Chapter Text
shimotsuki | frost month
Confrontation had a way of making the world smaller somehow. This you found out because the remaining week of November made you develop a fear for it, and so there was no other response but to run away: from him and his attempts at conversation, from him and his glances that seemingly followed the back of your neck, from him and his discrete gestures of wanting anything that could pass as physical contact - no matter how small. The response soon became instinctive during morning practice, lunch break, and afternoon training. It was tiring from day to day, but it was your only mode of survival in this tumult of emotions also worth running away from. To stand the idea of acknowledging feelings and talking to him after that night? Impossible. When realization dawned the morning following November 17th, you knew you had only a few ounces of dignity left and a face to yet still save. And avoidance, cultivating this fear of confrontation, may be stupid as hell to even entertain as valid logic, but it was - as was typically said - the easy way out.
So here you were doing the routine five days in a row now, back to eating lunch with old friends who had the keenest observation skills, and fleeing the classroom the soonest your peripheral vision caught a hint of a six-footer with messy black hair roaming the second year hall - even if it was only the mind playing tricks at the consciousness. Mostly it was just your imagination.
Oh how you desperately wanted this exact moment, a quarter to one on a Friday, to just be your imagination.
"Now what's a hot third year doing in the east wing?" you heard one of the class representatives say. You almost choked on your half-finished croissant. It somewhat came as a shock because not only was your mind attuned to its 'flight' response, but its definition of 'hot' just had to reside on the image of him swaggering the corridors.
"Isn't he always in the second year floor?" a classmate answered, and that was enough to affirm the inevitable. Strategically speaking, if you dropped your lunch now and made an exit for the front door (all the while relying on your friends to cover for you), you could avoid him (who'd most likely use the back door). Kuroo frequented the west wing, where classes 1 to 3 were, but never was he seen in the east wing occupied by the last two classes. He could be a slow walker, either because he thought he'd be cool doing so or it was simply his nature, so you could make a run for the nearest shortcut that evaded his route and kill some time in the library.
Settling with the plan, you threw the croissant to your friends. "I need to pee!"
"Why do you even assume you're the one he's here for?"
"It's better to be safe than sorry?"
You were inching towards the front door when they just had to corner you from both sides. The look on their faces was nowhere near pleased, not even tolerant. They may have blocked the view of the back door window, but you were certain the girly squeals from the outside didn't materialize out of thin air. He was just a few paces away.
"Listen. We love you, but we've had enough." Out of all the times they could possibly be condescending they chose the most inappropriate time. If you didn't love them in return you'd punch one after the other to get to the door. Before a pleadingly innocent Enough of what? expression could even be registered on your reaction, however, the first level of confrontation you feared needed to push through. It was evident in their crossed arms, impatient tapping of the feet, and raised eyebrows.
"Going back to your story..." one of them started. The whispers within the room grew more distinct. Some of the people in class huddled to the threshold.
"Like I said, don't take my story seriously! I was not myself-"
"Just listen for a moment!" The other glanced back, more sympathetic, and moved the group near the front door out of earshot. "From your side of the story, there wouldn't be anything wrong if you two got together. It's only you who's holding back and you really haven't explained it much. Why?"
From the sounds that grew louder until they were deafening, to the impending doom of lunch period ending, to the fact that only a single wall separated you from him, and to the wild churning of your insides battling between just outright talking to him again (because you missed it too) and playing this outrageous game until you lost - you couldn't hold everything at once anymore.
"Because!" your voice quivered. "I was embarrassed! I'm embarrassed! I hate what it's doing to me. I get all warm and fuzzy on the inside and something is not right. It's not comfortable, all this, and I hate it. I'm stuck in between because I do want to say what I need to say to him or hear what he wants to say, but I'm scared of what comes after. Nationals is fast approaching and he's going to college and I wouldn't dare get in the way and everything that happened that night just keeps coming back and- ugh!"
You pushed your way through them and bolted to the front door, running to the direction you got used to all week. You skidded to a halt by the corner, the west wing coming into full view as you caught a breath. The corridor was empty and it was a relief from all the noise. The library, spacious and serving as some sort of sanctuary, stood across. You glanced back, double-checking if the coast was clear, and went in.
You hid among the crowded shelves, waiting for the bell to strike one.
.
(Great. Always running away, hoping to undo this feeling. What a coward.)
(I'm a volleyball player, dammit. Not a runner off to chase someone. But still...)
(I shouldn't have done what I did that night. I shouldn't have said what I said.)
(...I can chase her as far as she'd go.)
(But I already did. And I meant every word.)
(I know what I think. I know what I feel.)
(Fuck feelings.)
(I just have to feel more and think less.)
(Really really fuck feelings in general.)
(But why does she need to avoid me?)
.
Kuroo was having a hard week - pretty devastating, actually. On Monday his hopes of continuing wherever they left off last Saturday, so he could be sure it wasn't all a dream, were crushed in her completely ignoring him. Tuesday had him beginning to let go of sanity due to college preparations becoming more stressful as the year was bound to end. By Wednesday the team lost two sets to Itachiyama in a practice match, and Kuroo was convinced he was losing his touch as an efficient middle blocker. Come Thursday he dozed off in the middle of homeroom period, head stashed between the pages of a book, that Yaku apparently announced: "Sensei, I think he's dead." Yaku wasn't a hundred percent wrong about that. Kuroo was a bit dead for having too much to swallow from his plate lately, that the only thing he could think of to redeem at least a tinge of his sanity was to make amends with her; even though he had no idea what he did wrong to deserve such a cold treatment. It was now one of those days, rare and heavy for the heart, that waking up in the morning felt dreadful. Heck, even Kenma seemed to be in a better mood throughout the week.
Kuroo understood that he had to be more obsessed in securing a spot for nationals less than two months from now, but he was nowhere near that obsession than this obsession of wanting to know why: just why would someone he liked - really liked - avoid him and go great lengths to continue avoiding him?
"We miss having lunch with her," the first years would frequently say. Kuroo couldn't particularly agree with them, lest he'd bare too much emotion and longing that his pride tightly held on to. He'd just nod and quietly eat his warm lunch that tasted cold.
He'd distract himself, to the point of masochist exhaustion, by studying and training more vigorously. In class he'd over-achieve in tasks more. Just the thought of doing more, and more, and more was enough to have him coping well on the outside and breaking from within. When he'd find himself thinking about her laugh, her smile, and those habits of hers that he'd notice whenever she talked freely, Kuroo would spend chewing ballpen caps out of frustration. What Kenma said about hating to lose, he only realized in a volleyball court - not in this realer world filled with pathetic, but not less illogical, matters of the emotion for another living soul. It wasn't love (yet), as romantic as universal definitions may impose, but it was something that was driving him crazy. Kuroo detested being unable to find solutions to a problem. This was definitely one of those problems.
"Hey," Kuroo greeted the class representative, some guy who was a foot smaller and who looked like this was the only time he had seen a third year end up in the east wing of the second year floor. "I'm not looking for anyone, but I just want to ask one thing. What's your class project that's due the soonest?"
The class representative blinked. Kuroo was surprised at himself for keeping his cool and for not stuttering (he never stuttered, except when with her). He took no notice of the second year girls crowding him by the door, listening in and already planning how to relay this piece of gossip to other classes.
"Well, we do have a project in classical literature due on Monday..." replied the representative, counting by the finger at least three more projects. He sent Kuroo a curious glance. "Why do you want to know?"
"So I can look in the right section of the library." Kuroo shrugged. It was all that he needed to know. Thanking the guy, he started walking briskly to the west wing. The hall was deserted, save for a librarian returning from lunch break. He peered through the windows on the wall, seeing neither a familiar hair nor face, and went in. The shelves on the farther right were reserved for books on literature, if he remembered correctly from his last visit to the place. He scanned the aisle, noting the titles and call numbers on the spines, and easily found that familiar hair from the other side.
