Work Text:
“If you’re that clever you can argue yourself into anything.”
― Julian Barnes , The Sense of an Ending
“What I do I do because I like to do.”
― Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange
When Kuroo starts his second year, Nekoma falls through in the Interhigh preliminaries semifinals.
Kuroo pulls himself together and stays to see Bokuto and his team in the final.
He gets himself a seat all the way up on the bleachers; the lights go up once it’s finally showtime, and he hunches his shoulders forward - Kuroo’s not been loving volleyball for nothing and Fukurodani, loath to admit, is for the given value a beacon of everything it stands for.
He wonders if he should take notes the next time or as an alternative get Kenma to do it, although the idea of Kenma voluntarily taking written notes averages from hysterical to utopian.
Fukurodani in a nutshell is a heavy swinging pendulum. From the smooth movements of the third years’ starting lineup punctuated by the captain to the veteran setter puppeteering the flow of it all like it’s simple and elementary. The sinker: that’s not all of it, even after you add the second years’ reliable support you still have Bokuto with his undercooked Batman schtick as the cherry on the whole overpowered cake.
Fukurodani’s leading by a reasonable margin; the added bonus for Kuroo is, of course, that Nohebi’s losing, but well, details.
Bokuto, the obnoxious prodigy of volleyball that he is, on track to become the ace, is a presence demanding one hundred twenty percent of your attention anytime there is a voleyball within a fifty-meters distance; nevermind that last week he spilled the ramen soup twice on both his and Kuroo’s pants within one meal.
That is to say that the last set, when the whole stadium gasps in unison, Kuroo’s actually not looking actively at the Fukurodani setter.
When he looks over, the setter is already sinking down from the jump, his knee positioned in that particular, entirely wrong way that lets everyone with a sliver of volleyball experience know how bad it is.
The setter injury, the ridiculously textbook example where the cliche doesn’t make it any less severe. The setter’s out of the game; for the rest of the tournament if he’s lucky, for good if he’s not. The team’s crowded in a tight circle around him as the coach inspects the state of things as the crowd whispers in hushed tones; he gets carried off court swiftly to no one’s surprise.
As life has it, injuries are unfortunately a close reality to any and all sports. The game continues and Fukurodani are moving back into the position as the new setter, a first year from the looks of it, steps into the game.
Kuroo’s never seen him play before, and he offhandedly feels bad for the guy - the situation is obscenely high pressure for someone to take over the game at this particular point. The guy stands still, looking the court over, and moves to close his eyes in concentration.
On the other side of the court, Suguru’s doing the absolute most in support of his campaign for the dipshit of the year with whatever it is that he’s trying these days. Kuroo finds himself cheering for Fukurodani more so than he did before. A four-points difference is nothing if they can’t carry off the flow of the game, and Nohebi, in Kuroo’s humble opinion, acutely needs some schooling for their general shit.
Whistle, game on. Bokuto’s buzzing at his spot. The setter opens his eyes.
Two minutes later, Kuroo’s leaning forward so hard he’s practically lying flat on his own knees, because his vision is apparently failing him. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.
The new setter, whom he’d assume to dip his proverbial toes in the water before really diving in, just up and went for it instead. His plays are thoughtful but wide and swinging; accommodating Fukurodani’s devastating power and range. No meek tosses for the princess; this is exactly what the last set of the final match would look like. The rookie setter’s clearly got some balls; Kuroo’s personally offended.
The old setter was dispensing the plays in a smooth flow and moving the gameplay along, the new one is facilitating the Fukurodani tour de force with the precision of a strategist.
The real bad news, however, is that he pays special attention to Bokuto (which is expected) and knows how to enable him to the best result (which is not). The link is still visibly rough and there are a lot of kinks left to be ironed, but Kuroo’s known Bokuto since middle school and knows what the difference looks like.
The good news is, of course, that Suguru’s seething and going up in fumes.
The buzzer rings. Fukurodani advances to the nationals. Well, ha.
-
Kuroo, on a mission to not die from the heat before the whole pizzaz even starts, makes his way to the main gym ahead of almost everyone in the team. The Fukurodani facilities are massive and ludicrously modern; jackasses. The morning light shines down through the ceiling panels.
Shinsen and Ubugawa haven’t even arrived yet; the hosting Tokyo teams always get to the training camp a few hours earlier.
There’s a few people already in the gym, wheeling out equipment, doing stretches.
Someone’s setting up the net over by the stands. Kuroo’s left eyebrow starts its slow ascent to his forehead. Might as well go say hi.
He slides up to the net and pulls at the rope for counter balance. ‘Saw you playing the other day. Good game! And youth taking over. What a time to be alive! There might be actual tears in my eyes.’
Akaashi Keiji turns around. He looks like his Facebook photo; more ruffled, longer hair. What he doesn’t look like: surprised.
‘Ah, Kuroo-san.’ He says politely, ‘well, hope you were able to learn something.’
Well then.
‘Alright,’ Kuroo tugs at the rope some more to make sure it’s fixed into place, ‘So. You learn the names of all opponents? Is that a thing?’
Akaashi gives him a pitying side look, ‘Yeah. The thing called common sense.’
Kuroo is actually eighty percent done coming up with a proper comeback to that when a minor mountain of excited beefcake slams into him from behind, the momentum almost sending him face first into the net.
‘How’s it hanging, you dumbfuck!’ Bokuto roars affectionately in his ear, hanging off Kuroo’s shoulder. Kuroo smiles against himself. He loves the guy. Bless Bokuto’s heart and his lack of indoor voice. His ear is ringing mildly.
‘Bokuto-san, stop trying to break Kuroo-san in half; it’s dangerous in his age.’
