall, concern soft in her eyes. “You don’t look so great today. Maybe take a break? You look like you haven’t slept in… forever.”
Before Kuroo could even mumble a response, another coworker chimed in from behind his monitor. “It’s ‘cause he got in a fight with his boyfriend, isn’t it?”
“Wait, really?” Sara perked up, half-cheerful, half-concerned. “I didn’t even know you two fought. You always look so smug about him.”
“Yeah,” Akito added, half-laughing. “Usually he won’t shut up about him. Every lunch break it’s ‘He’s so cute, he’s so popular, he’s allergic to people but I love him anyway.’ Now? Total silence. Peaceful, actually.”
Kuroo stood up too fast, chair scraping loudly. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered, barely keeping his voice steady. His fingers curled tightly at his sides, like holding himself together by force.
Sara reached out gently, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Maybe we could talk later?” she offered, quietly now. “I know… fights with someone you love can wreck you. Maybe at lunch? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”
Kuroo hesitated. His first instinct was to say no, to keep it all buried. But Yaku was back in Russia, and there was no one else to talk to, no outlet for the pressure in his chest. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Yeah, maybe.”
Later that night, Kuroo returned home with a quiet sigh. He loosened his tie, tossing it onto the back of a chair, and collapsed on the living room couch. His body sank deep into the cushions. The talk with Sara… helped. Not much. But enough to stop the spiral.
He replayed her voice in his head as he stared at the ceiling. “Oh, it’s just a miscommunication then,” she’d said with a laugh. “Usually when my boyfriend and I fight, I sulk and he gives up and calls first. But if I know it’s my fault, I call him.”
“Do I need to call him first?” Kuroo had asked. He sounded tired, even to himself. “I don’t want it to look like it’s all my fault. I don’t know if I can… be the one to bend first. Again.”
Sara’s voice was kind, but firm. “Relationships aren’t about keeping score, Kuroo. It’s not about who’s wrong. It’s about what you’re willing to give, and what you’re willing to take in return. If you both wait, you both lose.”
He blinked, but she didn’t stop there. She leaned in slightly, voice lower. “You said he’s not good at showing emotion, right? That he gets quiet, withdrawn? Then imagine how cruel it must feel -for someone like that - to be met with silence when he’s already drowning in his own head. You think that’s fair?”
Sara’s voice still echoed in his head now, sprawled on the couch. “He might be sitting somewhere thinking this is all his fault, just like you are. And both of you are waiting on the other to break.”
Kuroo turned his head toward the photo on the wall, the cherry blossoms again, Kenma’s soft, awkward smile. He closed his eyes and let the weight of missing him settle over everything.
He didn’t know exactly when he fell asleep, just that his limbs had gone heavy and the silence had felt too thick to stay awake in. When he opened his eyes again, the room was dim, swallowed in the hush of early evening. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “I fell asleep.”
Dragging a hand through his messy hair, Kuroo stood and stretched, his body stiff with sleep and exhaustion. He made his way toward the kitchen, rubbing at his face, and reached for a glass of water, until something caught his eye, a neatly packed container, still warm against the glass surface. He blinked. He didn’t remember ordering anything.
His breath caught as he stepped closer. On top of it, tucked just under the plastic lid, was a small card, simple, like something torn from a notebook. Kenma’s scrawl. Barely legible. Rushed.
Eat this. Don’t sleep without taking a bath.
—Kenma
There was more, something scribbled out messily under the last sentence. Kuroo held it under the kitchen light, squinting. The crossed-out words were nearly illegible, but underneath them, just barely legible, was one final line.
Take care.
Kuroo stared at it for a long time, fingers gripping the paper like it might disappear if he let go. His throat tightened again, the weight of it all sitting heavy in his chest. Kenma had been here.
The food was still warm. Which meant, Kenma hadn’t been gone long. Might still be here. Kuroo’s breath hitched, and without thinking, he spun around and ran toward the front door, yanking it open so hard it bounced back against the frame.
