Chapter Text
It is a sweltering beginning to his 6th spring when Kuroo’s world gets thrown off kilter.
It has no reason to be any day out of the ordinary, really. There is no drastic change in weather, no life changing encounter, no unlikely twist of the earth’s axis. To everyone else, it is the perfect mix of just another ordinary day.
For Kuroo, it starts that way too.
It is a funny concept to him, the prospect of school and all its newness. Even more so to his 6 year old mind, it is a baffling concept that with it he is expected to stay seated in one area, still and obedient, for a seemingly unimaginable amount of hours.
It is not that he hates learning. Not at all. In fact, if you really asked him, he would tell you that there were few things in the world that he loved more. He did everything that he did because he was thirsty for knowledge. Curiosity had made a home in his veins before he even had a name for the feeling he felt stirring there. When it came to learning about the world laid out before him, he was insatiable.
It was the restraint that came with school that he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around. He already knew how to learn, had been doing it for years already. He did not need to be confined to one place, to be trapped behind the metal of a desk to uncover the world. He had spent his entire lifetime so far scavenging through fields, trekking across rivers, climbing the highest trees he could find. He felt that he had learned more trying to keep a wriggling frog captured in his grasp or following a wild rabbit into the thick of the forest than he ever had seated here.
It was true that there were new things to learn, things like numbers and letters and dates that he had never come across in his outdoor discoveries, but even the newness of them didn’t seem like a fair trade in exchange for this confinement.
He was doing well, incredibly so, because Kuroo did not do anything without doing it well, but even so it was not enough for him. He could doze off for the entirety of a lesson, but if you slapped a math sheet down in front of him he’d still have no problem completing it before the rest of his classmates. He was good at what he did, but he never thought more of it. Knowing he was good at it didn’t matter to him, not as long as it didn’t make him happy.
If there was anyone out there who would have been thankful for their world being thrown off kilter, it was surely Kuroo.
And he was. Eventually.
It is a sweltering beginning to his 6th spring, watching the sky outside the classroom window melt into the start of a new day when he gets asked the question that, for once, he doesn’t have the answer to.
“Tetsuro,” Comes a voice, just another frequency in all the static he is used to tuning out, and then he is torn away from the sight of the shifting morning light with the slap of palm against his desk.
He jumps, once, surprised at even himself for being startled when usually his instincts are so sharp, and when he casts his gaze upwards he is met with nothing but the cold stony stare of his teacher’s eyes.
He knows this look, has had the misfortune of it being cast in his direction more than once. He has memorized the beginnings of crow’s feet clawing their way around the edges of his teachers eyes, has the unamused twist of her mouth formatted to memory.
“Problem child” she had deemed him, more than once in a desperate conversation to his mother over a crackling phone line, and everything in her expression now is a confirmation of that thought. The phone calls had never gone well. His mother had always preferred the term “curious” instead. His father swallowed his opinion down behind a too-hot cup of morning coffee. Kuroo kept slapping bandaid after bandaid on his bruised and bloody adventuring knees. The world kept turning on its axis.
He knows this exchange, this scenario. It is a game that he has played enough to get good at. It is not a game he expects to suddenly change all of its rules.
Maybe he is naïve for thinking so, but in the moment, it is all that he really knows.
He leans back in his seat, like clockwork, like a dance that’s been morphed into pure instinct, and splits his mouth open into the widest, most genuine smile he can manage. There is a gap between his two front teeth, a missing pocket where a canine use to be before he knocked it out on the playground, and he knows it does nothing but add to his strategy. Charming, his mother had called it. He is not afraid to play it up.
“Hello,” He greets back, casual like she is just another school friend, and suddenly the stony grey of her eyes turn to charcoal.
She is not a bad person, not by any means, and Kuroo feels bad for momentarily thinking her to be one. He is sure that, underneath it all, she really does care. He doubts that she would be here, surrounded by snotty nosed six year olds with no will to learn and every will to make a ruckus, if she truly didn’t want to be. It is not an idea that he can seem to wrap his head around, anyhow. Respect does not always equate to understanding.
He knows that he is insatiable, impossible, a frustration that makes you want to pull your hair out. It doesn’t make him want to start being any less of himself than he is.
There is a flash of anger apparent in the dark of her eyes, a curling flame that flickers with its last bout of life, and then she is closing them and letting it die out with a pent up sigh.
“The classroom is in front of you. Not outside.” She reiterates, another statement that has become a part of their everyday exchange. “Please make an effort to concentrate on it for once.”
It has no spark with the way it filters past her lips, chapped beneath their coat of too-bright lipstick, and then she is placing a worksheet down in front of him and shuffling her way past to her next victim.
She smells like potpourri and linen, and Kuroo wrinkles up his nose despite himself as her movement sends a barrel of scent towards him. It reminds him of stuffy summers stuck in the sweltering confinements of his bedroom because it is too late to explore, of having to spend hours in the dusty basement of his grandmothers when his parents had to work late. Everything about it screams confinement to him and he wonders, faintly, if his teacher ever really did smile to deserve those beginnings of crow’s feet around her eyes.
It is an important question to him, in the moment, but his curiosity is quickly stubbed out when he feels a trickle of sweat beginning to bead down the contour of his neck. He does not need to be reminded of sweltering summers when it is already a sweltering spring. He does not need to think about confinement when the clock tells him he only has an hour left of it, only an hour more until he is free to go grasp the falling leaves outside in his very own hands instead of staring longingly at them from his window seat.
His interest falls back onto the worksheet in front of him, freshly printed and warm beneath his dirty fingertips, and as he turns it over and lets his eyes settle onto the ink in front of him he is surprised to feel his stomach turn with, for once, uncertainty.
There is only one question, bold and taunting against the starkness of the white paper before him, and for once in his entire life it is not a question he knows the answer to.
What do you treasure? It asks, and the axis stops spinning.
There is the patter of ball against brick, the scrape of shoe against pavement, and then –
“Hah?” Bokuto asks, previously bouncing volleyball now stationed firmly in his grip, and Kuroo watches his mouth gawk into confusion.
It is a Saturday evening, the both of them huddled into the small space of Kuroo’s backyard, and Kuroo can just make out the glint of amber in his eyes in the fading sunset.
It is not often they get to see each other, living so far away and meeting by chance at a Tokyo intramurals camp the summer before, and so if he’s honest Kuroo is happy to be struggling to make out his expression in the darkness at all. Bokuto had been loud and obnoxious and more adventurous and on the move than even Kuroo himself. It was no wonder that they had instantly become friends.
