Chapter Text
Kuroo doesn’t have a favorite color. Never thought it was important enough to sit down and pick out one singular pigment to be his ultimate favorite. Sure he always said whatever color he was supposed to like, whatever color boys were supposed to like (blue, green, red, but never pink) but he didn’t have one. Didn’t want one.
There’s a gaggle of boys around him, all in his grade, all first years. All loud, and obnoxious, and awkward. Just as teenagers are known to be.
They’re supposed to be doing a ‘getting to know each other’ exercise-an ice breaker-but Kuroo feels a chill set in his spine, colder than any ice that he could ever possibly shatter. The kids around him poke and prod and shove at each other in the tiny room they’ve been assigned to sleep in but they are warm, warm with each other and themselves; and Kuroo watches on with knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed over his calves as he wishes that he maybe he too could be warm like them.
“It's important to build relationships not only with your teammates, but also, with your opponents. The bonds you have with your rivals, will not only strengthen you as a player, but also as a person,” this is the coach's’ reasoning for grouping them together with people not of their own team. This is what Kuroo recites to himself when a shiver slithers down his spine, what he remembers when he presses his back into the corner of the wall looking for even the slightest inkling of warmth. This is what he hears when he is cold, and alone, because his teammates are in other rooms with people they probably know, people who are not afraid to lend a little of their heat to to others. “Strengthen you as a player,” this is what desperately swims around his mind as a useless comfort, because he is alone, because this is his first training camp and Kenma is not here to share it with him. The statement dips and curves and spins in his brain, a futile memory in the presence of knowledge that before Kenma, Kuroo didn’t really have any friends, that Kenma is the only one who’s ever spared him any kind of warmth.
“I bet I can guess your favorite color.”
Kuroo looks up at the looming creator of the shadow now covering him.
(Bokuto’s his name, Kuroo remembers only for the fact that he’s heard it yelled so much during matches.)
Kuroo doesn’t answer him, just simply looks. Looks at the smile across his face, the all white dyed hair, the tilt of Bokuto’s torso and the hands on his hips.
Kuroo doesn’t frown nor does he smile, but he feels his spine curve back off the wall into his regular terrible posture with something that he’s been hoping for.
Bokuto’s takes his passiveness in stride, sitting down in front of him, legs crossed in front. “I bet it's a really light color something like-”
Kuroo opens his mouth to reply, give him one of the colors that he’s supposed to say but is stopped with frantic hands waving in his face.
“No, no, no! Don’t tell me, I got this,” he says and Kuroo clamps his mouth shut immediately, suppressing the amused little smile struggling to make way as he watches Bokuto think.
He’s so lively, Kuroo thinks, watching the boy across him exaggerate his pondering with pointed looks to the ceiling and a rubbed chin.
“Aha!” Bokuto exclaims, “it's yellow isn’t it?”
Kuroo doesn’t have a favorite color. Never thought it was important enough to sit down and pick out one singular pigment to be his ultimate favorite.
But there is yellow speckled in Bokuto’s golden irises, sharp and prominent in the pool of gold, melding into it like a blacksmith’s smelting pot.
And Kuroo finds that this particular shade of yellow, the one that resides within the boy who radiates a certain type of electric warmth, is something that he quite enjoys so he smiles and says, “you’re right.”
Kuroo finds an odd type of solace on the Tokyo train to Bokuto’s apartment.
The train car shakes him softly, bumping here and there like a mother rocking a child as he watches the trees lining the track race by in their bright, colorful bloom and Kuroo heaves a contented sigh at the voice talking at him in his ear.
“Yeah so I either completely bombed my final or I aced it like a champ,” Bokuto says through Kuroo’s phone receiver, “there's really no in between.”
“I’m sure you did fine, unless you fell asleep during it - not that I’d put it past you.”
“That was a one time thing!” Bokuto defends, but Kuroo can hear his smile through the phone, like a instant telegram.
“You say that now,” he says, softly laughing into the receiver. The train slides to a halt and Kuroo presses himself to the back of his seat to let people by, the spring breeze rushing in for a place to stay before the doors close them out again. “What final did you take again?”