‘Akaashi! His elderly ass can take more than that!’ Nevertheless, Bokuto more or less slides down from Kuroo’s back. Small victories. ‘Kuroo.’ Bokuto stands back dramatically. ‘Tonight’s the night. It’s here, it has arrived. Today I shall whoop your ass, my friend. Please feel free to start your prayers right there in the corner for the end is nigh.’
‘This is cute’, Kuroo says, ‘But not as cute as you crying sweet, sweet gentle tears in Akaashi’s arms after i have annihilated you and everything you hold dear.’
‘Bring it, kitty cat.’
Thankfully, before all of this can ascend into a full-blown absurdity, Nekomata makes it to the gym and unleashes the fire of heavens on their heads, bringing an effective end to the whole debacle.
Kuroo loves training camp.
-
The thing about training camp is that everyone is always in everyone’s face. Additional bonuses: it’s hot, it’s loud, it’s sweatier than a satan’s ass in August. A whole bunch of guys fired up over a game for days no end in a closed space.
‘Can you just fucking stop it,’ Yaku swears at him from over where he’s lying on his futon. ‘I don’t care what you do. Just. Make it stop.’
‘I can’t sleep, Yakkun,’ Kuroo answers honestly, looking straight ahead with glassy eyes. ‘This is it. I am never going to sleep again.’
‘Do I look like I give a fuck? Just, stop with the fidgety shit, and after that you can pass on in a blissful silence. Actually, no, let’s rephrase: if you are not stopping, I’m going to roll over there and strangle you with my bare hands and then I can sleep in blissful silence.’
‘Yes.’ Kuroo budges his eyes out. ‘Please come and kill me. I crave the sweet release of death.’
‘Jesus christ, Kuroo. What is it? It it a sexual thing? Can’t you just go and jerk off like all normal people? Is that it?’
-
Two days later during the practice match Nekoma’s losing the second set by seven points.
Ever the well-meaning mammoth, Bokuto’s climbing the walls around the court in excitement and almost keels over Washio in process. Not that keeling over Washio is actually an option, but Kuroo’s mildly impressed by how close the attempt is.
Across the net from Kuroo, Akaashi bounces up the ball in his hands and looks away from the carnage. ‘Bokuto-san. Enough for now; your energy’s admirable, but your running distracts the team, disrupts the formation, and most of all, inconveniences me.’
Kuroo snorts. Akaashi looks straight at him as his eyebrows shoot up into his hair.
‘Nothing,’ Kuroo says innocently.
The whistle blows.
-
In the evening they finally get their act together enough to start with the individual practice; they would’ve gone from the first day like last year, but the heat this summer has been relentless.
Kuroo’s had half a mind to drag Kenma along now that hes officially on the team, but Kenma just looked at him like he’s a dead rat in the way of his white shoes, and in his sixteen years of life Kuroo Tetsurou has picked up enough survival instinct to not push the subject.
So it’s the usual suspects - Bokuto, Kuroo, Kuroo’s old friend darkness. Well, for the most part the usual suspects.
‘I’d never guess you’d be the type,’ he tells Akaashi just to be a prick.
‘I think we already established you’re not good at guessing, Kuroo-san.’ Akaashi draws conversationally. ‘Hold the net over here, please.’
Bokuto and Akaashi’s combo is beautiful. Kuroo’s both grinding his teeth and falling to his knees in appreciation of some goddamn fine voleyball. Doesn’t mean that he hasn’t got any tricks up his own sleeves.
‘Oopsie,’ he sings gleefully half an hour later as the volleyball bounces back against the floor at Bokuto’s side. ‘Did you want that one over here, sweetie pie? Too bad.’
‘What the shit is this!’ Bokuto screams as he chases the ball.
Akaashi traces Bokuto with his eyes and snaps his head back. ‘It was a solid block, Kuroo-san.’
Kuroo grimaces, ‘You sound surprised.’
‘Not at all. I know who you are.’ Akaashi looks straight at him, completely serious.
‘Wow, okay.’ Kuroo shifts, embarrassed, ‘Don’t tell me you’re about to ask me for blocking tips,’ He adds with a chuckle to cover the issue.
Akaashi shrugs. ‘I’ll gladly take 'em if you’re offering.’
‘Akaashi.’ Kuroo tells him sincerely. ‘You’re a piece of work.’
‘Alright guys,’ Bokuto gestures vaguely at the two of them, ‘If you’re done with whatever’s happening over here, maybe we can play some fucking volleyball this century.’
-
A day after, Kuroo actually ends up teaching Akaashi some middle blocking 102: Bokuto hunts down Shinzen’s setter and by the power of Bokuto-specific charms and black magic convinces him to set for them for the evening.
‘Look,’ Kuroo muses, weighting the volleyball in his hands, ‘I assume it’s a bit different for setters since you usually focus all the power in your hands to pop that ball off, and like go from your body to your fingers, but try to focus it in your arms instead. And also, bend your knees a bit before, so you’re not stiff, you feel?’
‘No, I get you. To make the whole form more agile yet still strong, right?’ Akaashi nods, trying some approximation of it as they speak.
‘Essentially.’
‘Thank you,’ Akaashi tells him later, when they’re putting away the volleyballs for the night, ‘that was kind of you to elaborate.’
‘Is this the moment where you tell me you’re surprised at my kindness?’ Kuroo asks casually, because that’s what he does.
Akaashi’s looking around the gym for the last volleyballs on the run.
‘What?’ He echoes absentmindedly. ‘I never said I was.’
-
The end of the camp doesn’t feel as epic because they are not getting into busses for the final trip back to round it out; it’s just them on the train station waiting for the train like they usually do.
