Chapter Text
The timer screeches like a dying cicada and I nearly throw the Joy-Con across the room.
We’ve been playing Mario Kart for twenty-three minutes straight and I’m on the verge of a world-record Rainbow Road time when the noise ruins everything. I pause the game, drop the controller on the bed, and stand up so fast the blood rushes to my head. The foil on my hair crinkles like cheap gift wrap.
“Time,” I mutter, already heading for the bathroom.
Kuroo stretches out on my bed like he owns it, arms behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show a strip of stomach. He’s grinning that stupid cat grin that means trouble.
“Hey, Kenma,” he calls, voice syrupy sweet. “Need any help washing it out? I could join you. Save water and everything.”
He waggles his eyebrows. The smirk is so wide it’s practically a separate entity.
I stop in the doorway, turn around, and look him dead in the eye.
He’s joking. I know he’s joking. The tone is pure Kuroo-brand teasing, the same one he’s used since we were thirteen and he told the entire team I had a crush on Yaku-senpai just to watch me choke on my water. But my face still explodes with heat anyway.
I glare. Hard.
The door slams shut in his face so fast I almost catch his nose.
“Asshole,” I hiss through the wood.
His laughter is muffled but unmistakable. “I’ll be right here, Blondie-in-progress!”
I lock the door for good measure, then lean against it for a second, heart hammering against my ribs like I just ran suicides. My reflection in the mirror over the sink looks like a surprised scarecrow wrapped in aluminium foil. I hate him. I hate him so much.
The shower is already running by the time I peel the cape off and step in. The water hits the bleach and instantly turns cold (I forgot to wait for it to heat), but I don’t care. I tilt my head back and let it pour over my scalp, working my fingers through every section, rinsing until the water finally runs clear instead of cloudy white. The chemical smell clings to my nose, sharp and artificial, but underneath it is something cleaner. New.
I stay under the spray longer than I need to. Long enough that the mirror fogs completely and my fingers prune. Long enough that the pounding in my chest settles into something quieter.
When I finally step out, the bathroom is a steam cloud. I wipe a hand across the mirror and stare.
Blonde.
Fully, properly blonde again. No more sad brown roots creeping in like mold. The color is bright, almost white at the tips where the bleach overlapped, warm gold at the crown. Wet, it looks darker, but I know once it dries it’ll be the pale ash-blonde I’ve worn for years. The version of me that feels like armor.
I look… like me again.
I towel my hair roughly, not bothering to brush it, just letting it fall in damp, messy strands. I dig through the laundry basket for the softest thing I own: an ancient black junior high volleyball shirt that used to be Kuroo’s. It still has his old jersey number on the back. and a pair of loose gray shorts that barely stay on my hips. The shirt smells faintly like the fabric softener my mom uses and something that’s just my room now, not him. Mostly.
I unlock the door and step out.
Kuroo is exactly where I left him: sprawled across my bed like a smug housecat, Switch balanced on his stomach, playing whatever single-player game he stole from my library while I was gone. He looks up the second I appear in the doorway and his expression does something complicated
“Well, well,” he says, voice low and teasing and fond all at once. “Look who decided to come back from the dead. Hey there, Blondie.”
I cross my arms. “Don’t call me that.”
“Too late. It’s canon now.” He sits up, legs swinging off the bed, and crooks a finger at me. “C’mere. Let me see.”
I don’t move.
He rolls his eyes, stands, and crosses the room in two strides. Before I can protest he’s right in front of me, tall and still faintly sweaty and smelling like summer and melon soda. His hands come up slowly (giving me time to dodge if I want) and then his fingers are sliding into my wet hair, pushing it back from my face, turning my head gently side to side like he’s inspecting his handiwork.
“Perfect lift,” he murmurs. “No orange, no bands. Told you I’m a professional.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Part of the service.” His thumbs brush just under my cheekbones, wiping away droplets I missed. His palms are warm against my damp skin. “Seriously, though. You look good.”
I duck my head so he can’t see whatever expression is trying to crawl onto my face. “It’s the same as always.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s you. That’s different.”
I swallow. The room feels too small again.
He lets his hands drop but doesn’t step back. “Hair’s longer than last time,” he observes, twirling a damp strand around his finger. “Gonna keep growing it?”
“Maybe.” My voice is barely there.
“I like it long,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Looks soft. Suits you.”
I want to tell him to shut up. I want to shove him away and hide under my blankets until he leaves. Instead I just stand there while he keeps playing with the ends of my hair, the blonde catching the light from the window in a way the brown never did.
Eventually he drops his hand and flops back onto my bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here, Blondie. You still owe me sets later, but right now I want cuddles as payment for services rendered.”
“I’m not cuddling you. You’re still gross from running.”
“I’ll shower later. Promise. Just five minutes.”
I hesitate. Then, because I’m weak and he knows it, I crawl onto the bed and let him tug me down until my back is against his chest, his arm slung heavy over my waist, chin hooked over my damp hair. He smells like sweat and drugstore bleach and home.
“Kenma,” he whispers into my hair, lips brushing my ear, “you’re stuck with me now. Matching hair appointments every six weeks. It’s the law.”
I elbow him half-heartedly. “I hate you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice warm and sleepy and happy. “I know.”
His fingers find the ends of my hair again, twirling absently.
I close my eyes.
The blonde feels right.
Everything feels right.
“So, about those sets-“
“You never said when. I’ll do it in a month.”
I grab my switch, tuning him out.
“Maybe two.”
Kuroo smiles.