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The Novotel Paris Porte de Versailles is an affront to modernist architecture, all jagged edges and white lights, its exterior a mosaic of periwinkle paint and reflective blue-greys. The hotel’s quick wifi and adjacency to Paris Expo make it a prime location for the JVA to house their staff during the Summer Olympics; Kuroo is willing to put up with the hordes of tourists at their doorstep in exchange for the rooftop views and hotel bar. He shifts uncomfortably on a wicker stool, hunched over his laptop as he reviews his flooded email inbox: the usual bombardment from his management and the press. Kuroo looks up at the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose.
This bar, Kuroo concludes, must have been designed by a millennial trapped in the early 2010s, armed with a Pinterest login and a penchant for pendant lights. They dangle over Kuroo like hundreds of little guillotines, each and every one a reminder of his overdue Asana tasks and pending press deadlines. Watching both the Japanese men’s and women’s teams lose their first games has done additional wonders for Kuroo’s morale, and he longs to be as drunk as the insufferable American tourists behind him.
He sighs, takes a sip of his Heineken, and begins an email response.
Paris is a magical city, his mother told him as a child. Its charm is captured in its rambling roads, the essence of romantic love enmeshed into the fabric weaving the Métro’s web. She could have been right. Kuroo wouldn’t know–he arrived in Paris about five days ago, but he’s barely had time to enjoy it. The Novotel’s as nice a hotel as any, but Kuroo’s used to nice hotels. He’s accustomed to the transience of a home for a night, a place to temporarily rest his head; meanwhile, Kuroo’s never seen Paris. A whole city sprawls the streets ahead of him, and here Kuroo is, responding to requests for interviews and making TikToks about viral Olympic muffins. Maybe he could go outside to see the city more, but... as Kai told Kuroo, he’s married to the job. “I’ve heard that before” is Kuroo’s stock response.
Besides, Kuroo’s at the Olympics. Work or no work, teenage Kuroo would have been wide-eyed and ecstatic to even be here, surrounded by people who adore volleyball just as much as he does. Maybe that’s all the love Kuroo needs from Paris. Love is watching his friends on the court play their hearts out. Love is the cheers of adoring crowds, fans from across the world who’ve traveled to see the Japanese National Team win.
He’s never loved anyone as much as he’s loved volleyball. Someone told him that once, too.
Being in love with anything else is… something Kuroo’s pretty sure he squandered, and maybe it’s best that he ignores Paris’s call in case he does it again. He finishes his drink and slams his laptop shut.
“Charge it to my room, please,” he tells the pretty French waitress before heading out to meet his coworkers for dinner. After that, it’s probably best for Kuroo to rest instead of swinging by the Olympic Village to see his friends. The team’s on a strict diet before the Olympics end, but Hinata, Yaku and Bokuto don’t need to be drunk to party, and will try to feed Kuroo as much alcohol as they can shove down his throat.
A glimpse of a man with long dark hair, wearing a hooded shirt, is all Kuroo needs to wish he’d had another Heineken.
The man’s gaze is downturned as he enters the restaurant, most of his face shielded by a baseball cap. Something painful and long dormant twists in Kuroo’s chest. The new customer reminds him of someone in a city miles and miles away, and Kuroo’s glad he’s leaving. But then the man removes his cap, and Kuroo freezes in his tracks, transfixed on those unmistakable long lashes and those bright, golden eyes.
For a split second, Kuroo wonders if he’s hallucinating. Are his eyes playing tricks on him, perhaps, or is Paris taunting him with its magic? But there’s no mistaking it–the man he sees is world-famous YouTuber Kodzuken, or the boy Kuroo once knew as Kenma. There’s no hiding from that sharp, catlike stare. It’s been a year and a half since they last met. Kuroo didn’t realize he’d been quietly counting the days, or that seeing Kenma again would cause a wellspring of emotions to bubble to the surface. Kuroo wants to run up to him and shake him down: what is he doing in Paris? Of all places, why is he at Kuroo’s hotel, and would he please, please speak to Kuroo once again?
But Kuroo remembers their last conversation. He recalls reading and rereading their abruptly-ended text chain. He thinks about how his heart ached when he’d stare at his phone in the middle of the night, waiting for Kenma to call him back. Kenma’s moved on, most likely. Kuroo thought that he’d done the same. Of course Kuroo misses Kenma–it’s a grief that joins the many you acquire on the way to adulthood. The end of their friendship floats somewhere in Kuroo’s mind bank along with his mother dying or losing at Nationals, a dull ache as opposed to a constant hurt. Rejection would resuscitate the pain, the yearning.
The waitress leads Kenma to his own table at the other side of the restaurant. He politely turns to thank her, but Kenma’s stare lingers on Kuroo like cigarette smoke on a suit. Kuroo has to stop gawking. The Novotel is huge, anyway, so they probably won’t run into each other again. He bolts out of the restaurant and hits the down button on the elevator. Its steel maws open to save him, and Kuroo’s never been more relieved to burst into his room and bury his face into a pillow.
***
Once upon a time, two boys lived in a little ward of Tokyo called Nerima. The first was named Kenma, and the other was Tetsurou–but he secretly liked Kenma’s nickname for him best, Kuro. It was a special name bequeathed by his best friend, who spoke it soft and gentle, like its syllables were spun from gold. Kuro had never had a nickname, or a best friend, before moving to Nerima. It was all very exciting.
Kenma was obsessed with video games. Kuro was obsessed with Kenma. Kuro’s mother just died before he moved, and it shook Kuro in ways he didn’t have the vocabulary to describe; meeting Kenma, for Kuro, felt like rebirth. He hadn’t felt like talking at all since his mother passed, hadn’t felt like playing with the other children or running in the park. Kenma didn’t try to press words out of him, which was what Kuro needed, conversely, Kenma’s willingness to sit in comfortable silence made Kuro want to open up.
If you asked Kuro as a teenager, he’d say he’d lived two separate lives; one before he met Kenma, and one after the fact. His earliest memories include making his own lunch, walking to school alone, and how the white chrysanthemums smelled at his mother’s funeral. Meeting Kenma shone light on Kuro’s world. Dragging Kenma onto the volleyball court, then to the neighborhood association, then to Nationals in high school, inadvertently set Kuro on a pathway that fulfilled his childhood dreams and more.
But Kuro in his younger days didn’t know that. All Kuro knew as a boy was him, Kenma, Nerima’s sprawling hills, the vast sky that stretched above, and the net that seemed as insurmountable as growing up. Only one thing felt certain. Kuro loved volleyball, but not as much as he loved Kenma.
***
Kuroo tries to forget about Kenma. That night, he heads to the Olympic Village against his better judgment, where Yaku, Bokuto, and Atsumu almost drown him in tequila.
He doesn’t know how he’s conscious enough to watch Brazil beat Kenya in the women’s tournament the next day, fueling further fears for the Japanese Women’s National Team’s second round-robin game. Japan’s playing Brazil next. Hinata Natsu’s good, but her morale is likely shot after Japan lost their first match. Hopefully her brother gave her a pep talk. In the meantime, Kuroo sends an email scheduling Natsu and Kanoka for pre-game interviews on his phone.
His vice-president, Hayashi, asks Kuroo to get a drink after the match is over, and Kuroo’s been a Japanese businessman for long enough to know never to turn his boss down. They end up at a little cocktail bar on a residential street. Kuroo’s boss orders for both of them in stilted English, and they kanpai before Kuroo dares to sip his little pink cocktail, a Le Sakura. It’s sweet and flowery, exactly like what its name would imply. All the way in Paris, and Kuroo’s seeking a taste of home. His boss swirls his Cosmopolitan in its glass.
“You need to take a break,” he says, which isn’t anything new: Hayashi says that a lot.
“Sure do.” Kuroo says that a lot too. “Maybe after the Olympics.” He hasn’t taken a real vacation in years. Hayashi laughs, nodding before changing the topic.
“In two days. Against Argentina. Do you think that we will win?”
“Hah, we better. Oikawa will be so smug if we don’t.” Kuroo takes a long, thoughtful sip of his drink. He’s not a player, not a coach, but he knows how important this Olympics is to his friends– and of course he’s invested, as a fan and a professional. Volleyball has boomed in popularity in Japan since the rise of the Monster Generation, and Kuroo would love to keep riding this wave. An Olympics victory for either the men’s or women’s team would propel the sport to even greater heights. “What do you think?”
“I think we have a chance.” His boss downs the rest of his drink, flagging the bartender down and requesting another. “Our women’s team… I worry. But Natsu is strong, just like her brother.”
“Yeah.” Kuroo agrees. His boss cracks a wry smile.
“On the topic of the Hinata siblings, I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow. He’s no stranger to running errands on business trips, but it’s unlikely that Kuroo will be asked to do anything basic at his level of seniority. However, Hayashi, the sly fox, probably brought him here for a reason. “If it includes any babysitting…”
“Of a sort. Hinata Shouyou brought a friend on this trip as moral support, who happens to be staying in our hotel. He filmed some videos for us once. Kuroo, you remember Kodzuken, don’t you?”
Kuroo feels his face flush. It isn’t from the alcohol.
“Yes.” Hayashi seems to have forgotten that “Kodzuken”, like many of the Japanese Men’s National Team, was initially Kuroo’s connection, but it’s best not to remind him. Kuroo swallows the lump in his throat, trying to maintain a polite, businesslike facade. “What does Ken–Kodzuken need?”
“This might be a strange errand, but Kodzuken has lost his passport. It’s good business for us to take care of him. He made all those videos for us, and the special match you organized a few years ago got so many views because of Kodzuken…”
The bartender sets two more drinks in front of them. Kuroo isn’t even finished with his first: he’s being bribed into compliance.
“Would you be willing to take him to the consulate to get it replaced?”
Me?
Oh, how Kuroo wishes he could laugh in Hayashi’s face. What is he supposed to say? “No, I can’t, because that’s my former best-friend-turned-situationship-turned-sort-of-ex and he hates my guts?” Not exactly work-appropriate conversation. Kuroo laughs, nervous and uncomfortable.
“That’ll happen in Paris, I’ve heard. Pickpockets love a tourist. I’ll see if Mori or Watanabe have some time to help.”
Hayashi shakes his head.
“It must be you. I know you are very busy with your TikToks and your press meetings and whatever they call tweets now. But Mori and I are CC-ed on all your correspondence, and we will take care of whatever business you need us to. I was thinking that the JVA could roll out the red carpet treatment for Kodzuken. Take him to the consulate, and then perhaps send a representative to take him around Paris. I have heard he can be surprisingly shy, and might enjoy the company. Who better to do that than the Director of Sports Promotions…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Kuroo is definitely flushed bright pink, and he hopes his boss hasn’t noticed. He raises both his hands in protest. “I think he’d, uh, prefer if someone else did this. I don’t know if I can hand everything I’m working on over on such short notice. Plus,” Kuroo’s grasping at straws at this point, desperately trying to worm out of this terrifying situation, “our last interaction ended awkwardly. I’m not sure he’d want me as his guide.”
“Really?” Hayashi pushes up his glasses. “From what Hinata told me, and from what I’ve heard… I don’t think that’s the case. You seemed to get along really well the last time you did a promotion together. I remember your photos from Brazil. Didn’t you have a good time?”
Dread wells up in Kuroo’s chest. He has to find a way to speak around the question.
“Brazil was a long time ago.”
The sun, the sea, the open blue skies. Kenma’s lips pressed against the crook of Kuroo’s neck, ghosting against his skin; Kenma’s legs wrapped around Kuroo’s waist as they tumbled into bed together. That feels like centuries ago, before life and time and their egos coagulated into a perfect disaster. Kuroo could fall in love with Kenma again. He could also lose him forever.
Hayashi frowns, drumming his fingers against the bar.
“I can’t let you refuse this assignment, Kuroo. I know your duties and the Olympics are important, but I need you to work on this.”
“Kodzuken specifically requested you.”
***
Far away on a star lives a weaver deity, quietly pining for a forbidden love. The legend of Orihime speaks of a girl separated from her lover by the Milky Way. Poor Orihime, upon meeting her husband Hikoboshi, fell so deeply in love that she ceased her weaving, spending all her time with him instead. Furious that she squandered her hard work, Orihime’s father separated the lovers by the stars, only allowing them to meet once a year if Orihime finished her work. They meet every year on Tanabata, a flock of magpies building a bridge to allow their brief, sweet reunion.
Kuro was fascinated with this story as a child. He was inexplicably entranced by their tale, the idea of being so wrapped up in someone else that you lose yourself in them, so much so that the stars and skies have to cosmically tear you apart. To Kuro, the story was less a tragedy and more a testament to the sheer force of love. His school teachers told him it was an “interesting interpretation” and that he had an “active imagination for a child his age.” An all-consuming forbidden love was not meant to be romanticized.
Kuro liked the story almost as much as he enjoyed the Tanabata festival. He burst into Kenma’s room during their first Tanabata together, wearing a black yukata and beaming from ear to ear. Kenma set his game down. Holding hands, they wandered into the outside world, browsing the stalls of the festival and staring wide-eyed at the beautiful, brilliant lights that illuminated the evening streets.
The smell of takoyaki and red bean wafted through the air as Kuro and Kenma stopped by a bamboo tree, covered in pieces of tanakazu paper with wishes written on them. “What are you wishing for?” Kuro asked. Kenma shrugged, nonchalant.
“It’s a secret.”
Kuro pouted.
“Oh, come on!”
Kuro already knew what he was going to wish for, of course. His new life had bequeathed him a best friend, and bequeathed him volleyball. Together, they were the two best things that had ever happened to him. He scrawled out his wildest dream:
I want to be best friends with Kenma forever. And ever, and ever! I never want this to end.
With that, Kuro went to hang his wish on the tree so it would come true. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Kenma wishing for the Game Boy Advance SP, but it didn’t deter him. Orihime and Hikoboshi would listen to Kuro. They knew Kuro believed in their love, and they’d believe in him too.
Two boys couldn’t get married, but wasn’t being best friends the next best thing?
***
Kuroo isn’t allowed into the Japanese embassy with Kenma.