‘I feel,’ Bokuto says imperiously, ‘I feel, Kuroo, that my message is not coming though. Allow me to elaborate. Your ass is-’
‘No.’ Konoha squeaks desperately at the impending doom.
‘Your ass,’ Bokuto soldiers on, ‘Is grass. And I-’ Akaashi’s face seems to be pulled by the force of gravity into a gloriously foul frown; it’s probably compulsive reaction, ‘am gonna mow it.’
‘I cannot believe,’ Kuroo whispers, awed.
Bokuto’s glowing like he’s just seen the world made. Akaashi looks like he’s been taking facial mimics lessons from Kenma and nobody told Kuroo.
Bokuto clearly likes to live dangerously, because next thing he does is offering a palm for a high-five to Akaashi of all people.
‘Over my dead body,’ Akaashi hisses with nuclear grade glacial rage.
Kuroo thinks he’s actually going to have to stop some mild violence, but then Kai, an actual angel, takes one for the team and high-fives Bokuto.
‘I’m serious.’ Bokuto says, seemingly unaware of a mortal danger he just narrowly avoided. With assistance. ‘On the winter cup, it’s on.’
‘Bokuto-san, you see him every week.’ Akaashi cuts in, ‘And we have another training camp with Nekoma before the Winter cup.’
‘Akaashi, man, you’re cramping my vibe!’
Akaashi clearly looks like he’s not here to consider any vibes he’s cramping, but then the train pulls up and the sentiment is lost.
Kuroo pulls Bokuto in to smooch his temple, ‘Talk to you later, asshole.’
He steps into the carriage and turns around to wave. ‘Behave while daddy’s away, kids.’
Akaashi stands on the platform, his hair is flopping around from the station wind. Kuroo nods just before the doors close.
-
During the first day of the fall training camp Akaashi is so murderously polite that everyone with an instinct better than a moth’s is steering clear.
In addition, he looks like death warmed over, if death would be a fifteen year old Japanese dude with great cheekbones. Kuroo’d be really into that idea actually.
‘What crawled up his ass,’ He asks Bokuto conspiratorially. Bokuto has the look of a man who’s looked death right in the eyes; considering the previous sentiment it’s probably not far from truth. Kuroo’s on roll today.
‘He has a cold,’ Bokuto whispers tragically. Kuroo has more than once contemplated the fact that Bokuto should have a greek chorus accompanying him at all times.
‘...Alright? That’s it? Why the fuck is he here anyway?’
‘The coach is coming tomorrow, and nobody else has the balls to send him home. Sarukui tried, but…’ Bokuto looks aside, into the distance. ‘Rest in peace.’
Kuroo nods solemnly. ‘He was a good man.’
After dinner he finds Akaashi by the vending machine, poking into it like it personally insulted all his family seven generations up.
‘And what the fuck are you doing?’ Kuroo says, sliding up to him.
Akaashi gives him a withering glare. ‘Getting food.’
Kuroo taps his chin. ‘In the literal scheme of things, yes. But on the metaphorical scale, why are you in this camp?’
The withering glare morphs into one clearly pitying Kuroo’s poor intellectual level as a whole. ‘Because it’s a training camp and I’m on the Fukurodani volleyball team?’ Akaashi offers tentatively.
‘Truly a profound insight. This said, why the fuck are you here when you’re clearly half comatose from the cold? Go home and get a thousand blankets and just sweat it out, what the hell man. You’re barely standing!’
Akaashi narrows his eyes at him - although the puffy red eyelids and more hopeless than usual state of hair lessen the effect significantly. ‘I’m fine. This is nothing.’
Kuroo makes a concentrated effort not to roll his eyes and succeeds. Akaashi’s newfound sickness-induced stubbornness is beating his usual levels by a huge margin.
‘Listen, my guy,’ he says, straightening up and putting those couple centimeters of their height difference to good use, ‘If you want to ruin your own health by schmooping around like this, be my guest. But this is a fucking training camp. A can full of dudes who sweat and bathe on the regular. I don’t think anyone really needs you sneezing left and right all over the place.’
‘I am going to sneeze at you if you won’t leave me alone,’ Akaashi croaks menacingly.
Kuroo bites his cheek to not laugh outright. This is delightful. ‘Oh yeah?’
Akaashi’s face scrunches up and then.
Kuroo’s eyes get so wide they’re probably seen from space, but they have nothing on the saucers Akaashi is sporting.
‘Is this real?’
Akaashi, if anything, looks more shocked at his own pettiness than Kuroo is. Kuroo’s sure he’s going to die from suppressed laughter.
‘...Did you just sneeze in my face?’
‘I didn’t actually mean this.’ Akaashi’s muttering. Whatever asshole charge he had going before is folding by the second. The corners of his lips are quivering, pulling treacherously up against Akaashi’s better judgement, and literally none of it is helping the state of hysteria that Kuroo’s about to enter.
Kuroo folds.
‘Just go home, you useless bacteria,’ he wheezes out against the chuckles bubbling up his throat.
‘I’ll...be going then.’ Akaashi’s cheeks look like they’re going to cramp from the smile he’s so determined to force down.
‘Do I even want to know,’ Bokuto asks Kuroo the next day.
Kuroo sniffs victoriously, ‘Akaashi sneezed on me, and now I have a cold.’
Bokuto fixes Kuroo with a stare and exhales sagely, ‘I really want to make a joke, but I’m trying to hold myself to higher standards these days.’
Kuroo pokes at his noodles. ‘You are truly a beacon of virtue,’ he agrees.