“Color theory, it's one of those classes where the material seems easy as hell but when it comes time for exams its like you just shat it out the ass.”
Kuroo can hear him shuffling around, then a loud ‘shit!’ heard in the distance.
“I totally did not just drop my phone on my toe, but anyway, colors? So cool- like orange?” Kuroo hears the excitement in his voice, can feel that Bokuto loves what he’s doing and learning and being; and it makes his heart swell with happiness-happiness to see his best friend doing everything he’s ever wanted in life. Something that he especially deserves.
“You’re an orange kind of guy y’know?”
“Explain.”
“I mean, wait hold on a sec-” Kuroo presses the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he rummages through his bag, and looks out the window to see how late it's gotten. Hues of pink and grey swirl in the clouds, boats of color in the vast disappearing blue - a vibrant red chasing it off from its place in the horizon, ready to bask in the attention of skywatchers before nightfall can come and steal its spotlight. Kuroo lazily wonders how would Bokuto describe it, how the pinks would reflect in his eyes as he talks about the greys, how he would look, stained in the rising red of the sky when he formulates what brush he would use or what shade of blue he would pick to paint the rich pools up above.
“What was I saying again?” Bokuto asks, returning to the phone.
“Orange,” he looks away from the windows, finally finding the snack in his bag, “you said I was, ‘an orange kind of guy.’”
“Oh yeah! You’re an orange but like… not all of you, just certain parts,” there’s a lag in his thoughts and Kuroo is patient for Bokuto to find the right words, “like your laugh! It’s very orange - light orange, its...its bright and lively; but also soothing and very homey. It's like when you spend all day at the beach y’know? And you’re worn out from swimming and having fun all day, and then you finally get to sit down on the warm sand and close your eyes as the sun sets.”
“Your laugh, it's just,” Bokuto says, his stream of consciousness steadily slowing and Kuroo hears him lets out an awkward little laugh. And it’s odd, but his chest is tight and constricted with effort of trying its best to keep his beating heart within. And It’s strange but Kuroo finds himself fighting down a face splitting grin and its blushing teammate. But most of all he finds bizarre, is that there is more comfort and contentedness found in Bokuto’s rough voice speaking through his phone, than a train, or sunset, or anything could offer. Kuroo wants to know more about this. Wants to learn and research this feeling, until he’s no longer able to separate himself from his findings, til it's as much of him as he is of it.
Bokuto laugh filters through the receiver, breathy but rough, akin to something that Kuroo isn’t able to pinpoint just yet. “Your laugh is just really fucking nice.”
Everyday of the year, Kuroo is met with more green than he personally knows what to do with. It paints his walls, grows out his countertops and table, follows him on his way to work and back again. It exists in the streams and lakes, has found its way into his clothes, and infested the mop he calls hair. but most of all it has taken residence within Bokuto, and this is where he draws the line.
“Don’t you think this is too much?” Kuroo asks, swiping away the (green, so very green) leaves off the windowsill and back to where they belong. (Outside, in the bushes, Kuroo thinks, which is also very, very green.)
“What is too much?” Bokuto’s voice sounds from the hallway, along with the hammer and knocks against the wall as he hangs up another painting - it's the third one this month.
“Green, it’s just so much, I mean,” he says, joining him in the hallway, “just look.”
Bokuto just keeps hammering away, adjusting the painting every few seconds. “I think it looks fine,” he says, then takes a step back to admire his handiwork.
“Of course it looks fine, that's not what I meant”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Kuroo comes to stand next to him. Hip to hip. “We live in a greenhouse Kou. Literally.”
“You act like there's not a single other color in this house,” Bokuto says, rolling his eyes.
“Are you trying to tell me you haven't noticed?”
And this time Bokuto actually looks. There's not much to see from his position in the hallway, but he spots the leaves of the succulents that sit in the living room, knows the jade plant, small and tiny in its first stages of sprouting as it rests atop their dresser. And the philodendron, that grows in the nook of the windowsill with its heart shaped leaves hanging above the kitchen sink. But still, Bokuto doesn’t think it's as much as Kuroo says, and he tells him as much.