It was no wonder that Kuroo was already bombarding him with life altering questions not even halfway into their weekend together, either.
Kuroo was popular. Friends were easy. Best friends were not.
There were some things that only those with the best friend label could be subjected to.
“What do you mean, hah? It’s not that crazy of a question, is it?” Kuroo huffs, fed up with waiting for Bokuto to elaborate on something he clearly had no intention of elaborating on. He crosses his arms, serious, wanting to let Bokuto know he’s all business, and directs a steely glance towards him again. “What do you treasure?”
The volleyball patters back onto the ground again as Bokuto lets it go in favor of scratching his head. His hair is as dark as Kuroo’s own and sticking up haphazardly in the moonlight, an after effect of too many sweaty volleyball games and wrestling matches. The craziness of it suits him, somehow.
“I don’t get the question.” He mutters, voice wavering from confusion to dejection. “Treasure? You mean what do I like? I like a lotta’ things.”
The stray volleyball rolls down the slope of pavement and bumps against Kuroo’s sneaker lightly. He does not let his gaze waver from the contorting expression on Bokuto’s chubby face.
“Like what?” He prompts.
“Ughhh! I dunno’ Tetsu!” Bokuto groans, slapping a dirty and popsicle stained palm over top his face. “Why do ya’ always gotta be so serious all the time?”
“I’m not! It’s just a question.”
Bokuto lets his hand fall, effortless, away from his face and an exasperated huff slips past his lips to match. “Fine.” He murmurs, stalking his way back towards Kuroo and scooping the abandoned volleyball at his feet back up.
Kuroo has to angle his gaze downwards, their unmatched height making itself apparent in their close vicinity, and by the time he does Bokuto is all energy and excitement again.
“Volleyball!” He begins, practically shouting it with the way he holds the grass and dirt stained ball above his head like it’s a trophy. “I love volleyball! And…and mmm…” He stops for a moment, eyebrows furrowed like he didn’t expect to have to think of anything more, and then his eyes light up again as he practically jumps in the air. “And popsicles! Popsicles are awesome! Especially those cherry ones your mom gave us earlier, do you know she’s the best, Tetsu? ‘Cause she’s totally the best. My mom’s the best too! I love her, too! And umm…uh…owls! Owls are so cool! Have you ever really seen an owl, Tetsu? Whenever we watch the Discovery Channel they’re so cool! They’re just all bam! And wah! And then they catch those mice like they’re nothing and-“
Bokuto is cut short, his insistent enthusiasm forced into insistent mumbling, with the slap of Kuroo’s palm over his mouth.
“Okay!” He practically shrieks, and Bokuto’s mumbling finally comes to a standstill underneath his hand before he moves it away. “Okay. I get it, ‘Bo. You love a lot of stuff.”
“Um.” Bokuto mumbles, scratching at his temple. “Sorry? Was that not what you wanted?”
“Ah – no…I just…” Kuroo begins, but just as quickly deflates. Was it what he wanted? Bokuto had answered exactly what he had asked of him, hadn’t he? Why did he feel so disappointed by the answer?
Something in Bokuto’s expression changes, a reflection of Kuroo’s own disappointment, and suddenly the gleam of amber in his eyes is gone as he casts a shameful gaze towards the pavement. “Sorry, bro.” He pouts, and Kuroo feels his heart clench with the apology.
He is used to Bokuto, used to all his drastic mood swings and his unnecessary emotional roller-coasters, but he doesn’t ever want to be the cause of them. Not by choice.
“Agh!” He groans, throwing his arms up in defeat and slumping onto the pavement in front of him. Why was he even still thinking about this stupid question? It had been more than a week ago, it shouldn’t still be on his mind.
But it was.
It was, because the fact of the matter was, Kuroo had left that worksheet blank. He had left that classroom, for once in his entire life, without completing something he had set out to do. He wasn’t going to be content until he had a proper answer, until he had finished the task given to him with all that he had.
Bokuto takes a seat beside him wordlessly, bumping bandaged elbows in his clumsiness, and Kuroo suddenly feels overwhelmingly thankful for his friendship.
“I’m not mad at you. Sorry if I made you feel that way.” He clarifies, and he can instantly feel Bokuto perk up at his side at the statement.
“It’s ‘kay.” Bokuto murmurs back, a softer octave than Kuroo is ever used to hearing him use. He picks at a healing scab on his kneecap for a few moments before breaking the silence.
“A couple days ago, one of our assignments in school was to answer that question, but I couldn’t answer it.” He admits.
“Why not? You love plenty of things, don’t ‘cha?” Bokuto questions, and Kuroo can practically hear the confused twist of his mouth in his words. “What about volleyball?”
“I do love volleyball.” Kuroo sighs. “But...that’s the thing, ‘Bo, I love it. I don’t treasure it. I love it. I feel like that’s supposed to mean something more, y’know?”
“Hm. Like what?”
Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow on instinct, the question almost too big for his ever growing 6 year old mind, but it is a question he knows that even he wants to know the answer to. He is too young to be worried about such life altering things, he knows this, but even knowing does not stop him from his worrying.
“Like…to treasure something is to…value it above everything else, you know? It isn’t just something that makes you happy, or that you’re good at, or that you love. It’s something that means the entire world to you, something that you wouldn’t ever want to lose. I think, maybe, that it’s something that you’d give your life up for to protect?”
“Huh.” Bokuto says. “That’s a pretty big deal.”
Kuroo nods. “That’s what I thought, too. That’s why I couldn’t understand why everyone had such an easy time answering it. Shouldn’t it mean a lot more than that?”
Bokuto lets out a huff at his side and then he’s lightly tapping his fist against Kuroo’s shoulder, making him lose his balance on the pavement for a moment. “Maybe everybody else didn’t think about it the same way you did, Tetsu. You’re always thinkin’ too much.” He shrugs.
Kuroo steadies himself, palm scraping against concrete, before jutting out his lip. “Maybe.” He agrees.
“What did everyone else write?”
“Mmm.” Kuroo starts, squinting up at the blackness above them. He recalls the scribbles of almost unidentifiable kanji hung up around their classroom immediately, but what they said he can hardly remember. The few he had taken the time to read had all seemed so meaningless to him. Baseball. Meat buns. Cartoons. “The usual stuff.” He decides.