It’s a huge relief. Getting a passport together feels too domestic, too intimate given their sullied past. Kuroo can stand outside the embassy and gawk at his phone, watching the minutes tick down as lunchtime approaches. The summer sun beats down on him with its oppressive heat, and Kuroo wipes sweat off his brow. He’ll be expected to bring Kenma for a meal as part of this “red carpet” treatment. If their taxi ride here was any indication, they’ll be sitting across each other in silence, Kuroo twiddling his thumbs while Kenma glares daggers at him. Kenma barely said a word to Kuroo while he tried to make small talk; Kuroo ended up giving up and answering emails. He can’t do that at lunch, so Kuroo supposes he’ll have to get real comfortable with staring into space instead.
The embassy is too far from any famous restaurants in the JVA’s 50-100 Euro price range; Kuroo has to Google available reservations and hope for the best. Kenma emerges twenty minutes later. He holds up a piece of paper, nonchalant.
“Here.” Kenma doesn’t bother to explain, but Kuroo knows what this is. It’s a temporary passport that will allow Kenma to leave Paris for Tokyo safely without being interrogated at the border. Kuroo puts on his most formal, client-ready voice.
“Glad you got it with no trouble.”
“Mm.” Kenma looks at his phone. “Are you calling us a taxi to the hotel, or should I?”
“Uh, actually,” Kuroo laughs nervously, “the JVA’s paying for lunch. It might be awkward, so you don’t have to–”
Kenma’s glare pierces through Kuroo, sharp and unrelenting.
“I’m hungry.”
His words are plain, but Kuroo tastes their venom, choking them down with hurt. Why would Kenma request that Kuroo take him around when Kenma still despises him? Forgiveness certainly can’t be on the table, not when Kenma laces every syllable with poison and barbs. Kuroo doesn’t understand. When they were younger, Kuroo could speak Kenma’s thoughts before they were formed into words–that time is long gone, and Kenma mostly just baffles him. Kuroo nods.
“There’s a nice place down the street. I made a reservation for two.”
Kenma grumbles about the heat as they make the arduous three-minute walk. He’d have an easier time if he wasn’t wearing jeans and a baggy black hoodie, but Kuroo keeps the thought to himself, lest Kenma gives him another death stare. They slide into the restaurant with its wooden decor and matching burgundy leather seats. Kuroo lets Kenma sit in the booth for comfier seating and a better people-watching spot. Business is business, and Kuroo wants to at least maintain some semblance of professionalism.
The waitress hands them the menu. Kenma instantly snaps his head up, voice flat and neutral.
“Bring us the foie gras to start, and the Petrossian smoked salmon. Also,” Kenma glances down at the wine list, “can I please have a Kir Royal? Use your most expensive champagne. He’ll pay.” Kenma pauses, before seemingly remembering his manners. “Thanks.”
Realization dawns upon Kuroo. Kenma’s doing this to get a free fancy meal on the JVA. Kuroo grimaces, knowing he’s going to have a lot to explain to Hayashi when he examines the charges on the company card. “I’ll just have water. We’ll need a minute to explore the re–”
A wicked smirk ghosts Kenma’s lips.
“We’ll get the veal shank for two. Mash and today’s catch on the side, please.”
The waitress leaves, and Kuroo blinks across the table, stunned.
“Hey. Can you… finish all that?”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” The waitress returns with Kenma’s drink, setting it across the table. Kuroo glances at it enviously, the simmering bubbles, the cassis liqueur. He was trying to keep costs down, but maybe dealing with Kenma all afternoon will drive him to drink. Kuroo’s shoulders sag.
“I’ll have a Kir Royal too, please.” Not normally Kuroo’s usual choice, but he’s too stumped to make further decisions. The waitress goes to get him his drink, and silence falls across the table. Kenma whips out his phone, tapping away at some horse racing girl gacha, and for once, Kuroo isn’t sure what to say.
“How are you enjoying Paris so far…?”
“I’m busy.” Kenma doesn’t bother looking up. Kuroo sighs. Well, so much for his attempt at conversation. At least this means there’s no chance he’ll fall in love and fuck it up again.
The waitress brings bread and their appetizers over, setting them both in front of Kenma, and Kenma pockets his phone at last. He takes a bite of both dishes, making a small, contented noise of pleasure when the smoked salmon meets his lips. Relief surges through Kuroo. For a split second, he was worried that Kenma would be deliberately critical of the food and demand that Kuroo find them somewhere else. Then again, the Kenma Kuroo once knew would be too anxious to behave that way. Even becoming famous hadn’t changed Kenma that much. Kenma blinks up at Kuroo.
“Eat.”
“It’s for me too?”
“You’re the one who loves the bougie stuff. I can’t finish all this myself. The JVA works you so hard. The least it can do is pay for you to feast, can’t it?”
Ornery as always, but Kuroo’s struck with surprise that Kenma did this for him. Kuroo helps himself to a small serving of the foie gras, its smooth, gamey taste sliding across his tongue like butter.
“It’s delicious.”
“Hm.”
Kenma smiles, small and sincere, and Kuroo’s filled with a nostalgic sense of warmth. He’d nearly forgotten how he once clung onto Kenma’s every action, every word, with the hope that Kenma would direct one of those rare little smiles at him. Even now, Kenma’s sending Kuroo enough mixed signals to cause a plane crash. Kuroo chews his food silently, watching Kenma intently across the table. Kenma takes a long, deep sip of his drink.
“By the way, Paris is fine. Too hot.”
Kuroo isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at this response. Kenma wasn’t unwilling to speak–he was just hangry. Kuroo should have brought him a snack or a sandwich before they got Kenma’s temporary passport. He files this information away for later, spreading foie gras on some perfectly toasted baguette.
“Tell me about it. I’ve been sweating–” Kuroo holds back a crude turn of phrase– “a lot since I got here.”
“You can say ‘sweating my balls off.’ I won’t tell your boss.” Kenma raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re too corporate for dirty jokes now?”
There’s a certain weight to the adjective, a bitterness Kenma knows Kuroo will absolutely hear. Kuroo chooses to ignore it. He leans back in his chair, raises his glass to his lips, and tries to be as direct as he can.
“I brought you here as a client. But since you want the real Kuroo back, I could feel sweat dripping down my ass crack waiting outside earlier. This weather sucks, Kenma.”
“It can’t even stay hot when it needs to.” Kenma wrinkles his nose. “Of course it stormed through the opening ceremony. So windy. I loved it when Natsu’s flag slapped Shoyo’s face.”
Kuroo practically cackles, wild and unbridled and undoubtedly unprofessional.
“Hah! I went home and replayed that moment a hundred times.”
“The JVA kept reposting TikToks of it. I know you did.”
“Bet Shrimpy loved it too. Then again, I don’t know if the word ‘shame’ is in his vocabulary.”
It’s easy, too easy to slide back into how things had once been. Their banter flows as effortlessly as the wine; Kenma’s jabs and Kuroo’s retorts come as easily as their hearts beating. Kenma seems intent on ignoring what happened between them over the last few years, and Kuroo, for now, is glad to do the same. He can try to have a conversation about their relationship later, but right now, he’s full of beef and fish and expensive, expensive alcohol.
Even for a brief moment, it’s nice to have his best friend back.
***
A typical night out for Kuroo and his college friends involved a cheap dinner, terrible karaoke and then getting his ass kicked at the arcade. They’d stay out past midnight, breathlessly speed-walking to catch the last train, Akihabara’s neon lights illuminating the streets bright as their imagined futures. But occasionally, Kuroo would leave these hangouts early, mumbling a half-hearted apology before exiting after dinner. He anxiously checked his watch at the Manseibashi stop, hoping to not hit traffic, thinking that it might be nice to get a smartphone that streamed video some day. He’d burst into his dorm room just in time, tossing his phone and keys on his bed before booting up his laptop and pulling up a certain streamer’s page–
“You came.”
Kenma’s voice rang out from Kuroo’s laptop speakers. Kuroo smiled, typing up his first comment of the night. Wouldn’t miss a Kodzuken stream for the world.
Even across his grainy webcam, Kuroo noticed Kenma’s cheeks turning pink. It must have been surprisingly hot in his room back in Nerima. Kuroo typed another comment:
tktk1117: What are we playing today, Kodzuken?
Kenma’s gaze drifted across his screen. “It’s just me and you, so… Final Fantasy XIV? You like that one.”
tktk1117: I do
Really, Kuroo liked watching Kenma play just about anything. There was something strangely nostalgic about Kenma sharing his screen, offering snarky commentary at the game’s escalating events. Kuroo stared, enraptured, as Kenma griped at the fetch quests he had to do to advance the story. Kuroo howled through his remarks, offering occasional support in the form of unhelpful comments.
tktk1117: Stop listening to the scions
tktk1117: They aren’t the boss of you
tktk1117: Quit the story, retire and become a fisher
Kenma responded to each quip, flat and deadpan, but jabs Kenma would normally mutter quietly were loud and direct on stream. Kuroo ended most nights in peals of laughter, Kenma losing his mind right back, tears in his eyes as he failed to craft in-game food for the tenth time.
Kodzuken’s stream was just Kenma and Kuroo. Kenma didn’t have any other subscribers, and hadn’t told the guys on the volleyball team about his new hobby. This was baffling because Kuroo thought Kenma was pretty good. He had a surprisingly strong screen presence, and a sharp wit not many could parallel. Regardless, Kuroo had fun typing at Kenma while he spoke his retorts, a fun role reversal of their usual selves.
Kenma stopped Final Fantasy XIV early one evening, pausing the game before a raid boss so he and Kuroo could chat. He did this once in a blue moon, catching up with Kuroo about his parents and volleyball and anything and everything else. Apparently, Fukunaga wore lifts in his shoes before getting his height measured the other day. Kuroo howled with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. Kenma truly felt like the best version of himself on stream, so clever and funny and sharp, and Kuroo felt overcome with a maudlin sense of pride. Before he could stop himself, he found himself typing:
tktk1117: You’re really good at this
tktk1117: I’m proud of you
Kenma glanced up at his camera, suddenly dumbstruck, grasping for the words to say. Finally, Kenma managed:
“Thanks.”
He tilted his head to the side, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Panic surged through Kuroo. For a second, Kuroo wondered if he’d been too forward–proud of Kenma? What was he, Kenma’s dad?–but Kenma sucked in a deep breath, clearing his throat. “Enough of that. How are y–”
“Wait.”
Kenma blinked, startled. His eyes flickered to the other side of the screen, towards what was no longer his and Kuroo’s private chat.
ilovedogs: lol forgot to sub during your titan stream. you’re funny
Another person. There was a third person in here, and they didn’t seem to know Kuroo or Kenma. Kenma covered his mouth with his hands, eyes brimming with joy; on the other side of the screen, Kuroo pumped his fist into the air. “You did it!” Kuroo said, as if Kenma could hear him, and he reached out and shook the screen of his laptop. “It’s not just you and me!”
Kuroo’s sentiment was honest, but the words were a little bittersweet. Kenma’s streams wouldn’t be their secret private space. It was fine, Kuroo assured himself: this didn’t mean he’d lost Kenma. They’d continue to text, maybe talk on the phone, but something dark and uncomfortable twisted in Kuroo’s chest. Kuroo pushed it away. He’d focus on being happy for Kenma.
After months of streaming, Kodzuken finally had his first non-Kuroo subscriber.
***
Kuroo wakes up to three messages the next morning. The first is an excited text from his social media specialist Mori, gushing that the JVA TikTok just hit two million followers because of a Miya Atsumu ‘Hot Brat Summer’ edit. The next is a message from his boss saying “Keep Kodzuken entertained.” The final message is from Kenma, the first in their text chain after years, containing a plain statement and a Google Maps link:
this patisserie is OK. i’m going back at 10
Kuroo hesitates for a second, before realizing that’s as close to a “you’d better come” as he’s ever going to get. He practically leaps out of bed, throwing on his clothes and sprinting out the Novotel to meet Kenma for a late breakfast. It’s a twenty-minute walk to the patisserie, but Kuroo runs fast enough to make it in fifteen, panting as he arrives at 9:58 to find Kenma already waiting. Kenma nurses a hot chocolate despite the sweltering sun, letting Kuroo order an apple pie and croissant–of course, it’s all on the JVA’s dime. Kuroo returns with the pastries, barking a laugh.
“Milking my corporate card?”
Kenma raises an eyebrow. “My revenge on the JVA. For overworking you.” There’s that bitterness again, that hurt behind Kenma’s words–Kuroo pushes that wrenching feeling aside, focusing on how the pain au chocolat crumbles, and how the tarte aux pommes’s crust melts in his mouth. He nervously drums his fingers on the patterned metal table, working up the courage to speak.
“You didn’t invite me out just for free food.”
“I didn’t invite you.” A small, sincere smile tugs at Kenma’s lips, and Kuroo’s nerves dissipate as quickly as they surfaced. “I told you where and when I’d be here. You came along.”
Kuroo sips his coffee. “Sure you didn’t.”
“I didn’t. I’m not inviting you to Montmarte with me, either. But,” Kenma takes a quick, decisive bite of his pastry, “come if you want.”
Kuroo nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. Hayashi told him to take care of Kodzuken, so he’ll do his best. Never mind what transpired between him and Kenma in the past. Spending time with Kenma in Paris is simply Kuroo’s professional duty, part of his responsibility at the JVA, and definitely not a date.
Kuroo offers to get them a taxi, but Google Maps, common sense and Kenma all tell him that taking the Metro will be faster. They hop on Line 12 and sit in relative silence, Kuroo attempting to answer emails while Kenma plays games on his phone. A mask and black baseball hat let Kenma travel Paris in relative anonymity; Kuroo wonders how many French fans Kenma has. More than he probably thinks. Kuroo remembers how many people recognized Kenma just walking around Vidcon in Los Angeles.
Kenma looks up, and Kuroo realizes he’s been staring at him. Kenma flushes pink, returning to tap-tap-tapping on his phone before demanding they get off the train early, claiming it’s too hot to stay in it much longer.