He bolted into the hallway, heart racing, feet pounding the floor as he reached the elevator. He slammed the button for “down,” jabbing it over and over like it might make the lift arrive faster. Please, he begged under his breath. Please be there. Please still be here.
The elevator opened with a soft ding that felt too slow, too late, even though he only lived on the fifth floor. Every second inside the lift stretched like agony, the descent feeling like hours instead of seconds. Kuroo bounced on his heels, restless.
As soon as the doors parted, he burst out, too fast to stop himself. He collided into someone with a muttered, breathless, “Sorry,” not even glancing back before sprinting toward the front lobby, toward the doors, toward him.
There, by the bus stop just across the street. Kenma stood with his back half-turned, hoodie up, a bag slung over one shoulder. He stared at his phone, thumbs idly scrolling. He looked calm. Small. So fucking real.
Kuroo’s feet slowed without meaning to. His chest rose and fell in heavy gulps. He’s here. After everything… Kenma’s right there. So many things rushed through his head, what do I say, how do I start?
Then Sara’s voice echoed in his mind: If you both wait, you both lose.
Kuroo’s breath hitched.
“…KENMA!!!”
Kenma looked up, startled. His eyes widened when he saw Kuroo sprinting across the pavement, hair tousled, white button-up wrinkled, sleeves messily rolled to his arms. He looked like a wreck. A breathtaking wreck. Kenma’s cheeks flushed, and he quickly looked away.
“Kenma!” Kuroo shouted again, louder this time, like he couldn’t believe he was real. Kenma’s gaze flicked back and, oh god, Kuroo wasn’t even wearing shoes. Just socks on cold pavement. Kenma shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket and frowned.
When Kuroo finally reached him, chest heaving, Kenma muttered, “Don’t shout my name, idiot. I heard you the first time.” His tone was flat, but his hands were clenched tight in his sleeves to stop the shaking.
Kuroo didn’t say anything back, he just grabbed Kenma’s wrist and pulled him close, wrapping both arms around him like he might fall apart if he let go. “Kenma,” he whispered, breath hitching. “Kenma… you’re here. You’re really here.”
Kenma froze. He should’ve pushed Kuroo away. Should’ve remembered the people passing by, the curious glances, the phone cameras. But instead… he leaned in. Slowly, softly. He missed this. Missed Kuroo’s warmth, his smell, the rise and fall of his chest. Missed him.
Then, suddenly, Kuroo pulled back. His arms dropped. He took a small step away, eyes filled with panic. “I…I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have done that. Not here. I forgot you don’t like…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Kenma looked down at his feet, lashes casting long shadows across his cheeks. Kuroo’s voice, uncertain, hesitant, felt like a punch to the chest. He made Kuroo like this. Made him second-guess every touch, every word. “It’s okay,” Kenma muttered, barely above a whisper.
Kuroo took a shaky breath, voice cracking as the questions tumbled out. “How… how did you get here? When did you come? Why didn’t you call me…” He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth shut, the weight of his own silence crashing down. You didn’t call him either , his mind screamed. Not once this week. And Kenma - Kenma - was the one who came anyway.
Kenma shows love differently . Yaku’s voice cut through his thoughts. Maybe you’re just too blind to see it.
Then Sara’s words echoed, clear as a bell. How cruel it must feel - for someone like that - to be met with silence when he’s already drowning in his own head.
“Hey!” a voice suddenly shouted from across the street. “Isn’t that Kodzuken? The streamer guy?”
Another voice chimed in, too loud, too close. “Yeah, that’s totally him! He’s even cuter in real life! Who’s that with him, wait, is that his boyfriend? Damn, looks like some salaryman, probably another rich sponsor he’s fucking.”
Phones came out. Screens lit up. Camera shutters clicked in rapid bursts. The air shifted, curiosity becoming invasion, fascination turning into something meaner.