“Why don’t cha’ just write somethin’?” Bokuto shrugs, words slightly muffled with the way he’s busying his mouth with biting on a stray hangnail. “It doesn’t matter if ya’ mean it. Just get it over with.”
Kuroo throws him an attempt at a furious glance before resting his chin atop his folded up knee. “Don’t say that, ‘Bo.” He warns. “It feels dishonest.”
“Okay, okay.” Bokuto levels, waving his free hand in surrender. “If I were you, though, I’d just write somethin’ really cool. Somethin’ to make all the other kids jealous. Like…” He hums, squinting his eyes in concentration. “Like Batman!”
“Batman?” Kuroo echoes, disbelief sneaking its way into his words.
“Yeah!” Bokuto exclaims, leaping back up to his feet in all his excitement and striking a poor attempt at a heroic pose before Kuroo. “Batman! Just think about it! He’s super cool, and strong, and all mysterious and stuff! If you were going to treasure anything, it should surely be him!”
“Oh please.” Kuroo drones, something that he had learned from his mother directly, and makes a show of rolling his eyes. “If I were going to pick anything, it’d have to be Superman. He’s way cooler.”
“What?!” Bokuto shrieks, betrayal taking apparent form on his face. “You’ve gotta’ be kidding me! What’s he got goin’ for him? Kryptonite and bein’ a nice guy? Lame!” He sticks out his tongue for effect, blowing it, and several unwelcome sprinkles of spit, into Kuroo’s face.
It means war.
Kuroo leaps up to his feet, suddenly thankful for his advantage in height, and crowds into Bokuto’s space with a wicked grin. “Its way better than being a sad rich boy, c’mon, ‘Bo, what kind of lame excuse for a superhero is that?”
“His parents died, dude!” Bokuto gasps, and Kuroo has to hold back a laugh at how genuine his distress is.
“Yeah? Well, Superman-“ He begins, always ready for an argument, but then he is suddenly cut off by the shrill cry of his mother from the doorway.
“Tetsuro! Kotaro! I’ve been calling you both for 10 minutes straight! Get in here for dinner already, it’s getting cold!” She yells, and then the patio door slams shut behind her.
The in-sync grumbling of their stomachs break all memory of a debate, and Bokuto and Kuroo exchange a quiet look of guilt, glancing towards their place on the pavement and back to the house, before their faces split into an identical wicked smile.
“Race ya’ there!” Bokuto screams, taking off without warning, and Kuroo is racing after him before he even has a chance to consider denying the challenge.
It is an evening like any other, empty dinner bowls pushed to the middle of the table and the acrylic of his mother’s nails tapping against illuminated phone screen, when he is finally forced to confront his troubles.
There is the weight of a good meal sitting comfortably at the bottom of Kuroo’s stomach, a stray piece of rice forgotten and sticking to the plush of his cheek. It is not rare for his family to fall into silences after a dinner, not when everyone is suddenly out of steam and occupied with their own business. It is not rare for Kuroo to be bored out of his mind with the quiet of it, either.
His mother busy with her work emails, his father concentrated on the evening paper, this time Kuroo has found entertainment in a brightly coloured marble he had found stuffed underneath the couch cushions just the night before.
It has been a pattern for the past ten minutes, rolling back and forth along the slanting pine of the dinner table, reflecting a spectra of amber and charcoal. Even Kuroo is surprised the rhythmic movement of it has not drawn his parents insane yet.
It is comforting to him, somehow. A lull to distract him from the repeating mantra of his head for once. He can’t bring himself to stop thinking back to Bokuto and their conversation.
When he had left, been shuffled back to the subway station to meet back up with his parents, he hadn’t seemed to forget about it either. Instead of a goodbye handshake, instead of a farewell laced with childlike banter, this time his leaving words had been encouragement.
A slap on the shoulder, a too-wide smile, and a well wish:
“Hope you find your treasure soon, Tetsu!”
Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow despite himself at the memory, conflicted, and he goes back to running the pads of his fingertips over the smooth surface of the marble before letting it go.
When he over calculates, when he flicks it just a little too far and it bounces, hard, against his father’s elbow, he knows that that’s the end of it.
“Tetsuro.” He warns, the dark copper of his eyes tossing a warning glance behind a wiry frame of glasses, and Kuroo has the sense to flash him an attempt at an apologetic grimace as he stills the marble underneath his palm.
When he allows himself to think about it, there is little of himself that he sees reflected in the unimpressed glance of his father. His eyes too dark, his hair too tame, his smile too focused. Sometimes he has trouble even accepting that they’re related.
It stills the apology in his mouth for a moment, caught up in a moment of disbelief, but when his mother clears her throat across from him, lowers her phone away from her face and shoots him a predatory smile, he sees nothing but himself there.
Their similarities threaten to send a shiver down his spine.
He knows he has made a mistake the minute their eyes meet – hers suddenly full of intent, his own no doubt a silent plea. His father speaking his name sparks an idea in her, and as she opens her mouth Kuroo mentally prepares himself for impact.
“Ah, that reminds me. Your school called this afternoon, Tetsu.”
“Did they?” He says, suddenly far too interested in the near empty bowl in front of him. He makes a show of scraping the few leftover pieces of rice onto his chopsticks and towards his mouth with vigor.
His father suddenly becomes increasingly interested in the newspaper in front of him.
Kuroo’s school calling is not new.
“Mhmmmm.” She hums, leaning forward and resting her chin atop a manicured hand. “It was your sweet little Sensei again, what was her name? Sasaki-san?”
Kuroo knows damn well she knows exactly what her name is.
“Yes.” He deadpans anyway. He also knows damn well not to mess with his mother, especially not when he knows she already has a plan hatching underneath her sleeve.
“She told me something interesting.”
Kuroo already knows what is coming. He tightens his grip around the marble trapped beneath his palm. His father shifts slightly in his seat beside him.
“She told me that you failed your first assignment.” She finishes, releasing the final blow and raising a single eyebrow in feigned shock.
There is not even the slightest hint of disappointment gracing her face, not even the smallest glimpse of anger flashing in the amber of her eyes, but it does nothing to stop Kuroo’s heart from dropping down into his stomach.
It is weird, hearing the words aloud. It is not as though it is a surprise, it is not as though it is something he hadn’t seen coming. In the grand scheme of things it was something minuscule, nothing life altering or life destroying or even, really, a major setback. It shouldn’t have mattered, and his mother’s nonchalance confirmed exactly that, but hearing it, giving it a name, that was what Kuroo was not ready for.
