Chapter Text
1991 (Then)
Kuroo is being watched. He doesn’t turn around. Kenma smiles at him from the tv screen. Eyes half shut. The walls tight around him, Kuroo always wondered how Kenma could breathe.
The person watching him moves, getting closer. “I’ll never understand your obsession with this stuff.” Bokuto.
Kuroo sighs, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the tv. Light falls across Kenma’s naked body, a man’s arms lift him up.
“I mean,” Bokuto pauses as he flops down beside Kuroo, “It doesn’t even get you hard.”
“I told you it’s not about that.”
“Tell me what it’s about Tetsu,” Bokuto pokes him, “I’m supposed to be your best friend. Otherwise, I’ll keep wondering if you're a sick freak.”
On-screen, Kenma is being laid out on a bed. Kuroo chews on his bottom lip.
“He’s sort of my…” Kuroo trails off. He doesn’t know how to describe what Kenma is (was?) to him. He doesn’t know where Kenma is.
How strange that they’d had each other and then they hadn’t. That they’d grown up together, had a life together. Only to become strangers.
To find each other again, last year. Until Kuroo ruined it.
“I don’t know. I knew him for a long time.” Kuroo finally says, “I just want to understand him.” I want him to come back.
1990 (Then)
“Why can’t you just tell me? Why do I have to watch something?” Kuroo asks Kenma, on the walk to Triple X.
“Because I want you to understand me.”
“Okay,” Kuroo says, “But this isn’t a normal video store. It mostly sells porn.”
“I know.” Kenma says, “That’s why we’re going.”
This freaks Kuroo out. He should have protected Kenma. Although the damage had been done before they’d met.
But, Kuroo had been the one to leave.
Now Kenma leads. Kuroo follows him to the front door of Triple X, hangs back.
“Huh,” he scoffs, shaking his head.
Kenma pauses, hand hovering by the door, “What is it?”
“It’s almost like you’ve been here before. Like you know what to expect.”
“This neighborhood isn’t special Kuroo. This store isn’t either. Believe it or not, there are others like it.”
“I know that.” Kuroo laughs, “I’m not stupid.”
Kenma tosses his hair, flashes a smile as he opens the door. “Coulda fooled me.”
The bell above the door rings. The sun pierces through. And something catches in Kuroo’s heart. Whatever it is threatens to rip, like silk snagged on a thorn.
It only tears a little bit. Kuroo gulps down whatever it is, lets Kenma lead him inside.
Kenma slows, peering at the different tapes. If they have what he’s looking for it may not be out in the open. The ones he’s looking at have stupid covers. Obviously scripted, filmed in bright studio sets. Sure some of them may be hard-core, the actors' teenagers. But there's nothing real about it.
There’s a boy at the register, deep tan, spiky black hair. He’s young. 16 maybe even 15.
Kenma approaches him slowly. The boy stares at the ground, brow furrowed, almost comically angry looking.
“Hey,” Kenma says slowly, watching as the boy’s head snaps up.
“Sorry,” he says, voice sort of deep, “Can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you had some heavier stuff, like real stuff?”
The boy looks confused for a second, eyes lost and searching around the room.
Kenma is about to speak when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Kuroo, stepping up behind him.
Recognition flutters across the cashier’s face. “Is he with you?”
“Yeah,” Kuroo says, reaching into his jacket “Can you let him in the back room? What do you want?”
The cashier boy is about to answer. But the back room door swings open, a new voice cutting through the room.
“We want the good stuff, Tetsu-Chan.”
Kenma looks up, focusing on the newcomer. It’s a boy, tall and slim, their age. He’s beautiful, with fluffy brown hair and full lips quirked up in a cocky smile. He also looks extremely familiar.
Kuroo takes out a bag of pills, tosses it to the new boy, “Oxy. Just for you.”
The boy catches it with ease and blows Kuroo a kiss. God, Kenma rolls his eyes, He’s obnoxious. Suddenly the boy leans over, hand coming up to pull at Kenma’s hair. Kenma glares stonily back.
“Ha. Blondie,” the boy giggles, “You’re cute.”
“Tooru,” the cashier says, voice tinged with warning.
The boy, Tooru, pouts but steps back, “I’m not doing anything, Iwa-Chan.”
Yet still, he retreats sulkily, to lean against the wall covered in obscene posters. Kenma doesn’t take his eyes off of him.
“You sure like to stare, don’t you Blondie?”
“I swear I’ve seen you before,” Kenma says with a shrug.
“Well,” Tooru smiles, “You probably have.”
He shifts slightly, drawing Kenma’s attention back to the posters on the wall.
Oh, Kenma realizes, that makes sense. Because the posters are announcing those scripted porn films that Kenma hates so much. And it seems like Tooru is the star of most of them.
“So,” Tooru points to a poster where his face, tear-streaked, lips swollen, fills the entire paper, “You’re a fan of my work?”
“No,” Kenma says bluntly, “I saw that horror special you did. The one with the coffin.”
“And?”
Kenma laughs, “I could’ve done better. I have done better.”
“How?”
“I’ve done it for real.”
Something flashes in Tooru’s brown eyes, darkening them with anger.
“So you’ve got one or two tapes in the back room. So what? I’ve got a whole shelf dedicated to me back there. You wanna know how far back in age it goes?”
