Chapter Text
It was October when you met them.
It was the godless month when you met him.
The elders used to say it rained most in the tenth month because the gods were away. You thought that if you prayed, nobody would answer; except, perhaps, the one god who could not hear the gongs signaling the migration of the deities. There, at the most ancient shrine, this one god would not be present. This one god would stay with the mortals in autumn bliss. This god of luck and of fishermen would alone answer your prayers.
It was the godless month when you met him.
You were not exactly praying for someone, but he came around as though out of pure luck. To say that meeting this young man with the most disheveled of hairstyles was a coincidence, an accident, would not be so true. It was still divine intervention, no matter how small the nuisance.
You always had this tendency to be indecisive.
He had never encountered this tendency.
When you stepped in that gymnasium, more confident than nervous, you realized that such a decision was not because of impulse at all. You were sure for the first time.
When he saw you step in the gymnasium, equally tired as the rest of the team, he thought－much to his surprise－that he couldn't decide what that feeling was for the first time.
You became less indecisive when you agreed to become their manager.
He became less decisive when he couldn't distinguish instantaneous attraction to a mere tentative occurrence caused by his own hormones.
He only realized later on that distinguishing what it was would be pointless.
You were just lucky. He was, too.
And both of you reached a decision to leave it at that.
The daruma was staring back, with only one eye, from its place on the bedside table: the black pupil fixated on your reflection in the mirror. Ten months ago, you bought it from the shrine where you and your family had always been on New Year’s Day. You drew one eye as you returned home, the goal still raw in your head. You promised, more like vowed, that you'd accomplish the goal this year: you'd be able to write another pupil on the daruma's eerie face and be satisfied. It was common to make a wish to the doll and draw on it again the moment one's wish was fulfilled, but you'd rather not wish something close to the unattainable. You'd rather set a goal to be fulfilled by yourself alone.
Do something you truly want. You repeated the goal quietly as you dressed up for school. You closed your eyes for a second, slowing down your breath, only to open them again and possess a thought clearer than before: you had to make decisions on your own now. You had to assert independence, to at least try and break free from the household that restrained you. Not because you weren't thankful for what they had been giving you all your life, but because you couldn't imagine yourself relying on somebody else's decisions anymore. You were never the problematic student, not even the least bit as a daughter, but you knew staying on a safe place would not last forever. You had already proven yourself to be worthy of whatever freedom they could give. It was the sole thing you needed for now. You just had to ask, again and again. And if they still wouldn't listen, you could act and be done with it.
You could finally join a club, feel a bigger sense of purpose, and find yourself working with other people. For two and a half years in high school you hadn't done anything but persistently stay in class five drowning in the pool of academics. Extracurricular activities were just distractions, cumbersome, a bother. They weren't required of you anyway. But, you couldn't deny, you were missing out on something.
The question then was, where would you go?
.
Kuroo Tetsurou would never run out of things to think about. A week before the Spring Interhigh Preliminaries, however, he had more things to think of and they were nearly spilling out of his mind. He was spiraling into insanity (at least, that’s what he felt), and there was no way out.
He was walking at his regular pace, beside Kenma, on the way to school for morning practice. It was starting to rain more often now. The middle part of October warranted either humid days or windy ones, depending on the erratic swings of the weather, and the downpour would usually follow in the afternoon. As the weather minded its own unpredictable business, his thoughts too were in some sort of a commotion. The sounds from Kenma's game console devolved to a buzz as he, out of habit again, succumbed to his bad habit of overthinking.
The team still had a lot to work on within a week. By a lot to work on, he mostly meant lanky-legged and childish Lev. The self-proclaimed ace still couldn't get in sync with their setter, as though the hardcore training from summer were thrown to waste. How on earth would the battle of the trash heap become a living dream if they were only good at receives? It was not enough. They also had to force themselves to grow. Given their small number of members and unbreakable camaraderie, such could be possible. So, one problem analyzed.
He also had to start thinking more about college. His grades were fine, better than assumed actually, but his future was still a blur. Glancing at a robotic Kenma, he decided to leave the thought for later at night. So, another problem temporarily done.
Breaking the silence, he just had to ask: "Is that a new game?"
"Yeah." And pudding-head just had to give out an automatic nonchalant answer.
"Care to tell what it’s about?"
"The Imperial Quest. As the emperor of my kingdom, I have to lead my army and save the dragon from evil forces."
"Didn't you just kill a dragon last week?"