Kenma’s shoulders stiffened as he pulled his cap down low, trying to shield his face. His fingers trembled as he tucked them into his sleeves, chest rising faster.
Kuroo didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, gripped Kenma’s wrist, and ducked his body protectively. “Let’s go back inside,” he said, his voice sharp, protective, urgent. “Now.”
They burst into Kuroo’s apartment, the door slamming shut behind them. Both of them stood in the entryway, breath coming fast, shoulders rising and falling in rhythm. Kuroo let go of Kenma’s hand carefully, his own fingers tingling. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now.
Kenma didn’t answer right away. His eyes were wide, hands trembling. His body looked still, but his breath gave him away. Kuroo stepped closer. “Hey,” he said softly, “we’re already inside. No one’s coming in. I’ll call the front desk, tell them not to let anyone up unless they live here.”
“I’m okay,” Kenma muttered, but the shake in his voice said otherwise. He was already pulling out his phone, fingers fumbling against the screen. “I’ll talk to my manager. I need him to kill that footage. This can’t spread. He’ll…he’ll know what to do…”
But in his head, the panic loop had already started. They got Kuro’s face. It’s already out there. He’ll go viral. They’ll figure out who Kuro is. They’ll harass him. I made him a target. I made this worse . Kenma thought, breath catching.
His fingers slipped again on the glass, unable to even tap the right name. Kuroo stepped in, gently but firmly taking the phone from his hand. “Hey, hey. Let’s calm down first,” he said, eyes steady. “Breathe, Kenma. Please. Just… sit with me, okay?”
Once Kuroo made sure Kenma was breathing steady again and had sunk into the couch, he moved toward the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, steady hands hiding the ache in his chest. He returned and crouched slightly, offering it to him.
“Drink this first,” Kuroo said gently. “I’ll call your manager, okay?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just gave a reassuring squeeze to Kenma’s knee and disappeared behind the bedroom door, phone in hand and concern written in every line of his back.
Kenma stared at the wall, unfocused. The glass trembled slightly in his hand as he took a small sip before setting it down on the table. His fingers lingered on the rim, but his thoughts were elsewhere—back in his studio, four days ago, pacing in circles as the silence clawed at him.
He thought he could handle it. The distance. The quiet. He’d lived his whole life guarded, untouched. But after just two days, he couldn’t stop hearing Kuroo’s voice in his head. His laugh, his teasing, the way he always said “I love you” like it was the easiest thing in the world. And now that silence—their silence—had become unbearable.
Kenma had told himself it was fine. That he just needed space. That maybe Kuroo would reach out first. But each day without him gnawed deeper, more than he expected. Kuroo didn’t just take up space in his life, he consumed it, quietly filling every corner of his thoughts.
Then, he wasn’t even sure how or when, it happened. His last class ended early, and instead of going home, he found himself at the train station. Just moving on instinct. It was already dark when he arrived in Kuroo’s city, air cold and biting.
Without thinking, Kenma stopped by Kuroo’s favorite restaurant. The usual place. The one with the perfectly grilled salted mackerel pike he always complained was “too good for his salary.” He waited for the takeout, heart thudding too loud, then carried the bag like it meant something.
When he reached the apartment - key in hand, security card flashing green - he stepped inside quietly, not sure what he expected. What he found was Kuroo, asleep on the couch. One arm draped off the side, hair a mess, his face drawn with exhaustion and dark shadows under his eyes.
Kenma crouched beside him, breath soft. He reached out and brushed Kuroo’s hair lightly, fingers barely grazing his forehead. “You stupid idiot,” he whispered. “How dare you not call me even once... and when I do come, you’re just sleeping like nothing happened.”
He padded into the kitchen and placed the food container on the counter. Then he tore a page from his notebook, chewing the end of the pen before scribbling something down. Take care. He stared at it, then immediately scratched it out, blushing hard.
I don’t want to look desperate, he thought, heart racing. Instead, he wrote: Please eat this. Don’t sleep without taking a bath. It was simple. Neutral. Safe. But his heart still hammered like he’d confessed everything.