“You’re obviously exaggerating Tetsu, if you have some type of grudge against the plants just say it.”
Kuroo snorts, Bokuto immediately furrowing his eyebrows at the sound. “Okay, but what about the towels? They’re green.”
“Oh come on, that was the housewarming gift from your mom!”
“And the pots and pans?”
“They were the only ones that didn't look cheap as hell that we could afford - you were there.”
“Alright, alright; but what about the doormat.”
“You picked out the doormat”
“Hey! It was funny, I had no intention of it being green”
“I’ll give you that one,” Bokuto says, laughing a bit, “It is pretty funny.”
They stand there for awhile. Side by side in their silence, admiring the painting.
It’s a beautiful painting, really and truly, breathtaking yet comforting, something that Kuroo knows only Bokuto is capable of creating. The weeping willow trees lay in the background, their pear green color highlighted by soft yellows. Lotus flowers decorate the painted water, calm and peaceful, surrounded by the lively grass that springs out the banks of the pond, casting soft shadows onto the flowers underneath it.
Kuroo almost feels like he’s there. Can feel the heat of the sun beating on his skin, or the gentle breeze through his hair. Can hear the rustle of the grass as it blows softly in the wind, the sound so real that Kuroo almost wants to reach out and feel the bristles of the cattails underneath his fingertips.
“Its… its captivating,” he says, practically breathless. And maybe he is, maybe the air has run thin and he’s living in a Bokuto created world where all he can do is look and smile.
Bokuto beams at the compliment, the expression not even in Kuroo’s vision but he knows it's there, like the sun in the painting has brightened and it's all Kuroo feels.
(Maybe he’s been breathless this whole time, he thinks, he’s breathless and he’s now just realizing it.)
Bokuto shifts to lean on the doorframe, exhaling. “I think it suits us, y’know?”
“I really do not know,” he says, falling to rest on the opposite wall.
Bokuto laughs at that. Kuroo has always been bad at the whole ‘art’ thing. “Green is supposed to be new life, and prosperity, and all that other growth and life stuff. I think it fits.”
“We got a nicer place,” Kuroo says, holding out one finger,
“that's new right?”
“Yup.”
“I got a new - better job.” Two fingers.
“Us?” Bokuto points in between each other, “that's gotta count for prosperity or something.”
Three fingers. “Of course.”
“Is that it? I think that's it, I can’t think of anything else.”
Kuroo looks at the painting. Feels that breathless feelings swirl up in his chest again. (But when did it ever leave?) “Yeah, that's it.”
There's a smile on Bokuto’s face when he looks at Kuroo. Warm and gentle, like the sun in painting. Breathtaking like the lotus flowers and the willow trees. Captivating like the cattails that hang over the clear blue pond. A smile that is everlasting, that speaks of life and happiness. Something that is them.
(Four fingers.)
“Yeah,” Kuroo says, “it does suit us.”
It is not late. It is five minutes past ten but it - he is not late. (They’ve established it, house rules, ten minutes is late but five minutes is not.)
It is five minutes past ten and he is not late, but Kuroo’s jaw is clenched and tight for reasons he doesn’t want to acknowledge. There's not a muscle in his body that is not pulled taut, every part of him rigid and stick straight like a child who’s just been scolded for bad posture, as he washes the dishes, movements almost robotic.
It is six minutes past ten and he is not late.
Seven minutes, and there's not a single sound in the house other than the noise of Kuroo’s even breathing and the splashing of water.
Eight minutes and Kuroo’s glances at the door.
(That red fucking door.)
Nine minutes past ten and his fingers have seemed to drill holes in every dish from how hard he grips it when the door handle jiggles.
“Nine minutes! I’m not late.”
It is ten minutes past ten and Bokuto is not late. But there is still a tightness in his jaw, no relief in muscles, every fiber of his being pulled taut like a bow that's been strung too tightly.
