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It’s a warm kind of mid-afternoon, where the sun shines white-hot through the convenience store windows and the AC rattles on and on to keep a steady breeze wafting throughout.
“I don’t want to be here,” Kenma mumbles, eyes on the rows of grocery aisles ahead of him. They stretch vast and menacing, less populated at the earlier hour.
Yamamoto laughs, loud and boisterous, turning a few heads. He gives Kenma a clap on the shoulders—Kenma flinches with the force of it.
“You never wanna be anywhere,” Yamamoto says through friendly chuckles.
Fukunaga pushes through the two of them, heading to grab a shopping cart with his fingers waggling in front of him.
Kenma shrugs, a wordless agreement. Because, sure, he doesn’t like most public places where people stare him down all curious and stripping— and, sure, being here in the company of Yamamoto who naturally draws attention with his loud personality doesn’t make his worries better— but something about the way Yamamoto’s hand is drilling its way into the hunch of his shoulder blades, and something about the way Fukunaga checks over his shoulder with a gentle eyebrow-raise to make sure everything’s okay makes it a little bit better.
Yamamoto pushes him forwards, hand firm and grounding as they enter the body of the store.
“What’re we here for again?” Yamamoto asks. His feet fall heavy in his sneakers, setting their pace forwards with alluring confidence that even Kenma watches with interest.
He pulls out his cellphone, searching out the list of goods Kuroo had asked them to buy for the team get-together.
“Mostly junk food,” Kenma replies, voice low and dreading, “Some drinks.”
“Right,” Yamamoto goes. He looks to Fukunaga, nods, lets him take the lead.
Fukunaga does. He pushes the cart forwards with a determination Kenma isn’t sure how he manages, as silent and pacific as he is.
Kenma’s worn-out sneakers tap gentle on the linoleum, his pace matching up with Yamamoto’s. The two are only short steps away from where Fukunaga pushes the cart.
They’re silent for only a moment, just three bodies wading through the suffocating lay of tall shelves on either side. Some happy-quick song plays tinny and crackled through the overhead speakers, the lights flicker bright white and blinding.
There’s a middle-aged lady at the end of the aisle. Kenma pulls in close to Yamamoto, actively dodging the lady while his eyes find patterns and images in the marble of the tile. There’s a story there, something Kenma pieces together in the face of stifling silence.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Yamamoto asks, shoulder-checking Kenma gently.
“Nothing,” Kenma says.
“Oh come on,” Yamamoto scoffs, “I can hear the gears clicking around in there. Tell me what’s up.”
Kenma does think for a moment. He thinks the wanderings of his mind might not make sense to someone so straightforward and realistically thinking as Yamamoto. He also thinks with the way their friendship has been forged rough and toothy with scrunched noses and harsh words— that maybe it doesn’t matter.
Fukunaga peaks over his shoulder, something small and encouraging in his wide eyes, the curve of his lips gentle and kind. He sparkles with an odd hilarity, as though nothing Kenma can say will be more ridiculous than the thoughts that run rampant through his own head.
And it’s such a small thing, something unimportant to realize in the middle of a grocery store at 3:30 in the afternoon. He really does care for these two, more than he should, maybe, but that’s nothing new. The realization that sparks golden in his stomach is the thought that these two care for him, oddities and all.
The corners of his lips tip up with some small show of contentment.
But of course, Yamamoto has to go and ruin it.
He hits a package of toilet paper rolls, knocking them over on the shelf as the three of them pass by.
“Don’t be violent,” Kenma hisses. His nose scrunches up as his disapproval becomes evident.
Yamamoto raises his hands in surrender, dropping them to his sides to continue their journey deeper into the store.
It’s another second before Kenma opens his mouth, the answer to Yamamoto’s earlier question sitting heavy on his tongue.
“I was thinking about the patterns on the floor,” Kenma says quietly.
“Yeah?” Yamamoto makes, as though it’s an interesting thought.
“They look like certain things, if you stare for long enough.”
“Huh.” Yamamoto sticks his hands forcefully in his pockets, squinting at the floor as though it holds the secrets to the universe. “Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”
That gets a weak chuckle out of Kenma.
They lapse into silence again, less stiff now that Yamamoto’s pried a laugh out of Kenma.
Fukunaga starts making some odd noise, a low vroom in the back of his throat. He runs his hands around the handlebar of the cart, imitating revving an engine. He giggles—really giggles —before the noise tapers off and he goes back to his preferred silence.
Yamamoto looks to Kenma, a smile tugging at his pink-hued cheeks as if to say: isn’t he perfect?
Kenma laughs when Fukunaga’s abrupt stop means Yamamoto tripping over his own feet to come to a halt in time. He ends up with his hands mere millimetres away from Fukunaga’s on the handlebar, caging him from behind with his broader frame. One of his feet is kicked in the air, and he stays suspended awkwardly for as long as it takes him to realize what’s happened.
Kenma stifles another bout of laughter as Yamamoto’s ears go bright red and he splutters half-formed apologies. He picks himself up, a hand rubbing the back of his neck while he mumbles a full sorry.
Fukunaga gives him a firm pat on the head, a wordless it’s okay as he smiles in that crooked way of his.
That contact seems to push Yamamoto into overdrive. Kenma is sure he’s blushing from the blond of his mohawk down to the neckline of his tank top. Kenma assumes he would be in the same position if Fukunaga were to look at him with a soft, fond appreciation etched into the blacks of his eyes. Though, maybe Kenma wouldn’t be so obvious with his infatuation.
Fukunaga hums something that sounds like anyway and goes to grab two bags of chips from the shelf where he’s stopped. He checks with Kenma—the grocery list holder—before receiving a nod and dropping them in the cart dramatically. He continues forwards, humming the intro song to some show Kenma can’t quite place.