Fail. Failed. Failure.
It was not a word he ever expected to have to use to describe himself.
His father lowers his newspaper and finally has the sense to seem interested.
“I-“ He begins, his words escaping in an exasperated breath, but all chance at an explanation is quickly cut off by the muffled sound of his mother’s laughter.
“It’s fine! Sweetheart, its fine.” She squeaks out, still trying to quiet her amusement behind the pale of her wrist.
Kuroo can imagine how ridiculous he looks. His mouth agape, his stammering heartbeat, the bead of sweat starting to collect at his temple. He is not afraid of what his parents have to say, knows that he is gifted to have a more than understanding family. He is disappointed with himself, and frustrated for feeling disappointed over something so silly. He does not know how to translate that into words.
Maybe Bokuto was right after all. Maybe he is far too serious for his own good.
“So what was it?” She asks, the edges of her eyes crinkling in interest. Unlike his teacher, Kuroo knows well enough that she has earned every beginning of the crow’s feet blooming there. “English? Math? Science? God, no, it definitely couldn’t have been science. Honestly, I’m kind of glad. It’s just good to know that we’re related after all.”
When she laughs again, it is hearty and meaningful, and Kuroo feels the gnawing worry in his stomach diminish along with it.
“It was nothing, really.” He mutters. “A question about treasuring that I couldn’t seem to find the answer to.”
He knows that his nonchalance is useless against his mother. She can read him like he is a book that she had written herself.
It does not stop him from trying though.
Something in her expression changes, just a glimmer of worry before she is blinking it away under a heavy coat of mascara, but Kuroo is quick enough to catch it.
She is all optimistic, a bright outlook that never runs out of light, and sometimes he forgets that there is more to her than that.
She says that she is happy to know that they are the same after all. Capable of making mistakes. Capable of failing.
It is a joke that she only allows to be funny until she recognizes what it means to Kuroo.
“Treasuring?” She says, a question that Kuroo already knows she doesn’t really want the answer to, and this time her tone is nothing close to predatory.
How such a strong woman can appear so soft never fails to baffle Kuroo.
His mother is silent, the red plush of her lips caught between her teeth in concentration, and Kuroo makes the decision to answer the empty question anyway. “It’s not the same as loving something.” He admits.
“No.” She replies. “It’s not, is it?”
The legs of the dinner table squeak, loud and complaining, as his father rises suddenly beside him. There is an exchange of glances, a silent conversation that passes between him and his mother that Kuroo does not quite catch, and then he is giving Kuroo a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before he busies himself with tidying the kitchen.
The palm of his hand is rough and calloused, his wedding ring catching and reflecting the overhead chandelier, and when Kuroo turns his attention back to his mother he is not surprised to find her already waiting.
“What do you treasure?” He dares to ask, and the gentleness that forms on his mother’s face has goosebumps rising on the pale of his arms instantly.
She does not hesitate at all when she opens her mouth and says:
“You.”
Kuroo does not try to mask the surprise on his face when he realizes all at once that he hadn’t considered the prospect of a treasure being a person.
It is nearly winter when he catches the first glimpse of it.
It comes to him when he is nothing more than the plush of his cheek squashed up against the glass frame of his front window and the stubby form of his fingers leaving foggy handprints against its surface. The excited puff of his own breath ghosting up around him and obscuring his view is doing nothing to help his situation, but even so he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
There is a lot, in the moment, that he could be doing instead. Working on his daily homework, studying for an upcoming test, trying to communicate with Bokuto over the walkie talkies that never quite worked nor had a chance of working at all with such a vast distance between them.
There is a lot he could be doing, but nothing that could capture his attention in quite the same way as the snow covered moving truck down the street currently was.
He has been enraptured by it all day, hunched up against the unfair glass pane between them and cursing the distance, and yet he has made no progress, no new discoveries, no more knowledge than the fact that his leg is starting to cramp underneath him.
In the morning when his mother had first passed by, had the chance to register the overeager expression plastered on his face, she had crushed all of his hopes and dreams with one, monotone sentence.
“Not yet.”
He understood her reasoning. The best he could, anyhow. Kuroo’s eagerness was not something that he had an easy time containing. If it were up to him, he’d been across the street at sunrise this morning trying to explore the very contents of said truck.
He understood, too, how maybe that could have been a little overwhelming for the people involved.
And so he sat.
And sat.
And sat.
And sat until his leg cramps so bad he starts to genuinely worry for its safety and has to, reluctantly, tear himself away from his lookout spot.
“I heard last week that we’d have someone new moving in.” His mother says, and the sound of her voice behind him suddenly makes him jump.
When he angles himself around to give her a proper glare, she already has a satisfactory smirk forming on her face.
Her hands are busy with dish towel and bowl, absentmindedly drying the remaining water droplets cascading down the side of it, and Kuroo is quick to pad after her as she returns to the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” He grumbles.
“Can you blame me?” She laughs, and Kuroo shakes out the remaining tingling sensation in his leg as if on cue.
“You’re cruel.” He pouts, and the amused curve of his mother’s mouth only grows.
“Well,” She hums, placing the dish back into its spot in a nearby cupboard and dusting her hand off on the plush of her thigh. “That’s a shame, because I was just going to suggest that it’s about time you and I go on over there and introduce ourselves.”
Kuroo nearly chokes on his spit at her words.
“I take it back, I take it back! C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go!” He yelps, grabbing hold of whatever fistful of fabric he can at his height and giving his mom a swift tug by the shirt towards the doorway.
She laughs again, high and musical, but there is no resisting as she lets herself be guided towards the exit, and Kuroo can’t help but feel a stirring of excitement in his veins.
It is not a far walk, just merely a small stretch of road to get to the house next door, but for Kuroo it feels like it stretches on forever.
He is fortunate enough to live in a quiet neighborhood, a traditional style house away from the busy city life apartments where Bokuto lives, but now he wishes it was just another complex – that the distance was just a mere hallway between destinations.
When they finally arrive, feet cold from the snow within the confines of their boots, Kuroo allows his mother to do the knocking to prevent himself from breaking down the entire door with all his build up anxiety.
Everything feels like it is operating in slow motion, the seconds between the knock of his mother’s fist and the waiting dragging on forever, and as she reaches down to ruffle a reassuring hand through the coarse mess of Kuroo’s hair, the door finally clicks open.