"That was a different game," sighed Kenma, not once looking up. It was a wonder he never tripped on the sidewalk since day one of their friendship. "That was easier. I've been at this for forty-eight hours."
Forty-eight hours?!
"Um..." Kenma then looked up. "I've been playing this game for forty-eight hours including proper sleep and rest. Please stop it with that face."
What face?
"Good to hear." Kuroo nodded. At least there was no problem with that to be so analytic about. Retrieving his thoughts, there was one more left to consider. To be frank, this specific thought wasn't more important than the others. He wasn't as perturbed by it in contrast to his studies, the Haiba Lev Problem, and Kozume Kenma's game addiction. Simply put, this had been a longstanding and heated issue frequently debated on by the team whenever Yamamoto brought it up. Their ace Yamamoto Taketora just didn't know when to keep shut about the Forbidden Topic.
"You just want to do it for the ratings."
"That is not true, Kenma! Imagine the possibilities! This is our biggest 'what if'! Help me, Kuroo-san! This is a dire crisis we have!"
"Then go get a female manager for all I care."
"As captain you-"
"You're the one who desperately wants it."
And that was that. The debate was closed, for a moment's peace, and Yamamoto did try to find one; but expectedly failed, as no girl would dare talk to 'the creepy guy with the mohawk staring from the classroom window.' Besides, it was fun to torment Yamamoto and let the rest of the team be unenthusiastic about the idea of a female manager. So what if Karasuno had two? Nekoma was already in good shape for as long as Kuroo could remember, and no female manager was involved. But what if.
"Hey, Kenma."
"Huh."
"Can you imagine if we did have a female manager?"
Kenma stopped in his tracks, clicked pause on his console, faced Kuroo, furrowed his eyebrows, and tilted his head. The setter blinked, expression unreadable. All that Kuroo could do was avert his eyes, deepen his fists into the pockets of his pants, and pretend he never uttered the question. It was too late, though. He had inevitably caught Kenma's full attention.
"Now you want one too?" There was no hint of surprise in the setter's voice, but Kuroo knew when there actually was and when there was not. This time, there was an invisible mark of surprise; then it was his turn to act all surprised.
"I was just asking!" Kuroo raised his hands in defense. "I don't want one."
"Yes you do."
"No."
"You do."
"I do not."
"Yes."
"Not."
"Fine." With a suspecting squint, Kenma hit resume on the console and walked ahead, leaving an annoyed Kuroo slouching. Who said he wanted a female manager? How could they possibly get one at this time of year and at this crucial state before the preliminaries? If they did get one, it would only add up to the things to work on. They would have to orient the hypothetical female manager with the technicalities of volleyball. They would have to keep an eye on her, and only Yamamoto wouldn't mind. To be precise, they might need one later, yes, but not now. Let the incoming third years face it themselves come March or April.
But to hell with it. What if. What the freaking if. Nekoma was already in good shape. Then would that logically mean they could be in better shape?
Hitting a mental dead-end, Kuroo straightened up and trailed behind Kenma. One more pedestrian lane and they'd arrive at the school gates. As he caught up with the setter, it was compulsory to bring up a new topic. And so, the issue of Hypothetical Female Manager still remained a case unsolved.
"Is that game really that hard?"
"Someone in my year got to finish it. According to rumors," Kenma muttered as they entered the campus. It being too early in the morning, only a few students and maintenance crew were around. "Technically, she has the highest score."
"She?!"
"Mm-hm."
"Wow." Somebody beat the Kozume Kenma and that somebody was a girl? "That's rough."
Ignored by the setter, Kuroo led the way to the gym, humming to himself. Did Kenma begin to show real competitive prowess just because of a game he couldn't win yet? Did Kenma actually care that he was losing? Would his friend since elementary years seriously surpass the forty-eight hour streak of non-stop gaming for the sake of winning a virtual game? Now if only Kenma applied that attitude to volleyball...
"You know," Kuroo halted at the front of the gym doors and turned back to Kenma. "That once-in-a-blue-moon competitiveness of yours will come in handy when coordinating tosses with Lev. Here I thought you're only showing your competitive side when Chibi-chan from Karasuno is around, but I guess I'm mistaken. Just show it more often now, yeah? We're gonna need it for that ticket to nationals."
Although vexed, and Kuroo didn't need his sixth sense to see it, Kenma nodded. With a quick change of their shoes, the two stepped in the gymnasium.
.
"I want to join a club."