“Tooru,” the cashier says again, but this time it’s louder. The office door opens. Kenma hadn’t realized anyone was in there. It’s a man, probably in his forties, and he’s smirking.
“It was getting a little too loud,” the man says, eyes traveling over each boy. Kenma doesn’t like the way he looks at them. “I had to see what was going on.”
Kuroo steps up, sort of shielding Kenma. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Yeah,” the cashier boy echoes, “Nothing’s going on.”
Tooru doesn’t give in, just keeps glaring at Kenma. He takes a threatening step forward, mouth open as if to say something. But the man cuts him off by grabbing his wrist.
“Come on, Tooru-kun. Let’s discuss your behavior in private. ”
The man leads Tooru, who complies after an especially rough tug, into the office. The door closes, locks behind them.
“Fuck,” the cashier says, as he opens the back room door, “Fuck.”
It’s Kenma’s turn to follow. So he follows Kuroo into the back. They pass the cashier whose hands are balled into fists.
He glares at them, spits out an angry “Fuck you guys.”
Neither Kuroo nor Kenma say anything. The door slams shut.
1991 (Then)
Later on, Kuroo tucked that tape away. He goes to the room Bokuto claims as his own. Now he forgets his promise, stupid half-hearted, to be sober. Music plays downstairs, as the bass thumps harder, Kuroo lets himself get drunker.
When Bokuto rushes in, Kuroo jumps a bit. He hadn’t realized Bokuto had left in the first place.
“There’s a party,” Bokuto says, “Downstairs.”
“I know,” Kuroo says, “I was the one who invited people.”
“Well, there’s a ton of people here. It’s fun. Come downstairs.”
Kuroo listens. He stumbles for a second, catches himself. He’s not that drunk. Not yet anyway.
Bokuto pulls him over to where everyone’s dancing. Of course, he would want to dance. He never cares what anyone thinks of him. Kuroo, on the other hand, has a little more pride.
But he’s drunk, so why the hell shouldn’t he dance? So he does, bouncing around, until the room is spinning and he’s got a stupid smile on his face and he’s maybe going to be sick.
He trips into the foyer, catches himself between the broken stair rail and someone’s arm.
“Hey,” the owner of the arm says. It’s a girl.
When Kuroo looks up, he smiles, “Oh sorry, Mika.”
“It’s alright,” she says, tossing her long brown hair and pulling him closer. She smells like vanilla and cigarettes.
And then they’re upstairs in a dimly lit room and her lips taste like vodka.
“We shouldn’t,” Kuroo says, whispering into the smooth skin of her neck.
“We should,” Mika laughs, “you know we should.”
She pulls off his top and pulls off her dress. She unclips her bra, slides down her underwear, and Kuroo takes off his boxers.
Mika climbs on top of Kuroo, puts her hand around his throat, and rides the hell out of him.
He cums embarrassingly quick. With no warning and forgets to pull out.
“Don’t worry,” Mika laughs, “I can deal with it. I’m a big girl.”
She detaches herself from him and slips on her dress, leaving her underwear on the floor.
Kuroo watches, blushing and breathing heavily.
“Mika,” he says, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Don’t,” she says, “Don’t say ‘we shouldn’t have’. Or that you’re sorry.”
She brushes her hand through her hair and fixes her lip gloss.
“I wanted to fuck and you were there, Kuroo. Besides, can you blame me?”
“Uh, for what?”
“Well,” she smirks, “I wanted to see what was so special about you. You think I don’t know about you and Daishou?”
“Shit.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mika turns, she’s on her way out, “I’ve seen your little blonde friend a lot.”
Kuroo perks up at the mention of Kenma, “Where?”
“Well, I’m living at the Arthouse. You know, the converted warehouse? He’s been staying there.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Well his right leg is broken and I think he’s blind in one eye.”
Kuroo can’t tell if she’s serious or not, “Are you kidding?”
“No.” Mika shakes her head, “That kid has some pretty horrifying kinks.”
“Has he said anything about me?”
“Not really.”
And with that, she leaves. Kuroo flops back on the bed and lets himself drift off into a guilty, dreamless sleep.
He wakes up an hour later—Bokuto’s standing above him with a concerned expression.
“You better wake the fuck up,” Bokuto says.
“Why?” But he can already hear angry footsteps coming down the hall. Someone’s yelling.
“Fuck you, Kuroo Testurou! Get the fuck out here.” Daishou. Shit.
Kuroo pulls on his boxers, tripping through the door.
He falls right into Daishou, who shoves him back, hitting him around the head.
“You slept with my girlfriend? You fucking cunt.”
Kuroo lunges forward, catches Daishou in the jaw.
Bokuto slips away unnoticed, as Daishou punches Kuroo in the stomach and tackles him into the bedroom.
“It’s funny,” Kuroo breathes out, as Daishou crushes him with his weight, “That we always end up in the bedroom.”
Daishou sits back and Kuroo almost thinks he's going to hit him. Though he’s not surprised when Daishou dips down and kisses him so hard he stops breathing.
1992 (now)
In the backseat, Daishou’s body grows warm around Kuroo’s. They lay still, remain interconnected, bodies damp with salt water. Daishou rests his left cheek against Kuroo’s back.
He whispers into Kuroo’s spine, “I remember everything that’s ever happened to me. I think it’s eating me alive.”
Kuroo stays quiet. There’s nothing he can say. But it’s eating him too.