Kuroo took one book down, then a second, and a third. Once he cleared out a space to get a full glimpse of the other side, he leaned back. She had her nose buried in a rather worn out book, oblivious to his presence that hadn't been this close since that night at Ueno station. He was half watching her and half formulating how to start talking out his incoherent thoughts. Hands deep in his pockets, Kuroo cleared his throat. She looked up, aghast. The book nearly fell.
She was about to mutter something, yet a mere squeak came out. Kuroo ran his fingers through his hair, resting them at the back of his neck - nervous. He was dead nervous that he pleaded for the ground to consume him whole. Instead he checked the title of the book she was holding.
"Sei Shonagon's diaries, huh?"
"We... have to write a paper about our chosen topic." When she spoke, she looked down. But truly, the sound of her voice would suffice to him as of now. "I want to write about life in the palace in the Heian era. And what better way than to rely on the diaries of a female writer, right?"
"Right." This was good, far better than he had initially expected. He wasn't being a wreck, and neither was she. He missed this sort of interaction. This was great. "They didn't have much to do then. Blame it on the patriarchy. They were only asked to sit pretty and play instruments and stay silent and comb their hair, paint their teeth black, shave their eyebrows then paint new eyebrows, look pale white, wear twelve layers of kimono, write poetry about nature... all the while waiting for the perfect man to ask their hand for marriage."
Damn it all, he was babbling again. But on the contrary, he wasn't entirely damned when she looked up and grinned.
"They didn't have much to do?" she repeated, as though a challenge. She closed the book and laid it aside. "That was a lot of things to do in a day, even in a week. How should you, Kuroo Tetsurou, know? You're a man."
Nope. He was damned, all right.
"Oh shit I didn't mean-"
Then she laughed, stifling it behind her hand. She shook her head disapprovingly, retrieved the book, and exited the aisle. Kuroo could only stare, powerless and humiliated. But it was the good kind of humiliated, for he was reminded of what his elders told him before: that it wasn't an all too regrettable humiliation when one genuinely wanted to make the other smile. It was a victorious shame, should a contradiction exist, and he must be proud of that.
"Can we talk?" he called after her, trailing behind.
"But not too loud," she warned, pointing at the librarian who was already giving them a piercing look. "You have ten minutes, Kuroo-san."
To him, ten minutes was an eternity. "We can work on the honorifics later."
"Okay."
"But I have three questions to ask."
She occupied a table not far off and faced him squarely with inquisitive eyes, like she was weighing what she'd lose in answering those three questions. Would she refuse? Was it too unrealistic a favor? She didn't say anything, just pulled the chair and sat. Kuroo sat across, their knees almost touching. He adjusted his chair farther from the table out of decency. (He didn't want to, but he had to.)
She flipped through the pages first before sighing aloud. That was the moment Kuroo found reason to keep going again.
"Just three questions. Time's running, rooster-head. Start talking."
.
(Just three? I have about ten.)
(He's got dark circles under his eyes. That's unusual.)
(I can reduce it to five. But to three?)
(His hair looks drier. Can it be any messier than this?)
(Okay. Four. I can combine the last two into one.)
(I think it's obvious that I'm sweating too much. Is he shaking his leg? He is.)
(Three questions. Got it.)
(Why is he so tanned?)
.
The last time you were in this close a proximity with him was when you were drunk and scandalously clinging to him on the way home. Your grip on the book was too tight, nearly ripping the covers off, and his stares didn't alleviate the furious beating in your chest. What may have appeared to him as your calm and collected voice was the complete opposite: a lump was all the more magnifying in your throat, making each sound harder and harder to pronounce. You waited for him to speak, conscious of a knee brushing against the other fleetingly (and how it burned for one second). He was playing with the tip of his tie (he didn't wear his vest on), and you stole a glance at him only to register that the top button of his shirt was loose. He was getting less sleep, what with the tiredness in his eyes more evident.
"Why are you leaving earlier after practice?" Kuroo eventually asked, his gaze darting in any direction except yours. His tone wasn't demanding. It leaned on to something that was out of hurt. He drummed his fingers on the table.
"All right." You sat up and closed the book, making a mental reminder to borrow it later. "You have to understand that you guys are practicing later than usual for nationals and that I have a life outside your world. That's... the sugarcoated explanation."
"And I respect that." Then again, Kuroo could see right through. He could see right through anyone that it was almost uncanny. He was staring fixedly now. "But you don't have to avoid us. You don't have to avoid m-"
"I'm really sorry for that night."
"Hey." He lifted the corner of his mouth to smirk, chuckling a bit. "Don't apologize. That was one birthday night to beat. I'd do it all over again."
"Now that sounded kinda wrong." You raised a brow suggestively. When Kuroo winced and hid his face in his hands, you noticed his ears turning pink. You scoffed and followed it with a broken laugh. The library assistant sent your table a sharp hush.
Regaining his bearings, Kuroo dropped the second question in a more or less pleading manner of "Can you please have lunch with us again?"
"I'll drop by soon."
"How soon is soon?"
"Is that the last question?"
"No."
"Just... soon."
Kuroo haggled for 'soon' to be tomorrow, as he explained and ranted how they couldn't tolerate Lev and Yamamoto's combined agony much longer. Not only that, Shibayama and Inuoka made sure to relay the message via Kuroo that their grades were at their all time low; an excuse which you guessed Kuroo utilized to his advantage of appealing to emotion (and it worked). The clock's hand was just an inch nearer to ending the hour when there was another round of silence and he sighed the third question. There was desperation in his voice - almost invisible, but still there.
"How long are you going to avoid me?"
It was a stupid question, really. It made him look stupid because after all those answers and he still was egoistic enough to put himself at the center and ask something that was purely for his own benefit and should he reason that he was only making sure or that he was just insecure or just too dense... were you, in all manners honest, literally not avoiding him right at this moment?
"Kuroo-san."
"It's Kuroo."
"Kuroo-san," you continued nonetheless. "How can I continue avoiding you if you're being very very persistent?"
He didn't reply. The bell rang through the halls and permeated the room. You got up to have the book marked for check-out, patting his hair on the way, but not without saying, "I'll see you guys in practice... and after that."
There was no point in running away when somebody as tenacious as he was got you on lockdown, like a perfectly crafted strategy on court. And in that afternoon, things returned to their usual course of normalcy; but not completely so to be considered ordinary. Something had changed upon exiting the library, when you were left thinking and he was left dumbfounded. That something wouldn't manifest until later in the dead of night when you'd end up calling him, anxious and hoping he wouldn't pick up. Yet he would. The thing was, he couldn't sleep too. And little did you know that it would become a routine starting that night to talk to him about anything.
.
"I've read online that satin or silk pillows help get rid of bed hair."
"Kenma said the same thing."
"I think you should start investing on satin and silk pillowcases."
"But who will I be without the bed hair? I'm the hair and the hair is me."
"Fair enough, Kuroo-san. Fair enough."
.
shiwasu | priests run
Sundays were typically reserved for cleaning the house, running errands, catching up on schoolwork and television episodes missed, and on some occasions dining out. There was strictly no practice every Sunday, as Nekoma-sensei was wont to emphasize his valuing family time and rest. To Kuroo, Sundays meant getting mostly the bulk of the household routine, since his mother would never fail to remind him that he was the only son around (he'd remind her that Kenma was her son too) and that he better put his advantageous height to practical use or else he could only have one serving of his favorite meal by lunch. In the end Kuroo would have watered the garden, hung the washed clothes, walked the dog, and helped in the cooking from seven in the morning until eleven. He had enough time allotted for playing a game with Kenma (which he'd always lose), or lock himself in his room for the duration of the afternoon. This Sunday in early December, however, he insisted on staying in the dining room, clad in comfy pajamas to battle the start of the cold season, and reviewed for college exams across his mother working on her laptop.