The moment those words came out of your mouth, an imagined bomb struck the dinner table. Some held utensils dropped with a thump, and from where you sat you could feel your knees shaking. You waited for their response as you looked down and stirred the miso soup. Careful not to break the glassware, though your grip was firm than ever, you started counting. It took you until the ninth number before somebody around you had the nerve to speak.
When you glanced around, they didn't even look the slightest bit disappointed. On the contrary, the small knowing smiles and nods told you they were anticipating that decision to arrive. The conversation that followed, not as worse as you pictured it to be, still rang through your ears as you excused yourself early to bed. A part of you wanted them to retaliate, coerce you to not push through with the decision, because in the realest sense you had no clue what to do with your life starting now. It had begun: making choices and facing consequences on your own. With the condition that you wouldn't sacrifice academic life, the compromise was sealed.
You slid open the drawer from your bedside table and took out a black pen. Reaching out for the daruma doll, you drew what was once the missing pupil. Staring back, the object finally procured a complete set of eyes. Satisfaction was the word that coursed through you that night.
"This is going to be a lot harder than I thought," you said softly to yourself and to the rhythm of the autumn rain against your window. Will I regret this?
.
If he had to entertain one more thought that morning, he would reach a breakdown. Kuroo didn't have breakdowns frequently noticed by his peers, but when he did he was more reserved and serious than the typical. He wasn't the type to be asked if he were doing all right and give out a direct answer. To them, he was just being his scheming self when he talked less and trained more. To them, Kuroo was constantly the one asking others if they were doing all right. He was the one bothered when someone close to him wasn't doing or feeling good. He would go out of his way to make sure nobody was emotionally left out because he couldn't help it. Call it selflessness and martyrdom, but that was how circumstances went for Nekoma's captain.
And, thankfully, with today’s training, the problems he had been mapping out in his head for the past few days were lessening at a gradual pace. He could relax, albeit tentatively, from the side of the court as he observed the team's progress.
"Your timing is off," an exasperated Kenma commented. From the net, Lev had the look on his face that spelled 'you-should-have-told-me-earlier' and was close to crouching to the setter's height. Yaku apparently saw this, triggering another one of those nasty abdominal kicks.
"I'm not letting my receives go to waste because of a simpleton like you!"
"Seriously, Yaku-san. That hurts."
"At least you get the idea of what it feels like whenever I'm called short."
"I'm not even joking around your height nowadays!"
"Well you're implying it!"
The duo got into an extra round of bickering before Kai mediated from the other side of the court. The three-on-three match turned out to be even more dragging when jostling was involved with every point lost in the Kenma-Lev-Yaku team. Inuoka and Shibayama just shared raucous laughs. From the sidelines, Kuroo had to restrain a guffawing Yamamoto. Even Fukunaga had to suppress a chuckle. Nekomata-sensei and Coach Naoi were the indifferent spectators. When it came to the necessities of handling problem children, the elders knew the team could work on it themselves: like the blood flowing in the veins, like the different organs of the body doing what they were meant to do in continuous coordination. All this made them singular.
Diverse personalities, Kuroo thought. But on the court, we operate as a single cohesive unit. And as if possessed by a sudden spark of melodrama, he admitted to himself that he would miss this day-to-day scenario when he’d have to leave.
"All right! Five-minute break!" Kai shouted at the end of the first set. The court cleared for a while, Yamamoto and Fukunaga rushed to practice their jump serves. Coach Naoi distributed water bottles. Standing idly with his arms crossed beside Nekomata-sensei's seat, Kuroo heard the old man address him.
"I can't help worrying about you lot when I'd leave." For someone feeling worry, sensei sure was a veteran in hiding that behind his cheerful disposition. So it wasn't just Kuroo who was thinking about leaving. Was sensei considering retirement for good, then?
"Huh? Sensei−"
"Don't get me wrong. I'm confident with Naoi-kun," the old man grinned at the captain. "But who will take care of the herd? We can't let anybody be a lost sheep. Kenma-kun can be a good captain. Tora, too. Still, there's something missing, isn't there? Someone who will keep watch and know what problematic adolescent males need to get their butts in check."
Kuroo's eyes widened at what shape his own eyes could permit. He may had been gaping at sensei's words as he absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. What he meant by undergoing a sense of calm earlier, he was dead mistaken. Could Nekomata-sensei be actually hinting the Hypothetical Female Manager? It wouldn't take a genius to go figure.
"Sensei, do you mean..." Kuroo divulged as he groped for the appropriate words. "Do you already have someone in mind to be our manager?"