They emerge from the Metro to find Pigalle swarmed with people. Tourists slow the cobblestone paths with leisurely footsteps, coagulating into a pedestrian nightmare; the locals’ annoyance is only overshadowed by the camera flashes and murmurs of breaking Olympic wins. The vague scent of piss and cigarettes lingers in the air, converging into sensory overload, and Kuroo turns to Kenma, brow furrowed. “We can come back–” Kuroo says, but Kenma shakes his head.
“We’ll leave if I get overwhelmed.”
Kenma said we, and that sentiment means more to Kuroo than he’ll admit. They amble through the Boulevard de Clichy, giggling like teen boys at the neon signs advertising adult DVDs and erotica, Kenma quipping that sex shops now stand where legendary painters once lived, made masterpieces and died. Talk about poetic irony. Paris’s pungence fades into the background as they scale Montmartre’s winding roads, Kenma griping and grousing as they lead uphill. He whines, drags his feet and complains that they should have stayed in the Metro, they should have taken the funicular–Kuroo slows his pace, staying lockstep with Kenma, taking in the tourist chatter and the ivy sprawling down the walls.
The Sacré-Cœur looms at the hill’s distant crest, its domed roofs and ivory walls heralding the end of their arduous journey. Kenma somehow finds a grass patch of free space and collapses on the ground, staring into the clear sky. “I’m never doing this again,” he grumbles. Kuroo cackles, passing him a bottle of water he’d bought for too many Euros on the way.
“Come on, Kenma! You barely broke a sweat. Remember when you’d set for me for hours?”
“That was in my sprightly youth.” Kenma pulls a face, but takes the water and sips it slowly. “I’m old and decrepit. My bones can’t handle the journey.”
“You’ve been ancient since you were eight.” Kuroo takes a seat by Kenma’s side. Paris sprawls out before them in the distance, but all Kuroo can focus on is how Kenma’s eyes seem almost golden in the sun, how his long, silky hair catches the light. “And you could sprint up the hills behind Nekoma anyway.”
“Barely.” Kenma wraps his arms around his knees, pulling them close. “If this is you trying to get me to exercise again…”
“Please,” Kuroo huffs. “No god could make you do something you didn’t want to do.”
Kenma smirks. “That’s right. You know me so well.”
“Glad I still do.” Kuroo can’t hide the wistfulness in his voice. It’s only been two days with Kenma, but they’ve felt so tender and precious, like pockets of time stolen from the halcyon days of their youth. Kuroo wants to cling onto this joy for as long as he possibly can lest the illusion shatter, lest Kuroo burst this bubble with some blunder or misstep and he loses Kenma all over again. “You aren’t exactly hard to grasp.”
“For you.”
Silence sits between them, Kenma’s expression inscrutable, mouth drawn into a thin, neutral line. Kuroo knows what this is: Kenma’s waiting for Kuroo to decide where to take this. His heart thunders in his chest, threatening to reach a fever pitch. Of course he’s terrified; Kuroo’s been scared of falling too hard in love his whole life. And with Kenma after they just reunited…
But Kuroo wants. He wants so badly after denying himself for so long. Perhaps it’s because he’s exhausted, or perhaps it’s Paris’ magic getting to him, but he hastily shifts his hand so the tip of his pinky finger grazes Kenma’s, ever-so-briefly.
Kenma blinks up at Kuroo before shuffling closer to him, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, so near that they almost connect. They sit like that for a little longer, touching-but-not-touching, Kuroo wondering if he should just grab Kenma’s hand and hold it to his lips. Kenma offers no further indication how he’d like to proceed. The hubbub of stressed out Parisians and bumbling tourists fades out around them, and for a moment the world is just Kuro and Kenma, and Kenma and Kuro, how Kuroo once thought it was meant to be.
Kenma gets up first, and Kuroo doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved. Perhaps he’d misread the situation after all.
Kenma stretches his arms, white T-shirt lifting to reveal just a sliver of his belly. The ghost of Kenma’s hand lingers where their fingers made contact, and Kuroo fights to ignore its specter. He turns towards the arched windows of Sacré-Cœur, thoughtfully tapping his chin.
“There’s a better view of Paris at the top of the church.”
Kenma groans. “How many steps?”
“Three hundred.”
Kenma’s face could curdle milk. Kuroo snickers.
“We don’t have to go up if you don’t want to, you know.” Personally, he’d like to take in the view, but if Kenma doesn’t want to… Taking care of Kodzuken takes priority. Kenma shakes his head, snatching the water bottle from Kuroo and taking a determined chug. He glares up at Kuroo.
“You clearly want to go. Besides,” Kenma raises an eyebrow, “you’re the one who said I didn’t break a sweat.”
“No, we can stay–”
“Well, I want to go now. As payment, you can listen to me while I bitch and moan all the way.”
Kenma turns to start scaling the hill with renewed gusto. A burst of warmth spreads through Kuroo, and for a brief, beautiful minute, he remembers what it’s like to be loved by Kenma, the magnitude of his quiet care. He’s lazy but not dispassionate, sharp-tongued but not unkind, and Kuroo chases after Kenma, laughing as he catches up.
As expected, Kenma bitches and moans the entire way up the staircase, nearly collapsing at the top. Kuroo can’t help but laugh. The wind tousles his hair as he takes in the view, staring down at the sprawling buildings. Paris is gorgeous at the top of the Sacré-Cœur, and it’s all the more wonderful because Kenma is there to take it in with him.
***
Kuroo visited Nerima once every few weeks during university. He spent train rides home fidgeting impatiently with his hands, nerves bubbling in his chest as each station sign passed. His father always said this might be the last time he’d see grandpa alive, but Kuroo wasn’t sure he believed him. If he’d learned anything from his mother’s passing, it was that you couldn’t predict something as evanescent as life and death. Kuroo hadn’t expected to be laughing in her arms one day, then crying at her funeral merely weeks later–grandpa’s death would likely be much the same. Quick, sudden, and devastating.
Unlike his father, Kuroo refused to prematurely perform funerary rites when he could make memories instead.
Despite his attempts at optimism, Kuroo’s childhood home was blanketed in anticipatory grief. His father spent most of his time after work with his grandpa, peeling his oranges or watching the news. Kuroo would join his grandfather on walks that felt more like hobbles, which turned into pushing his wheelchair around as he grew weak. Kuroo was always relieved to fulfil his filial duty and go knocking on his neighbors’ door, where Kenma always had room for him at the edge of his bed.
Well, not always. Kenma was pretty busy being Kodzuken. He’d grown large enough that a multi-channel network called Uuum recently asked him to join them. They could get him sponsorships, brand deals. Fans. Kuroo had heard of them through his marketing classes, and learning that they’d signed Kenma was simultaneously terrifying and exciting. Kodzuken hit his first five thousand fans on Niconico, and six thousand YouTube subscribers in less than two years.
With Kuroo, he was just Kenma. Kuroo pushed Kenma’s door open and stepped inside.
Kenma stayed home for university. He’d strewn his streaming setup across his bedroom, and Kuroo had to tiptoe past old headphones and wires to reach Kenma, who was hunched over his desk. He was concentrating awfully hard on a game on his computer–a prime target for an old fashioned prank. Kuroo crept up on him as silently as he could, removing his headphones and speaking into his ear.
“Boo.”
“Aaaaah!”
Kenma’s scream could shatter glass. He whipped around in his cushioned gaming chair, expression sour and curdled like Kuroo had killed a puppy. Kuroo cackled, flopping down on Kenma’s bed, staring into the familiar popcorn ceiling and the video game posters on the walls.
“I’m back.”
Kenma’s rage was short-lived. “Jerk. Welcome home.”
Kuroo waved up from where he lay on Kenma’s mattress.
“It’s nice to be back.”
Returning to Kenma as safe solace made Kuroo feel juvenile–there was something childlike about escaping to his best friend’s home when he felt lost at his. Kuroo’s father wanted him home for dinner, but Kuroo was tired of death when he’d like to live instead. Kenma set his headphones down and lay down next to Kuroo. In the privacy of his bedroom, Kenma reached for a hug, lingering for just long enough to spark Kuroo’s imagination and leave his heart aflutter. Kenma gave Kuroo a gentle kick in the shin.
“You aren’t okay, are you? Talk to me.”
“Astute as always.” Kuroo barked a laugh. “My dad’s being…”
“Strange. I know. My parents told me.”
“Yeah.” Kuroo knew better than to go running back to his dad with the Kozumes’ gossip. He loved the man, but he’d been driving him crazy. Lazily, Kuroo reached down to thread his fingers into Kenma’s. They didn’t do this very often any more, and hadn’t since they were kids, but it felt natural while he was seeking comfort. “Think we’ll lose our minds in our early fifties just like him? Go crazy together?”
“Dunno.” Kenma gave his hand a little squeeze. “Haven’t thought that far.”
“Yeah.” Kuroo sighed. He knew that anyone seeing them like this would get the wrong idea, but surely most best male friends were occasionally this intimate when they were alone. He lifted Kenma’s hand to his chest. “I probs shouldn’t either, huh?”
“You can’t help it.” Kenma unclasped his hand from Kuroo’s, giving him a little flick on the forehead. “You think too much. Just like me, but you hide it better.”
“Oi!” It was Kuroo’s turn to yelp with surprise. He groaned. “What was that for?”
“Didn’t hurt that much.” Kenma’s lips twisted into a half-smile. “Stop it. You’re stronger than you think.”
“If you say so.”
Truth is, Kuroo was starting to wonder if his father was always strange–or if something had irrevocably driven him down this path. He wondered if it was his mother’s death that fueled his father at work, at home, to live a life that only meant something if he could be useful. With Kuroo out of the house, perhaps taking care of his grandpa gave his dad’s life meaning. Kuroo wanted to grab him by the shoulders and tell him it was okay to just be.
His father didn’t have his mother to carry that weight. His father didn’t have someone like Kenma. It was probably a lonely existence, despite the friends and coworkers his dad once surrounded himself with. Sometimes, Kuroo wondered if humans were created in pairs, and if there was only one other person out there whose life was shaped to parallel yours. His father once had his mother, and Kuroo… This was why he came back to visit so often. He inched closer to Kenma, tangling their legs together.
“These visits would suck without you.”
Kenma chuckled. He wrapped his arms around Kuroo’s waist, pressing their foreheads together, speaking with more assurance and confidence than Kuroo had ever heard from him.
“I know.”
***
The JVA has seats reserved at every Tokyo Olympics game. Kenma already bought overpriced tickets off a reseller, but chooses to sit with Kuroo for the Japan vs. Argentina match anyway. He shows up in a pink bucket hat and a face mask, quietly taking the seat beside Kuroo. Kuroo bumps his shoulder against Kenma’s.
“Think we’re going to win?”
Kenma leans forward, watching their high school friends bump practice shots back and forth. He glances at the Argentinian team who are doing the same, save for Oikawa shooting the occasional death glare across the court. Kenma nods.
“I think our players’ strength can trump Oikawa’s spite. It won’t be easy.”
Kuroo wolf-whistles. “You’re right. That’s a lot of spite to defeat.”
“Takes one to know one.” Kenma shrugs. Hinata waves in their direction, bright and exuberant, and Miya Atsumu nudges Hinata with a giggle and a wink. Kageyama stands before the two of them, focused as he lobs another ball across the court, and Kuroo flashes them a thumbs-up. He whips his phone out, zooming in on Atsumu with his camera. Kenma rests his head on Kuroo’s shoulder, silent until Kuroo hits “stop recording.”
“I’ve watched your TikToks. I like how you synced his serves with ‘bumping that’.”
“That’s not the only thing about Miya that’s popular on TikTok–” Kuroo grins, zooming in with his camera on Atsumu’s perfectly sculpted ass, framed by a too-tight pair of JNT jersey shorts. Kenma rolls his eyes.
“Pervert.”
“Anything for the views. You of all people should know.”
Kenma sticks out his tongue, retreating and folding his arms. He huffs, casting Kuroo a sideways glance. If they were still best friends, Kuroo would think Kenma wanted him to come chasing after him. Now…
Kuroo knows he’s tiptoeing a dangerous line, straddling the barrier between civil colleagues and something potentially so incredible he can’t even begin to imagine. He thought he’d squandered that chance years ago. But Kenma looks so cute like this, pouting and twiddling his thumbs, and Kuroo can’t hold back. He sighs, faux dramatic and overwrought before wrapping an arm around Kenma’s waist. Low and wicked, Kuroo leans in to whisper:
“Is someone jealous?”
“Hmph. Who’s asking?” Kenma shifts so his thigh is pressing against Kuroo’s, but doesn’t turn to face him. “Make it up to me.”
Panic bubbles up within Kuroo–surely he isn’t building something wondrous up just for it to shatter again–but he pushes it away. He can’t give into that fear again. Not when he did once and nearly lost Kenma forever. Kuroo leans in and brushes his lips against Kenma’s cheek, quick enough so his coworkers don’t notice.
A small, smug smile ghosts Kenma’s lips.
“Close enough,” he says, settling back in his seat as the whistle blows, announcing the start of the game.
Japan vs. Argentina is everything Kuroo dreamed of and more. An easy win in the first set for Japan gives way to a nail-biting back and forth in the next, Oikawa’s sets the heartbeat Argentina needs to claw their way back to victory. Kuroo’s heart is in his throat as the ball brushes against Ushijima’s shoulder, landing on the court with a haunting thud; the whistle blows to call the third set in Argentina’s favor, and even his boss is watching slack-jawed and terrified. Thankfully, a rallying cry from Bokuto clicks the team back into action, and Japan wins the game with a hard-fought, but extremely impressive, 3-1.
Even Kenma leaps out of his seat, pumping his fists into the air when Hinata lands that final hit.
Kuroo is on cloud nine as he handles journalist calls and arrangements to interview the victors, his phone beeping with notifications before they can exit the arena. In between requests for translators and Kuroo repeating “no, Kageyama Tobio is not the same guy as the Japanese football player,” he notices Kenma shuffling close to him, sticking around as Kuroo barks hurried delegations for the post-game press conference. Kuroo remains calm as Hinata is ferried into the press room, face white as the meringue cookies Kenma had for breakfast. He winks.