The woman who greets them is small in stature and so different from the one standing beside Kuroo. Her face is worn, like she has grown tired of everything around her already, and Kuroo is afraid she might break from merely being looked at for too long.
It makes his chest feel terribly empty, like there should be something more there than festering disappointment, and he can’t help himself when he angles his gaze past her in search for more.
The conversation above him between the tired woman and his mother is all background noise to him now, a small disconnected buzz at the back of his mind, but everything filters back into the foreground when he sees a flash of black and gold skitter past his vision.
It is far too fast for him to register, a blur of colour and then nothing, but then there is a bark of agitated voice above him and the colours come into focus all at once.
“Kenma!” The woman snaps, and Kuroo watches as the sock clad feet of an impossibly tiny boy come grinding to a halt.
He looks terrified, an image made up of nothing but bright gold irises growing to the size of dinner plates and long strands of black hair casting a protective shadow across his face. His knees are wobbling, frail and pale underneath him, and all sound is lost to Kuroo’s ears again as the small boy takes a nervous breath and pads his way over to his mother’s side.
Every step looks as reluctant as the last, the closer he gets the more blood draining from the plush of his cheeks, and Kuroo’s hands ball into fists despite himself.
He always thought it strange the number of times he’d been baffled by how his mother looked so strong and remained so soft. It is not until now that he recognizes that looking a certain way means nothing. Not when a woman as frail and tired as the one across from him could manage to instill so much fear into a child with just a singular word.
The boy before him is barely in sight, the majority of him shaking and shielded behind his mother’s leg, and Kuroo does not need to angle his head upwards to know that her expression is anything short of irritated. It makes the beginnings of anger start to burn at the edges of his stomach.
“I’m Tetsuro.” He blurts, the words escaping him with vigor, and the conversation between his mother and the woman come to a grinding halt above him.
“Tetsu,” His mother hisses, gritting the nickname out between her teeth and tapping him gently on the back of the head. She sounds embarrassed, but Kuroo can’t find the means in the moment to concentrate on feeling sorry for her. “Manners.” She scolds.
“I’m Kuroo.” He corrects, reluctantly, and the boy (Kenma, was it?) peeks out enough from behind his barrier to blink wildly at Kuroo.
He tries flashing a smile, his signature gap in its teeth doing its best to be charming, but it’s a lost cause as Kenma’s mother makes a tutting noise above him and Kenma recoils back into his hiding place like he’s been burned.
She tuts again, louder, the smack of her lip making Kuroo’s eyebrow dip down in annoyance, and then the boy is rushing out his words all at once.
“Kozume.” He whispers, his voice barely having a chance to be a noise at all when it’s muffled against the fabric of his mother’s jeans.
It is clear that his mother is not impressed, and even moreso when she kneels down to forcefully tear Kenma away from his hiding place.
Her hold on his wrist looks careless, two seemingly breakable people holding onto each other far too tight, and Kuroo is suddenly afraid he is going to have to watch them both shatter to pieces in front of him.
When she lets go there is barely a mark, but Kuroo does not miss the flash of fear that ghosts across Kenma’s expression when he is released.
He is out in the open now, no shield to cover him from the outside world and the curious stares of both Kuroo and his mother, and it is clear that he is hating every moment of it.
It is Kuroo’s first good look at him, his first chance to really take in the wide globes of topaz coloured iris and the shaggy curtain of dark hair - but it is impossible to appreciate any of it when it is outshined by the crumbling expression of his nervous face.
It is the first time Kuroo has ever looked at something, has ever looked at someone, and for the word beautiful to come to mind instantly.
It is as if the entire kaleidoscope of colour he had found hidden within that marble from months ago had come to life right in front of him – and yet he didn’t care about how beautiful of a person it had created when that person looked like they wanted to vanish into the very air in front of them. It seemed impossibly wrong to appreciate the beauty of something that didn’t even want to be looked at in the first place.
“Kozume Kenma.” The boy speaks again, his voice wavering on every syllable, and Kuroo can’t help but feel as though the entire thing sounds like a recording he had formatted to memory.
It catches him off guard, the routine that this boy has become, and as he finds himself opening his mouth, grasping at words, his mother speaks up for him.
“It’s nice to meet you both.” She smiles, and Kuroo can’t help but notice that every inch of it looks wrong. “We won’t keep you, I’m sure you both have a lot of unpacking to do, but Tetsuro and I both look forward to us being neighbours.”
There is more to her farewell, a longer exchange of words between her and the stranger in the doorway, but Kuroo makes a point to purposefully tune it out. He is not interested in either of their words, not keen on hearing his mother fake politeness through her teeth as she shoves a housewarming meal into the hands of this woman he has already come to dislike. He is even less interested to hear when a woman like her has to say back.
His interest is reserved, solely, for the danger zone of a boy in front of him.
He is not one to struggle with words, but now he cannot think of anything to say, cannot fathom that there is any sentence that he would be able to string together to stop the wobbling of his fearful knees.
He tries, desperately, to offer some sort of silent plea, some sort of silent promise with his stare, but the boy refuses to tear his gaze away from the floorboards beneath his feet.
The conversation above him falls into silence, the door in front of him creaks shut, and the image of ebony hair and tawny eyes vanishes all together.
He is not surprised when he feels something close to loss curling around his heart.
His mother is warm as she connects their fingers, leads him down the stony snow path and back towards the comforting glow of their home.
She is surprisingly silent, but so is Kuroo.
He does not need to question why.
“I think you ought to be friends with that boy.” She murmurs, and as Kuroo angles his head upwards, takes in the downcast twist of her mouth and the hollowness in her gaze, he does not have trouble understanding what she really means.
Take care of him.
He does not need to be told twice.
Caring, as it turns out, can be an impossibly difficult task when it is not wanted.
He tries the simple way, an excited knock at his neighbour’s door bright and early the next morning, but all he is met with is the irritated expression of Kenma’s mother’s face and the phrase that begins to sound like a broken record when, after weeks, it’s the only answer his trying ever turns up.
“Kenma can’t come out today.”
He feels useless, barely six years old and all out of options, and so the majority of his winter is spent wishing that he could be more.
There is school, and there is homework, and there are the few and far between conversations and visits from Bokuto to pass the time, but nothing quite passes it fast enough. Not when the worry and determination gnawing at the back of his mind only continues to grow the longer he is forced to ignore it.
The thought of failing another task was unforgivable. Kuroo wouldn’t allow it – he refused to let a sole mistake turn into an entire pattern. He refused to lose the determination and the fight that made him who he was just because the world wasn’t willing to cooperate.