"Manager?" the old man exclaimed, bringing every attention to the two of them conversing. He let out his signature heartfelt laugh and elbowed Kuroo. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm not implying such a thing! Unless Yamamoto here finally musters the courage of a hundred men to go talk to girls! You kids are already in tip-top shape, eh? We're headed to nationals! Don't mind the idea of trying out something new to get better results and be better motivated! Manager? Who says so? Kuroo-kun, you certainly know how to make an old man crack up."
Nekomata-sensei's laughter filled the entire gym, silencing Kuroo to contemplate reverse psychologies (because their old man had such kind of capabilities). The rest of the team only shared either significant or clueless looks, save for Yamamoto who was nearly bursting into helpless tears. From his peripheral vision, Kuroo saw Kenma approach his direction; the setter gripping the water bottle until his knuckles turned white. Face expressionless, but overall, odd. What's with Kenma?
While weighing the factors on whether or not Kozume Kenma was psychic, Kuroo froze as he registered the setter's words.
"I'm going on a suicide mission."
"Wha−?" So much for a captain momentarily robbed of eloquence that morning. "Kenma− are you− okay− wait− what do you mean sui− are you even Kenma to begin with?"
"And I may regret this."
.
Being in class five didn't wholly mean prostrating yourselves to perfect grades and biased praises. Half the time, when the all-knowing sight of the teacher was away, students in the top class behaved as normal teenagers would. But out of this list of behaviors, you specifically couldn't understand what the commotion was about just because of a mundane video game. The class, moreover the whole second year, had been at it for three weeks tops: competing among themselves and other classes on who accomplished what, or who got the second highest score. Second highest, because, not one to brag, you technically had set the record for them to beat.
And the attention, while flattering at first, had eventually worn you out.
"Come on! Help us out! How did you win this?"
Reason number one and the sole reason: your classmates would never leave you in peace. Once the bell for lunch period had rung, you were practically cornered in your seat. You hadn't even opened your bento yet and here they were, approaching you with their game consoles and dewy-eyed faces asking for mercy. One of your friends even started calling you sensei.
"Not telling until I finish eating," you huffed. Your two companions did get the message, but instead took their places around you. "Are you seriously going to watch me eat?"
They nodded compliantly, the looks of determination not once faltering. As you whispered your thanks to the food laid in front, your friends fumbled with the buttons: the beeping and blasting sounds pestering you to no end. You couldn't resist taking a peek, while biting into the onigiri, and to your surprise you ended up impressed. They had a different strategy, but you still had to know if it were effective. Playing the game, you didn't really have the time to experiment other options. If they only knew how you did it then they wouldn't worship you that much.
"Do you guys have to sacrifice your stomachs for that silly game?"
"This isn't just some silly business," one of them retorted, angrily pushing buttons until the familiar game-over-sound could be faintly heard. "It's a matter of life. And death. In my case, death. Again. Why is it so hard?"
"Teach us, sensei!" the other pleaded, throwing down the console as though it were an object plagued with a contractible disease. You chuckled at the scene, patting them hard on the shoulders as you ate your vegetables. Seeing that they were hopeless, you closed your bento and quickly chugged your juice pack.
"Now let's see," you hummed and leaned on the chair. The two were instantly revived. "Ask your sensei and she shall give you answers."
"How did you do it?!" they chorused.
"I was just lucky." They rolled their eyes at that, but you shot them a glare. "I'm not even into games, okay? A cousin just visited and happened to force me into playing. What now? That's the truth. I swear to the gods."
Well, not really. It was October. And according to legends, the gods were away for the time being. All of them had gone to this annual grand convention strictly for the celestial, at the most ancient shrine in Japan, located at a mysterious countryside. Hence, Tokyo and the rest of the towns in the country, except for said mysterious countryside, were a no-god-zone. That was what your grandparents used to say.
"Lucky?! That's it?!"
"You're telling us fate had something to do with it? That's bull."
Yeah. Lucky. Because if you remembered it right, only one god wasn't able to get the invitation and not hear the gongs sounding the celestial convention. Was it Ebisu? Hiruko? The god of fishermen and of luck? So because of this god, there was still a little bit of fate involved.
But you'd be deemed crazier if you said that.
"Ever tried online game reviews?" you almost yawned, crossing your arms and putting up your feet on the table. "Those stuff tell you what to do. And besides, I played that for one whole week since it came out. It's not like I'm an expert blessed with speed and accuracy or something. That's the most honest answer I've got, all right?"
"So game reviews, huh."
"But that's cheating!"
It was your turn to roll your eyes. "It's called strategy. And for the most part, winning."