As quietly as he had entered, Kenma slipped out again. No noise, no door slam. Just gone. He didn’t expect anything. He didn’t even expect Kuroo to wake up. He certainly didn’t expect Kuroo chasing after him.
Ten minutes later, Kuroo returned, voice soft as he crouched in front of him. “I talked to your manager. He said you don’t have to worry. He’s already on it, no videos, no tags, nothing’ll stay up longer than five minutes.”
Kuroo reached forward, fingers slipping under the brim of Kenma’s cap. He pulled it off gently, brushing hair from Kenma’s face. “Let me see you properly,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I missed you.”
Kenma’s mouth trembled as his eyes locked onto Kuroo’s face, red eyes, tired smile, still so full of love. Without thinking, without a word, he wrapped his arms around Kuroo’s waist and buried his face against his chest. “I missed you more,” he whispered.
Kuroo kissed the top of Kenma’s head, his lips lingering there like he wanted to imprint his apology into Kenma’s skin. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Kenma. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. For forcing things you weren’t ready for.”
His hand curled at the back of Kenma’s hoodie, voice getting lower, more broken. “I’m sorry… for being greedy. I missed you so much I forgot how to wait. I didn’t mean to push you. I just… needed you. Too much, maybe.”
Kenma looked up, blinking back the tears that had been building for days. His eyes were red, lashes wet, mouth trembling as he spoke. “No,” he whispered, breath shallow. “I’m sorry. For not understanding you. For never asking what you needed. I was scared, and I took it out on you.”
He lowered his gaze for a moment before adding, even softer, “I was selfish. I thought I could love you without changing. But I never thought about what loving you should look like.”
Kuroo reached out and tilted Kenma’s chin gently, coaxing his gaze back up. “Kenma,” he whispered, voice heavy with everything he didn’t know how to say. Then he leaned in and kissed him, sweet and slow, like it mattered, like it was their first time all over again.
His hands came up to cradle Kenma’s face, thumbs brushing beneath damp eyes. “God, I love you so much,” he breathed against his lips, forehead pressed to his. His voice trembled, almost a confession, almost a prayer.
Before Kenma could answer, Kuroo kissed him again, deeper this time. Kenma’s hands clutched at Kuroo’s shirt, desperate to anchor himself, to pull Kuroo closer. Their mouths moved with aching familiarity, every brush of lips soaked in everything they had been holding back.
That night, when Kuroo buried himself deep inside Kenma, it was more than longing. It was an apology carved in touch. A release of all the silence, all the words they couldn't find, all the fear wrapped around their hearts.
Their bodies moved in slow, aching thrusts, hips pressing together like they were trying to memorize the shape of each other all over again. Kuroo’s hands gripped Kenma’s waist, fingers digging in, guiding him gently but with a need that pulsed just beneath the surface.
Between gasps and gentle moans, Kuroo whispered I love you like a mantra, and Kenma, trembling beneath him, whispered it back, not just once, but over and over, like he finally understood what it meant to give himself without fear.
When Kenma came, his whole body trembled as he buried his face against Kuroo’s neck, muffling his moan with Kuroo’s name - broken, breathless, desperate. Kuroo kissed him again and again, anywhere he could reach - his jaw, his shoulder, his mouth - whispering “You’re perfect,” “So good,” “I love you so much.”And Kenma melted into it, into him, because those were the words he didn’t know he’d been starving for.
The next morning, Kenma woke first. The sunlight filtering through the curtains painted soft gold across the bed, catching in Kuroo’s hair. Kenma sat up slowly, careful not to wake him, and glanced down at the man beside him.
Kuroo was sleeping on his stomach, one arm folded under the pillow, the other stretched toward Kenma’s side of the bed. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, his face still holding the remnants of a week’s worth of worry. Kenma smiled softly.