Yamamoto keeps his pace. The only sign of his earlier mishap is the permanent tinge of pink at the tips of his ears.
“The list?” Fukunaga asks, his voice slow and his words thought through.
Kenma takes a few large steps to catch up. He places his phone in Fukunaga’s field of vision, trying to hold his hand steady while standing so close to another person—one with such long lashes batting gently as he leans closer to the dim screen.
He makes a sudden noise, like nyoom, and turns to get to the next aisle.
An elderly man barrels past, nearly clipping Fukunaga’s elbow in his haste. It seems to happen in slow motion, a near collision that only barely manages to be avoided by impulse-only maneuvering. Fukunaga mumbles a quiet sorry, hardly audible.
“Our bad, man,” Yamamoto pipes up, always the saviour in social situations. The man walks off unbothered. Yamamoto shrugs.
Fukunaga hunches his shoulders, sighs out the tension. “Pushing a cart is a lot like driving a car,” He says, quick in the way he speaks longer sentences and dripping with mischief, “In the sense that I don’t know how to do either.”
Yamamoto laughs, full belly and ugly, snorting. Kenma does too, a hardly out-loud chuckle that he thinks rings all too sweet.
They both learned long ago that it’s best to laugh, even when regularly—had it been anyone but Fukunaga—they would only scoff an exhale through their noses. Any little encouragement to Fukunaga means the world, each laugh helps crack the shell of his silence, every bit of praise turns him into something more lively and confident.
Plus his smile is absolutely priceless, rounding his cheeks as he flushes with satisfaction.
As Kenma falls into step beside Fukunaga again, Yamamoto tugs at the base of his hoodie. Kenma looks back at him, some snippy annoyance clenched between his teeth. But the knowing look Yamamoto gives him, the little smile and the same look to his face that practically screams: he’s so, so perfect.
Kenma smiles back, only because yes, yes he is.
The both of them are.
The two of them are such an odd duo. Yamamoto brash and overly confident to the point of fault, Fukunaga easy-going and jovial. And yet—
And yet Kenma let them drag him along when he’d never allowed himself to get too attached to anyone outside of Kuroo, who he’d known for so, so long. And yet Kenma let them rope him in and call him their friend and in turn, he called them the same. And yet Kenma still laughs alongside them and lets them cry on him when times get rough and yet—
And yet his heart lights up red-hot and honey-sweet when they smile, when their touches linger, when they gravitate towards him and in turn, each other.
He sighs, ever so slightly gone for them.
“We need these,” Yamamoto says with conviction. He grabs a case of pop bottles with bright yellow bottle caps.
Kenma sighs again, for a completely different reason this time. “Those aren’t on the list.”
“Yeah, but look at them.” Yamamoto shakes the case, the bottles jingle around, neon liquids sloshing within.
Kenma stares, not understanding and frankly, not caring.
“They have caps,” Yamamoto explains, “That’s cool.” He shakes them again as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Fukunaga chuckles at him teasingly. He allows the bottles to be put into the cart, allows Yamamoto’s hand to steady himself on his shoulder for longer than necessary, allows himself a glance in Kenma’s direction that lovingly says: he’s ridiculous.
They wind their way through aisle after aisle, searching for everything on their little grocery list. It’s an adventure full of odd sound effects—courtesy of Fukunaga—and loud commentary on just about everything—thanks, Yamamoto. When they finally pull up to the checkout and pay using the money Kuroo had given them, it seems ages have passed, when really it’s been barely a half-hour.
“We did good,” Yamamoto says. He holds both grocery bags in his hands, standing proud at the beginning of the parking lot.
“Guess we did,” Kenma says, monotone from exhaustion. Shopping for all of that took a lot more out of him than he’d expected.
Fukunaga nods along, a sticky smile still pressed onto his always upturned lips.
“Oh, hey!” Yamamoto lights up with excitement. He shoves one of the bags into Fukunaga’s arms, rooting through it for some item or other. When his arm retreats from the plastic of the bag, he pulls a singular bottle out of the case of soda.
“Anyone gotta key?” He asks.
Kenma furrows his brows for a second before deciding that’s nowhere near the weirdest thing Yamamoto has ever asked him for. “Here,” He says, and pulls his keys from his sweater pocket.
Yamamoto takes them graciously, putting the jagged edge of one to the lip of the bottle cap.
“Wait,” Kenma says, understanding, “Use the silver one.”
“Why?” Yamamoto asks as he realigns with the silver key.
“It’s the key to Kuro’s house, at least if it breaks I won’t lose anything important,” Kenma shrugs.
Fukunaga gives him a nudge, playful. Yamamoto only laughs.
“That’s kinda heartless, huh Pudding Head?” He pops the cap off with a single flick of the key.
Fukunaga’s quick to catch it, working on reflex before it manages to fall to the ground. “Impressive,” He mumbles.
“Yeah, well, I’m an aspiring frat boy,” Yamamoto preens. He juts a thumb into his chest and smiles so wide his eyes crinkle.
Kenma blinks in silence for a second. “I can’t believe you just said that,” He says, and feels his face contort into something disgusted. “Come on Shouhei, let’s go.” He motions with his head before walking away from Yamamoto. Fukunaga follows at his heels, their fingers brushing as they walk side by side.
“Hold on!” Yamamoto cries, “Kenma, wait up.” When he sees there’s no chance of that happening he calls again, “Kenma! Fukunaga!”
“Bye, Tora,” Kenma calls over his shoulder. A disgustingly sweet smile spins his features into something nearly love-struck—a little less intense, but ever so real.
He really does care for these two.