It was an unusual sight, and his mother immediately picked up without even straying her eyes from the screen. "Do you need anything from me, Tetsu-kun?"
"No, mom." Kuroo pouted, faking hurt. "I don't need any money."
"Well if you do, go upstairs and ask from your father."
"Can I not sit close to you and just... sit close to you?"
She looked up and smiled, crinkly and bright. "That's very kind of you, dear."
Kuroo shrugged, returning the smile, and got back to scribbling problem sets and quadratic equations on his notebook. He had something to ask, actually, but figured it could wait until he'd find the right timing. It didn't involve college exams at all, that was one. In fact, it more or less inclined towards matters of the heart; if such a category existed. Quite soon, his grandfather joined the group on the table, sitting calmly on his knees and sipping warm ginger tea from his favorite cup. Kuroo thought of asking him, what with the old man's penchant for words spoken like a sage.
"Grandpa, can I ask you something?" Kuroo began, twirling his pen through his fingers. He'd look foolish, yes, but there was no other way. The old man nodded with his usual grin. "How do you know if you're in love with someone?"
As soon as his words left him Kuroo wished he could swallow them back. Grandpa laughed merrily, the sound ringing through the house, that Mei-chan barked in surprise from her bed by the corner. When he glanced at his mother, Kuroo found that sparkle in her eye that he often saw when she'd dote on him as though he was still a child. He buried his face in his hands, groaning, but grandpa had an answer at a ready.
"Let's see..." the old man cleared his throat, swirling his tea cup playfully. "Did I know back then, or did it just happen? Love doesn't make sense, Tetsu-kun."
"And you just know," his mother added, reaching across the table to mess with his hair. "It depends from person to person, dear. There's no strict list or standard, that's all I can say. But if it helps, your grandpa used to tell me one thing when I was younger and asking the same question."
Kuroo slid his hands from his face, taking note of how rarely his mom even opened up about her love life. She'd always talk of high school days with nostalgic bliss, back when boys would clamber for her affections through ingenious confessions, but that was simply that. The memories she'd bring out lacked her side of the story - what she felt and how she handled these feelings. When he'd probe the story further and get to the part where his parents met, it was already too many years ahead of high school. They met in college, when they were much older than the average teenage mind susceptible to giddy crushes, and the story would be more serious and... pragmatic. That was the word: a pragmatic love. Although, he thought, that didn't mean it wasn't tainted by a rollercoaster kind of romance.
"Listen closely," grandpa whispered, leaning in with a wink. "This trick transcends time. You know that person is the one you've been waiting for when one of these days you'd walk on separate directions and you hope, deep down, that they'd look back to where you are standing. If they do look back, and you say goodbye for the second time around, and you feel relieved or lucky and the situation feels a bit awkward, then that's it. Or if it's the other way around and you're the one walking, you get this urge to look back. It's all about looking back, son."
Kuroo sat motionlessly and blinked. It was true that he believed his grandfather all his life, that it was almost supernatural how everything the old man said made sense. Kuroo never doubted him, in spite of his growing skeptical as the years went by, and he never would; no matter how mythical his grandpa's anecdotes could be. And this one time, like any other time, he'd rely on what had been said and hold it dearly.
"R-right." Kuroo smiled sheepishly, now tapping his pen on the table. Both adults around him grinned proudly, returning to their tasks as though he had just asked a mundane question and not one born from a dilemma. "Thanks, grandpa. I'll keep that in mind."
A week later, Kuroo would think again how it was almost supernatural that everything his old man said made all the sense in this otherwise nonsensical world.
.
"Is this gonna be a thing now? You calling me up almost every night. Be honest because I don't want to get used to it and see my hopes shattered into a million pieces across the wide wide universe."
"This is exactly why I prefer talking to a rooster. He can speak like the Enlightened One and what he says brings good dreams."
"Do you believe in aliens?"
"Is God real?"
"Are ghosts real?"
"Aliens are definitely real."
"But ghosts, though?"
"I hear rumors that there's a ghost lurking in our apartment building."
"Mei-chan barks in the middle of the night every now and then. At the foot of the stairs like she sees something up there."
"Better pray to a god if you're scared, Kuroo-san."
"I can get scared sometimes. But I do acknowledge that there is a higher power."
"Really? But you don't call it a god."
"Nope. I call it fate."
"I call it luck."
"Then I guess I'm lucky tonight."
.
Part of the original plan for the last month of the year (as what was meant to be) was to cherish the days leading up to that one moment when rain, or even a slight drizzle, turned to snow. December had other plans, unfortunately, and they manifested in more grueling practices with the team and school examinations (but the third years were subject to the most beating, so perhaps the lower years were still lucky). The term neared its end, days grew shorter and nights longer, and there remained less than a month until nationals. The impending doom of this storm was within the horizon, and the boys only saw one goal collectively. They'd run faster, breath turning to fog, feet rampaging in a race of who could finish the most laps, as sweat-soaked black shirts mingled with the young winter air. The coaches and the captain would relentlessly shout orders, hands clapping according to command that sounded like thunder inside the gym. Shoes squeaking and thumping on the floor mimicked the imagined storm. Volleyballs being hit back and forth over the net and against the walls echoed the pulsating adrenaline and heartbeat of each member.
And when all the day's work would end, the same boys would crash on the floor, ready to fall asleep then and there. They never once complained, but held everything in. Cheering for them on the sidelines didn't do much, yet it was the least thing to do as you tracked their progress. That and developing quite a strategy for refilling water bottles repeatedly made up most of the workload so far.
"Oi, don't skip your stretches!" Coach Naoi called out. You scribbled the last details of the day's log, noting yet another overtime mark. The boys huddled in a circle and counted their stretches. Coah Naoi looked over the log, a hand under his chin. "We shouldn't overwork ourselves, but we're running out of time. Make sure to send everyone an email later to not be late for tomorrow's practice match with Fukurodani. It was hard to reserve that bus because it's that time of the year when third year classes would go to university tours."
You nodded, adding in the reminder. "Yes, coach. 6am like always?"
"Make that 7am," said Nekomata-sensei as he walked past. "You said so yourself, Naoi-kun. The boys are overworking themselves. It's Saturday tomorrow. Let them get another hour of rest. They earned it."
The old man didn't even look back as he talked and strolled by observing, but you knew he had that thoughtful grin. He was never one to spoil the boys, per se, because he didn't need to. Instead he served more of a reminder, an alarm clock as Kuroo said, when the team went hard on themselves.
"It's my fault too, you know," Kuroo further explained one morning during break. "I find it hard to control myself when training and doing tasks in general. And the rest of us get caught by it. We have to be hit on the heads once in a while for us to stop."
"But I'm hit on the head almost everyday," Lev had joined in. Later that day his shoelaces were bundled up. He said Yaku did it (but no, it was actually Fukunaga).
You erased 6am and replaced it with Nekomata-sensei's suggestion. Coach Naoi simply nodded, wise enough not to argue. When you looked up from the log, the old man was beckoning you to come close. After two months of working with the team, you have found out for yourself that sensei's eyes do glint when he had an idea.
"The boys are all paired up for sit-ups," he whispered with a chuckle. You glanced at them, acknowledging the obvious and wondering what sensei had in mind. "But not all." He pointed at the captain, who was waiting for Kai to finish.
"Huh. Yes, sensei, I can see that." You shrugged, for a second distracted at Inuoka's groans as he reached the last count.
"Well?"
"Well...?"
The old man guffawed, patting your shoulder. "You should go and see if anyone needs an extra hand. The gym's closing up soon." He walked away, still laughing. You looked at the team again. Kuroo was there, standing with his arms crossed, looking back as if he had heard. You mirrored his gesture, just to cover the feeling of the heat creeping up your neck.