He slid out of bed without a sound, padded barefoot to the bathroom, and washed his face with cool water. His reflection looked less tired now. Lighter. Maybe not whole, but healing. He ran a hand through his hair, then stepped into the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional sizzle of eggs in the pan. Kenma moved carefully, his sleeves rolled up, spatula in hand as he flipped one egg, then started on the toast.
Back in the bedroom, Kuroo stirred at the absence beside him. He reached blindly across the bed, fingers grazing cold sheets. His eyes snapped open. “Kenma?” he called, sitting up fast. “Kenma?!”
A moment later, Kenma rushed into the doorway, breathless and irritated, a spatula raised in one hand. “What?!” he snapped. “Did you burn something in your dream?”
Kuroo stared for a second, then exhaled with a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “God. I thought you left.”
Kenma’s scowl softened. His voice lowered as he stood there in the doorway, barefoot in Kuroo’s oversized shirt, spatula still in hand. “I’m still here.”
Kuroo let out a shaky breath, one hand pressed over his chest like he needed to physically hold his heart together. He smiled, quiet, genuine. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I was afraid last night was just a dream.”
Kenma rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “You and your dramatic ass.” But his voice wasn’t biting, it was fond, even a little shy. “Come on. Let’s eat before the eggs burn.”
“Call me whatever you want,” Kuroo said as he stood and stretched, walking toward him with a lazy grin, “but last night you were the one moaning my name so loud I’m afraid the neighbors…”
He didn’t get to finish. Kenma’s face flushed violently red and he hurled the spatula with surprising speed. “SHUT UP!!” he shouted, voice cracking somewhere between fury and humiliation.
Kuroo dodged the utensil like a pro, then doubled over in laughter, wiping at his eyes. God, I missed this , he thought, heart swelling. I missed him. They were back, not exactly the same, maybe something even better. Warmer. Closer. Realer.
*****
“Are you sure you don’t want me to send you home?” Kuroo asked as they walked side by side, their steps slow, stretched out like neither of them wanted to reach the station too quickly.
“For the hundredth time, yes, Kuro,” Kenma replied with a flat tone. “It’s not like I’ve never gone home alone before.” He adjusted the strap of his bag and didn’t even look up.
After they finished breakfast together, simple, quiet, full of soft glances and casual touches, Kenma had announced he needed to get back to his studio apartment. He had class that afternoon. Kuroo had taken the day off, refusing to do anything but follow Kenma around like a lovesick idiot.
“Or,” Kuroo grinned, leaning in closer, “you could, you know… not go. Skip class. Stay here. Cuddle. Possibly make out. I’m just saying, it’s an option.”
Kenma gave him a side-eye that could kill. “Wow. Look at you. Weren’t you the one always telling me to study hard and be a good boy? And now you're telling me to ditch?”
“Just for today,” Kuroo said with a slight whine. “One tiny, rebellious day.”
Kenma rolled his eyes. “No.” But inside, the temptation was dangerous. He loved Kuroo too much, and if he gave in now, if he spoiled him once, it’d be too easy to do it again. And again. And again.
Kuroo grinned and reached out to pinch Kenma’s cheek, but Kenma immediately slapped his hand away, not hard, more like a reflex. “Okay, okay, exemplary student,” Kuroo chuckled, raising both hands in surrender.
They were nearing the station when Kuroo suddenly felt the brush of fingers against his. At first, he thought it was accidental. He glanced down, and there it was, Kenma’s little finger, hooking around his. Just a pinky.
He looked up quickly, but Kenma was already looking away, face tilted to the side, and beneath his cap, his ears turned an unmistakable shade of red. It spread slowly, crawling across his cheeks like a secret he didn’t want caught.
Kuroo didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. This was Kenma trying, in his own way. Quietly, awkwardly, honestly. Kenma wasn’t good with words, or affection, not in the way Kuroo was. But this was something. This was his language.
So Kuroo gave his pinky a tiny squeeze.
Just enough to say, I know.