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Kenma didn't particularly like gatherings such as this one: loud, crowded, chaotic… most importantly, loud. Where Shouyou matched whoever he was with, Bokuto challenged everyone around him to match his crazy energy, which meant there was at least double the Bokuto in the room, and while Kenma could tolerate it for a while, he was not a huge fan. Still, he missed Shouyou, and it was the only time he could see him, so he came. It wasn't that bad, until the drunken singing competition started, and even then, he managed to tune them out, mostly. Curled up in the corner of the booth, his hood up and his hair down, he could focus well enough to relegate the loud duo to background noise.
"You haven’t changed much." Kuro's quiet voice easily cut through whatever mental shields against noise he put up, though. Somehow, it always did, like Kuro had a direct line to his brain. "Kind of impressive, honestly. Not even Bokuto at full volume can break that forcefield of yours."
"You just did," Kenma noted neutrally, his fingers pausing for a second before resuming his movement. He didn't expect Kuro to speak to him, but it didn't mean he wasn't aware of him — sitting on the other side of the couch for the last fifteen minutes or so. It was an odd kind of awareness, with the old familiar comfort of it overlapping with the painful dissonance because they didn't do this anymore. He didn't have this anymore. Didn't have Kuro by his side to smirk at him, and poke at him, and be curious, and steady and there.
Maybe he shouldn't have come. He knew Bokuto would invite Kuro. He wasn't sure Kuro would indulge Bokuto, but he definitely knew it was a possibility. He knew it would be awkward to be in the same room again after years of only waving hello in passing when they both happened to visit their parents at the same time. But the urge to see him was stronger. Besides, he missed Shouyou - even if his friend was now enthusiastically yelling his lungs out, drunk and off-key.
"At least they are consistent," he added. "I’m treating it as a soundtrack."
He didn't look up as he said it. Didn't dare to. It felt safer like this - if he didn't acknowledge it was Kuro talking to him, maybe Kuro wouldn't remember they didn't talk anymore.
He heard Kuro’s soft snort. It sounded closer now. Kuro must have at least turned in his direction if not leaned closer.
"Consistently bad, you mean. Are you playing a horror game, or something?"
"Of sorts," Kenma replied, amused at the thought.
It felt comfortable - talking to Kuro like this, the way they did a million times before, his large lanky shape next to Kenma... not nearly as close now as it used to be. He felt a short pang of regret about that, frowning at his phone.
And then promptly lost the game, because suddenly Kuro was right there, looking over his shoulder, and what the fuck?
"Oh, I see, that kind of horror," Kuro snorted again before shifting away. He remained closer now, though. Half the distance. Not as looming, but still enough to short-circuit Kenma’s brain.
He restarted the classic snake game automatically and immediately lost again for the exact same reason: he was staring through the screen, shot sharply out of balance first by the proximity and then by the familiar teasing. They didn't do it anymore, not really — not since Kuro told him he loved him, heard a "no" and then pulled back faster than Kenma could process it properly. They still were friends after that — Kuro said they would be, and Kenma trusted at the time that nothing could change that. But the shape of their friendship changed sharply, morphed into something a bit more careful, a bit more distant, until it was barely there at all. Until they never talked anymore.
Except, today they did. Kenma chanced a glance and quickly averted his eyes after discovering that Kuro was looking at him, thoughtful, and drunk, and something else — something Kenma might have been able to decipher if he examined it long enough.
"It’s a good distraction," he said instead, starting the game once more. The tiny snake, boxed into a small field, needed only to eat the fruit placed in front of her and avoid running into walls or her own tail. It was harder than it looked. He could relate.
"Yeah," he heard Kuro say, "not exactly your scene, is it. Why’d you even come?"
Again, something in his voice that Kenma couldn’t decipher. Not with all the noise around them: the voices, the music, the clinking of glasses, the laughter. Shouyou and Bokuto moved from a bad rendition of "A Cruel Angel’s Thesis’ to an equally bad attempt at the 'Final countdown'. Old Karasuno’s captain was droning about something a few meters away. Akaashi was sighing with his whole body every time Bokuto shook his fist to the ceiling.
Kuro moved closer again, put a hand on his shoulder, and Kenma looked up at him, startled.
"Do you hate it this much?" he asked, and now Kenma could hear it — a mix of sadness and annoyance. And then, "Made you look, at least. Thought you were set on pretending I’m not even here."
Kenma frowned, confused and uncomfortable under the attention. Kuro never looked at him like this before: bitter, disappointed… mean. Not even back then, when Kenma said he wasn’t in love with him. Back then there was still fondness mixed in with all the hurt. This, though, now… it made him want to hide. He shifted back, deeper into the couch, and Kuro noticed. Dropped his hand, scoffed, and moved away as well. He was no longer looking at Kenma. It was somehow worse. He managed to hurt Kuro again, and he didn’t quite understand how or why.