-
Nekoma and Fukurodani both get plundered by Itachiyama in the winter cup preliminaries; they never actually get to play each other.
‘That was some nasty dump,’ Kuroo tells Akaashi when the three of them are stuffing their faces with ramen as an impromptu consolation dinner a few days later.
(He had a clear view from up on the bleachers. When the ball trickled out of Akaashi’s hands onto the floor of the opposing team, the look of enraged surprise on their faces was beautiful.)
Kuroo wipes a single tear that’s not there, ‘I was so proud! They grow up so fast.’
‘Kuroo-san,’ Akaashi answers demurely, blotting his mouth with a napkin, ‘allow me to remind you that I have already been to the nationals while you still haven’t.’
Bokuto chokes on his katsudon. ‘Holy shit.’
‘That was cold, Akaashi,’ Kuroo sniffs.
Akaashi raises an eyebrow, ‘Have we met?’
Kuroo gives him a dead-eyed look for the lack of better and more dignity-preserving option.
Bokuto looks blatantly like he’s watching the final of Wimbledon, but when nothing follows he’s happily grabbing the spotlight back to his favorite person: himself. ‘What did you think about my straight though?’
‘Enh,’ Kuroo makes a couple of aborted gestures. ‘It was alright.’
‘Why am I friends with you again?’
Kuroo winks at him, ‘For my dashing looks and stellar personality, of course.’
Akaashi snorts into his soup.
Kuroo perks up, ‘Excuse me? You have something to counter that?’
Akaashi turns his head and looks Kuroo leisurely up and down. ‘About your dashing looks and stellar personality? Not at all, Kuroo-san, not at all.’ He states serenely and continues with annihilating the soup.
Kuroo stares at him for a second and then turns to look flatly at Bokuto.
‘What?’ Bokuto shrugs, ‘Don’t look at me. I’m just here to spike balls.’
-
The third year starts and Kuroo makes captain. His ego grows three sizes before the full scale of the responsibilities and commitments he’s now expected to fulfill truly sinks in.
Permission slips, game clearances, budgeting, schedules, risk assessments en masse, and that’s only what he can name off the top of his head.
‘This,’ he gives a dirty look to the captain’s checklist with the length rivaling The Tale Of Genji’s unabridged edition, ‘Is just not the greatest shit ever, okay?’
‘Suck it up,’ Yaku tells him.
Later that week he finds himself on his first Tokyo High School Volleyball Association monthly meeting.
‘Aww, you poor schmuck,’ his old captain said before he retired, not even trying to make it like he’s not gleefully gloating at Kuroo’s chosen path in life, ‘This is where volleyball goes to die. Two hours lecture on playing fair and the general concept of -’- he wiggles his fingers- ‘- good sportsmanship. It’s amazing.’
So Kuroo sits down at the desk in the back of the auditorium, ready for whatever life has in store for him.
Someone takes the next seat to the left.
‘Were you too scared to sit on your own or is my fabulous company so irresistible you just couldn’t stay away?’ Kuroo asks Akaashi who’s calmly arranging three pencils and two onigiris around a neat black notebook.
Kuroo hasn’t actually seen him in the school uniform before.
‘I see your sense of humour has stayed exactly where it was last year,’ Akaashi intones mildly, giving Kuroo’s fringe a long look. What?
He smoothes his fringe down a bit. ‘A pinnacle of wittiness and shining intelligence?’
‘Whatever you have to tell yourself, Kuroo-san.’
Right.
It’s maybe possible that Kuroo wasn’t entirely ready for whatever life has in store for him.
Kuroo leans back and hooks his elbow over the back of the chair. ‘Not that my soul isn’t dancing at the possibility of seeing you, but what brings you here?’
Akaashi shrugs, ‘The other option was Bokuto-san,’ as if it answers everything (in retrospect it kind of does).
He turns around to look at Kuroo over his shoulder, skin pulling on his neck. His hair is grazing his ears these days. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you this year, Kuroo-san.’
Kuroo rocks his chair back into place, the front legs slamming into the floor. ‘Right.’
He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t feel some sort of way about it.
-
‘Gimme that,’ Kuroo tries to snatch the controller out of Bokuto’s hands while simultaneously trying his best to kick Bokuto off the bed. He succeeds in both and starts another game of Mario Kart Rainbow Road.
‘No, but really,’ he says distractedly after three minutes of focusing on cartoon cars on the screen, ‘How did you make him do that.’
‘Do what.’ Bokuto echoes from the floor. His tongue is sticking out as he strives to apparently mirror all of his car movements with his controller.
‘Make him take over all your scribbles and captain commitments.’
Bokuto turns around for a second and smirks. Bokuto smirking is unsettling Kuroo. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’
-
‘This is it. This is officially the worst moment of my life. I’ve hit rock bottom, I hate this world and everything it stands for with the power of forty thousand suns.’
Kuroo drops his head dramatically on the table and stills. Akaashi, of course, doesn’t offer much purchase.
‘Fascinating, Kuroo-san,’ he states plainly somewhere above Kuroo. ‘You and Bokuto-san should do a two man show with an apocalyptic backdrop. We’d sell out immediately. Now, up you go.’ Fingers tangle in Kuroo’s hair and pull him back upright.
‘Are you actually doing this,’ Kuroo wonders still with his eyes closed, refusing to accept the reality. (Maybe not the fingers in his hair.)
‘Sure am.’
Kuroo sighs like a dying nymph and opens his eyes. The two of them are cramped in Fukurodani’s coach office in the back of the gym, three hours and eleven pages deep into the Fukurodani gymnasium overarching risk assessment.
The old captain sure as hell wasn’t joking with how much work captainship actually is.