“You’ll kill it.”
Hinata heaves a sigh, and pride swells within Kuroo. Hinata’s anxiety isn’t as bad as it used to be, but Kuroo likes that his presence calms him. He likes that Hinata trusts him enough to believe when Kuroo tells him he’ll be okay.
This is where Kuroo shines best: setting the stage so the geniuses can make magic happen.
The press conference goes by quickly. Kenma seems to be content hanging back behind Kuroo, checking his phone occasionally to respond in his Discord. They barrel out the room when they’re done. Kuroo pulls Kenma into a tight hug, relishing the scent of ocean-kissed deodorant swirling with Kenma’s morning coffee. He rests his chin on Kenma’s head, taking advantage of the moment to linger.
“That was amazing. Thanks for hanging out with me, Kenma.”
Kenma huffs. “Leaving already? What happened to getting a celebratory drink?”
“It’s too early to drink–” Kenma raises an eyebrow– “uh, not for you since you’re on vacation–” Kenma starts tapping his foot on the ground– “and me, since I’m with someone who’s on vacation. You win. I’ll find us a spot.”
There’s a lot to celebrate, Kuroo thinks to himself, sipping on an aperol spritz on the patio of a lively Italian restaurant. Kenma hums, happily drinking his wine beside him. Marcello is a few stops too far from the Paris Expo Porte de Versailles to catch the post-game crowd; the murmured hubbub of tourists is nothing compared to rowdy sports fans celebrating a win. Kenma flags the waiter down to top them off, and Kuroo doesn’t protest, polishing up his drink and decisively setting it down for more.
The waiter comes by with more alcohol, and Kenma raises his glass.
“To winning. To our friends. And to you.”
“To me?”
“You handled that press conference like a pro.”
“Sure hope I did. I am a pro–”
“I’m trying to compliment you!” Kenma clicks his tongue. “See if I ever do that again.”
“Fine, fine,” Kuroo snorts, raising his glass to clink against Kenma’s. “To me, I guess. And to you, too.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything.”
“For…”
Kuroo trails off. He desperately wants to grab Kenma by the shoulders and tell him he’s proud of him, tell him he’s so much more confident than Kuroo could have imagined when they were kids. He wants to ask Kenma how he gathered the courage to ask for Kuroo’s help at the JVA–for daring to reach out to Kuroo after so many years of losing touch. Kuroo wouldn’t have had the guts.
Among the canopy of trees, under the embrace of the warm Parisian sun, Kuroo swirls his drink in his glass. There’s got to be a way to truly encapsulate how he feels without baring his entire soul. It’s too soon for that.
“For being here.” Kuroo manages a half-smile. “It’s great to be here with you.”
“Yeah.” Kenma downs his wine in a single breath.
Kuroo gapes in astonishment, but Kenma wastes no time wrapping an arm around Kuroo’s waist and pulling him in close. He tilts his head up at Kuroo, cheeks flushed pink; he drums his fingers on the cushion, impatient and demanding. Kuroo knows that look: he’s seen it time and time again, and in that moment, Kuroo wants, wants to trail his hand through that silky hair, wants to taste the chapstick on Kenma’s lips. Some random restaurant in a foreign country is about as anonymous as they’re going to get.
His mother really was right. Paris is the city of desire. Kuroo pushes all common sense aside.
He gently traces Kenma’s cheek with a callused hand, closing the distance between them with a kiss.
***
The workload at the JVA was mostly manageable, but it was still a Tokyo corporate job. It was rare for anyone to take more than a couple of days off outside of Golden Week. However, Kenma had asked Kuroo to join him at Vidcon in Los Angeles, and Hayashi approved his taking a week off with no protest.
A couple of months later, Kuroo squeezed into an economy class seat beside Kenma, arms and knees clacking together in the too-small chairs. Kuroo’s shoulder bumped against Kenma’s, who cast nervous glances out the window, waiting for liftoff. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were pursed, and Kuroo suddenly remembered that Kenma didn’t care for flights. Their families had taken a joint vacation years ago, and Kenma had whined and whimpered through the flight.
Wordlessly, Kuroo took Kenma’s hand the way he had as children on that plane, squeezing it tightly til they were safely in the air.
Five years ago, Kuroo would have laughed if he knew Kenma would willingly attend an event of Vidcon’s scale. Millions of subscribers later, Kenma navigated it like a pro. Kenma effortlessly wandered the convention floor, chatting up friends and connections he’d only met online, weaving through the seas of rowdy Americans with relative ease. Kuroo sprinted to catch up as Kenma’s Western agent, a pretty lady named Natalie, led them past booths selling influencer-endorsed brands, debriefing Kenma on his packed schedule.
At Vidcon, Kodzuken felt like a household name. They couldn’t press on for ten minutes without someone running up to them, Natalie batting fans off with reminders that Kodzuken was speaking at the Creator Keynote at six. Kenma awkwardly waved at groups of excited American teens who wanted pictures, one of them practically flinging her phone at Kuroo to be photographed.
Even Kuroo was relieved when Natalie led them to the VidCon Creator Lounge, a decorated area where talent could kick back, relax, and have a little drink.
The lounge was decorated in teals and greens, adorned with shrubbery and roses to create an enchanted forest. Kuroo’s business brain thought it was an experiential marketing marvel; his tired brain needed one of those rosy cocktails immediately. They sat under a large chandelier, Kuroo sipping on his too-sweet drink, Kenma’s gaze darting from table to table as he took in his environment. Kuroo leaned back in his chair.
“You’ve really made it, huh?”
“It’s…” Kenma toyed with the drawstring of his hoodie, “Weird. People in America are so much more forward, Kuro.”
Even as an adult, hearing that nickname still fills Kuroo with joy.
“Tell me about it.” Americans were very friendly but could be a little rude. Take the man and woman canoodling behind Kenma for instance–they were practically sucking each other’s faces in public. Kuroo averted his gaze, raising his glass to something far more important.
“We should drink to you while it’s just us. Here’s to Kodzuke–”
Kuroo’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
Bzzzzzzzzt.
“Ugh.” Kuroo clanked their glasses together, taking a quick swig of his drink before checking his email. “Ah, hell,” he muttered, realizing that his team had likely woken up in Japan’s time zone. He’d promised to check on emails.
“Mm,” Kuroo said, palming his face and groaning. “Just got a message from Hayashi. I’ve got to hop on a quick call tonight.”
One call on vacation was nothing in the grand scheme of Japanese corporate life, but it was still annoying when Kuroo wanted to spend time with Kenma. Kenma shrugged.
“Happens. Before or after my speech?”
Kuroo checked his calendar on his phone, relief pulsing through him. “After, at least. But,” Kuroo scrolled down, “ it means I’ll be a little late to the party–the Twix Prom?” Dammit. Kuroo had heard so much about ‘prom’ from American movies, and wanted to live the Hollywood experience, grand entrance and all. Kenma bristled.
“I have to film content at the start. I guess I’ll go alone–”
A third, feminine voice chimed in from behind Kenma.
“I’ll be taking you!”
Natalie swooped in, smiling as she showed up with her drink. She flicked through her notebook, checking something off with a blue pen before setting it down, confident and calm.
“Don’t worry about it, Tetsurou. Take your call and meet us when you’re done. Kenma’s in good hands!”
Kuroo’s mouth went dry. He didn’t understand why, but the idea of Kenma showing up to this event with someone else–even if that someone else was his manager–didn’t sit right with him. But Kuroo couldn’t skip his damn call, so he nodded.
“Thank you,” he said, stamping down his resentment. It wasn’t Natalie’s fault she had to do her job. It wasn’t her fault Kuroo wasn’t used to being called his first name, either. Kenma was Kenma to most of his friends, and Kodzuken on the internet, but Kuroo was Kuroo to everyone.
Well, almost everyone. His family called him Tetsurou, and Kenma got to call him Kuro.
Being “Tetsurou” in America threw Kuroo for a loop. His overseas clients called him that on email, but it felt strange hearing it so frequently from a stranger. Kuroo had better get used to it before the Tokyo Olympics. There was nothing wrong with Natalie using the name when Kuroo introduced himself that way, just as there was nothing wrong with her taking Kenma to the Twix Prom for work. This didn’t dispel Kuroo’s annoyance, his agitation when his call went ten minutes late, or his relief when he burst into the event and found Kenma waiting at his table. Natalie waved as Kuroo and Kenma took off.
The Twix Prom was fine. Kuroo was way too old to act like an American teen, but the event was beautifully decorated, with perfect incandescent lighting and a candy-branded maze. Kenma mostly stuck to Kuroo, even letting Kuroo drag him onto the dance floor. They jumped and bopped to the music, Kenma’s smile lighting up the room like sunshine as they spun around in circles. Neither of them were good dancers, but they shook and moved best as they could, laughing and shaking with joy, only vacating the dance floor when the music slowed down for just couples.
Kuroo knew California was accepting of gay couples. He didn’t expect so many to flood in to dance. Two women pressed up closely as they swayed to the music, the taller one’s hand resting on her partner’s waist. Another man led his androgynous-looking partner onto the dance floor, resting his face on their shoulder. Kenma watched, wide-eyed and lips parted; Kuroo always had a hunch Kenma wasn’t straight and this confirmed it.
His first instinct was to swear to protect Kenma. Both gamers and sports fans weren’t known for being widely accepting, especially not in Japan–Kuroo had kept quiet about being bi at work. Someone as popular as Kodzuken being outed could be disastrous. Kenma’s career was on the up-and-up, and it was no wonder he’d been quiet this whole time. Kuroo’s next instinct was that he couldn’t be the one to ruin this. Not that he and Kenma were anything more than friends, but the last thing Kuroo wanted was to develop any strange ideas.
This secret could ruin Kenma, or worse still shatter both of them. (He thought of his grieving father, and the hole in his heart his mother left behind.) Yet amongst the neon lights and rambunctious crowds, amongst the smell of artificial chocolate and YouTuber sweat, Kuroo was hit by realization:
Another time, another place, and maybe he and Kenma could have danced on that floor.
***
It feels natural, too natural, to fall backwards in love.
The rest of their day is spent drinking by the Quais de Seine and strolling in the Louvre, Kuroo taking advantage of Paris as a safe space to link arms with Kenma and pull him in tight. Dinner is at a Korean barbeque restaurant named BIGBANG, and Kuroo and Kenma spend hours debating whether it was, or wasn’t named after the K-Pop group. They tumble into Kuroo’s bed after washing up and fall asleep promptly, hands clasped in each other’s as if they might drift apart.
One kiss in and Kuroo’s already over the moon, the stars in his night sky shining after years of cold darkness. All he wants is to bathe in their gentle light. His fear of screwing up seems miniscule when he wakes to Kenma snuggling him, arms wrapped around Kuroo and face buried in the crook of his neck, and Kuroo presses a soft, tentative kiss upon his forehead.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Kuroo says. Kenma whines, and Kuroo smiles fondly. For a second they’re sixteen and seventeen and back in Nerima again, having a sleepover. They’ve got volleyball practice in a few hours and he’s shaking Kenma into consciousness, the sun’s rays barely peeking through the blinds of his windows as Kenma begs for a few more goddamn minutes.
Only it’s past ten o’ clock, they aren’t teens, and they have adulthood’s responsibilities and cynicism to ground them. Kuroo doesn’t even know where they’re taking this. Kenma groans anyway, covering his face with his hands, and Kuroo cackles, ignoring Kenma’s blubbering about how Kuroo is evil and how his bed was so warm.
Kuroo’s bed. Kuroo decides not to dwell too hard on that fact.
Kuroo wants to broach the topic of their last conversation a year ago, but perhaps not just days after their reunion and less than twenty-four hours after their second first kiss. Holding back isn’t Kuroo’s style, but the single thread of gold binding them is tightrope-thin, and Kenma prefers to shy away from conflict until it explodes. On the flip side, Kuroo was once known as the King of Provocation, and the last thing he wants to do is to snip the wrong trip wire and set Kenma off. He swallows his bitterness, pushing the uneasy feeling in his chest aside.
Kuroo doesn’t care much for elephants in his nice Parisian hotel room. Not when he’s reaching for Kenma and peppering his face and neck with kisses.
They don’t make it out until noon, which Kenma smugly declares a victory. Kuroo scowls and gripes about it on the elevator downstairs, but it’s all for show. Kuroo checks his texts and work emails on the Metro while Kenma dozes on his shoulder, wearing his face mask, Parisians paying them no mind as they go about their day. There’s a silence in the chaos, a strange sense of peace amongst the locals’ hustle and bustle, the jostling of tourists as they push and shove their way out of the train, and it’s oddly grounding. Kuroo laces his fingers into Kenma’s and squeezes his hand.
Is this what his mother meant when she called Paris the City of Love?
The Metro pulls into their stop, which leaves Kuroo with little time to ponder–they have the Latin Quarter to explore. Kenma wants to stop at a local crêperie. They split a strawberry Nutella monstrosity and an apple crêpe that Kuroo finds too sweet, but Kenma happily gobbles it down. Kuroo craves something savory once they’re done and orders a chorizo and cheese crêpe, and this one is perfectly crisp and light on his tongue, the taste of the salty sausage swirling in with the richness of the cheese.
They check out Shakespeare and Company, which Kuroo finds a little overrated; the tucked-away Abbey Bookshop has more interesting finds and is less touristy. Kenma picks up an old copy of Hamlet for Fukunaga and a tote bag for his mom, while Kuroo runs his finger across the spines of some French books. “I haven’t read a book in years,” Kuroo admits. He loved stories and reading once, but these days… he mostly has time for work, the gym, and volleyball, fitting the occasional TV show in from time to time. Mostly, he listens to science podcasts back and forth on his commute. Kenma grunts.
“Too busy with work?
“Yeah. How about you?”
“Mm. Same.”
“It happens.” One of adulthood’s many perils. Kuroo had been the bigger reader between the two growing up, though Kenma had been happy to take Kuroo’s recommendations and field some of his own. Kuroo idly flips through a French copy of Romeo and Juliet. The idea of reading a full book feels a little overwhelming right now, but maybe some day again… It could be nice. Kenma shrugs.