"I’m not pretending you are not here," Kenma offered quietly from his corner. "It’s just… hard. To look at you."
"Fuck you, Kenma," Kuro grumbled. "I’m not that hard on the eyes."
"Which is exactly the problem," Kenma admitted and then met Kuro’s confused eyes. It was weird, the way Kuro did not understand him anymore. It used to be, they didn’t need many words between them to be on the same page. Now it was like they were in different sections of the bookstore.
"We are not friends anymore," he forced himself to admit. "I probably won’t see you again for months after this night."
"You don’t have to see me at all," Kuro said, sounding tired. Defeated. Kenma put his phone down. Shifted closer, uncurling a bit. This was important.
"No," he said firmly. "Kuro, listen. I’m not saying I don’t want to. I’m saying it’s hard enough to manage without the reminders of… well. This."
He swallowed, averting his eyes again. It was clear Kuro still didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, but Kenma didn’t know if he could survive explaining it further. 'This' meaning the way they used to be. The way Kuro still affected him. The way his teenage self screwed up and ruined the most important relationship he ever had.
"I can’t pretend everything is as it used to be," he finished quietly, barely audible over the noise, "when I know it isn’t."
The silence stretched between them thick and heavy, and Kenma was forced to look up again, eventually. Only to realize he didn’t make it better. He made it, possibly, worse, if Kuro’s face was anything to go by. Maybe, it couldn’t be made better anymore. Maybe, some things could only get worse.
"Kuro," he tried, hesitantly.
Kenma wanted to touch him. To curl up next to him, and shove a spare controller into his hands and play next to him, until they could find a connection again, like when they were kids, and Kuro first started coming to his house — somehow even more shy and awkward than Kenma was. He wanted to ask, whether Kuro still cared to connect with him at all. Ask, why did he talk to him today. Why was he looking at him like that — as if Kenma refusing to maintain the illusion without patching up what was broken was somehow another blow.
"I understand," Kuro said finally, and it didn’t sound like he understood at all, because if he did, why was he still looking like this? Kenma dug his fingers into the meat of his leg to keep them from reaching out. "You want it to be like before. Like I haven’t made a fool of myself."
"You didn’t—"
"Well, too bad, Kenma," Kuro interrupted, not listening. He raised his voice too, now, angry, and hurt, and cruel. "Because I can’t just erase that. So if the only version of me you’re okay with is the one who never said anything at all—then yeah. I guess this is it. You can go back to your games and comic books and whatever else you use to hide in these days, and I promise I won’t fucking bother you anymore!"
Kenma could only look at him, the words in his throat pressed down by the force of Kuro’s anger. And it’s not like he hasn’t been yelled at before. It’s not like he couldn’t handle it. It’s just that Kuro never got angry at him like that. Never misunderstood him to a point where everything seemed upside down and inside out. Never threatened to disappear completely and certainly never attacked who Kenma was. That last part wasn’t even upsetting, it was just dumb.
"You like comic books and games too," was the only thing he managed to say at first, and it must have been the wrong thing to say, because Kuro only looked angrier.
"You don’t have to erase anything," Kenma forced out, hoping to explain, only to bump into Kuro’s mocking "Why, thank you for the permission" that left him struggling to continue.
"Hey, everything alright?" Shouyou’s voice chipped in from the side, and the next moment a warm familiar weight was pressing into Kenma’s side, a hand — gently uncurling his fingers from where he was still clutching at his leg. He didn’t even notice until Shouyou made him let go, that the booth was semi-surrounded by worried faces and tense awkward silence now.
"Peachy," Kuro replied for both of them, grinning in that artificial unpleasant way that usually made people think twice before pushing for another answer. "Just wrapping up the happy reunion."
Kenma flinched, looking away. This was too much: everyone looking at them, at him, expecting some kind of explanation, or resolution, or whatever else, Kenma had no idea. On top of Kuro spitting nonsense and making it clear he was utterly devoted to it, it was too much. He couldn’t even begin to explain Kuro misunderstood — not when Kuro wouldn’t listen.
He heard Bokuto’s rumbling voice met with Kuro’s sharp replies, and someone else trying to tell everyone to calm down, but he wasn’t focusing. He found his phone by feel, stuck it into a pocket of his hoodie, and shifted to get the hell out. Except Shouyou was still sitting between him and the exit, and he was still drunk, and confused, and worried.
"You okay?" he asked, and Kenma hesitated a moment before shaking his head.
"I’m just gonna go home."
"But I barely saw you today," Shouyou pouted, throwing an arm over his shoulders and stubbornly blocking the way. He looked at Kenma, then in the direction where Kuro was still trying to bullshit his way out of the situation, and back at Kenma — sharper now. More aware. "What did he do now?"