"Like I'm gonna assist you!" you shouted.
"Like I'm expecting anything!"
Grumbling and setting the logbook aside, you went over the court. Almost immediately (and with a triumphant grin on his stupid face), Kuroo laid down. He folded his knees erect and you locked your hands on his shoes. Times like this you'd curse at his big feet which proved it difficult to pin him down. You counted his turns silently as he grunted with each sweep of his torso going forward and up, meeting his knees. And, in one way or the other, meeting your face as close as possible.
"Why do I get the feeling that you're enjoying this?" he said at the fifteenth count, pausing midway like the show-off he was.
"Shut up," you retorted and pushed him down. "I'd like to ask you the same thing."
"Me? Nah." Rocking back upward, he purposely huffed at your direction and sent a gust of air blowing to your face. If his breath did stink you'd reprimand him instinctively for it. But it didn't. In fact, his breath smelled like mint. You hated that fact and frowned. He laughed breathlessly, sending in more of that minty scent. It was going to be addicting from this point onward.
After fifteen more counts Kuroo slumped to the floor. You gave him his towel but brushed it off. He stretched his hand out rather impatiently.
"Nice try. Get up yourself, Kuroo-san."
"But!"
You were about to slap his hand off when he held onto it like a lifeline. His grip was sweaty, so unlike his dry palms that night when you crossed the street to Tokyo station; yet the feeling was the same. His touch burned (and would continue to burn), sparking up your nerves and meddling with your thoughts to turn them into mush. It burned, but nothing too destructive. It was the kind of burning that brought warmth and a sense of familiarity one would bask into countless times. It was a burning you didn't want to get used to but found yourself already there.
He might have realized he burned as well, for he let go too soon. "Sorry about that."
"Um I have to start cleaning up." You clutched your hand into a fist and stood. He followed, standing up with ease.
"Yeah we'll follow with the cleaning."
You headed over to the storage closet, while he began assigning where to mop and who ought to do it. Sweeping the court and carting the balls lasted for another ten minutes, then everyone was seated in an arc before the board that showed the latest tactics Coach Naoi put up. It was emphasized that Fukurodani's ace had an inclination to do straight spikes once desperate, which Kuroo elaborated on, so it was only wise to form the blocking in such a way that Yaku could save the ball from the rearguard. From there, Kenma could utilize the spikers for a set-up. They debated whether to opt for Kuroo's personal time difference attack or a synchronized one, consuming the rest of the time until Nekomata-sensei had the last call. Their offense using a synchronized attack still lacked some polishing, so the personal time difference would be most effective. All agreed upon, the boys went back to the club room and the gym was locked up for the night.
"Sensei said to be here at exactly 7 in the morning!" you shouted at those who went ahead, mounting your bike. They waved back and disappeared into the corner beyond the school gates. Kenma appeared beside you, game console already in hand with its bright light and artificial sound of cannons blasting. "Hey, Kenma. New game?"
"Yup. Got it in Akiba this week."
"You're lucky! I heard that stocks ran out."
"I do owe Kuroo for that reservation fee, though." He was busily tapping away when the annoying game over tune came on. Glancing up with a defeated sigh, Kenma looked a bit uneasy as he spoke next. "Anyway... Kuroo said to wait for him."
"Oh sure." You kicked the bike's metal stand from the back wheel and sat comfortably for the meantime. "We can wait here."
"No, what I mean is..." Kenma trailed off, his voice barely audible, as he fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. "You wait here. I have to go on."
"Oh. Right."
The sky was starless, the campus eerily silent, and as the clouds hovered above you hoped the distant sound of the cars would mask the nervous heaving within your chest. Kenma muttered a goodbye and walked ahead, glancing back like he was uncertain of something. You reassured him with a thumbs up, not knowing yourself what to be assured of. You had an inkling of what was to occur, but out of delicacy it was best not to overthink. Maybe you had run out of chances to take for granted, that this specific day at 6:30 in the evening was it. Maybe, just maybe, your fear of telling resurfaced now - not later, not sooner, but now and nothing else.
If courage was measured in staying and waiting there, you'd already win. But courage was not quantified by that: it was in pretending to casually greet him when he did show up slightly flustered, and in choosing to walk with him rather than speed up on the bike. You held onto the handle bars, watching the pedals turn, as both of you waited for the other to mutter something - anything.
"So..."
"So..." Kuroo was whistling now, tuning it with his steps. "We'll be having the team Christmas party next week. No need to buy an expensive gift."
"Gotcha." The gift would have to be clever enough and appropriate for the receiver, but you'd have a problem scouring for a sports-related item with few to zero knowledge about what these guys wanted and needed. "Will we go to a karaoke?"
"I think I'm still banned from our usual karaoke place."
"You are?!"
"I refused to leave the last time we were there." He chuckled emptily. "Man, that was embarrassing. Yaku and Kai won't let me forget it."
You urged him to spill the details, but it was futile as he kept insisting the third and second years were the right ones to be asked about it. You'd discover later on that he had to be dragged from the place even though he was more than willing to spend all of his money on the counter. But for now, you had this surrounding quiet to address.
"I'll drop you off at the station," you told him. Ueno station was just a few blocks away, the siren of the incoming train cutting through the night. Kuroo stopped, knuckles turning white at his sides, and you stopped.
"I have to tell you some-"
"I like you too, Kuroo-san."
It sounded stupid - so stupid and so irretrievable, but it was the truth. You looked up at him, with his slant eyes beneath dark fringes now wide out of surprise, then looked down and noticed his knuckles loosening. There was surprise in his rapid blinking that you mirrored, followed by recognition in dilated pupils, and finally a calmness in pursed lips that realized it was simply that: that the words were choked out with a sound, as easy as it was thought of to be difficult. Kuroo sighed, slouching.
"Okay. You beat me to it."
"Was I too straightforward?"
"It's because I wasn't too straightforward."
The drizzle arrived, pattering on the roofs of the quaint houses. You couldn't help erupting into laughter, at the sudden downpour and at what had just transpired, and pulled Kuroo to hurry. You hid under red jackets slung over the head, making through an overflowing crowd also inconvenienced by the change of weather right there at the station's entrance. The next train was scheduled in less than three minutes.
"So that was said and done," he started, once the laughs died out. "Are we now a...?"
"It sounds weird saying it, don't you think?"
"It doesn't have to be that way."
"But I guess we are." You tugged at the cuff of his jacket, fingers lingering over his hand that was partly trembling. For a brief moment there was hesitation, combined with a want to hold him like he did earlier (though gently, not desperately). But upon realizing something, you punched him on the arm instead. "Hey that wasn't fair! You didn't say at all that you like me! I was the one who did!"
"I was about to say it!"
"Still not fair."
"All right, all right." Kuroo reached down, cautiously like he was testing the waters, and laced his hand through yours. It felt strange, uncanny that it fit well. He was looking away. "I like you. Since you walked into the gym on your first day. Then I started liking you more, too much actually, when we started talking. You've been working hard for us and... I thank you for that."
You wanted to tell him he had been working hard too, that you reciprocated this giddy feeling because of his endearing quirks and smartass ways; that it was an admirable trait of his when he'd look out for his friends and his family. You wanted to tell him much much more, but felt like all these things wouldn't suffice, and so you settled with squeezing his hand. You had no idea how this would work, but so long as it had been said - this lump in the throat eating you up - then you were willing to try.
"What kind of guy looks away when he's confessing?"
"An idiot."
"You have to get on that train, Kuroo-san."
"Can't hear you."
You smiled, letting go of his hand. "You have to get on that train, Kuroo."
"Finally."
Rain turned to snow that evening. When you took off, with him waiting in line by the train doors, you looked back and waved goodbye for the second time around. He almost thought you wouldn't.
.
"So. About that thing earlier..."
"Yeah, Kuroo, tell me about earlier."