He’d make it, if that was what he had to do.
It is an impossibly cold evening, Kuroo bundled up to his chin in his winter clothing, when the world decides to be on his side for once.
He is lobbing a volleyball against the trunk of a large oak tree situated on his front lawn, the vibration causing a flutter of snow to trickle down from its barren branches, when he catches the smallest blur of colour out of the corner of his eye.
He stops his game instantly, the gritty surface of the ball coming to a standstill in his glove-clad clutches, and as he angles his head upwards he just barely catches the flash of dark hair ducking out of view.
He can’t help the stirring of hope that begins to pool in his chest with the sight of it.
The window closest to this tree - this large, beautiful, blooming means of connection between his and his neighbour’s yard - without a doubt belongs to Kenma.
And Kenma, without a doubt, had just been watching him.
He does not need to think twice about what he’s doing before he is letting his volleyball tumble to the ground in front of him in favour of cupping his hands around the edges of his mouth.
He takes one breath, deep and shuddering in the chilly air, and pushes as much voice out of his lungs as he possibly can when he screams: “Kozume!”
The reaction that follows is immediate, a yelp loud enough to be heard through the window pane between them as Kuroo witnesses a blur of colour tumble onto the floor.
He can’t help but momentarily feel bad for scaring him. It doesn’t stop a satisfactory smile from blooming on his face anyway.
There is a dead silence after the commotion that follows, drawn out and suffering, and Kuroo can’t bring himself to be surprised. It is not as though he was expecting anything more to follow – not from a boy like Kenma.
There was something familiar in his eyes when he had caught the smallest glimpse of them, something he had been told far too many times had made a home in his own, and Kuroo was smart enough to recognize it when he saw it.
It didn’t matter that he was hiding behind a glass pane, it wasn’t important that he was purposefully ignoring Kuroo’s yelling as though it had never happened in the first place. In the moment, in the smallest moment when he had caught sight of Kenma staring back at him, he had discovered something crucial.
Because the thing stirring there was nothing other than curiosity, and suddenly, Kuroo knew exactly what he had to do.
It becomes a game, every afternoon spent spiking his volleyball off the side of a crumbling tree trunk, and Kenma quickly learns how to play.
Kuroo can feel his eyes, insistent and curious boring into his backside with every spike, and he allows him a good dozen glances every time before he is yelling his name all over again and having him crash to the floor in embarrassment.
It continues like this, every day without fail, until the day that has Kuroo clambering over snowbanks to get to his usual spot changes everything.
There is the shout of Kenma’s name, desperate and teasing, and the loud crash of elbows and knees greeting wooden floor like always, and then –
“Hey!” An angry voice squeaks out, and Kuroo blinks wildly, more than once just to be sure he’s not imagining it, at the sight of Kenma’s scrunched up face behind the opened window.
He knows that it is not meant to be a friendly greeting. His body decides to squeak out an equally nervous and excited “hi” in response anyway.
It only seems to make Kenma’s face furrow into deeper annoyance.
It is odd, in retrospect, for Kuroo to see his face morph into any expression other than fear. It makes him incredibly thankful for the annoyance even if it is not exactly what he was going for.
“Can you stop doing that?” Kenma scolds, and Kuroo does not miss the way his hands shake, scrunched up and losing colour with their grip on the window frame.
Every inch of Kuroo’s body is screaming at him to fix his mistake already, and his face breaks out into a brilliant smile despite himself. “Sorry, Kozume.” He tries.
Something unreadable flashes across Kenma’s expression, gone as fast as it came, and his voice is infinitely softer when he speaks again. “Don’t…call me that, please.”
“Kozume?” Kuroo asks, tilting his head and taking a step closer to the window above him. The snow underneath his boot crunches loudly as he walks and Kenma immediately recoils further into his room with the sound.
Kuroo stills himself instantly.
There is a moment of silence, filled up by nothing but the howling of the cold air around them, and Kuroo watches Kenma’s mouth contort just slightly before he leans back into the window space to peer down at him.
He looks angry for a moment, but it is difficult to tell where the emotion is directed - or if it is directed at Kuroo at all - and so he holds his tongue instead.
“Just….Kenma.” He murmurs, anger deflating as he muffles his words against his shoulder. “Just Kenma is fine.”
“Okay,” Kuroo’s smiles, refusing to miss even a single beat. “Nice to meet you again, Just Kenma. I’m Tetsuro, but you can just call me Tetsu if ya’ want, all my friends do.”
It is a laugh that Kuroo hopes to coax out of Kenma’s lungs with his joke, but the only thing he gets in response is another annoyed furrow of his eyebrows. His smile shrinks a little at the motion.
“I’m not calling you that.” He deadpans.
“Hah?” Kuroo blanches. “Why not?”
The last thing he was expecting from this nervous boy was so much sass.
“We’re…not friends.”
Kuroo’s smile slips off his face completely. He allows himself one moment of conflicted concentration before he is jamming his boot back into the thick of the snow around him and striding over to stand directly beneath Kenma’s windowsill.
This time, he does not stop. Not even when Kenma’s eyes grow impossibly wide.
Kuroo angles his head back, meeting the fear in Kenma’s eyes with nothing but confidence and challenge, and throws his arms out with declaration. “We’re going to be.” He decides.
He expects to see more annoyance grace the pallet of Kenma’s face, he is not surprised for the sinking feeling of his stomach when he sees only sadness.
“You don’t want to be my friend.” He says.
“I do.”
Even from the distance, Kuroo can make out the uneven bob of Kenma’s throat as he swallows. “Why would you…want to be my friend?” He asks, and his eyes become increasingly interested in everywhere that is not Kuroo’s face.
He had heard of heartbreak once, an evening spent curled up on the couch with his mother watching another of her favourite romcom movies when a beautiful blonde actress had spat out the word through tears into her lovers face, but when he watches the fall of Kenma’s face above him he knows that he could have never been prepared for what it truly feels like.
His entire chest feels like it’s crumbling right underneath him with just the single expression.
“Why not?” He offers, his voice wavering with every syllable, and he feels increasingly better the moment Kenma focuses his gaze back onto his face with interest.
“Why not?” Kenma echoes in disbelief.
Kuroo shrugs his shoulders once, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, why not? I like you, and I want to be your friend.”
“You don’t know-“ Kenma begins, but then he is cutting himself off just as quick.
Kuroo does not miss the intention of his words. You don’t know me.