Kuroo, same as every person, hates paperwork with every fiber of his life, but making sure nobody will break a limb once the summer camp starts in a couple of days is a fair enough trade off.
‘Say, Akaashi,’ he muses just to be difficult, trying to poke at Akaashi’s forehead with a pencil; long hours and the general surrealism of the situation have made him loopier. ‘What’s your deal? What are you? Are you secretly an old man in a body of a snooty teenager? An alien? Is that your thing?’
Akaashi bates off the pencil and gives him a long look. It’s none of those disdainful or silently fuming ones he shells out on a regular basis.
‘Sorry,’ Kuroo says, resisting the urge to rub the side of his nose with his palm against the uncomfortable warmth under his fringe, ‘I overstepped. This was too much.’
Akaashi’s fingers rest easily on the table. ‘The glimpses of your consciousness, Kuroo-san, are rare but no less welcome.’
Kuroo just doesn’t know with this one.
-
The summer camp that year brings a few new things with itself.
‘I feel so old.’ Bokuto says. Kuroo and everyone else with any formal authority on the teams are in charge of essentially patrolling the territory before the lights out; the three of them have just finished the grueling task of wrangling whatever Lev chooses to be into a state of relative equilibrium and are locking down the third gym. ‘I’m so old i now have my own apprentices.’ He screws his eyes shut for a minute. ‘Awesome.’
‘You’re not leading a martial arts school, Bokuto-san,’ Akaashi pipes up from the side. He plucks the keys from Bokuto’s hands and effectively locks the door Bokuto has been fumbling over for the last three minutes.
‘You don’t know my life, Akaashi! Anyway, how do I call it?’
‘A protege,’ Kuroo offers.
‘Looks like you found yourself with a protege.’ Akaashi states mildly the next day from the other side of the net. The three of them are following the retreating back of the Karasuno’s blond first year.
Kuroo whips his head back and waggles his eyebrows, ‘Maybe I have. Is that jealousy I hear, Akaashi?’
Open mouth, insert foot. Akaashi’s looking at him silently, like he’s expected better of Kuroo considering even the general guideline level Akaashi holds for Kuroo and Bokuto on a regular basis.
‘I expected better from you, Kuroo-san,’ he sighs eventually, like there’s just no hope left.
‘Akaashi,’ Bokuto rises from the depths of hell and drapes himself over Akaashi’s shoulders with a shit-eating grin. This cannot possibly be good. ‘Aghaaashee, my man. Did you know that in the first year of high school Kuroo unironically called himself ‘Provocation Expert’’.
Kuroo gasps, ‘I called you my friend!’
Bokuto blows Kuroo an air kiss. ‘You gotta admit you’d have done the same in my place.’
Kuroo looks up at the ceiling in contemplation and nods. ‘I would, yes.’
Akaashi repeats slowly, without any expression, ‘Provocation. Expert.’
Kuroo drops his face in his hands with a groan.
-
First week of September, they’re half an hour into an unbelievably, astonishingly boring sustainable training conditions lecture when Kuroo figures out what’s going on. He smirks. What a little shit.
Leaning over to where Akaashi is sitting with a face utterly devoid of expression, he whispers, ‘I cannot believe you’re doing what you’re doing.’ Akaashi gives him a look of a person who’s never done anything wrong in his life and knows it. ‘Give me one.’ No response. ‘Give me one or so help me gods I will tickle you.’
Akaashi sighs in a manner that states very clearly that Kuroo’s the bane of his existence, plucks the left earphone out of his ear and offers it to Kuroo.
‘Unbelieveable. Thanks,’ Kuroo pops the thing in his ear and whips around to Akaashi, ‘Is that Monoral?’
A couple of heads turn their way.
‘Could you please speak louder, Kuroo-san, I don’t think the front row heard us yet.’ Akaashi hisses, ‘And yes, it’s Monoral.’
‘Monoral are good.’
‘That’s why I listen to them.’
Over the break, Kuroo asks to look at Akaashi’s playlist.
‘I’m not sure you’ll recognize most of them,’ Akaashi notes mildly, holding out his phone.
‘Wow, could you be more of a dick,’ Kuroo starts scrolling.
He feels like someone kicked him under the knees.
He recognises...more than a few.
Sugar Plant, Straightener, Cinnamon Chasers, Nisennenmondai, the entirety of Monoral’s ‘Turbulence’. He squints sideways towards Akaashi, hoping that his minor cardiac arrest over the superb quality of Akaashi’s music went unnoticed.
‘Not bad,’ He admits casually, sliding the phone back to Akaashi, ‘’Rainy Day’s my favorite of Sugar Plant’s stuff.’
Akaashi blinks. ‘’Stone’, though.’
Kuroo makes a noncommittal half-shrug, digging through his phone for the music stash. ‘I mean I guess it’s solid, yes. Here. Have a look.’
Akaashi scrolls down. His forehead moves a millimeter. ‘I see. Care to rec anything?’
Kuroo taps finger against his chin, ‘Planet Funk is like Italian Sugar Plant, give it a listen if you have time. What have you got?’
Akaashi looks thoughtful. ‘‘Arctic Monkeys is like American Monoral in a way, but they’re pretty great on their own too. Have you heard them?’
‘Nah, I’ve heard about them but never listened.’
‘I’ll send you a couple of tracks.’
‘Aight. Also, me and Bokuto are going to the movies this weekend. It’s gonna be horrible, you should totally come.’
‘You wish me bad?’
‘I wish you the worst.’
‘That’s nice.’
The lecture starts again, and Akaashi offers him an earphone without asking.