"We're dating now..."
"You only realized?"
"Still feel like I'm dreaming. I have no idea how to tell the family. And the team."
"Oh that would be easy for you. They dote on us."
"Ha-ha. I won't hear the last of this when I start telling."
"Then the whole school will know."
"Then Bokuto will know."
"Then the other Tokyo teams will know."
"Then the crows will know."
"Shut it. You're not that popular, Kuroo."
"Who's that person again who owns a big box of confession letters?"
"Hey, be modest."
.
A week passed with Kuroo racking his brains out on what it actually meant to date someone and how to do it properly. The news wasn't evenly spread in campus (and thank heavens such was the case). His classmates had an idea, judging by how frequently he'd drop by the second year corridors (and it wasn't just to tutor Kenma), or in that his mood was even more elevated lately despite merciless exams. But other than the whole team knowing the gist of it, nobody cared enough (just when Kuroo thought he was popular for at least half the campus to care). Why would anyone guess? It wasn't like they were a couple. A confession had happened, yes, but things were more normal than romantic. Talk about it being anti-climactic, but Kuroo had yet to figure out the tips and turns of the dating world. He wouldn't call the girl in question his girlfriend yet, and never would he own her. He remembered clearly that they were both okay with the arrangement: same old, same old, with the aspirations of the team at the center of it all. He'd talk to her still, more often in fact (and much later in the night over murmured phone calls), but the truth was out there that he knew there was something missing.
Deep down lurching in his gut, Kuroo wanted to hold her hand wherever they went, free and uninhibited, as though it was the most natural thing to do. He wanted to bare more of his thoughts and insecurities, with him knowing hers in return. He wanted this whole thing to become instinctive, like walking towards the station or shutting the alarm off at the same time every morning.
And he couldn't give himself the best advice, so he began searching among the most trusted confidantes. He set a Saturday afternoon analyzing his motivations, going as far as writing them on a whiteboard in his room, and spent breaks asking around the house without giving a damn for looking stupid. Grandpa's advice was too outdated, although sensible as always. When Kuroo asked his mother, she would rather express her joys in his success than give actual advice. When he went upstairs and knocked on his father's study, the only thing he got was a proud pat on the shoulder and a "Start getting handsy!" statement that he ascertained wasn't proper in a budding relationship. "It will be useful later on," said his father with a wink. Kuroo merely replied with a nervous laugh and ran back to his room.
He called Kenma to come over, having no one within his age to rely on, and waited by rummaging through his cabinets. Kuroo groped around in the cramped space, upturning piles of unworn clothes he ought to donate, until his hands felt the dusty lid of a box in the corner. He hadn't bothered to check this box since forever; with forever defined as the last time someone gave him a confession letter back in spring. He took it out, hastily wiped the lid with a washcloth, and knelt in front of it.
"What are you doing?" Just then Kenma arrived, wearing an oversized sweater and nursing a mug of hot chocolate. "And that's not volleyball strategies on your board."
"Obviously," Kuroo grunted. He opened the box, chewing his lip in deep thought. "I told you to come over because I need sound dating advice. And being the practical friend you are, I want to know your input."
Kenma hummed knowingly, taking a sip from the mug. "Yeah, clearly, but what are you doing with that?"
"I want to shred all these letters."
"Because?"
"I don't need them anymore."
So Kuroo did. He stood, lifting the box by the handles on the sides, and laid them atop his table where the shredder was. He used to enjoy the task of shredding his father's old work papers when he was younger, volunteering to the point of accidentally shredding even the important ones. By the next minute, his once quiet room was filled with the buzzing of papers mechanically torn to strips. Kenma sat on the edge of his bed, sipping and watching, occasionally recollecting here and there how this one letter came to be: all of them having unique stories, all of them having been accumulated since middle school.
"You sure you want to include that?" Kenma was pointing at a baby blue envelope that shimmered with glitter. Kuroo raised a curious brow. "I mean it's carefully written the way good literature is written. You have to admit the haiku she inserted is thought-provoking."
"I've read better haikus, Kenma." He slid the envelope through the opening, the machine immediately eating it. "But yes, the letter is poetic. If your standards are stuck in first year high school."
"What a critic."
Kuroo reached the bottom layer of the bunch, sliding in the last two lovelorn letters. Once done and being tempted by the scent of hot chocolate that Kenma purposely drank slowly, he went into the kitchen. He returned with Kenma scrolling through a phone that kept beeping notifications. Kuroo peeked through his shoulder.
"You posted on social media my need for advice?!"
"I didn't include your name."
"But still-"
"Fukunaga says you should learn how to cook." Kenma handed him the phone, shrugging. "And by cooking, not candy ramen."
Kuroo huffed, almost stinging his tongue by the drink. He scrolled through the comments for the top post: they were even more foolish than the advice he already got. Fukunaga managed to attach a link of an article with empirical data, proving that men who knew how to cook were more liked by women. The statistics said enough, but Kuroo doubted the accuracy and possible demographics behind it.
"Clickbait articles." He frowned. "You know my cooking experience is only candy ramen. And I follow the instructions so well, mind you. I make the best candy ramen in all of Tokyo. You should be proud."
Kenma retrieved the phone, shutting it off. He placed the empty mug on the table and observed Kuroo sternly. Judging by that pointed look, it was one of those instances that no one would cross Kozume Kenma lest he explode. The last time Kuroo was at the receiving end of his bestfriend's once-in-a-super-blue-blood-moon eruption, he had it coming (after that, he made sure he'd only win for the first and last time in a video game). He remembered those days more than a year ago when Yamamoto too was on the receiving end of Kenma's pent-up temper. It wasn't a nice picture, since the two weren't really the best of friends upon first meeting. But other than those times, Kenma was not one to display frustration overtly unless necessary. Kuroo hoped now was not one of those necessary instances, just because he was acting stupid by asking love advice when his answer was as plain as summer day.
"Look," Kenma began. His stern expression ebbed away with a sigh and downcast eyes, resorting instead to fumbling with the edges of his sweater. "You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not. The girl already likes you, so why not keep going at it? Talk to her, listen, show interest without thinking about what others think. Just be you and ask. Not ask me or anyone, but her. Ask what she expects, wants, and needs. And please put on the labels already."
Sometimes, Kuroo wondered if video games did hold the secrets to the world. And yet, he was forgetting the often overlooked fact that Kenma was more calculating than he could ever be - always taking in information, always watching the environment.
"I guess you're right," Kuroo replied, slumping to his chair and rocking it back and forth. "It's like those otome games: in order for the story to move forward you have to pick the option that best suits you as a player."
Kenma looked up, scandalized. "How on earth do you know how otome games work?"
"Hey I'm not the one who has it installed in my phone!" It was a story for another time, but mainly it was Kuroo's insomnia that drove him to drain the battery of Kenma's phone one night in training camp.
"Invasion of privacy," Kenma muttered, tapping away to change yet again his passcode. "And that's not how otome games work. Sometimes you intentionally choose other options depending on the route so you have another outcome of the story. But going back to your case, that's all I have to say."
Kuroo laughed, that slapping-the-knee and annoyingly triumphant one of his. He jumped from his chair and started erasing the scribbles on the board. "Yeah, thanks for that. I just needed to see sense."
"For a tactician you have few to zero knowledge about emotions in the real-world."
"Look who's talking of irony."
"You don't have to look beyond volleyball." Kenma rolled his eyes, standing to help in arranging the room back to how it was: with the shredder emptied of paper and the box tucked in the cabinet. "You don't miss a chance in emphasizing open communication to make the play effective. That's just how it goes with your situation. Except, it's based on mushy feelings."
They were called in for a snack of fried gyoza; and coupled with the image of a warm kotatsu set up in the dining area, both were outside in a matter of seconds.
