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Lev is quiet.
Kenma notices before he consciously registers what he’s noticing.
It isn’t the absence of sound, because Lev isn’t silent. The room still holds his breathing, the faint rustle of fabric when he moves on the bed, the occasional hum in his throat when something happens on the screen. But the usual restless commentary, the unfiltered reactions, the easy laughter that spills out before Kenma even processes the joke, is missing.
Kenma’s character respawns.
He moves automatically, fingers steady on the controller. The glow of the screen paints the room in muted blues and pale gold. The house is warm. Familiar.
Lev is stretched out across the bed behind him, long limbs, one sock half-peeled off and abandoned near the edge of the mattress. Usually he would be narrating Kenma’s gameplay like it’s a sports broadcast.
“Left, left! No, your other left! Kenma!” He’d say.
Or he’d lean over too far, knocking into his shoulder with exaggerated panic whenever a boss fight starts. He’d laugh too loudly at his own dramatic gasps.
Tonight, he just watches.
Kenma doesn’t turn around.
He loses a life.
He blinks at the screen. That almost never happens when he’s focused.
He tries again.
Behind him, Lev shifts. The mattress dips. The movement is slower than usual. No bounce or surprise sudden grab for Kenma’s waist.
Kenma clears the level. The victory music plays, bright and triumphant.
Lev doesn’t cheer.
There’s a bit of delay, and then softly says, “Nice.”
It’s genuine.
It’s also smaller.
Kenma pauses the game without meaning to.
He doesn’t look back immediately. He lets the silence stretch, testing it. With other people, silence feels like a countdown. Someone will rush to fill it. Someone will trip over themselves trying to keep it from becoming awkward.
Lev usually fills it first.
Tonight, he doesn’t.
Kenma sets the controller down in his lap.
“…Are you tired?” He keeps his voice neutral. Casual.
Behind him, Lev hesitates.
It’s brief. Barely there. But Kenma hears it in the way Lev inhales before answering.
“Yeah,” Lev says, and there’s a soft laugh attached to it, like he’s cushioning the word. “Sorry. I’m kind of boring tonight.”
Kenma turns around.
Lev is propped up on his elbows, hair falling into his eyes, expression open but careful. Not upset or withdrawn. Just quieter. The usual brightness is dimmed, like someone lowered a light by a fraction.
Boring.
Kenma stares at him.
He tries to fit the word somewhere in his understanding of Lev. It doesn’t slot in. It doesn’t match any of the mental notes he’s accumulated over the years.
Lev is loud. Yes.
Lev is dramatic. Definitely.
Lev is impulsive, excitable, overwhelming in a way that somehow never overwhelms Kenma.
But boring?
Kenma has never once thought that.
Not when Lev talks over himself because he’s trying to explain three thoughts at once. Not when he laughs too hard at a joke that barely lands. Not when he sprawls across Kenma like he doesn’t understand his own size, limbs everywhere, warmth unavoidable.
If anything, Lev takes up space so Kenma doesn’t have to.
Kenma tilts his head slightly. “Why would you be boring?”
Lev shrugs, one shoulder lifting and dropping. “I don’t know. I’m not really talking much. You’re probably used to me being louder.”
His smile is there, but it’s thinner.
Kenma studies him.
He catalogues people automatically. It’s habit. Survival. He tracks tone shifts, posture changes, eye movements. With most people, it’s exhausting.
With Lev, it’s easy.
Lev’s tells are obvious once you learn them. The way his eyebrows pinch when he’s jealous but pretending not to be. The way his voice speeds up when he’s nervous. The way he goes completely still before saying something reckless.
This isn’t any of those.
This is just… drained.
Lev’s shoulders are lower. His hands are loose instead of animated. Even the way he’s looking at Kenma feels tentative, like he’s bracing for a verdict.
Kenma realizes, distantly, that Lev is waiting to see if he’s disappointing.
Something tightens in his chest.
Lev has always been in motion. Even sitting still, there’s a current under his skin, like he’s prepared to spring into the next laugh, the next comment, the next reaction.
Kenma had assumed it was natural.
Now he wonders if it’s practiced.
“I don’t need you to be loud,” Kenma says.
Lev’s fingers twitch slightly on the blanket. “I know. I just-” He exhales through his nose. “I feel weird when I’m not. Like I’m not really doing anything.”
Doing anything.
Kenma’s gaze drops to Lev’s hands. Long fingers. Calloused from volleyball. Restless even at rest.