When Kuroo gets out of the shower in the evening, he’s got a message. ‘This is the one,’ the caption says next to a link to some Arctic Monkeys song.
Kuroo shuffles along for the entirety of a song, but he’s alone and in his room so he can do whatever the hell he wants thank you very much.
‘Nice sound. Check this one’, he types back afterwards, and tags along a link to a Franz Ferdinand track.
Next morning he yawns so hard in biology class Yaku ribs him.
-
In October, Kuroo thinks he’s entered the alternate state of reality where he only ever goes to practice, cram school and meets up with Akaashi in various places to try and tackle the various parts of the demonic motherload that is preparation for the fall training camp, per tradition dumped completely on the hosting team’s leadership.
He has half a mind to call the old captain and make his existence a living hell for severely understating the scope of disaster. ‘For a month before the fall camp, forget your life,’ the captain had said and looked aside wistfully. Forget his life? Kuroo is about to forget his own damn self.
His and Akaashi’s previously modest and safe for sanity text history has now ballooned out and mostly consists of ‘8.30pm @ nekoma WE RIDE TILL DAWN’, ‘MAYDAY they need individual parental consent from every player’ and ‘it’s before 7am, die.’ The rest is phone photos of various documents and more keysmash than bears mentioning.
Kuroo ducks into the coffee shop after the three hours of powering through advanced geometry in cram school and ready to make fifty thousands seventeen coordinating phone calls because some people just can’t check their email. (He’s looking at you, Kageyama.)
Akaashi is sitting where he’s usually sitting and by the looks of it trying to hypnotize the physics textbook by frowning into it intensely. (If the textbook were Kuroo, he’d succumb in a minute.)
Kuroo hangs his jacket on the chair and puts his palms on the table to lean over where Akaashi’s sitting. ‘I want to make some joke about how you’re trying to scare it into submission, but I’m too tired for this to be honest.’
Akaashi looks at Kuroo’s left wrist and nods, ‘Yeah, don’t try it. I’ve been on the same chapter for two hours.’ He blows up onto his hair and ruffles the front. ‘Maybe I’m just spinning in circles here. I’ll try again tomorrow.’
Kuroo sinks into his chair, ‘What chapter?’
‘Centrifugal forces.’
‘Ooh, dynamics. We just went over it last month. As your upperclassman, allow me to offer a helping hand to my ador-’
‘Really.’
Kuroo folds, and if he smoothes his fringe a bit sheepishly, well. ‘I mean, I can do it, if you want.’
Akaashi sighs and slumps down a bit in his chair. The overhead lights are playing shadows on his face. ‘Please.’
Kuroo makes a grabby hand at the book. ‘Give me that.’
-
On Tuesdays, when Kenma’s classes end up at the same time with Kuroo and they don’t have practice, Kuroo more often than not successfully manages the goliath task of getting Kenma to come over.
Kenma’s slumped up in a hellclump of disdain and blankets against the foot of Kuroo’s bed and Kuroo and the PSP are sharing his attention span in 35/65 ratio, but this is just about as good as it gets with Kenma, so.
Kuroo’s twirling around on his desk chair, picking on a future hole in his trainers. ‘So how do you feel about this soundtrack?’ he inquires casually once he comes to a halt, tapping along with the music, in a tone that hopefully doesn’t convey ‘My dearest friend, I am beside myself to hear your opinion about this brain-shattering new music I have gotten my hands on.’
Kenma looks up for a second. ’Nisennenmondai? Yeah, they’re alright. Is that an awkward segway to talk about your crush?’
Kuroo tilts his head at him.
The night before he woke up hard and in agony, and when he was jerking it he remembered that he dreamt he was blowing Akaashi Keiji in a volleyball uniform. He remembered Akaashi was watching him intensely with sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and his lower lip disappearing between his teeth. Holy shit, Kuroo thought, and came.
‘I don’t have a crush,’ he tells Kenma resolutely with the ease of a man that has nothing to hide.
Kenma’s already disappearing back into his PSP. ‘Sure thing.’
‘No, seriously,’ Kuroo leans forward, ‘I don’t have. A crush.’
‘Whatever you say, Kuro.’
‘You’re not being very nice right now.’
‘Boo hoo.’
-
Two weeks later, they get the first snow in Tokyo. Kuroo’s coming back from practice, riding out the elation of muscles slowly slotting back into place after shower, Sugar Plant in his earphones as he navigates the thinning crowd on the sidewalks.
Kuroo’s not the most lyrical of people; in the end, he will blame the evening light of Tokyo reflecting magic in the snow and the melancholic, trippy cacophony of Rise playing in his ears for tugging at his heart in all the right places. He feels like he’s always been meant to experience this snow like this, with the mellow beat in his ear, floating through the haze of his after-practice brain.
The moment’s filling him up; he feels like he’s ought to share it.
He pastes the song link into the email, tags it ‘literally the perfect snow song’, and sends it off to Akaashi.
He’s been making a dirty face at his phone for five minutes before Kuroo screenshots the email and sends it to Kenma. ‘Fuck you’, he adds.
While the message is sending, he gets an incoming one from Akaashi. There’s no text, just an attached misty photo of a snowy street, shot from what Kuroo assumes is the window of Akaashi’s room.
For good measure, and since the evening wouldn’t be truly complete without it, Kuroo stops for a minute to lift his head to the sky until his neck stops giving, and to scream wordlessly at the stars.
-
The countdown to the winter camp on three days, Kuroo sits on Bokuto’s bed with Bokuto’s feet in his lap and smiles blankly into the void.