"I also have a favor to ask," Kuroo whispered. "We're three hours away from the Christmas party. You have to help me buy a gift. Something intellectual... something that represents me as the giver..."
Three hours later, Kenma made him buy the most expensive book of contemporary poetry in the store. He said it would compensate for Kuroo's dramatic speeches.
.
"I'm not kidding. This dynamic duo from Karasuno is surreal. You have a middle blocker spiking with his eyes closed, and a setter who brings the ball precisely to him. The last time we saw them this shrimpy could do a rebound."
"And you're telling me this now because....?"
"You know I have to be confident in front of everyone that we can beat any team that comes our way. But I can't help doubting sometimes. I hear people describe us as a boring team. Because we don't have the flashy plays others have."
"Okay, hear me out. When I watch you guys play... you all are strong. Not the brash kind of strong, but the steady kind. Interdependent and stable. I only see a single player with one function on court, not individuals."
"Can you see me blushing at the end of the line? You're too nice."
"But I'm being honest! You guys are strong and when you play there's this reassurance that things will turn out okay. Like knowing there's a train coming when the platform starts to rattle. You don't rely a hundred percent on the announcer in the station. You rely on how the platform shakes and how the wind rushes past."
"You could have just used the sun rising everyday as an example."
"But that would be too cliche, wouldn't it?"
"Well, I don't see anything wrong with saying cliche stuff."
"You mean your pre-game speeches. Got it."
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
"Merry Christmas."
"I keep wondering why we celebrate a western holiday."
"But you can't deny that it's fun."
"Merry Christmas, Kuroo."
.
mutsuki | affection month
You were standing on the edge of a waterfall so high you could almost grasp the clouds. There was no fear within, only reckless abandon, and you stepped into thin air - dropping, descending, the fall seemed to last too long. You crashed into a bottomless pit, the cold and raging water engulfing you. You stretched out your hand, sinking deeper, with the sun glowing like a blurry orb from beneath the surface. You could see a shadow hiding the sun, his figure hovering above you, his hand reaching out into the deep. You opened your mouth, only to discover you could breathe. You heard nothing, nothing, until faint voices grew clearer and the buzzing of a bedside alarm clock grew louder. It was 10am, January 1st, and what more appropriate way was there than to start the year by hearing your mother's nagging voice.
"Wake up!" Her voice was sounding shrill again, which was always so when she was panicking. You groaned against the pillow, rubbing your eyes out of frustration because all you wanted was to remember the dream; but that could wait until later. Cabinet doors were flung aside, with a towel thrown at your face. "Grandma can't wait to see you in the living room. Aunts and uncles will be dropping by today and you're still in bed! Go clean yourself up then make some tea, dear."
Left alone again, you dragged your feet across the floor and went in the bathroom. As animated chattering rang from the dining room, the gushing tap water from the faucet reminded you of the dream - wasn't it an omen of some sorts? It surely didn't feel like a nightmare so it should mean well. Superstitious people would believe in the significance of the first dream of the year. Were you among them? You splashed cold water on your face and shut the faucet off. Your eyes still looked puffy in the mirror. Late night phone calls were probably the cause - the only cause.
You walked back to your room and shot Kuroo a message: Waterfalls in dreams and falling from them. Any thoughts?
He replied instantly: The only falling I can interpret is one where I'm falling for you.
Touche. Happy New Year.
Aw. No comeback?
I'm also falling for you, stupid.
You'll land safely.
After a bundle of sappy messages exchanged, Kuroo did oblige to provide an analysis of the dream (but the part where he was also there was intentionally left out). He asked of plans for the day, and that was your chance to rant the long list of chores to accomplish because relatives were arriving one by one. A shrine visit seemed unlikely, but you hoped you could go tomorrow or on the next day. He said he already visited the Meiji shrine with his family last night, which was a big mistake since the place was suffocating of people. It was their first and last time holding the hatsumode in the most popular shrine in Tokyo. According to him, at least the free cups of warm sake by the streets were good.
You left the last message at that, slightly jealous of the idea since you had been craving for a quick drink. You slipped on your most comfortable clothes and went straight to the living room. Grandma was sitting on the couch, attentively watching the morning news. You rushed to her side and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"How much you've grown! And your chest-"
"Grandma-"
"Size doesn't matter, my dear. Big or small, boys will always be crazy about them. Your grandfather-"
"Look, grandma!" You pointed at the screen. "They're talking about the volleyball tournament! It's a few days away."
The old lady squinted, adjusting her glasses. "Are you playing for a team?"
"Not exactly. But I'm manager for our boys' volleyball team. They made it to nationals. I think they can win."
"And you're the only girl in that team?"
"Y-yes?"
"Anyone caught your eye yet?"
"Well... there's this captain-"
Just then the doorbell rang and you stood up to get it, but not without registering the twinkle in grandma's eye that simply said you owed her a story about this boy. More older relatives poured in and you arranged their shoes on the shelf. You had completely forgotten about the tea, even the task of cleaning the bathtub, and so you went ahead and boiled water in a kettle and in a pot - one for tea and one for removing the grime on the tub. The morning hours tolled by, rushing from one room to the next, greeting aunts and uncles and cousins who asked the generic questions: How was school? Anything interesting to tell? Any confession letters for the past year? You'd answer most truthfully, even for the last. There were no confession letters involved, after all, only actual words spoken in the night it first snowed. But they didn't need to know that.
You headed back to the bathroom to resume the scrubbing, the air suddenly warm as you were slowly drenched in sweat. When your phone rang, you needed not to look at the caller ID anymore.
"Please get me out of here, rooster-head."
"Family giving you a hard time?"
"They're nice but... too nice."
Kuroo chuckled from the end of the line. "The third years will visit a shrine tonight. Kenma will tag along. Wanna go with us?"
"I will be most grateful. What shrine?"
"We still have no idea. Probably a less crowded place." You could see his face, scrunched up in deep thought for something so mundane. "Are you scrubbing a bathtub?"
"Yes. My hands smell like bleach now. Hey, I know a pretty underrated shrine."
"Nothing's underrated in Tokyo, love."
The scrub dropped with a clank. Sitting there in the tub, bleach and warm water soaking you up, you could vaguely distinguish that somersault movement - or punch, or kick, or whatever - in your belly. A second of silence stretched from between the two lines, static and heavy breathing the only things prevalent.
"What's that you said?" you whispered.
"I said nothing's underrated in Tokyo."
"No, the last one."
"I asked if you're scrubbing a tub."
"Nevermind." You rolled your eyes and surmised he could see you too. "What time is most convenient? I know just the right place and we can meet at the station nearest it. I'll send you the directions in just a bit."
"8pm after dinner? We'll take you home before midnight."
"All right, love."
"Wait what did you-"
"Bye!"
You set aside the phone and picked up the scrub again, returning to the unfinished corner of the tub - bleached hands seemingly less tired as a laugh escapes your mouth and bounces off the bathroom walls in echoes. Soon it was lunchtime and everyone was huddled together on the table, inhaling the aroma of shoyu ramen distributed in various bowls. They spoke of work, the holidays, and politics. The last topic proved to be difficult to reconcile due to vast differences, but it was promised that they would sort it out over a few (to copious) bottles of beer later on. The gossip and debates didn't stop until afternoon, and you got the chance to explain to your mother the plans for the night. As it turned out, she was even more ecstatic than you were that she 'accidentally' let loose the plan to rest of the household.
"But what are you going to wear?" they asked. Honestly, why were they too nice?
"Um... casual clothes?"
"That won't do!"
They really were too nice, going as far as ransacking your closet and suggesting combinations of shirts, skirts, or pants. The hunt ended hopelessly, though; but grandma had yet to appear by the doorway, holding a box tied with a dainty ribbon. She had on that meek smile, but to those who truly knew her it was a triumphant and proud smile. You took the box, thanked her, and peeped inside.