He doesn’t – but god does he ever want to.
“I can’t.” Kenma murmurs, tearing his gaze away from Kuroo’s face all over again, efficiently building up all of his walls like he had never knocked any of them down to begin with.
There is a beginning of desperation that starts to stir within Kuroo, and he does not think twice about his words before he is opening his mouth. “Is it your mom?” He asks.
Kenma blinks. “My…mom?”
“Does she…does she not let you?”
This time, when a spark of anger flickers across Kenma’s face again, Kuroo knows it is directed solely at him. “It’s not like that.” He barks.
It sounds too defensive, too rehearsed, and Kuroo is not willing to believe it even for a second.
He pushes forward. “Does she-“
“It’s not like that.” Kenma barks again, his voice louder than Kuroo has ever heard it, and the sound alone makes all of his thought process come to a grinding halt inside his head.
It is a momentary anger, burnt out as quickly as it ignited, and Kenma’s eyebrows dip down into concern just as quickly as his voice does. “It’s…it’s not like that.” He tries again. “I know you think the worst, you and your mom both, but it’s not like that. She doesn’t hurt me. She works a lot. It’s my fault that I’m like this. She’s tired. She wants me to be different.”
Kuroo thinks he catches the smallest glimmer of wetness collecting at the corner of Kenma’s eyes, but as soon as he opens his mouth to apologize the window above him is slamming shut with a vigor that makes him jump.
He is left to blink, helpless, at the barrier between them all over again as the form of Kenma disappears from the window frame completely.
It does not take long for the panic to begin, for him to release his first disbelieving breath into the frosty air in front of him just for a chance at regaining his grip on reality.
He had one chance, and he had completely blown it.
“It’s my fault that I’m like this.”
The sigh that ghosts pasts his lips comes nowhere close to expressing how awful the realization makes him feel. He has nowhere to go now but home, but the sound of a slamming door to his right stalls his thought immediately.
When he turns his head, it is not Kenma who he expects to see.
He is still, incredibly so, frozen in place in front of his doorway and averting his gaze away from Kuroo’s unbelieving eyes. The cold has made a home of him already, has bitten the tip of his nose red and made a shaking mess of his knees. Here, he is so small.
There is no gap of distance between window and lawn for them to be separated by, no pane of glass sheltering his expression from Kuroo’s view. He looks as though he did on the first day Kuroo had seen him – impossibly tiny, impossibly fragile.
Every instinct in Kuroo’s body is pushing him forward, telling him to move to Kenma’s side, to offer up his scarf to shield him from the winds that are surely to shatter him to pieces, but every inch of Kenma’s face is ready to reject his help.
“Look.” He whispers, and Kuroo has to strain to hear it over the buffet of snowfall. “I’m here. I’m outside. It’s not like that.”
Kuroo takes his first daunting step forward. Kenma’s fingers twitch slightly.
“Why don’t you come outside?” He asks.
Kenma’s lip becomes a victim to the gnawing of his teeth. “I don’t like it.”
Another step. “Why don’t you go to school?”
“I…start next Spring.”
He’s younger than me, Kuroo realizes, and he dares to chance another step forward while Kenma’s distracted. “Don’t you get lonely?”
Kenma’s breath gets caught in his throat with his question and becomes a hiccupping mess of a thing. “No.” He answers, far too fast.
Kuroo is so close now, just another step or two forward, and he can see the dawn of realization beginning to bloom on Kenma’s face. He is all shaking limbs and clenching fists and bloody, bitten lips and Kuroo immediately feels irritated that with all school has tried to teach him it has never taught him this.
He does not understand, does not know why this boy is so fearful of the entire world around him. He cannot wrap his head around the fact that he seems to think he is responsible for all of his misery, for the misery of everyone around him.
He makes a promise to himself to learn it all, school or not.
He does not know how to do this, does not know how to walk around Kenma without accidentally stepping on a landmine, and for the first time in his life he realizes that this is not a lesson he can learn by sleeping through all of its lectures.
“I get lonely.” He admits, and the tremor in Kenma’s fingers stills just slightly. “I have a lot of friends, and I have an older sister who visits, and my parents are always good to me, but I get really lonely sometimes.”
“…Why?” Kenma dares.
When Kuroo smiles, he does not think about being charming. He does not think about his gap of missing teeth. He does not think about playing a game.
When he smiles, this time it is only a sad tug of his lips.
“I don’t know.” He confesses, because truly, he doesn’t. There were plenty of people in Kuroo’s life who made him happy, but somehow it never really felt like enough. The age gap between him and his sibling was deafening, his parents had good jobs and had to work hard despite how much they cared for him. His best friend lived too far away to visit every day.
He didn’t know what he treasured most.
“It’s just you and your mom, isn’t it?” He asks, and Kenma nods weakly in response.
Maybe there circumstances were different – but Kuroo couldn’t help but feel as though maybe they, themselves, weren’t so different after all.
“Is it really okay to not know?” Kenma sniffles, rubbing the plush of his sleeve along the underside of his nose. It really was getting cold out.
“Yes.” Kuroo nods, because that he is sure of. “It’s okay to not know why you’re sad. The important thing to know is what makes you happy.”
Kenma gives him a look like he’s gone insane. “Happy?” He echoes.
Kuroo can’t help but notice that he says it like it’s a foreign term. He has to visibly shake away the sinking feeling in his stomach that comes with the realization.
Happy. Things he likes. Things he loves.
He is instantly reminded of his conversation with Bokuto from months ago.
He does not hesitate when he asks, “What do you like?”
“Like?” Kenma repeats, again, and Kuroo starts to feel as though he’s having a conversation with a mirror. At least it sounds far less like a foreign term coming off his tongue this time.
“What do you like to do?” He tries. “I love volleyball!”
He turns around swiftly, rushing ahead of himself to not lose control over the conversation, and as soon as he spots his abandoned volleyball from earlier he scoops it up in his arms to proudly present to Kenma.
The expression of Kenma’s face, however, is anything sort of interested.
In his excitement, he had moved closer without even meaning to. At this distance, Kuroo can count each individual dark eyelash gracing Kenma’s face, can see the shimmer of snowflakes catching in the web of them, and the realization makes his breath stop short.
Kenma does not even seem mildly afraid.
He has to keep talking.
“Do you, uh, do you…like volleyball?” He asks.
The expression on Kenma’s face remains incredibly blank as he replies, “I hate sports.”
