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It’s not that Kuroo is waiting or anything. Just because he’s slumped against the brick wall of the fine arts building, not moving, eyes fixed on the spot where the horizon meets the road, doesn’t mean he’s waiting. Maybe he just wanted to watch the sunset. Maybe he just likes standing.
“Waiting for me?”
Daichi sneaks up on Kuroo, a pretty astounding feat considering he’s perched atop a massive orange Yamaha SR400. It’s not a quiet bike by any means, and Kuroo startles, dropping a few of the books from the massive stack he’s carrying.
“How do you do that every time?” Kuroo bemoans, as Daichi parks his bike and reaches down to pick up Kuroo’s books.
“Sneak up on you?” Daichi grins, “Because you think too much, you become oblivious. Always inside your own head.”
“That’s--” Kuroo goes to argue with Daichi, but finds that he can’t, “I have a big research project due tomorrow, it’s stressing me the fuck out, to be honest.”
It’s good to see Daichi, though, and against his own wishes Kuroo can feel his stress seeping away, the tension in his shoulders evaporating. The weather is getting warmer, so Daichi has ditched his traditional leather jacket for a leather vest over his traditional white t-shirt -- still with the name and logo of the Flightless Crows stitched on the back. It’s so corny and stereotypical that Kuroo could laugh at it, except he had been scared shitless the first time he had seen that logo, when Daichi’s motorcycle rumbled up next to him, his broad silhouette looming. But then...
Do you need help carrying those? Your books?
“Isn’t all this stuff online nowadays?” Daichi is gathering the myriad books from Kuroo’s arms, examining the covers before tucking most of them under his arm. After a pause, he gestures for Kuroo to pass over his messenger bag as well.
“What are you, my mule?” Kuroo teases, draping the bag over Daichi’s other shoulder, “I’ll have you know I’ve been working out lately. I’m pretty strong now.”
Daichi snorts, “Sure, sure. We heading to the library?”
It’s become a weird ritual, now. Every Thursday, after Kuroo’s final class of the week, Daichi stops by and helps him carry a week’s worth of study materials back to the library. Most of the books are relatively ancient, spelling out the history of old artists and their patrons, the pages yellowing and brittle. After hearing Kuroo rant and rave so much about his thesis project, Daichi had become a bit interested in art history himself, his sturdy hands flipping through the pages with a kind of preternatural gentleness.
Tonight is no different. Daichi grabs them two cups of shitty coffee from the library cafe while Kuroo returns most of the books, checking out a few new ones as well. They settle down in a couple of cushy armchairs, laughing and chatting shit about some of the more infamous characters from around campus.
Daichi isn’t actually an enrolled student, that much Kuroo knows for sure. He might have done a bit of internet stalking to find out. As far as Kuroo is concerned, that’s perfectly normal behavior to exhibit when a handsome stranger on a motorcycle approaches you out of the blue and asks if he can carry your books.
So Daichi isn’t a student, and he’s not originally from Tokyo either. He and most of the rest of his motorcycle gang are transplants from Miyagi. Daichi is the defacto leader… and that’s pretty much all Kuroo knows for sure. He wants to know more, but he’s afraid of breaking the comfortable friendship they’ve developed. If Daichi wanted Kuroo to know more about him, wouldn’t he have said something?
Maybe Daichi’s right, Kuroo thinks. Maybe he does think too much.
“So, what’s this new project on?” Daichi asks, making a face at the taste of the ashy, stale coffee.
Kuroo takes a sip, barely phased by the taste anymore, “Well… on van Gogh, mostly. Which, well, he’s kind of already been done to death and back I guess. But here’s the thing,” Kuroo leans forward, eyes sparkling, “He suffered a lot, right? Depression, poverty, mania -- and people always say that if van Gogh didn’t suffer, then maybe we wouldn’t have The Starry Night. And I think that’s total bullshit.”
“How so?”
“Well, the gist of my argument is… if van Gogh had gotten proper care, or didn’t live in poverty, who knows how many more beautiful pieces he would have created? Maybe works even more beautiful and iconic than The Starry Night, you know?”
“Pretty strong words there. I happen to like Starry Night.”
“The Starry Night,” Kuroo corrects, “But, all I’m saying is the idea that artists have to suffer to create great work is just not founded in truth. And now it’s used as an excuse to let those in the creative arts live in poverty.”
Daichi nods, “Well, everyone loves the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, right? And wasn’t Michelangelo was paid for that with a good chunk of money, so I guess you’re right.”
“You--” Kuroo sits up in his chair, “Yeah! That’s what I’m saying!”
Daichi laughs, “See, I do listen to you when you go off on your tangents.”
It’s a rare thing, Kuroo thinks, to find someone willing to let you talk at length about the things you love, without conditions or expectations. How did he get this lucky, he wonders?
“I want to know more about you,” Kuroo blurts. And then, taking in the amused surprise on Daichi’s face, continues on, his own face beet red, “I mean, I don’t know-- I always talk about all my shit, and my thesis and stuff. I want to know what you do, what you like, or the things that annoy you.”
“Well, you sometimes annoy me, but I also like you,” Daichi grins, “So, there you go.”
“Idiot,” Kuroo grumbles, though he can’t wipe the smile off his face, “You know what I mean.”
“I do. And I’m glad,” Daichi’s face grows a bit serious, and he keeps his eyes trained on his coffee, “How about next week we ride over to a place with some real coffee, my treat. And I’ll tell you all about me.”
Kuroo grins, leaning back in his seat and prodding Daichi’s foot with his own, until their eyes finally meet, “I’m in. It’s a date.”
Daichi smiles, “I like the sound of that.”