“Now would be a good time for you to pick it up if you wanted to. Since you’re on vacation.”
“Oi,” Kuroo says, clicking his tongue, “just cause I’m traipsing around Paris with you doesn’t mean this is a holiday! This is meant to be work.”
Kenma’s face falls.
“Ah.”
Panic rushes through Kuroo, and he drops the book, placing a hand on Kenma’s shoulder. Kenma seems so pensive, long lashes and face mask hiding his expression, and Kuroo knows he’s put his foot in his mouth. Nice work. He swallows the lump in his throat.
“Hey, Kenma. I’m still having fun. I swear.”
“Are you?” Kenma’s face lights up, his eyes widening, standing a little straighter. “Good. I didn’t want you to feel forced to–”
“Hang out?” Kuroo snorts. “Kenma, there’s absolutely no way. I… I thought you hated me.”
Kenma shakes his head, his little ponytail bouncing from side to side.
“I could never.”
“Fuck. That means so much.” Guilt stabs through Kuroo–how could he have misunderstood the situation for all these years? His breath hitches in his throat, and Kuroo blurts out, “We should talk about it at some point. Talk about everything that happened. About our fight. About us–”
Kenma takes Kuroo’s hand and squeezes it tightly.
“Time and place. Not in the middle of a bookstore.”
Kenma’s firm grip on Kuroo and his dark, intent stare tell Kuroo all he needs to know–Kenma isn’t ready. Besides, Kenma is right. The middle of the classics aisle is probably not the best location to hash out over twenty years of love, yearning, and hurt. It’s easy for the world to fade out when they’re together, but they’re currently surrounded by shelving and customers and the scent of vintage books. Kuroo scrambles to change the topic.
“Uh, maybe I should pick something out while we’re here? A little souvenir for the trip.”
Kenma’s shoulders relax, but he doesn’t let go of Kuroo’s hand.
“Good idea. Let’s get out of the French section.”
Kenma leads Kuroo down the aisle to a small shelf stacked with books in a multitude of languages. Kuroo flips through them before pulling a Japanese edition of The Counterfeiters off the shelves, but there’s no shedding the uneasy feeling in his stomach, the quiet, nagging sense that he’d done something wrong. What they have right now rests on a foundation so shaky the slightest quake might topple it. The last thing Kuroo wants is for this spark to burn for just a few blissful days, for it to linger only among the Parisian cobblestones and the Sacré-Cœur’s walls, for it to be as transient as the European summer sun.
He’s prying himself from fear’s death grip. He’s untangling himself from the specter of grief. All he’s got to do is follow through–to get the courage to do what he couldn’t back home, at Vidcon, or even in Rio. Kuroo could have weeks or days. If both Japanese teams lose, the curtain will fall on their Parisian jaunt, and he and the rest of the JVA will pack their bags and return to Tokyo. Kuroo has to channel the city’s magic and turn it into forever.
Or perhaps it’s too late for that.
***
Not so long ago, in a land twelve thousand miles away, lived a talented volleyball player named Hinata. He fit in perfectly amongst Rio’s bustling streets and boisterous people, rushing ahead of Kuroo and Kenma as they scaled the Selaron Steps. The bright, vibrant tiles were the perfect complement to Hinata’s cheerful nature, warm as the shining sun. Kenma panted and puffed as he struggled to keep up, cursing Hinata and Kuroo for making him “do it for the ‘gram.”
Kuroo was jealous of Hinata once. Now, Hinata was both their friend, and Kuroo was in Rio to ask him a huge favor. A free trip from São Paulo wasn’t all Hinata was there for–Kuroo was planning an exhibition match that could be hugely significant for Japanese volleyball. Kuroo needed Hinata to play. Bringing Kodzuken along to film promotional content was an added bonus, for both work and non-work related reasons.
Kuroo and Kenma hadn’t traveled together since Vidcon. Kuroo was pleased to learn they still meshed well together. The next morning, their plan was to pick somewhere random for breakfast before filming a beach volleyball game, which Kenma repeatedly framed as his first and potentially last attempt at the sport.
Turns out, Kenma could still get competitive as long as Shrimpy was on the court. He huffed and heaved as he set the ball to Hinata, Heitor and his wife Nice giving them a run for their money as they lobbed the ball back and forth. Kuroo doesn’t remember the result of the game, but he remembers Kenma collapsing onto the sand, exhausted; Kenma could barely catch his breath when he asked his viewers to tune into the exhibition match. Kuroo grinned, clicking the camera shut.
“Aaaand that’s a wrap,” Kuroo said. “Thanks for that, everyone. We’re done working. What’s next?”
That was a lie. Kuroo was never finished with work: there were a bunch of emails and press releases he had to get out the door by the end of the night, and several video edits he had to review. But it was midnight in Japan, and Kuroo wanted to stretch his legs and enjoy Rio. Nobody would know if he was sending emails from a lounge chair on the beach, and for now, he wanted to enjoy a hearty meal.
Heitor found them a touristy barbeque spot by the beach. They munched on branzino and tomahawk and sipped fruity drinks, Kenma leaning on Kuroo’s shoulder, tipsy on two bottles of cider. Kuroo idly stroked his hair while thinking about his workload, enjoying the sea breeze in his hair and the sunshine on his skin. There was no point thinking too hard about how Kenma made him feel. Kuroo had found some gay community in Nii-chome’s bars, but it was a part of his life he’d shut Kenma out of.
Being with Kenma was a sweet, impossible dream, and if there was one thing Kuroo had learned it was that only spun sugar shattered.
Nevertheless, envy rushed through Kuroo when Nice pressed a kiss to Heitor’s cheek. Hinata mentioned some boy he’d been talking to on Hinge, and Kenma blurted out “what about Kageyama?” before he could elaborate. Two men held hands under the table beside them, and–Kuroo knew he’d laid this bed, knew he’d made these choices, but he couldn't help but be blinded by resentment. Other people had their person. Kuroo’s was right under his nose, and yet–
Kenma was so happy when streaming, so confident and carefree. Kuroo couldn’t destroy Kodzuken, not when he was everything Kenma ever wanted to be. He couldn’t demolish the one thing Kenma chose for himself. Worse, he couldn’t be the one to ruin them.
So Kuroo flagged the waiter down, fake smile easy as he spoke.
“I’ll get another drink.”
***
The Japanese Men’s National Team loses their next game. They get soundly trashed by the United States, the Monster Generation crumbling as the Americans blast through their defenses.
At least Japan squeezes into the quarter-finals despite their loss. Kuroo repeats that fact to himself like a mantra, chanting it underneath his breath as the final whistle blows. Kenma peers across his shoulder as Kuroo responds to press requests on his phone, trying to block out the sound of disappointed fans around him.
It isn’t just the Olympics gold that’s at stake for Kuroo now. It’s how long he has left with Kenma.
They still haven’t talked about two years ago. Kuroo wants to apologize, but Kenma evades the topic any time he broaches it, and Kuroo would be torn between irritation and confusion if he wasn’t having so much fun. It’s easy enough to be drunk on sunshine and wine, but Kuroo wants to know where things stand, and wants it sooner rather than later.
Unfortunately, now is most definitely not the time. Kuroo’s inbox lights up with another email. He rolls his eyes, heaving an affected sigh, fingers flying across his keypad as he responds:
Kageyama Tobio is not the same man as the Japanese swimmer
Normally, Kuroo would find this confusion a little funny, but following a loss it’s just insulting. Kenma snickers beside him, and Kuroo’s glad that at least one of them’s amused. He doesn’t have time to stay annoyed. Win or lose, Kuroo has a circus to run.
Hinata is somber, reserved during his post-match interviews, and Aran’s responses are coated in thinly-veiled self-deprecation. Shades of Bokuto’s high school self slip into his television presence, his disappointment clear as he clutches his face in his hands. At least Ushijima is his usual stoic, taciturn self; Kuroo doesn’t know what he’d do if he betrayed any emotion. “They’re moving to the quarter-finals,” Kuroo mutters, though no-one else can hear him.
He’s not fooling anyone. The only person Kuroo’s reassuring is himself.
The interviews end without much fanfare. The Japanese National Team shuffles into their bus back to the Olympic Village, leaving Kuroo and Kenma to their own devices. Kenma shifts from foot to foot, glancing up at Kuroo with a soft, pleading stare.
“Can we go get food?”
“Yeah.” Kuroo’s stomach rumbles. Food sounds like a good idea.
Kuroo’s too exhausted to get on the Metro and fight seas of tourists, so they end up back at the Novotel’s rooftop bar. The sun scorches them, blinding and bright. It’s not the best time for a relaxing drink, but Kenma seems happy enough as he sips on his red wine. Kuroo grimaces, scrolling through headlines detailing the JNT’s loss, squinting as he ups the brightness on his phone screen. Both the men’s or women’s teams can’t lose: one more slip-up and both teams are out of the Olympics. Their dream will be dashed and Kuroo will go home.
Kenma reaches across the table and taps Kuroo’s hand.
“Aren’t you done with emails? Stop doomscrolling and pay attention to me.”
Kenma is telling Kuroo to get off his phone. That’s a first. Kuroo sighs, setting his phone screen-down on the table. Mori and Hayashi had covered most of his work after the previous game, but is he being irresponsible? Entertaining Kodzuken is undoubtedly fun, and this is technically a work assignment, but… Kuroo pushes the thought aside. He’s at a beautiful restaurant, sitting across from Kenma. Might as well make the most of it. Kuroo sighs, finally flipping through the drinks menu.
Work or not, he needs to eat. Baguettes and Heineken might not exactly be packed with nutrients, but for now, they’ll be a balm on his troubled soul. He flags the waiter down and places his drink order, as well as a steak tartare to nibble on while he thinks way too hard about volleyball. It’s just a stupid match, but more than just Kuroo’s ego hinges on the final score.
Kenma takes Kuroo’s hand under the table, gaze sharp and piercing.
“You’re upset.”
“Yeah.”
Astute as always. Kuroo laughs nervously.
“It’s dumb, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re upset. Food will make you feel a little better.” Kenma shrugs.
The steak tartare arrives, lightly seasoned with raw egg yolk and garlic. Kuroo wolfs it down with some bread, ordering himself a salad and Kenma a steak for an entree. He doesn’t feel like eating anything heavier. Kuroo sits through the meal in a cloud of misery and silence. They finish up and Kuroo gets the check, putting it on the JVA’s company card.
Kenma gently kicks Kuroo under the table.
“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Kuroo scoffs. “What, you don’t enjoy the occasional peace and quiet?”
“It feels wrong to not have your stupid cackle ringing in my ear.”
“Thanks.” Normally, Kuroo would take it as a compliment, but he’s not in the mood for Kenma’s hot and cold nonsense. He sighs, pushing his own vexation away, trying to focus on his old friend sitting in front of him. Kuroo should at least try to enjoy this moment, make the most of whatever time he has left in this beautiful city instead of moping about a stupid volleyball game. Make the most of what he has left with Kenma. “What do you want to do?”
“Dunno,” Kenma says. “You decide.”
Right. Deciding on activities is part of keeping Kodzuken entertained. He swallows his annoyance, before Kenma adds–
“Do you want to head back and rest? I can figure something out.”
Something deep and painful tugs at Kuroo’s chest. Kenma can be considerate in his own way, but right now, Kuroo’s job, their friendship both hinge on making sure Kenma’s happy. “No, I’ll come with you, just give me–”
“Fine,” Kenma says, getting up from his seat and staring pointedly at Kuroo. “Then I want to rest too. Let’s head to your room.”
Kuroo loathes the idea of Kenma changing his plans for Kuroo’s sake. But there’s no changing Kenma’s mind when it’s set, and right now Kenma’s intent on making sure Kuroo’s all right. It would be touching if Kenma wasn’t the reason behind Kuroo’s lingering fears. The elevator arrives at Kuroo’s floor with a ding, and they don’t speak as they walk down the hallway to Kuroo’s room. Kuroo changes into a nightshirt and boxers while Kenma throws on the T-shirt he’s borrowed from Kuroo for the last few days. They both crawl into bed and Kuroo scrolls through his phone at last.
Emails, emails, emails. Text messages from press partners inquiring about Japan’s loss, as if Kuroo has the answers as to what the hell happened against the United States. He groans, starting to reply to a journalist from Dubai, but Kenma taps Kuroo on the shoulder.
“Rest.”
“In a bit.” Kenma looks so soft and cozy under the covers, flaxen hair splaying across the cotton sheets, and all Kuroo wants to do is wrap his arms and legs around him. That can wait. He presses a kiss to Kenma’s cheek. “Just give me ten minutes, okay? If we were going out, I’d be answering these on the Metro or the bus–”
Kenma shakes his head.
“You’re upset. Stop working for thirty minutes and sleep it off.”
Kenma means well, but it doesn’t stop Kuroo from feeling annoyed. Unlike Kenma, he doesn’t have the luxury of setting his own schedule, or deciding to take the Olympics off just because he can. The corporate world’s demands aren’t something Kenma will ever understand, just like trying hard because he has to, not because he wants to… Ugh, that isn’t fair. Kuroo pushes the thought away.
“I still have a couple of things to do.”
Kenma makes a soft, whining noise, shifting as he adjusts to lay on his side.
“I thought your job was to hang out with me.”
Kuroo needs to stop being uncharitable when Kenma’s being so cute. Kuroo presses a little kiss to Kenma’s forehead. Kenma is right: Hayashi and Mori are taking care of the most urgent things. A few minutes won’t hurt.
“I mean, yes,” Kuroo says, and Kenma wiggles with delight, shoulders bouncing up and down with a devious little smile, “but I need to pay attention to other matters. Some of these journalists only have my number.”
Kenma dramatically raises a hand to his head, playing the part of a Victorian maiden as he huffs into the ceiling.
“You’re more attached to your phone than I am. This is why I had to lose my damn passport in the first place. We’d never hang out otherwise.”
“You what?”