After a couple of minutes, Bokuto stops playing Pokemon on his phone and nudges Kuroo with his foot. ‘Alright, you’re bothering me. I mean, you’re always bothering me, but that is the smile of a man who has abandoned all hope.’
‘This is it, Bokuto.’ Kuroo smiles wider. ‘My life has reached the absolute peak of absurdity; I've transcended the limits of reality and come through on the other side. The man you knew as Kuroo Tetsurou doesn’t exist anymore. I’m now but an empty medium for advanced algebra and volleyball timetables. Additionally I am non-dating your setter in a weirdly productive ritual of managing Tokyo sport life in every cafe in the city.’
Bokuto smirks like Kuroo’s his beloved son who’s going through puberty, ‘It’s funny you would say that.’
‘Oh, my god’ Kuroo shoots off, ‘why does everyone keep insisting on that. Just because I’m into dudes doesn’t mean I’m into your setter because let me tell you the depths of how much I am not into your setter are so out of the scope of your imagination it would blow your mind.’
Bokuto’s eyebrows shoot up, ‘What, no. I just meant Akaashi’s into dudes, although the passionate denial speech is giving me life. Tell me more.’
Kuroo looks flatly at him. ‘Did you just out Akaashi in front of me?’
Bokuto pales, ‘I... what. You didn’t know? I. fuck. Oh, shit. I mean, it’s not really a secret, the team knows, I thought you knew too, you guys are totally breathing on each other lately.’
Kuroo rubs his hand over his face, messing up his fringe, ‘Well, I had my suspicions but he never really said anything.’
‘Dammit.’ Bokuto, if anything, pales even more, now nearing the consistency of rice paper, ‘I fucked up, didn’t I.’ He rolls over on the sheets and stuffs his face into the pillow. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, Kuroo, I shouldn't have said anything. It’s bad, isn’t it.’
‘It’s fine,’ Kuroo says soothingly, scratching the heels of Bokuto’s feet before he’ll plunge down to the center of the Earth to burn his soul in eternal shame. ‘It’s only me. No, seriously, dude, don’t beat yourself up about it. Just think next time you open your adorable big mouth.’
Bokuto peels his face off the pillow, rising from the pit of despair he’s fallen into. ‘I love you, Kuroo,’ he croaks with shining eyes and worms his way across the bed to latch onto Kuroo’s waist.
Kuroo strokes his head and wonders how he became friends with a toddler. ‘I love you too, jackass.’
-
Two days into the winter camp, Kuroo and Bokuto are shooting the shit in one of Fukurodani’s classrooms before the lights out when Kuroo gets his buzzing phone out of the pocket.
‘Do you have Bokuto-san? If you do, please keep him there forever,’ the text reads.
‘You have half an hour before I unleash him,’ Kuroo types back and slides the phone back into his jeans pocket.
Bokuto stops swinging his legs from over where he’s sitting at one of the desks, ‘Let me guess.’
‘It’s for school,’ Kuroo fends off smoothly.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Speaking of, how did you actually slink off your captain duties on poor Akaashi,’ Kuroo muses, poking at the leg of the desk in front of him.
‘It was a bloodbath.’ Bokuto announces proudly.
‘Yeah, no shit. Did it involve you standing on your knees?’
‘Mostly not.’ Bokuto says reasonably. ‘Oh, but not the volleyball association thing! That one’s on Akaashi. For reasons that elude me, he volunteered.’
Kuroo pauses mid-movement and stares at him. ‘What.’
Bokuto stares back, ‘What.’ a beat, and then realisation floods his face. ‘Dude.’
Kuroo doesn’t answer and works his jaw for a minute. He feels blood pulsing loudly in his temples, so loud that the beat is affecting his vision.
‘Are you having an aneurism,’ Bokuto offers tentatively.
‘I’m the epitome of composure.’
‘You looked like you were having a moment.’
‘I’m not having a moment.’
This is what Kuroo should expect for having an intractable dick for a best friend. (He wouldn’t have it any other way.) He takes a deep breath. ‘One, we shall never speak of it again. Two, I need to go do some things.’
Bokuto smiles like the sun rises, ‘I got your back, buddy.’
Kuroo’s teeth ache from adrenaline over what’s he’s about to do.
He pulls his phone out and types, ‘Let’s go get food.’
He’s already halfway to the vending machine hall when he gets a response.
Kuroo gets himself an iced coffee and tries to hush the rush of blood in his ears or tone down the twitching grin, but he’s too keyed up for any of it to yield a result, so he leans up against the wall and closes his eyes. The coarse texture of the plaster against the crown of his head is a welcome distraction.
‘Please eat a lemon,’ a disapproving voice says next to his ear.
Kuroo opens his eyes. Akaashi stands before him, looking ready to deliver a stern telling off to whoever necessary, which is right about how Akaashi looks at any given moment. Suddenly, Kuroo feels utterly, utterly calm.
‘Well I’m in a very good mood,’ he states gleefully.
Akaashi rolls his eyes, ‘Unfortunately.’
He gets past Kuroo to put some coins into the machine, staring at it intently. Kuroo looks at Akaashi’s profile. Every nerve in his body sings.
‘Say, Akaashi,’ Kuroo starts mildly, peeling himself on the wall and stepping towards Akaashi. It’s clearly a mistake, Akaashi’s attractiveness increases exponentially with reduced distance. Thankfully, Kuroo’s here exclusively to make mistakes. ‘Why did you volunteer to go to the volleyball association meetings.’
Akaashi gives Kuroo a flawlessly unimpressed, flat look, but not before freezing for a fraction of a second and, well, Kuroo knows what he saw. ‘Common sense and good strategizing, Kuroo-san.’