“Hah?” Kuroo nearly squawks. Hate sports? Was that even possible? “Seriously?”
“I don’t…like getting tired.” Kenma admits, an embarrassed pout taking form on his lips as he purposefully angles his face into his shoulder.
Kuroo can’t help the laugh that bubbles up inside of him at the gesture. It is the first time he’s seen Kenma look anything close to ashamed.
The glare that Kenma shoots him in return, however, has the laughter immediately dying on his tongue.
“S-Sorry,” He wheezes, wiping away a tear with the edge of his mitten. “I just – that was so blunt.”
Kenma makes an unimpressed tutting noise.
“Okay, okay.” Kuroo surrenders, waving his hands in front of him. “Do you, uh, maybe at least want to try? It’s really fun! I’ll let you set and everything, that way you don’t even have to move from your spot.”
There is a flash of mild interest in Kenma’s expression before he crosses his arms in defiance and it’s gone just as fast. “Who plays volleyball in the snow, anyway?” He quips.
Kuroo scratches at his head. “Why not?” He shrugs.
When Kenma only gives him a blank stare in return, he can’t help but feel it’s the wrong answer.
“So…” He tries instead, willing away the faint dusting of embarrassment rising on his cheeks. “What do you like?”
“Nothing, really.” Kenma shrugs.
“Nothing?”
Kenma toys with his lip again, the plush of it caught between his teeth for a few moments in hesitation. Kuroo is not sure whether to press on or pull back. He knows for sure that there is something more there.
He decides to wait it out.
“There is one thing, I guess.” Kenma admits.
“What is it?”
The hesitation is back again, ever so apparent in the nervous shift of Kenma’s eyes as he takes a moment of consideration. Kuroo hopes, quietly, that Kenma comes out of it deciding he is worthy of knowing.
When he reaches into his pocket and holds up a flash of silver Kuroo is not quite sure how to react.
A PSP?
“I like to play videogames.” Kenma explains, and as he presses a button on the device the entire thing lights up into a kaleidoscope of colours and music.
“I don’t play videogames.” Kuroo admits sheepishly. “I like to go adventuring outside.”
Kenma stares back at him in the same disbelief that Kuroo knows, surely, he had been reflecting just moments ago.
“Guess we both really don’t understand each other, huh?” He laughs.
“Guess not…” Kenma murmurs, his arm sliding back down to return the device to his pocket with disappointment.
The action makes Kuroo leap forward all at once, jutting into the space between them and nearly knocking heads, and Kenma stills immediately in fear.
“Ah,” Kuroo huffs, cursing himself for moving so carelessly in his desperation. “Sorry. I didn’t, uh, I didn’t mean to startle you just…just don’t put that away yet, okay?”
“…Okay.” Kenma whispers, still frozen in place, and Kuroo mentally kicks himself all over again.
“Maybe we could…switch?” Kuroo suggests, and as Kenma gives him a conflicted look he struggles to get the rest of his words out as fast as he possibly can. “Like…try out what the other person likes for a day? That’d be fun, right? We’d be…able to learn about the other person?”
It sounds silly to him the moment it escapes his mouth, but Kuroo truly feels like he is grasping at straws here. He is not strong enough to be met with another blank stare.
To his relief, however, all Kenma does is straighten back up and blink at him with interest. “Okay.” He agrees.
Kuroo is careful not to brush skin when exchanging their items. When it is finished, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was even holding in the first place.
“Let’s go sit by the tree.” He suggests, turning around and leading the way. He is surprised to see Kenma obediently following his lead when he angles his head backwards to check on him.
The volleyball is clutched hard in his hands, red bitten fingers holding onto it for dear life, and Kuroo can’t help but feel happy at how much of an effort he is making to be so protective and careful over something so grimy and old as his first volleyball.
It means a lot to him, truly, but it means more that Kenma is already willing to go to such lengths to take care of what makes him happy.
When they make their way back to the shared oak tree, Kuroo is the first to collapse into the snow. He is no stranger to the outside world, and it is nothing more than instinct that has him throwing himself willingly onto the cold ground underneath him.
Kenma, as it turns out, is a lot more timid.
He stands, awkwardly and out of place just in front of Kuroo, and even the reassuring pat on the packed snow beside him that Kuroo gives does nothing to change the uncertainty coiling in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Kuroo dares to ask.
Kenma’s eyes trail off to the side as he spins the volleyball slowly in his hands. “What was your family name again?” He asks.
Kuroo blinks, confused, at him in return. “Kuroo?” He offers.
“Okay.” Kenma says, and yet he still does not move.
“Is there something-“ Kuroo begins, but then Kenma is squeezing his eyes shut and wheezing out another question all at once.
“Do people really call you Tetsu?”
He looks so…genuinely concerned, like he has just overstepped all of his boundaries by daring to speak up for once, and it makes Kuroo want to indulge him more than ever. He likes it, this brash confession of speech however small it may really be, and he feels that it is, somehow, progress between the two of them.
“No, not really.” He admits sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head in embarrassment. “My friend Bokuto sometimes. But uh…mostly my…mom.”
There is the dusting of a blush forming on his cheeks, he can already feel it, and this time he is the one to muffle his expression in the expanse of is shoulder.
“Thought so.” Kenma murmurs, and if Kuroo is seeing things straight, he can swear he sees the smallest tug of a smirk at the edges of his mouth.
He is not sure if his answer is satisfactory enough, but it finally has Kenma’s legs moving forward again, and as he awkwardly lowers himself to sit in the snow beside Kuroo, he can’t help but feel happy about the embarrassment if this is where it got him.
There is a recognizable gap left between them on purpose by Kenma, but Kuroo tells himself that that is something that they can work on later.
“I’m going to call you Kuro.” Kenma says, and by the tone of his voice Kuroo realizes that there is absolutely no room for argument.
The PSP springs back into life in his hands as the title for Monster Hunter flashes across the screen.
“Okay.” He agrees, and the beginnings of a smile start to burn at the edges of his mouth with the realization that he has just earned himself a nickname.
“Stop smiling.” Kenma grumbles. “Don’t think this means we’re friends now.”
Kuroo can only feel himself smile harder when he repeats, “Okay.”
He is not quite sure what it is, whether it is the promise of a new beginning or the feeling of actually accomplishing what he had promised himself he’d set out to do, but whatever it is as Kuroo sits there freezing and satisfied by Kenma’s side, the daunting thought of finding something to treasure is the last thing on his mind for once.