Kuroo knew Kenma could be audacious, but had he just admitted to losing his passport on purpose? Kuroo’s stuck with shock, horror, then a sudden sense of rage. He sits up straight, gaping, too stunned to string words together; Kenma bats his lashes, feigning innocence. Kuroo’s nails dig into the bedsheets. Losing his passport by accident was one thing, but deliberately tossing it somewhere where it could be found… Kuroo doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if Kenma’s passport had fallen into the wrong hands. Somehow, he manages to sputter–
“Everyone knows you’re Kodzuken! What if someone found your old passport and used it to impersonate you?”
Kenma snorts. “I’m not stupid. I reported it lost immediately.”
“That’s…”
Of all the stupid, incomprehensible schemes. Kenma’s in a foreign country where he doesn’t speak the language, and he’s gambling with his fucking passport, his key to getting home. Kuroo knew Kenma could be brazen, but this is skirting the point of pure idiocy. He shakes his head, frustration surging through him.
“And what if the JVA wasn’t able to help you? What if I hadn’t agreed to help–”
Kenma’s eyes narrow, his mouth pulling into a hard, thin line.
“I would have gotten my passport back on my own. Besides, my gamble worked. I got you out of work. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
Kuroo takes a deep breath, trying to quell his heartbeat. He knew Kenma resented how much he worked, how attached Kuroo was to his job, but this wasn’t just endangering Kodzuken, it was putting Kenma himself in the line of fire. What if someone found it? What if someone used his passport to track him down and hurt him–
“You could have sent me a text years ago. Asked me if I wanted to talk. Said hi to me when we ran into each other in the rooftop bar, like a normal person, or even requested a tour guide from the JVA. There are a million other ways you could have gone about this, none of which put you in danger. But you chose the most insane possible thing.”
“Calm down. I was never in danger.” Now Kenma scrambles to sit up, arms folded and shoulders hunched, furrowing his brow as he glares at Kuroo. “I took care of it.”
“You took care of it?” Kuroo’s flabbergasted, seconds away from losing his mind at Kenma’s audacity. Has he no sense of personal safety? Kuroo’s tried so hard to protect Kenma, to take care of his safety and feelings to the extent of pulling away, and yet– “I called the taxi. I brought you to the embassy. My job paid for lunch and dinner and then for every other meal after that–”
“Kuro–”
“Let me finish! What if I was busy? What if I hadn’t been there?” Kuroo’s mind races with possibilities of the worst case scenario. “I thought you were smarter than this!”
“I never lost my passport. I faked the emergency. I staged this so you’d talk to me. Fuck, are you happy now?”
There’s that sharp, acerbic tone, followed by a familiar stabbing sensation in Kuroo’s chest. Kenma is practically shaking at this point, trembling from either fear or anger: Kuroo can’t decide which. They remain wordless for a moment, a second, a breath too long, before Kenma rolls out of bed.
“I’m a grown-ass man, Kuroo. I’ve thought my decisions through.”
Kenma doesn’t sound scared, or furious. He sounds sad, which is a million times worse.
“Even if I hadn’t, I’d have risked it all for one more chance. I thought you’d do the same.”
Kenma toys with the hem of Kuroo’s T-shirt.
“I should go. Since you’re busy with work, and…” Kenma glares through tears, “since you love your job more than you love me.”
Another dagger stabs through Kuroo’s chest. He’d protest that Kenma was being unfair if he was literally anyone else, but he’s too tired to fight. Besides, he doesn’t miss how Kenma blinks his tears away, how Kenma yanks his hand away when Kuroo reaches for it. He swallows the lump in his throat, nodding and stamping down his hurt.
“Yeah. We’ll talk later.”
“Mm.”
Kenma slides Kuroo’s T-shirt off and drapes it behind the hotel’s desk chair. He pulls on his pants and throws on his button down; Kuroo wants to call for him, wants to apologize, but his mouth is raw and dry and his lips don’t form words. Kenma remains silent as he slowly slides up his socks, laces up his shoes, before exiting the room and shutting Kuroo’s door with a hard click.
Kuroo collapses onto bed, grabbing the pillow beside him and covering his face. It still smells like sun, sea, apple pie and Kenma. Once he’s certain Kenma’s far enough, he lets out a loud, groaning sound, somewhere between a cry and a shout, screaming his lungs out into the ghost of what he almost had.
As a child, Kuroo used to wonder if he was destined to care more than anyone else. He was more excited than his peers about biology, about school, about volleyball–Kenma only played because Kuroo dragged him along, and only learned to love it once Hinata’s fire lit the spark within him. Kuroo threw his full effort into everything he did, never truly understanding why Kenma would half-ass it and drag his feet, but he could at least look out for Kenma. Take care of him, because Kuroo threw his full effort into that friendship too. Or so he thought.
Caring has always come easy to Kuroo. Loving, on the other hand, is a different beast. Perhaps his conception of love has been stunted by grief, the fear that it could end prematurely when death, or danger, tears it apart. Either way, it’s too late for Kuroo to reflect. He dabs his tears with the pillow, ignoring his phone as it lights up with message after message from work.
***
Kuroo always returned to Nerima for New Year’s.
His mother’s death, and then his grandfather’s, meant his dad would otherwise spend the holiday alone. His sister brought her husband and daughter with her. Seeing her little family filled Kuroo’s father with joy, his smile wide and toothy as he crawled around the living room with Kana-chan. Kuroo and his brother-in-law chatted about sports, his sister chiming in with scathing, hilarious hot takes. They visited a shrine together the next morning. It was a nice, quiet, family tradition, borne out of consideration for a man who now spent most days at work or alone.
Kuroo would drop in on Kenma after ten p.m., when both his sister’s family and his father went to bed. They’d spend hours talking about everything and nothing, lying on the bed in Kenma’s childhood bedroom having shitty konbini drinks. The room was comically bare since Kenma moved his streaming gear to his fancy mansion down the street, but there was something funny about it. Kenma’s bedroom smelled like plywood, old paper, and nostalgia, and Kuroo preferred spending time there than in his own.
Kuroo and Kenma lay there, mostly quiet, on December 31, 2021.
They’d strewn their Hi-Chew wrappers and Lemon Sour cans at the foot of Kenma’s bed, Kenma sipping the last of his apple juice as they whiled time away. Kuroo was hard at work beside him. The expedition match was in a few months, and foreign partners didn’t have New Year’s Eve off, which meant Kuroo had to respond despite the holiday. He tapped away at emails while Kenma played a rhythm game beside him, the music a dissonant backdrop in the dim light. Kuroo had spent most of the evening focusing on his family; this was finally his chance to have some peace and privacy. Kenma was good at giving him that.
They didn’t talk about Brazil. They lay on their stomachs, Kenma’s foot brushing against Kuroo’s, Kuroo unsure how to respond. He didn’t know what to do with his feelings, but thankfully Kenma would never bring it up, giving space for their romance to fizzle out, then fade, so they’d both hopefully move forward and meet other people whose love wouldn’t destroy them. The minutes to midnight felt quick, ephemeral as they shifted on Kenma’s sheets, the incandescent light from their phone screens casting a glow across their faces.
The distant sound of fireworks, and the muffled sound of the shrines ringing their bells, told Kuroo that the New Year has slowly, finally arrived. May this be a better one. Kenma rolled over so he was lying on his back, wearing a small, tender smile.
“Happy New Year, Kuro.”
“Happy New Year to you too.”
“Mm,” Kenma said, fluttering his lashes and propping himself on his elbows. “In some countries, you’d be expected to give me a kiss. Think you can do that?”
Kuroo felt his heart stop.
It was so small, so simple a request, one he’d wanted to hear from Kenma’s lips for years. Kuroo had kissed women, and he’d also kissed men–he’d kissed plenty of men, searching for the semblance of love in Kenma’s visage, some sort of shadow that could be a mere measure to the ghost of him. These were mostly faceless strangers, a mockery of love found betwixt Nii-chome’s winding alleys and dim street lights, men whose names he didn’t know and whose hearts he couldn’t break. Kenma was different. He was a famous YouTuber, an international superstar with a reputation to uphold. Being gay for Kenma meant more than just whispers and stares at work.
One day one of them would leave the other, or die, and they’d break each other’s hearts. They’d have to date in secret, in fear of Kenma’s rousing fans, in fear of their relationship destroying Kenma’s career. Kuroo couldn’t stand to be what wrecked him.
“You know I can’t.” Not so soon after Kenma’s launch to stardom, after Kuroo’s grandpa died. Perhaps when they were old and anonymous it could happen, but not now.
“Kuro, come on,” Kenma pouted, “It’s just a kiss. What’s the harm in it?”
“Kenma–” Kuroo’s breath hitched in his throat. The thought of Kenma’s taste, Kenma’s scent, his lips ghosting against Kuroo’s skin could drive him wild. It took every ounce of self-control he had in his body to say, “Don’t you understand what’s at stake? W-we can’t keep doing this.”
Kenma clicked his tongue. His lips looked so plush and soft, and Kuroo knew they’d feel amazing against his. He’d chosen a path Kuroo couldn’t tread. Kuroo grimaced.
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be tempted to do it again.”
“Fuck this. Fuck.” Kenma grabbed a pillow, hugging it to his chest. “This is some self-sacrificial nonsense, isn’t it? Holding back for my sake, or something?”
“I mean, yes,” Kuroo said, red-hot anger rising within him. “Kenma, what if you get seen with me on the street? It’s not like we’re in Brazil, or America. Everyone in Japan knows you, and over here…” Kuroo’s voice trailed off, “two men being together isn’t normal.”
“We can keep it under wraps. I can keep it quiet, and so can you.”
“I don’t want to just be a dirty little secret!” Kuroo said, voice shaking and strained. He sat up and crossed his legs so he could meet Kenma at eye level. Kenma blinked back tears, and shit, Kuroo should have been comforting him, not causing them. “Kenma, this isn’t just for you. It’s for both of us.”
“No,” Kenma said, pulling his legs to his chest and clutching his pillow tighter. “It’s for you. Have you thought about me for a single second? You’ve spent the evening working instead of hanging out with me.”
“I’m exhausted after running after my dad. All I do is think about you!” Kuroo threw his hands in the air.
“Kuroo, you’re being stupid. Put two and two together.”
“What the hell are you even talking about?”
“I don’t like women the way you do, Kuroo. Do you expect me to be single and alone forever?”
Kuroo felt like he’d been hit by a speeding Shinkansen train, and then another one passed through and ran him over the tracks.
He’d occasionally wondered what would happen if Kenma started dating, but it was mostly a passing thought. Realistically, Kuroo had thought he and Kenma would be giving speeches at the other’s wedding, laughing about how they were each other’s first real friend. Kuroo wonders if even that lies in their futures. Especially when Kenma wipes his tears with the back of his sleeve, eyes red as he glares daggers at Kuroo.
“It’s about control, isn’t it? You’d die if you weren’t in control. You’d die if you weren’t controlling me.”
“Kenma, that’s not–” Kuroo knew Kenma could hold his own in a fight, but this felt different. Every word from Kenma’s lips dripped with pure poisoned vitriol.
“I was part of your world when we played volleyball together. You won’t be part of mine. You liked me better when I was hiding behind you.”
“Kenma, please–”
Kenma turned towards his door.
“You should go.”
Kuroo’s heart sank in his chest as he got up from where he was sitting, nearly tripping over a Lemon Sour can on his way out. He threw on his sweater, casting Kenma one last, forlorn glance.
“Text me when you’re ready, okay? We… we should talk about this when we’re less emotional.”
“Mm.”
It was the last thing Kenma said before shutting the door in Kuroo’s face.
The walk back home felt centuries long. Kuroo’s family was fast asleep by the time he returned, which made it easy for Kuroo to slip upstairs and scream-cry into his hands. He’d blown it. He’d really, really blown it, and now the ball was in Kenma’s court he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear back.
Kenma never texted him. Kuroo wasn’t surprised. Despite Kodzuken’s farce, his bravado, his quick quips and snide jabs, Kenma had always been afraid of his own shadow. Kuroo was one of the few people who remembered that. Kenma probably wished he’d forget the truth, so he did the next best thing: cutting Kuroo from his life. Kenma’s public persona meant he’d become terrified of vulnerability, and that fear warped him into a spineless coward.
Kuroo and Kenma had that in common.
Once upon a time in Tokyo’s heart, amidst Ginza’s glitz and glamor, between the city lights and busy streets there lived a man named Kuroo. Tetsurou to his family, Kuroo to everyone else: he had another name once, a nickname exclusive to someone now a stranger. Kuroo liked his job, volleyball, and listening to science podcasts on his phone. He liked his dad and big sister, even if they drove him crazy. He liked beer and jazz bars, and quietly slipping to Nii-chome after work.
Even when they didn’t talk for years, Kuroo loved Kenma very, very much.
***
Kuroo doesn’t know what to do about Kenma, so he buries himself in work.
He takes back the reins of social media, immediately propelling the JVA’s TikTok to near-virality with a video of Kageyama and Hinata set to “Birds of a Feather.” Kuroo proactively reaches out to press channels and journalists. He falls asleep far too late and almost misses the JWNT’s game the next day, but gets there in time for the game to start and for them to triumph.
It still isn’t enough for the women’s team to proceed to the quarterfinals.
Tears stream down Kanoka’s cheeks as Natsu rubs circles in her back. Kuroo can barely stand to look at Hirugami Shoko as she drags herself off the court, and he has to choke back tears as he arranges their final post-match press conference, their final set of interviews. That’s one fewer chance to win the Olympic gold, one fewer reason to keep Kuroo in Paris where Kenma remains. The men’s team has to proceed to the semifinals or it’s over.
Not that it should matter. Kuroo finally returns to his hotel room after what feels like a hundred years and scrolls through his messages. It’s full of texts from work, and not a single peep from Kenma.
Kuroo wonders if he should message Kenma first. Then again, Kenma was the one who inflicted an almost two-year silence upon them. Maybe Kenma should text me back for once, he huffs, rolling his eyes and tossing his phone across the bed.