Kuroo thinks he wouldn’t be able to grin wider, and yet. There’s actually nothing about this stubborn, brilliant asshole that he doesn’t like.
‘You’re blushing.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Akaashi’s not making any attempts to vaporise Kuroo with verbal retorts, which is how he knows that he’s deeply, deeply flustered. This is corroborated by the fact that he’s continuously turning four different shades of red.
He’s still scowling at Kuroo like he’s going to go down in flames before he backs down, and Kuroo thinks, caught. Totally, totally caught.
‘Akaashi,’ Kuroo begins, closing the last bit of distance between them, ‘Could it be that you are into me?’
‘Whatever gave you this idea, Kuroo-san.’
‘Hey, Akaashi,’ Kuroo says, and shuts him up with his mouth, a long, sweet, endlessly rolling silence.
The bickering is great, but this. Nothing holds a candle to this.
When he pulls away, Akaashi’s staring at his mouth like it insulted him personally - as if he didn’t chase it just a second ago - and taking in shallow, fluttering tiny breaths. His hair looks wrecked in that obscenely debauched way that - ah, fuck it - always makes Kuroo’s pants go a little tight.
‘Akaashi,’ Kuroo starts again, tracing his finger against the smooth shoulder where Akaashi’s shirt is sliding down, ‘I have a dawning suspicion you might be into me.’
‘Not at all, Kuroo-san.’ Akaashi states calmly, hooking his fingers into the loops of Kuroo jeans and pulling him in.
Kuroo smiles innocently, ‘I’m just saying.’
‘You have an unfortunate personality,’ Akaashi tells him, staring up at Kuroo point blank, and dammit. Akaashi: 1, Kuroo: 0.
‘So I’ve been told.’ Kuroo murmurs a millimeter away from Akaashi’s mouth, ‘You want to go again?’
Akaashi gives him a tiny, amused smirk. ‘Absolutely.’
This one means business, no pussy-footing around the subject. Kuroo lets Akaashi back him up against the wall; if they don’t get anywhere, it’s not for the lack of trying.
‘Kuroo-san,’ Akaashi says evenly. He totally doesn’t have a face of a man that has two fingers under the waistband of Kuroo’s jeans. ‘We’re in public.’
‘Mmm,’ Kuroo agrees, ‘We should probably turn in for tonight.’
‘I just said we shouldn’t be in public,’ Akaashi repeats mildly, and of course - of course - he has to arch his damn eyebrow. What a prick.
Kuroo breaks out his absolutely most obnoxious, shit-eating grin. ‘A-ka-ashi,’ he chants with concentrated glee as he hooks a hand around Akaashi’s waist and starts walking towards the classrooms. ‘I’m going to make your life a living hell.’
‘Believe me,’ Akaashi sighs, allowing to be pulled along, ‘I’m painfully aware of it.’
-
‘Look, I’m not saying that I deserve credit, but I deserve credit,’ Bokuto says importantly, waving his chopsticks in Kuroo’s general direction. A piece of beef plops juicily on the table.
On Bokuto’s left, Akaashi gives him a wilting sideways look. ‘You literally outed me to him, Bokuto-san. You get no credit for this.’
Kuroo chuckles.
‘Geh. Sorry about that.’ Bokuto withers for the entirety of two seconds, and perks up again. ‘‘I also dropped the truth bomb, hey! No need to thank me though, I’m bigger than that.’
Akaashi finishes disposing of the minor beef mess and folds the napkin. ‘The limits of your mental acrobatics never cease to amaze me, Bokuto-san.’
Bokuto leans into Akaashi, ‘I have a vague feeling that you just dragged me, but I’m not entirely sure,’ he whispers conspiratorially.
‘Take a guess.’
‘But I mean,’ Bokuto goes on, already on to the next. ‘But I mean, all’s well that ends well. I mean, it’s a thing now, right?’
Kuroo looks over at Akaashi and thinks absentmindedly of the bite mark beneath his left pectoral. He starts opening his mouth but Akaashi beats him to the punch.
‘Yes,’ Akaashi says firmly, ‘It’s a thing.’
-
‘I can’t believe we’re still doing this.’ Kuroo gives a full body shiver as he stretches his hands above his head. ‘Is this, like, a cosmic retribution? Is this how it’s gonna end? The world will collapse, everything in it - including cockroaches - will implode, and we’re still gonna be sitting and doing gym risk assessments till the end of time.’
It’s early December, and the two of them are bundled up in the coach room stocked up on coffee and oranges and coughing out risk assessment number three thousand ninety one. This time for Nekoma gym, which Kuroo guesses makes for some variety.
He finishes stretching and collapses dramatically onto the table. ‘I’m taking the world’s tiniest break,’ he announces into his elbow crook.
A cold hand lands softly on the back of his neck. ‘Wow, you’re a lizard,’ Kuroo says. Akaashi hums, and his hand travels up into Kuroo’s hair, tangling close to skin and massaging with a steady force. Kuroo’s head bobs slowly this way and that after the movements.
‘I like your lizard hands,’ Kuroo mumbles after a couple of minutes.
The fingers in his hair curl. ‘You’re impossible,’ Akaashi says, voice oddly breathless despite the fact they’ve been sitting in the same spot for two hours. ‘What’s your deal, Kuroo. I wanna know.’
Kuroo turns his head to the side, cheek flat against the table surface, not trusting himself to open his eyes before his heart crawls back down from his throat and pulse evens out a little.
Akaashi looks ruffled up. Guarded. Like he said something possibly against his better judgement and doesn’t know if he regrets it yet.
‘Come here,’ Kuroo whispers from where he’s lying. He tugs Akaashi down, and Akaashi goes.