"The fuck does that mean?"
Kenma’s head snapped back towards Kuro, who was snarling again, this time at Shouyou. Kenma watched his eyes take them in and narrow.
"Are you the new best friend now, shrimpy? Picked up right where I left off, I see."
Shouyou tensed at his side, but Kuro was already moving on, glaring at Kenma now, ignoring the shocked silence around them.
"That’s all it took, huh? Me walking away once, and you let someone else just step in? Guess you just needed someone to fill the role, and it didn’t matter much who you stuck into it."
Kenma was still too shocked by everything to move in time. He heard, distantly, Bokuto’s shocked "What the fuck, bro?" and then felt Shouyou's weight shift.
And then Kenma watched him jump across the table and land a solid punch on Kuro's face. The room exploded into a very different kind of chaos then, with Bokuto ending up holding Kuro back while Daichi and Tanaka wrangled Shouyou away from him. Kenma wanted to disappear; it was too much, and he didn't even know whether he was horrified, grieving, guilty, or just numb.
Someone pulled at him, attracting his attention. It was Karasuno's other setter, Sugawara. He smiled gently at Kenma before sitting next to him.
"I don't know what just happened," he said, "but I know Hinata. And I know he isn’t anyone’s replacement. Kuroo-san must know it too, on some level. And Hinata definitely knows better than hitting people. I bet this would all be resolved once everyone is sober and had time to think."
Kenma curled in on himself. Guilty. 'Guilty' was definitely what he was feeling now.
"It's my fault," he said. "Shouyou just..."
He couldn't say "overreacted." Shouyou understood everything perfectly well. He just didn't care whose fault it was originally. He took Kenma's side regardless.
"I'm sorry. I should go." He got up and moved to finally leave this place. Sugawara watched him go, but he didn’t try to stop him.
Kenma walked mindlessly through the bleak post-apocalyptic scenery overlayed over the once familiar quiet streets. It seemed fitting, and it was better — easier — to focus on the monsters lying in ambush and the dangers hiding in the shadows than to think about the way Kuro lashed out at him… did he really believe Kenma just replaced him? That he didn’t care? That Kuro didn’t split his world in half when he walked away?
He stopped, the illusion falling off once he was at the bus stop. Sat down, letting his eyes find a spot on the ground that seemed neutral enough to stare into. Neutral was good. Quiet was good. He was finally able to think clearly. To go, step by careful step, all the way back to Kuro’s 'You haven’t changed much.' To set aside his own side of the story and reconstruct the other one from Kuro’s angry accusations.
He wasn’t good at this. He was never good at this — the way people fell into their heads and emoted and expected everyone to just magically know what the hell was going on inside of them… but he was once good at reading Kuro. Right until he missed something so important that it tore them apart. Although he wasn’t sure anymore whether it was Kuro’s hopeful confession or the way Kenma let him walk away. He thought he was doing the right thing at the time. That he didn’t have the right to hold onto Kuro, ask for his presence when he was clearly pulling away to protect himself — not after hurting him. He thought, later, once he sorted out the truth about his own feelings, that he didn’t have the right to demand to be let back in when Kuro had already moved on.
Now, it seemed that he was wrong both times, and he only hurt Kuro more. Kept doing it today, because clearly, Kuro was still hurt. Clearly, Kuro got it into his head that Kenma didn’t want to be by his side after learning about his feelings. It was dumb, and ridiculous, and he should have still realized it years earlier, before it was too late.
He didn't know how long he sat there, caught in his own thoughts and rehearsing explanations and apologies — because he owed Kuro both, even if it wouldn’t change anything at this point — before a familiar lanky figure blocked the light.
"They don't have buses here after ten anymore," Kuro said before sitting down next to him.
"I'm sorry," Kenma said, not looking at Kuro.
He didn't clarify what for. For everything. For getting Kuro attacked. For saying he didn't love him only to realize later that he very much did. For not reaching out once he knew. For thinking he was the only one still hurting years later. Kuro didn’t say anything in response, but he was here. He was listening. Kenma wasn’t even questioning how that came to be; he was just using the chance he didn’t think he’d have today.
"It wasn't like that. Shouyou didn't take your place, nobody did. Nobody could."
He paused and braved a glance at Kuro. Kuro wasn’t looking at him; he was staring into the distance, elbows pushing into knees and back hunched. He looked tired. There was a bruise forming on the side of his face and dried-up blood on his bottom lip.
"I didn’t want anyone to replace you," Kenma added softly, carefully, hoping he won’t be shot down this time. That he’ll say it right for once. "You are a part of who I am, Kuro. I miss you. Letting you walk away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I never wanted that."
He saw Kuro exhale, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and then slowly look up.
"Why then?" he asked. "You gotta help me out here, Kenma, because I walked away from you thinking it was so I wouldn’t burden you with my feelings, and maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I just couldn’t handle being right next to you when you didn’t need me the way I needed you. But you let me."