He’ll give Kenma a couple more days to blow off steam, but fear gnaws at the back of his mind. What if his twenty or so years of yearning are truly, really over?
Kuroo will have to stop missing Kenma some day. But that tantalizing wisp of a second chance, that false promise of a fresh start was enough to plunge him into the depths of grieving their friendship. Kuroo could text Yaku, who gives good advice, but has a quarterfinal against Italy to train for. Kai won’t be helpful in a different time zone. And Bokuto… Kuroo loves him, but no.
To make matters worse, the Japanese Men’s National Team loses.
Victory slips through Japan’s fingers in seconds. Kuroo watches them play their heart out from his seat in his stands, his heart in his throat as Italy serves, Ushijima and Hinata ping-ponging the ball back and forth in a dazzling rally. A chance ball, a clever trick from Team Italy sends Kageyama sprinting for the ball. The Italian middle blocker grins, immediately slamming it back.
Too fast. The ball grazes past Yaku’s shoulder as he watches, eyes wide, landing in the space behind him with a thud. It’s over. Both their dream of Olympic gold, and his friendship with Kenma, are over.
Disappointment and anger flash across Yaku’s face, and he falls to his knees at the final whistle. Kuroo doesn’t respond to Mori or Hayashi as they ask him if he’s all right, instead instantly getting on his feet. At least he doesn’t have to feel pain if he’s being useful, if he’s competent, if he can push the hurt away to focus on the only thing he’s really good at: being in service to others.
Having to respond to some British journalist with “Kageyama Tobio is not the same guy as the 12-year-old Japanese skateboarder” is most definitely not funny.
Kuroo hopes the JNT will find catharsis. Hinata blubbers through his post-game interview, and Yaku addresses the press with his face in his hands. Kageyama seems almost angry as he nitpicks his own game, remarking where he could have hit harder, set stronger, fought faster. Bokuto apologizes repeatedly to the team, his fans, and everyone who has ever supported him from his kindergarten teachers to Akaashi to his parents.
Ushijima’s voice cracks a little when it’s his turn to speak. It’s everything Kuroo can do not to tear up.
The only positive side to all this is that the Japanese National Team can finally drink. Kuroo receives a text from Yaku saying that the boys are planning to go get changed before congregating at a bar near the Olympic Village called Le Rameau. Kuroo wonders if Kenma will show up, but he shoves the thought away. Hinata and Kenma are thick as thieves. Perhaps Kenma will join the JNT once Kuroo’s gone, or this party is big enough that they can avoid each other.
Or perhaps Kuroo’s hoping against hope that Kenma will be there, and that they’ll finally, finally have the conversation they need.
Either way, Kuroo won’t let Kenma stop him. He finishes his press rounds and stays for a debrief with the JVA, before walking back to his hotel to get changed. The press coverage never stops, but fuck it, Kuroo can take a break. It doesn’t really matter any more. Besides, he’s so good at working he can do it tipsy. Kuroo calls a taxi to take him to Saint-Denis, and he’s off, on his way to see if Oikawa will show his sorry face to gloat.
Le Rameau is jam-packed when Kuroo arrives. The scent of sweat and cheap liquor hangs in the air, the floor sticky where drinks were spilled and haphazardly mopped up. Kuroo’s grateful that the JNT somehow booked the whole place on such short notice, because they’re already going wild. On the far side, Bokuto’s shaking his ass to some French rock song, while Ushijima struts around without a shirt. Beside them, Iwaizumi is doing one-armed push-ups with Yaku sitting on his back. No sign of Kenma. Hesitating, Kuroo takes a seat by the bar and shoots him a message.
You coming tonight?
All Kuroo wants is one last conversation with Kenma before he leaves Paris, and their relationship, behind forever. No response. Whatever. Kuroo will try to enjoy the night. It’ll be hard to not have some fun when Kageyama and Atsumu are competing to see who can do more shots of cheap tequila. Kuroo orders a Mojito with an extra shot of rum, and is about to wander off and find his friends when he feels a heavy thump on his back.
“Well, Kuroo. Has the JVA let you out of your cage?”
Yaku saunters up to him, hair tousled and necktie askew, and Kuroo smirks back at him. “Sorry ‘bout the match. You did well.”
“Ehhhh,” Yaku says, scratching the back of his head, “I wouldn’t go that far. But you win some, you lose some, y’know?”
Normally, Kuroo would rib his old friend a little more, but the last thing Kuroo wants to do is kick Yaku while he’s down. Kuroo flags the bartender down, gesturing towards the menu and telling Yaku he’ll buy his drink. Aran and Atsumu slide in beside them, Atsumu already belligerently drunk, Aran pleading the bartender to please bring him some water before he throws up. Kuroo snickers as Atsumu receives his water, and Yaku receives his Sex on the Beach. Kuroo holds up his drink in a toast.
“To all of you.”
They clink their glasses together, Atsumu’s water nearly falling out of his cup. Kuroo takes a huge chug of his drink. It’s so strong it nearly burns his throat.
That might be just what he needs. The three players rag Kuroo for not showing up to the Olympic Village recently, Kuroo not saying it was because he spent time with Kenma instead. Kuroo throws out Paris recommendations left and right, Kenma’s sardonic smile lingering through each memory, each description of the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Sacré-Cœur. Yaku wolf-whistles when Kuroo’s done, and Kuroo casts the bar’s entrance a quick, longing stare.
No sign of Kenma, and no reply on his phone.
At least he can drown his sorrows in liquor. Kuroo’s friends are talking about hitting up some nightclub or other after they’ve finished drinking this place dry. Kuroo offers to chaperone, offers to take them to a speakeasy he and Kenma had stumbled into in Porte-Saint-Martin, offers to show them Kenma’s favorite wine bar. Atsumu is telling them about this mascot suit MSBY wants him to wear when he hears a loud, excited voice screech in the background.
“Kenma!”
Hinata yells Kenma’s name with the same fondness he’s carried since he was in high school, waving at him from the other side of the bar. Despite his oversized hoodie and the bags under his eyes, Kenma is just as gorgeous as ever, hair pulled back into its casual half-bun and the incandescent lights reflecting in his golden eyes. His gaze meets Kuroo’s for a second, and Kenma stops, his soft lips parting as if he’s about to say something.
Kuroo’s breath hitches in his throat. He starts, about ready to bolt off of his barstool before Hinata nearly tackles Kenma in belligerent, drunken excitement. Fear crushes Kuroo in its icy grip, and Kuroo just watches as Kenma marches up to the opposite end of the bar and orders a single vodka shot. Yaku leans down to whisper into his ear.
“Earth to Kuroo.”
“AH!” Kuroo yells, nearly falling out of his seat with shock. Yaku cackles evilly, while Atsumu sneaks behind Yaku and downs the rest of his drink. Aran gives him a sharp look. Yaku slings an arm around Kuroo’s neck, pulling him close and practically shouting into his ear:
“You should go talk to Kenma!”
“What?” Kuroo sputters. He’d talked to Yaku and Kai a little bit about their first not-breakup, but he hadn’t breathed a word of what had happened in Paris to any of these people. Kuroo somehow manages, “The hell are you talking about?”
Atsumu bumps Kuroo’s shoulder, practically yelling to get his point across.
“Kenma! Misses! You!”
Now Atsumu? Kuroo turns to Yaku, who shrugs and grins, feigning innocence. Kuroo needs another drink.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“’S obvious, ain’t it?” Aran shrugs, and Kuroo’s mortified that the news has somehow spread to him as well. Aran shrugs. “Kenma talks to Hinata, and Hinata… might've spilled the beans to Atsumu once, who told me.”
God. Shrimpy, the king of subtlety. Kuroo now wonders how much the rest of the JNT knows; Bokuto probably hasn’t learned anything or he’d have blown up Kuroo’s phone days ago. The bartender brings Kuroo another Heineken, and Kuroo sips it slowly as he watches Hinata and Kenma chat. Hinata says something and Kenma leans in close, looking past Hinata’s shoulder to glimpse at Kuroo before shying away. Kuroo winces.
“I… Can’t tell if he likes me or hates me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Yaku scoffs. “He’s just as obsessed with you as you’ve always been with him. You were both miserable after you had that fight.”
“Look, man,” Atsumu drunkenly says, smacking Kuroo on the back, “if I learned a thing from high school, it’s not to linger on memories. Don’t think too hard ‘bout the past, you know. You want Kenma now, don’tcha? Kenma’s here now, isn’t he? So what the hell’re you even doing?”
Kuroo hates to say it, but fuck. Atsumu’s right. Kuroo keeps telling himself he’s tried everything, keeps assuring himself that he’s giving Kenma the space he needs, but what Kuroo really is is afraid–he’s terrified the slightest wrong move could destroy them forever, but there’s no coming back if he doesn’t act now.
Kuroo clenches his ice-cold beer, the frigid sensation soothing against his skin. He swallows the lump in his throat, choking back the unease enveloping him; Yaku squeezes his shoulder. Kuroo gets up from his seat, stretching and barking a hoarse laugh.
“Here goes nothing.”
Kuroo’s not sure if it’s the crowd, his nerves, or the alcohol, but it takes forever to squeeze through the seas of volleyball players and their medical staff. Kuroo mutters apologies as he jostles through the crowd, nearly bumping against a poor waitress holding an entire tray of beers for Ushijima. His heart races and his knees could give out, but he doesn’t care; he needs to get to Kenma and tell him with full certainty–he wants to be with him.
Love, he’s learned, is not a finite resource. Kuroo cares for Kenma because he loves him. He’s loved him from the day that they met, to the evening of their fight at Kenma’s family home, to the minute they met again in Paris. He’s loved Kenma for so long that it’s as natural as breathing, as true a facet of life as the sun rising in the East or the magnolias blooming at the Jardin du Palais Royal. Kuroo’s always accepted that love as a passive, certain fact: now it compels him into action.
Kuroo carries his grief in his heart like a hearse. Its weight has grown as he’s become more aware of its gravitas, creating a terror that perpetuates, permeates, destroying his relationship with Kenma and leaving him to drown. For now, for the first time in years–he sets it aside.
He walks up to Kenma and Hinata.
“Hey, Kenma. Can we talk?”
Kenma nearly jumps out of his chair.
“Uh, sure,” Kenma says, glancing nervously up at Kuroo, gaze darting from side to side. Hinata waves cheerily, scooting off his seat and gesturing towards it.
“Kuroo! You can sit here. I have to… uh… I have to butter my baguette!”
With that, Hinata sprints off, disappearing into the crowd faster than you can say “synchronized attack.” Kuroo slides into his barstool, still warm from where Hinata was sitting in it. The bartender brings Kenma a second glass of wine, and he slides his credit card over. For once, he’s not making the JVA pay. Kenma takes a sip.
“How is it?” Kuroo asks.
“Fine.” Kenma’s expression betrays nothing.
“You should do the cocktails instead. They aren’t half bad. Otherwise you can be like me and get Heineken even in the middle of Paris, I guess–”
“I was a dick. I’m sorry.”
Kenma’s apology comes swift as a chance ball, aimed straight and true at Kuroo’s heart. It’s all it takes for Kuroo to forgive him. He throws his arms around Kenma, pulling him into a tight, close hug, rubbing circles into his back as he speaks.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry too. For not listening a couple nights ago, but… for everything else. For burying myself in work. For being scared,” Kuroo laughs, “for way too long. Man.”
Kenma’s shoulders relax, and he hugs Kuroo back. He rests his head on Kuroo’s shoulder, and Kenma smells so good, like puff pastry and wine and something else that Kuroo’s just starting to recognize.
It’s home. Kenma smells like home.
Kenma sniffs, blinking back tears as he pulls away.
“I didn’t understand a year and a half ago. I think I understand better now. It’s why I came to Paris.”
“Wait, what?” Kuroo shouldn’t be surprised at what Kenma’s capable of, but he wasn’t sure if he heard him right amidst the din of drunk volleyball players and their friends. “What did you just say?”
“I…” Kenma plays with his hoodie’s drawstring. “A few weeks ago, Bokuto said you'd probably agree to date me if I just asked. I didn’t have the guts to text you. So instead…”
“You flew all the way to Paris?” Kuroo wolf-whistles. “What you think is scary is seriously warped.”
Kenma snorts, but he still doesn’t meet Kuroo’s eyes.
“Of course this was scary too, dumbass. But I knew that if I was in trouble, you’d come running to my rescue. You always do.”
“So you pretended to lose your passport.” The pieces are finally, finally clicking together. Kuroo laughs. “You didn’t have to fly all the way here to do that, though. Couldn’t you have faked an emergency back home, or any of the other normal suggestions I gave you two days ago?”
“Mm. But when we were kids, you said your mom loved Paris. And I said I’d come with you if you went. I knew you’d be at the Olympics, so… I thought, maybe…”
“Holy shit.”
Kenma’s voice trails off, but frankly, Kuroo doesn’t remember mentioning this. It was probably just one of many chats Kuroo had with Kenma in his childhood bedroom, but Kenma clearly took it to heart. Kenma remembering this throwaway conversation, this miniscule detail, nearly brings tears to Kuroo’s eyes, and he blinks them away.
“God dammit. Fuck. Yeah. You were right. She did love Paris. I haven’t been able to walk around without thinking of her. Of how my father lost her… Of how I lost you.”
“Mm,” Kenma says, leaning against the bar’s countertop. “I shouldn’t have kept skirting the hard conversations. I just… Didn’t want to fight.”
“Hey, Kenma,” Kuroo says, gently bumping his shoulder against his, “I get that. But fighting’s unavoidable sometimes, you know? We’re going to have to work through the hard things to get to the good. You taught me that. Especially after we’ve known each other for so long, and we’ve got different wants and fears…”
“I was worried you’d ghost me after our fight. That you wouldn’t even want to be friends. So I put it off… and left you hanging for days. I was scared.”
“And yet you were brave enough to come see me in Paris of all places.” Kuroo shakes his head in disbelief. “I have no idea how that’s meant to work. You’re crazy, you know? But… the crazy’s kind of hot.”