“You’re not a show,” Kenma says quietly.
The words settle between them.
Lev blinks.
Kenma doesn’t elaborate right away or rush to fill the space this time. He lets the statement stand on its own weight.
Lev looks down at the blanket, thumb tracing the seam absently. “I don’t mean like that,” he says. “I just, people expect me to be, you know. Energetic. If I’m not, it’s kind of…” He searches for the word. “…disappointing.”
Kenma’s mind moves quickly through memories.
Lev exaggerating stories to make teammates laugh.
Lev turning mistakes into jokes before anyone else can comment on them.
Lev grinning too wide after missing a receive, like he can outshine the error if he’s bright enough.
Kenma had always thought it was confidence.
Now it feels like maintenance.
Lev learned early, maybe, that being entertaining keeps the room warm. That being loud means attention stays positive. That if he fills the silence first, no one else can fill it with something worse.
Kenma understands that kind of calculation.
He’s just always done the opposite.
Be quiet. Be small. If you don’t take up space, no one can accuse you of taking too much.
They’re opposites in the same insecurity.
Lev’s voice is softer when he adds, “I don’t want you to get tired of me.”
There it is.
Kenma’s chest tightens properly this time.
Tired.
He gets tired of noise. Of crowded rooms. Of conversations that demand constant input. Of expectations that stretch too far.
Never with Lev.
If anything, Lev is the only noise that doesn’t grate. The only presence that doesn’t scrape at his nerves. Lev’s energy isn’t a demand, it’s a warmth. Predictable. Consistent.
Safe.
Kenma shifts, setting the controller carefully on the floor.
Lev watches him like he’s bracing for something.
Kenma moves closer instead, reaches back without looking and takes Lev’s hand.
Their fingers fit automatically. They’ve done this enough times that it’s muscle memory. But usually Lev reaches first. Lev initiates. Lev pulls Kenma into his orbit.
Tonight, Kenma does.
“You don’t have to perform with me,” Kenma says, still facing forward.
The words feel heavier than he intended, but he doesn’t take them back.
“I like you when you’re loud,” he continues, voice even. “And when you’re not.”
Lev’s grip tightens, just slightly.
“You’re not boring,” Kenma adds. “You’re just tired.”
“You don’t think I’m annoying?”
Kenma frowns faintly. The question feels almost absurd.
“If you were annoying,” he says, tone dry but steady, “We wouldn’t have been together for this long.”
It’s the simplest truth he has.
Lev’s forehead drops gently between Kenma’s shoulder blades, careful of his height, careful of his weight.
His voice, muffled slightly against Kenma’s shirt, is almost shy when he says, “Okay.”
Kenma squeezes his hand once.
After a minute, Kenma glances down at their intertwined fingers.
Lev doesn’t have to shine all the time.
Kenma can hold the light, too.
He turns off the game with his free hand, the room dimming as the screen goes black. The sudden quiet feels intentional now.
He doesn’t let go of Lev’s fingers when he stands.
Lev looks up at him from the bed, as Kenma tugs gently.
He shifts to make room without a word.
Kenma lies down beside him.
For a moment, they just face each other.
Up close, Lev’s tiredness is clearer. He lifts their joined hands and presses a slow kiss to Lev’s knuckles.
It’s not something he does often.
“You don’t have to try so hard,” Kenma murmurs.
Lev’s other hand hesitates before settling at Kenma’s waist.
Kenma shifts closer in answer.
Their knees brush, their lips meet gently, and Kenma lets the kiss stretch until Lev stops thinking about how he’s doing and just feels. He slides closer still, one leg slipping between Lev’s without conscious thought. The proximity pulls a quiet sound from Lev’s throat, half sigh.
Lev’s fingers trace the edge of Kenma’s shirt, his wrist is caught, not to stop him, but to guide him.
“Okay?” He whispers.
Kenma nods.
Hands wander. Clothes are pushed aside in the dark without urgency. Kenma lifts himself slightly, just enough to change the positions, then lowers back down with careful intention.
It’s subtle at first.
A slow roll of his hips.
Lev stills beneath him.
His hands find Kenma’s waist, large palms warm, guiding and holding. It draws a quiet breath from Lev, warmth spreading among the steady glide and the soft sounds that slip out when Kenma doesn’t slow.
Heat.
Movement.
Breath.
Kenma presses his mouth to Lev’s neck, feeling the subtle tremor that runs through him.
And Lev, beneath him, no longer trying to shine, just holding on.