"I’m sorry," Kenma said again. "I just thought…" he looked away for a moment then met Kuro’s waiting eyes again. "I knew that if I asked you to stay, you would, for me. And you would be miserable. I couldn’t do that to you, not after I already hurt you. You pulled away, so I thought that was what you needed to feel better. What right did I have to take that away."
"Fucking hell, Kenma," Kuro muttered, but he didn’t sound angry this time. Just sad.
"I thought you’d get over me and maybe we could be friends again. I thought you’d come back eventually. But you didn’t," Kenma added, the old ache showing in his voice. It wasn’t the whole truth, but the whole truth had the potential to only make it worse.
"Because I didn’t," Kuro said after a long moment, quiet and careful in a way Kenma hadn’t heard him speak in years. "Get over you."
"You didn’t?" Kenma echoed, shocked into a full stop on all his thinking processes only to speed up right after. Because, what?
"Nah," Kuro replied, leaning back onto the bench and looking up. He sounded resigned, and darkly amused, and raw. "Not for the lack of trying, either. I guess I’m just dumb that way."
"I love you," Kenma said, the words heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue. He felt sick to his bones, like he couldn’t breathe. Like one wrong move would leave him heaving on the asphalt.
Kuro turned his head to stare at him, wide-eyed and unguarded.
"I love you, Kuro," Kenma repeated quietly. "Is that okay?"
"Since when? What are you…"
Kuro got up in one fluid motion, ruffled his hair, paced a few times in a tight circle before the bench, and then turned again to look at Kenma.
"You love me?" he echoed weakly. Kenma nodded. Kuro stared at him in disbelief. "You don’t just say shit like that out of nowhere and then nod. Explain."
And finally — finally! — Kenma knew what was hiding in that one-word question, all the "why"s and "how"s and "what the hell"s. Finally they were at least in the same book. Because Kuro wasn’t over him, which meant that maybe there was still a chance, and he just needed to not screw up that chance, and Kenma silently promised himself that he won’t let Kuro walk away this time - at least not until he is absolutely sure they both know exactly what the other thinks and feels.
"When you said you were in love with me," Kenma started, "remember what I said, exactly?"
"That you didn’t feel that way," Kuro replied immediately, wincing.
"I also said I didn’t think it was something I’d feel, because it just didn’t seem like my thing." Kenma amended. Kuro nodded. "I thought I was perfectly happy with you just being my friend. Nothing was missing, you know? It was already perfect. And love is something that makes you want… things."
"Things?" Kuro echoed quietly, but he didn’t interrupt otherwise. He sat back down, watching Kenma carefully, seriously. Kenma nodded and looked away, uncomfortable under the intensity of it all.
"I wasn’t sure what specifically, but it didn’t matter, because I really didn’t feel like I wanted anything else. But then you walked away, and I came to realize…"
He felt himself blushing — now, somehow. Not when confessing his feelings earlier, not when explaining why he let Kuro down. Now.
"I didn’t want anything because I already had everything. With you."
He forced himself to meet and hold Kuro’s gaze. He thought, Kuro probably already knew what he was saying, but he needed to say it anyway, to even begin making up for all the times when he stayed quiet and let things spiral out of control.
"I loved you already, Kuro. It just took me losing you entirely to realize it. I’m sorry."
Kuro kept staring at him silently. It was getting unnerving.
"Are you going to say anything?" Kenma asked, quietly.
"Why," Kuro said, "didn’t you tell me before? I spent years thinking you just flipped the page and moved on."
"I thought you didn’t want me in your life at that point." Kenma sighed, annoyed at himself. "I wasn’t your problem anymore."
"You were never a problem, Kenma."
"Of course I was. You spent half of your time in high school looking after me."
"I never minded."
Kenma looked down, hiding the smile that tugged gently at the corners of his lips. He felt, more than saw, Kuro moving closer to him on the bench. Definitely felt it when Kuro reached out and pulled him closer still, turning them face to face and hooking a finger under his chin to tilt it up.
"So," he said, "you love me, huh? Even after all the shit I laid on you today?"
"Some of it was pretty dumb," Kenma replied, sounding way too calm for how he felt. "But yeah. Even after that. And you?"
"Yeah," Kuro said and smiled, really smiled at him for the first time that evening. For the first time in years, actually. "Yeah, I love you too. And I’m sorry. For the dumb shit today."
Kenma reached out to trace gently at the bruise on Kuro’s face.
"I’d say you paid for that already."
"You don’t know the half of it," Kuro grumbled, getting Kenma curious for a moment, but then he smiled again, and this time Kenma felt it against his fingers. "Can I kiss you? Is that one of the things you decided you wanted?"
Kenma kissed him first.