Kuroo trails a hand down Kenma’s cheek, tracing the contours of his soft features. For Kuroo, the notion of romantic love has always seemed nebulous, distant; here under the bar’s incandescent lights, it finally begins to take shape. Kuroo could simply never imagine a romantic future without Kenma in it. They’re mourning Team Japan’s loss, half-drunk on cheap rum and red wine, and yet all feels right in the world now the noise has faded out. Kuroo bends down to venture a kiss to Kenma’s forehead.
“We should take this slow,” he murmurs. “I finally have you back. I don’t want to fuck up and lose you again.”
Kenma tilts his chin upwards at the contact, wrapping a hand around Kuroo’s neck. A wicked grin tugs at his lips.
“We’ll see about that. I can’t keep my hands off you for long.”
Kenma’s cheeks are rosy from two glasses of wine, and his hands are warm to the touch. And much as Kuroo talks about hanging back, he knows he can’t stay away. Hinata hoots and hollers in the background, and Atsumu barks at him to shut the fuck up. Kenma breaks from Kuroo to flip them both off. Kuroo laughs, bending to nip at Kenma’s earlobe, voice sultry and smooth.
“Let’s get a taxi back and take this to the hotel. If Bokuto catches wind of this we’ll be trapped here answering questions for the rest of the night.”
Kuroo’s room with the JVA is pretty damn nice, but it’s nothing compared to the suite Kenma shelled out for. They stumble into his room, scrambling to close every floor-to-ceiling curtain lest all of Paris gets a view. Much as Kuroo would love to announce that he’s fucking world-famous Kodzuken, he understands that a public relationship takes a delicate PR touch, and considering they haven’t really defined what they are… They should probably talk about it. Kuroo shuts the last curtain, voice hitching in his throat as he tries to sound suave.
“This won’t be like the last time. This is real. You’re my boyfriend now, aren’t you? You can announce it to the world for all I care.” No more hiding, no more shying behind the label of best friends, no more pretending they’re anything else. Kenma nods.
“I-I better be. I’ve wanted that for a very long time.”
Kuroo’s struck with sudden surprise. “Even when we weren’t talking?”
The tips of Kenma’s ears turn pink, and all of a sudden, he’s sixteen and terrified again, retreating into video games and wandering the world with his bangs drooping down his face. Wordlessly, he shuffles towards his suitcase, rummaging through it and pulling out a familiar black polo shirt. He tosses it at Kuroo before averting his gaze, shifting from side to side. Kuroo’s jaw drops.
“I’ve been wondering where that shirt went.”
“I stole it from our Brazil trip. I wore it to the exhibition match after our fight. I…” Kenma hangs his head, “I was hoping you’d see me.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I was too busy, and I didn’t think you’d show up, and...” Kuroo picks the shirt up from off the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. He taps the free space beside him, and Kenma timidly joins him, plucking at the hem of his sleeves. Kuroo wraps his arms around Kenma to hug him. “Hey, hey. What do you seem so nervous for?”
“I… Don’t know. I thought you’d think I was insane, or obsessed, or something.”
“I mean, you are. But so am I. Kenma, look,” Kuroo rests his hand so it’s on Kenma’s waist, “I told you it’s kind of hot. We can be insane and obsessed together.”
Kenma snorts.
“Works for me. Give that shirt back, then. It’s mine now.”
Kuroo grins, greedy and wolfish.
“Only if you wear it while we fuck.”
Wordlessly, Kenma slides his hoodie and shirt off to reveal his smooth, pale chest, grabbing Kuroo’s polo and throwing it on with wicked glee.
It isn’t long until they’re a tangle of fingers and tongues and hands and mouths, Kenma moaning into the crook of Kuroo’s neck with wanton fervor. Kuroo kisses Kenma like a man possessed, Kenma straddling his lap while repeatedly whispering his name. Kuro, Kuro, Kuro. In a space that’s just for the both of them, a sight that belongs to Kuroo and Kuroo only, he will do with Kenma whatever his heart desires. That’s sliding down Kenma’s pants and palming his already half-hard cock through his boxers; that’s setting Kenma on the bed and pushing him into a mating press. They’re finally together, Kuro-and-Kenma as a unit, the way it once was and the way it’s always meant to be.
***
Kuroo spent hours, years ruminating over Kenma. He tossed and turned in bed analyzing every fraught interaction, every conversation, every misstep. Those sleepless nights led Kuroo towards multiple crucial points of failure. First, that night in Nerima, where Kuroo should have swallowed his pride and told Kenma the truth—that Kenma was right. Kuroo’s need to be needed was all-consuming. When his feelings for Kenma scared him, he retreated into work. Second, back at Vidcon, where Kuroo should have tossed his laptop aside; he should have said “screw this” and showed up on time to Twix Prom or whatever it was called. Maybe things would have ended differently if Kuroo asked for that dance.
Most of all, Kuroo kept going back to Rio.
He thought of Rio’s sky, its sea, the waves lapping across the beach and the squawks of seagulls as they scaled the Atlantic Ocean. He thought about how the sand felt under his feet when Kenma tried beach volleyball. He thought about the perfect medium-raw steak with grilled pineapple, how Kenma’s face lit up as he took his first bite. He thought about the bustling streets, the chatty people, how Kenma looked in his sunglasses and swim shorts. Kuroo thought a lot about Kenma.
Kuroo thought about how small Kenma felt pressed up against him in their hotel bed, how the lines of his body fit perfectly against Kuroo’s. He thought about brushing Kenma’s hair out of his face in the mornings, waking him up with a sudden jolt and a wicked cackle. He thought about how they talked for hours in the dark of night, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against shore. Kenma tangled his legs into Kuroo’s, gently cupping his face with his hands. It was on their second-to-last night that Kenma broached the truth.
“I love you,” Kenma hummed, wrapping an arm around Kuroo’s waist. “You don’t have to say it back.”
Kuroo’s first instinct was to panic. There was the recent loss of his grandpa and how it fucked up his dad—he wasn’t sure how to tell him his only son wasn’t straight. And then there was the question of Kodzuken. Yet, through the curtain-filtered moonlight and the comfort of their shared sheets, Kuroo knew he couldn’t lie. He pressed a kiss against Kenma’s cheek.
“I love you,” Kuroo said. It was the easiest truth he’d ever spoken. And in the same breath— “We can’t be together.”
A single father, a dead mom. A corporate job that meant making his best friends into superstars, even when they’d once shared the same volleyball court. The circumstances surrounding Kuroo kept him grounded, realistic; unlike Kenma, he’d never aspired to the impossible. He‘d seen how grief had ruined his father. Drawing any closer to Kenma could be their downfall. Kenma sighed.
“I know. I just wanted to say it.”
Something deep and painful strained Kuroo's heart. For how stubborn Kenma could be, he was extremely understanding. Kuroo clasped Kenma’s hands in his, pressing their foreheads together. He could feel Kenma’s heart beating in perfect rhythm with his, and Kuroo smiled in wistful melancholia. Another time, another place, and they’d have made an amazing couple. Kuroo swallowed his pride and gathered his courage.
“Fuck that. Can I kiss you? We’ll pretend for tonight.”
Kenma beamed, bright and brilliant, and it was the most gorgeous sight Kuroo had ever seen. He leaned forward, going in for the kiss. He’d been waiting for years, Kuroo realized, waiting for a future that would be over in one night. It was best to make the most of it. He made contact, and—
“Hey.” Kenma scowled, wiping his face with his hand. “You kissed my nose, dummy.”
Kuroo felt himself flush pink, but Kenma looked so offended, like a cat who’d been left in the rain, that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oops. Got too excited.”
“I can tell,” Kenma said. A soft laugh fell from his lips, too. “You going to make it up to me?”
“’Course I will.”
Kuroo always delivered on his promises. He kissed Kenma again, again, and again, running his fingers through his hair, hand straying under Kenma’s oversized T-shirt. And when they woke up the next morning to hickeys littering their skin and their clothes strewn over the ground, Kuroo had no regrets. He held Kenma in his arms, close, wanting to be in love for just a few seconds longer.
***
The next twenty-four hours are a frenzied haze.
Turns out, Kenma wants Kuroo as much as Kuroo wants him. Sex with Kenma is everything Kuroo dreamed of and more–Kenma arches perfectly as he moans into Kuroo’s mouth, slender wrists trembling under Kuroo’s grip as he pins them on the sheets. Kuroo’s never yearned for anything more than he has the delicate curve of Kenma’s neck, or for Kenma’s breathy gasps as Kuroo fucks into him again, and again, and again.
They take breaks between rounds to order room service, use the bathroom, and for Kuroo, to answer the occasional work message half-naked on his phone. Kuroo idly runs his free hand through Kenma’s hair while he responds to interview requests for the Japanese National Team, copying and pasting the same generic message about the team needing some time to recover from their loss. It’s a load of shit.
Kuroo’s the one who needs the time.
He and Kenma squandered so many years dancing around their feelings, when they could have confessed to each other and lived like this; Kenma resting on Kuroo’s pecs, smile sweet and languid, keeping his hands off Kuroo for just minutes before pulling Kuroo into another deep, passionate kiss. Kuroo could have learned the shape of Kenma’s mouth, the taste of Kenma’s lips, the wanton noises Kenma makes as Kuroo runs his hands down Kenma’s chest. Kuroo could have learned how Kenma’s barbed retorts sound when Kuroo looms over him, each jab goading Kuroo to fuck him harder and faster.
Atsumu is right. There’s no time for memories, no need for regrets. Screw Paris, screw the Olympics, and screw the JVA while he’s at it, because Kuroo’s committed to doing the bare minimum for once in his life. Nothing really matters except Kenma screaming “Kuro” loud enough to shatter the rafters, and the bite marks that litter Kuroo’s neck. It’s been so long since Kuroo allowed himself to want–now he has Kenma, he can’t help but devour him.
Kuroo wakes up at noon the next day before thinking hm, maybe we should explore Paris more before we head home. World-famous Kodzuken is keeping his first-class ticket, but he did bring his flight forward to match the JVA’s. He also upgraded Kuroo. “To keep you out of trouble,” Kenma says, but Kuroo knows the truth–it’s been a long time since Kenma got to squeeze Kuroo’s hand through ascent. It isn’t just Kuroo who laments their lost years.
Kenma shows surprising initiative in picking a restaurant this afternoon, and then a surprise destination. They break bread in the 18th arrondissement, tucked in a corner seat at the appropriately-named Les Inséparables. Kenma rolls his eyes at the corny name, but won’t let go of Kuroo underneath the redwood tables until their wine arrives, and they enjoy a delicious meal of confit beef ribs and delicate truffle potato pie. Of course, the JVA pays. Three glasses of crisp rosé leave Kenma flushed bright as his drink, and Kuroo a little silly. Kenma leads them to their next stop regardless.
Kuroo’s not sure how drunk Kenma pushes through seventeen minutes of ambling tourists and winding paths, but he manages to direct Kuroo to the Jehan Rictus garden square without falling on his face. They stroll through the manicured bushes and coniferous trees, the afternoon sun casting shadows on Kenma’s soft skin. Kenma hides his warm eyes and long lashes behind sunglasses to prevent recognition, allowing him the animosity required to press a quick kiss on Kuroo’s cheek. Kuroo smirks, chest welling with possessive pride. Kodzuken broadcasts his existence to an audience across the globe–Kozume Kenma, however, is Kuroo’s and Kuroo’s only. There’s never been a second that he and Kenma weren’t connected; Kuroo just needed to let their stories intertwine.
Dating a celebrity will have its downsides, but he’ll deal with that later. For now, Kuroo follows Kenma towards a tiled wall in the garden’s center, crowded by tourists and lush, green foliage. Kuroo scans the navy tiles, gaze falling on the foreign words etched in white ink, heart swelling with warmth when he realizes just why Kenma brought him here–the wall reads I love you over and over again. It whispers, I love you, I love you, I love you in every tongue in the world, and Kuroo knows Kenma well enough to know this is a message. Kuroo has loved Kenma through all their travels, through every country they’ve been in together; they both just needed the courage to put it into words. He searches the wall for the Japanese characters, squeezing Kenma’s hand.
“Aishitemasu,” Kuroo repeats. It’s a deep, rooted expression of affection, one he’d been taught was reserved for a long-term girlfriend, or his wife of many years. Saying it to his boyfriend of forty-eight hours might seem like jumping the gun, but Kuroo knows that Kenma’s been waiting to hear it for much longer. Kenma glances up at Kuroo, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“I love you,” Kenma says in English, the only other language on the wall either of them speak. He rests his head on Kuroo’s shoulder, and Kuroo thinks of Kenma clinging to him during Vidcon, Kenma falling asleep on him on the Tokyo Metro. This isn’t the first time Kenma’s told Kuroo he loves him–it’s just the first time he’s said it in a tongue Kuroo speaks. They’ve been stumbling through different love languages, expecting the other to heed their call; Kuroo’s glad that he finally answered. He bends over to brush strands of hair from Kenma’s face, planting a soft kiss on his forehead.
“I can say it in every language I can read, and then butcher the rest.”
“Don’t even try.” Kenma smacks the back of Kuroo’s head. Kuroo laughs.
“Oi, oi! My English grades were great. I bet I could pick up another language in no time at all.”
“Whatever you say, Kuro.”
The old nickname strikes deep and true in Kuro’s chest. Behind the fame, the flippance and the fire in Kenma’s gaze, there’s still that quiet kid who trailed behind Kuro, waiting for him to make the first move. They were both shy outcasts once. It’s part of the fabric of who Kuro and Kenma remain, that deep, mutual understanding woven into their very being. Kenma is that nervous child Kuro dragged under that Nerima sky, Kenma is that scowling teen playing video games under the covers, Kenma is sharp, scathing Kodzuken. Kuro loves every part of Kenma, just as Kenma has always seen Kuro for who he is.
Kuro knows this for a fact. If he’s learned one thing from Paris, it’s that love and grief are life’s greatest inevitabilities. Love in every form ends through separation, or death, but Kuro won’t turn his back on the hurt. He hooks his pinky finger into Kenma’s, a tacit promise.
“I say I’m choosing love, Kenma. I’m choosing you.”