It would take you approximately one to two hours to wear that.
.
"Are you guys at the station already? Did you wait long?"
"Yes, we took the Chiyoda line. And no, we haven't been waiting long. It's Kenma by the way. Kuroo's currently geeking out with the others."
"I'm walking as fast as I can. Huh. Isn't he always?"
"He says he's been wanting to visit Nezu shrine since his last visit there more than ten years ago. To quote, 'The fact that the shrine escaped the air raids during the war is something to marvel at'."
"And let me guess... he also said something about the azaleas?"
"He says we should definitely come back on April. Again, to quote, 'Let the sakura be damned. Azaleas need more attention.'"
"He never misses a point. Hey, I'm here at the entrance. What a crowd. Kenma?"
"Yo, it's Kuroo again. Sorry 'bout that. Can you wave your hand so we can see you? We're standing by the restrooms. Just look for the wild puff of hair."
"I can see you guys. Just trying to push through. See me waving now?"
"Is that y- oh shit. I am ruined."
"Kuroo?"
.
He pressed the red button and ended the call, his words fading into the winter wind and his hand going limp at the side. Kuroo was certain the throng of people began to move slowly, deliberately, their feet stepping at a delayed pace (about a second of delay, even two at most). His voice was frozen ice against his throat, his mind at an ethereal place and distant from this noisy station, as he looked (and he didn't dare divert his gaze) at her. While the crowd around him seemed to move at a delayed pace, she appeared to be floating. While the crowd shouted holiday greetings and rambled at their own phone conversations, he could only hear a muffled sound - a muffled laugh, until he felt his soul returning to its physical form again.
She was laughing - hands on her knees, head bowed down, shoulders shaking. And for a moment he forgot why. He forgot that that was also the first reaction of Yaku and Kai upon seeing him tonight.
"You're wearing one too!" she exclaimed, pointing a shaky finger at him. Her sleeves were flowing - flowing with the winter wind, attuned with her undying laugh, more of a melody than a mockery. "You're wearing a kimono too!"
Ah, yes. But his was nothing compared to hers.
"Well," Kuroo sighed, a chuckle escaping his lips. He couldn't properly breathe - maybe his hakama was too tight? Or maybe...
Let the sakura be damned. Let the azaleas be damned. Let spring be damned, for spring was already here before his eyes. It was in the vibrant patterns of the tsukesage she wore, in the pouch she carried that may possibly be hiding her heart, in the artificial flowers on her hair that seemed real enough to smell, in the blush creeping up her cheeks, in the intricate obi hugging her waist, in the simple yet magnificent way she did her face... or perhaps there was nothing on her face? She was merely more radiant as ever in winter... in winter that was already spring.
"He wears a kimono every year!" Yaku chimed in, that annoying laugh joining hers. He slapped Kuroo's arm repeatedly. "But we never really get used to it. It's become the most anticipated sight for our New Year. The shrine visit now only comes second."
"Family tradition, he says," Kai added, smiling. "But for all we know he just enjoys wearing one. He loves the attention."
Kuroo shrugged Yaku's hand off with a groan. "I do not."
If he were to be frank with himself, his embarrassment only doubled. This girl in a tsukesage kimono catching everybody else's eye made him look all the more pitiable. Had he known that her outfit would incline to the formal, Kuroo would have pleaded his elders into buying him a new and classier kimono. To think that his haori had been patched up once from the inside...
Still, his embarrassment had a more truthful cause: he couldn't help staring, and to stare he did. Where was the fairness in dating a woman clearly out of his league?
Right. They were dating. He was dating her.
"So where's the wedding?" Kenma asked, not looking up from his phone. Before Kuroo could even retaliate, a pout gracing his scrunched up face, Kai pushed him forward into the streets. She was holding back giggles now, and with that Kuroo's annoyance evaporated into the moonlit sky. He forgot how cold it was. All he could feel was a warmth circling him and a blaze sparking in the pit of his stomach. She paused in her walking and waited for him at her side. He didn't deserve to be at her side. Hell, he didn't deserve to be dating her. He didn't deserve-
"You look great, Kuroo," she said. Coming from her, no more laughs and all, it felt the most sincere. "You're such a nerd, you know that?"
"And you're such a beauty, you know that?"
No, he deserved this. He truly did.
"Not many people say it."
"Let me say it to you every single day, then."
She shook her head, eyes crinkling and the corner of her mouth lifting, and she slid her arm through his. They were back on that Saturday of November, the day he turned eighteen, the night he realized he now wanted to walk her home from the station as often as he could. There were no claps of thunder, no hint of rain, only an absent snow and a winter that felt like early spring. The tabi on his feet were to him like wings, and he knew he wanted to keep this going, knew he wanted her close for a long long time. Perhaps he'd start believing in New Year wishes now...
"This is actually my first New Year wearing one," she whispered. They both blended with and stood out from the crowd piling at the centuries-old torii gate. Kuroo slightly bowed, the others following suit, as they passed through and walked on the side path. From the multitude of people bustling about, it was somewhat difficult to distinguish the center from the side - the path of the gods and the path of the mortals. Kuroo still remembered how he received a stern look from his grandfather one time when he ran on the center path. He was only five then.
Glancing at the back to make sure no one was left behind, he felt the grip on his arm loosening. She no longer was holding on to him; she had both her hands clasped to her front, while her gaze took in every corner and space before her, a sense of awe plastered on her face pale against the moonlight. Kuroo couldn't help looking at her, and he couldn't help looking around him. The trees and plants were dead, the ground steeped in a few inches of snow, the lights above casting shadows on white, the flow of the fountains and the ponds solidified. Everything was at a stop, was lifeless, yet here he was concluding the otherwise. Everything was alive in a season known for death, and this woman beside him ought to be walking on the centermost path. Tonight she was immortal.
"Compared to the other shrines," he heard Yaku say, "this one's quieter. It's like I found peace within myself. And to think we should be losing our minds because nationals is in four days."
Every temple and shrine in Tokyo was crowded as it could get, but here he could still move about and breathe a little easier given the relatively lesser people. Some were taking photos of the area and of their own families and friends, sporting both casual and traditional wear; some were lounging by the bridges and the balcony overlooking the koi pond, squinting their eyes to see blurred movement of fish beneath the ice; and some were lining up to the bell, to the portion where free sake was offered, to the area where prayers were hung on ropes, or to the daruma dolls sold in all sizes. Kuroo could hear the coins tossed, the bells ringing, the cheery crowd buzzing or singing tunes, the greetings delivered in varying pitches and tones.
He felt a tug at the sleeve of his kimono. He looked down at her pulling him to crouch low. "Watch your head, dummy," she warned.
Kuroo realized that he was being pulled under an array of smaller torii colored in orange and black inscriptions. His dazed mind thought of passing through so many worlds now, with all these archways decked across the shrine's grounds that he must had been living different lives - different, yet all were a witness to this one miracle. Animal statues of faded bronze surveyed him from their pedestals; bits of snow fell from the torii above, sending shivers on his head; and the azalea... they must be there somewhere out of the crowd's reach, hibernating for when spring would come.
"We're walking through history," was all Kuroo could mutter. Even Kenma was observing the place when he should be snapping photos here and there. The torii led them to the inner pavilion, where more orange-colored architecture aligned the shrubbery to form latticed walls. Signs were scattered about, reminding people that they were entering national cultural property and a sacred space.
The group halted at the end of the queue leading up to the main shrine. To Kuroo's side was a wide basin filled to the brim. Ladles were dipped and the water scooped into cupped hands for the cleansing of the mouth. One by one they performed the ritual, returning to their spot in the line with chattering lips and freezing hands. As they waited Yaku demanded the full story of the kimonos. Did they talk about it in advance, or was it purely coincidence? Or was it destined?