And this is the part that he hates. Hates the casualness of how Bokuto slides off his shoes and locks the door, always careful, always conscientiousness. Hates the questioning, the back and forth that never quite reaches the answer he knows is there. Is it worth it? Should you do this?
But most of all he hates the beginning. The deep breaths, the closed eyes, the anxiety twisting in his gut.
(Because the answer’s always yes.)
He hears Boktuo pad into the kitchen. Can feel his eyes, examining, scrutinizing. Hears the sigh that escapes him, that is much to weary and tired for his young age, all previous cheeriness leaving him in one single exhale.
(How many times have they done this now?)
“What's wrong?” He’s leaning on the counter now, those red counters that match the door. The ones that he, they, had smiled at with fresh hope and happiness to live the way they wanted to, where they wanted to, for the first time in their lives.
(He hates this. Hates the beginnings. Hates the baited breath, the waiting, the stillness.)
“Nothing.” He’s been scrubbing the same dish now for the past five minutes and Kuroo almost wants to laugh from how much he reminds himself of his mother.
Bokuto leans his head against the cabinets. Watches Kuroo scrub, and scrub, and scrub. “Why are we doing this?” It's the even way he says it, quiet, and calm, like a boring lecturer. Its that, that twists the bitter hot knife in his gut, searing with an intensity that has no plans of going away.
“You know why.” He doesn’t spat it out, doesn’t yell it, but it's a whisper through gritted teeth that he knows what sparks it.
It’s very sudden that it happens. The tension snapping like a simple snip of scissors.
“Actually, I don’t,” he’s pushing off the counter, moving, moving, moving. Always one to do things with flourish and force. “Maybe I would if you actually talked to me for once. But you never do, do you?”
Kuroo doesn’t know when they’ve moved into this - this ugly, hideous thing of passive aggressiveness, of quiet anger, and loud bitterness. He doesn’t know when they’ve become comfortable locking doors and throwing hurt glances, but he knows it was a long time coming. And the fact alone eats him up inside til there's nothing left but pain. “What's the point, huh? You’re never here in the first place to talk to, and when you are - which is rarely,” he scoffs, harsh and cutting, “you’re always avoiding me.” He lets out a shaky breath and he feels himself slipping, falling into something much more uglier and grotesque than he wants to show. A nose dive into an abyss that's he spent so long covering up. “What is it, huh? Can’t stand to be around me anymore? Am I that unenjoyable that you would rather be literally anywhere but here? Is that it?”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare,” Bokuto’s grip on the refrigerator door is so tight Kuroo thinks he might dent it. “That's not what this is about and you know it. This, this is about you - you never giving a damn how I feel. This is about,” Bokuto closes his eyes, heaves a breath and suddenly time has seemed to slow down. The words tumbling out of Bokuto’s mouth seem too loud, grating against his ears and Kuroo doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to- “I know that things are stressful. With school and work, your parents and the divorce, I know it makes things hard, I get it okay. God, I get it, but you have to - you have to talk to me Tetsu.”
And this is what he hates. The quiet of Bokuto’s voice, the calm in the eye of the storm. Hates that there is no tears, no yelling, no screaming, no slammed doors; just them in the storm of their first happy little home, with their red stained counters and the peeling red paint on the door.
“It hurts okay, it hurts and you’re hurting, but I can’t- I can’t help you, or us, if you don’t talk to me. I need you to talk to me so we can, fuck,” his voice wobbles, but he does not cry, does not sniffle, but looks Kuroo head on with eyes so pained and the sight hits Kuroo hard like a bullet train, leaving him flattened and weak in its wake, “it's hard for me to believe that you trust me if you don’t talk to me.”
But what he hates most of all is the silence. His silence. It pours into the kitchen, flowing into every room, every nook and crevice, and out the door. And it takes Bokuto with it.
“I’ll be at Akaashi’s.”
There are no tears, no yelling, no screaming, no slammed doors just Kuroo in the eye of the storm of his happy little home and the red locked door.