"I really just allowed my family to dress me up like a doll," she explained with a shrug. "It only happens now, so why not give it a go? But Kuroo here is a veteran in kimono-wearing. That's a story I'd love to know." She raised a brow at him.
"It started with dad, actually." Kuroo rolled his eyes, chuckling. He relayed the nostalgic experience of seeing his father one New Year's eve, dressed like the men he saw in textbooks and museums. Since then, Kuroo had been copying him until he was the only one in the family conscientious enough to wear a freaking kimono every single year without fail. Once in every twelve months served as a sufficient reason to celebrate the formality of it all, even though sometimes he wished he was clad in layers of thicker clothing and was wearing boots instead of zori.
"It has pockets," added Kenma, flipping the haori to reveal where Kuroo had been hiding his phone and wallet before he could even protest. They were stepping closer now to the bell, the ringing and the clapping of goers becoming louder. The topic of last Christmas party's presents came up again, much to Kenma's insistence to not talk about the past's horrors anymore.
Yaku waved it off. "That's the only time I'd agree with Lev. He knows exactly what Christmas presents to give."
"You do wear the headband he gave, though. At home." Kuroo smirked, nudging his bestfriend's shoulder. She burst laughing again, contagious even for Kenma to smile just a bit. Lev gifting Kenma a package of multi-colored headbands ("One for each day, Kenma-san!") went down in the team's history. Where the others were given items ranging from an anthology of modern poetry to the most mundane of objects ("A hair-straightener?!"), Kenma's was the most practical. At least it would be easier for him to focus on his games without stray hair blocking the view. Yamamoto didn't let him live it down, however, now anticipating next year's party so that he could give Kenma a box of hair scrunchies. Kenma promised that he'd give Yamamoto a Lolita dress with a matching wig.
They reached the front of the line, voices hushing and moods turning solemn. The bell was rung, hands were clapped twice, bodies were bowed to the waist, coins were tossed (Kuroo threw all of his, thinking if he should throw his heart too as a sign of thanks), wishes were murmured. When she asked him a little while later what he asked the gods, he simply mentioned three things: personal relationships, nationals, and college. When she wondered if the list was in that exact order, from highest priority to the least, he replied that he was already thankful to be included in nationals. Should Nekoma win overall, then, they'd be more than blessed - they'd be heroes.
"Besides," he said, as the group dispersed for the meantime. "I believe in the team's ability more than I believe in the blessing of the gods."
She smiled. "And you believe more in your admirable capacity to get into UTokyo than you believe in sheer luck."
"Now, now, let's not brag about this."
"This is your year. I know it because you'll do anything to make it yours." She looked at the frozen pond below - fingers trailing along the cold wooden railing, eyes scanning for any glimpse of a carp swimming, that its colors may emerge from a hole in the ice. As she spoke, the mist from her mouth clouded her face for a fleeting second. "This is everybody's year. We make up our own fates."
Kuroo observed the grounds about him: Kenma was snapping photos of the lights, Yaku was taking his chance with the written oracles, and Kai was buying an omamori from the stalls. He turned to her, attaining some form of conclusion that he wouldn't need any omamori or lucky amulet or daruma doll. He already had his spring.
"But didn't you say you believe in luck and fate?" he asked, a crease on his head evident. "But you also say we make them all up. You, ma'am, are a walking contradiction - and logic says we should always aim for coherence."
"We make them all up so they have to be real, right? They're real to us."
"Don't you dare 'reality is relative' me."
"But you believe in ghosts!"
"Mei-chan might just be barking at my grandmother's spirit!"
They bickered the philosophical and all too normal between wheezing laughter, playful slaps, and ruffling of hair, until hands were no longer cold in the midst of the other's palm. Silent, it began snowing the exact moment a vendor of paper umbrellas passed by, and she bought one too small for the two of them to share. The clock on the pavilion was nearly striking ten. Kuroo removed his hand from hers, grazing his thumb across her cheek that was warm - warm like a cup of New Year sake, warm like the kotatsu at home, warm like paper lanterns trapped within him and waiting to be freed in the sky. The kimonos would be soaked in snow, but he didn't mind any of it because all he felt was warmth. It wasn't a heat that burned. It was just enough to let him survive the winter night until spring comes in the morning.
But spring was here, and he was a walking contradiction too. Spring was here, and he was both cold and warm. Spring was here, too close to feel her breath, slightly moving the paper umbrella down to shield their faces from the prying crowd (yet the crowd paid no heed). Spring was here and he was looking at her, until he leaned in and she leaned in - until he was kissing her. Spring had soft lips, cautious at first but giving in. Spring made sakura and azalea bloom inside him - a saturated fragrance waking the lifeless season into young love.
Whether the clock struck ten, he never knew. All he knew was perhaps time stopped in its rushing tracks, that he skipped a few months and landed on April, that the perishability of moments made them all the more beautiful.
All he knew was that he was kissing spring.
.
"Kuroo, I've been wanting to ask you something."
"If it's about the kiss I'm all ears. Was I good or was I sloppy?"
"Not that, stupid."
"I am hurt."
"But... you were good. Equally good and sloppy."
"Oho."
"Anyway."
"Yes?"
"You ever think you'll worry about the team when you leave?"
"Not exactly worry. I have high hopes for them. Kenma's sticking around after I convinced him enough, Yamamoto's captain material (just have to tone down his obnoxiousness), Lev's keeping his promise of becoming ace (but Fukunaga and Inuoka are also in top shape), Shibayama's determined to be the best libero, the coaches are fine as always, we'll have new first years, and... you'll be around. No need to worry about the team."
"I'll have to correct you, though. Those are not high hopes. Those are high expectations and man I'm pressured."
"Come on, you'll do just fine. Also, it's not only worry that I'm going to feel. It's more of... I'll miss the team. Terribly."
"You won't play in college anymore?"
"Still thinking about it."
"By the way..."
"Yeah?"
"You sure the prospects of Taketora and Kenma arguing again are in Fukunaga's good hands?"
"The prospect of that has reached its all time low. The two are basically besties now. Look at me and Yakkun."
"Okay okay. One more thing."
"Hm?"
"I'm in love with an idiot who acts like he's cool."
"Correction: You're in love with the coolest guy who occasionally acts like an idiot."
"Even better."
January had you finding him alone at the corner of the stairwell: quiet and tense, while the whole of Sumida gymnasium was witness to this festive scene of hopeful victors. He was thinking, and thinking, analyzing every outcome worth his mind, only awakened from his reverie when you tapped his shoulder. You smiled, said the team needed their captain before the first match (sappy speeches and all). He replied with his sheepish grin, stepping inside to join that throng of red jerseys and banners ablaze.
February had him all flustered at the pile of wrapped chocolates on his table. Just when he thought that girls were still chasing after him (a persistent handful still did), he found out that the team was responsible for the cupid-themed mess greeting him in the classroom. He was flustered, annoyed, endeared, humored. Later on in the afternoon he had comfort again, disguised as a tub of chocolate ice cream given by her. He said she didn't have to. She said she wanted to.
March had you waking up to White Day with no chocolates, only cups of sake and rounds of koi-koi in the lively atmosphere of his home. He got accepted to university with a scholarship grant, and the family celebration was grander than it was months ago. The third years crashed on the tatami floor, drunk and waving a valid reason that they were finally done with their examinations. They cried their initial goodbyes that night, reminiscing when they were only first years. Kenma got it on video.
April had him running on the blossomed path of the campus after graduation ceremony. A striped tie was missing from his neck, for he held it tightly as he ran and ran to meet his spring and give it to her as a memento. He won't be saying goodbye. He only came to see spring in full bloom, waiting for him at the end of this path with happy tears and congratulations. He'd tell her he still wanted to know how she did her coffee (or if she preferred tea). He'd tell her they'd still see the azaleas in the shrine.
Summer had you. Autumn had him. And winter had everything alive all over again.