They shrugged, unsatisfied, thus you gave up trying to be the indirect helper. There was no point letting themselves find the answer when all you got were stubborn friends to deal with. You always, always, wanted to please the ones you held dear no matter what.
"Let more men attack in the battlefield," you sighed and sat properly again. "Just keep the most skillful ones to defend the fortress and have them attack from above."
"But we're already doing that!"
"I wasn't finished, dumbass. Try a decoy." You tapped your fingers impatiently on the table, recalling the strategy you did prior. "The sorcerer must have ample time to keep the dragon alive. Once the dragon's cured, get ready to win."
They glanced at their consoles then back to you, wonder and realization gradually ebbing their once desperate faces. You smirked and waved them off.
"Thank me later. You guys owe me yakisoba bread."
You were set to packing your bento and bottle when the class representative called out your name. Asking what it was about, you found out some two guys were at the door. Asking who they were, you only received a shrug. Curious, but slightly troubled because you still had to cram your homework for next period, you walked to the door. The two guys mentioned weren't just guys for starters. They were complete strangers.
"How can I help you?"
One of them was shorter than the other. This guy in question had dyed blond hair reaching his chin, with eyes fixated on his shoes. The other guy in question was much taller, with messily trimmed ashen hair and an expression that was just as clueless as yours. He looked like he wasn't much of a talker, but his gaze was direct. The only idea you had of these two were that they were fellow second years and nothing more.
The tall guy scratched his head and looked over to the shorty. They elbowed for a moment before the blond one squared his shoulders. He still avoided eye contact by glancing sideways.
"I am never good with people, but," he was almost whispering, enabling you to close the distance to comprehend what he had to say. Instinctively, shorty stepped back as though being attacked. You yelped an apology, but he continued talking nonetheless. "I heard about you and was... how should I put this... intrigued? We're... uh... from the boy's volleyball team and we'd like to ask if−"
"Oh."
It took you a second to recognize your own voice. Could these guys be searching for members? You did try asking your classmates if they were still accepting recruits at this late in the year, miserably leaving you with closed doors. But these two…
Hold on. Boy's volleyball team? A sports club? For boys?
"We'd like to ask if you're interested in becoming our manager," blond guy finished off as though not hearing the single syllable of surprise you uttered. He probably didn't. You didn't care if he ever did. Head going blank, you couldn’t dare think in a coherent pattern at that exact millisecond.
Manager. To the boy's volleyball team. Now?
"Ohh."
You were the second person in Nekoma High to be robbed of eloquence that morning.
.
He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this.
Yesterday he felt like a shipwreck washed ashore after being beaten by a tumult of waves repeatedly. His mind simply shut down once he came home. Today, as though out of compensation, he woke up on the right side of the bed. Not that Kuroo had other ways of waking up than finding his head buried between two pillows, but, he just felt good.
Coupled with the fact that his mother cooked an amazing breakfast and packed his favorite meal, he felt more at ease. He thought it was too strange, like the universe was conspiring for him to meet his needs. Kuroo waited for the smallest hint of misfortune to knock him over. But he found none and instead, strange occurrences just kept unfolding one after another.
Exhibit A: Kozume Kenma.
"Oi, Kenma. You're in a pleasant mood today."
"I won the game I've been telling you about."
"Congrats?"
"And I survived the suicide mission."
"What the hell even is that?! Since when have you kept a secret from me?!"
It was futile to ask, yet he no longer minded if there was a secret in the first place. Kuroo was already content in seeing the rare sight of a less passive Kenma, this side of Kozume Kenma that relished in his dumbfounded state and inner suffering. To top it all off, the setter was seen half the day too without his twin brother, the game console. Kuroo had to smack his cheeks a couple of times to make sure he wasn't dreaming when he saw Kenma being more patient with Lev that their team had taken consecutive sets.
It wasn't a dream, he was convinced, when he received his test score in physics. Such was exhibit B: he got three digits and extra points. No, it wasn't the wrong paper given to him. There was his name, adorned with red check marks. It was euphoria.
Exhibit C: He could consistently spike crosses without going out of bounds.
Exhibit D: He was praised on his recitation in literature class.
Exhibit E: Fukunaga uttered two sentences.
Exhibit F: This.
He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this.
A girl was standing on the doorway of the gymnasium: sailor fuku uniform, knee-length socks, umbrella in hand. The drizzle made pattering beats on the roof, but he might had just mistaken those sounds for the one banging in his chest. He was more nervous at this moment than he had ever been in tournaments. It wasn't only him who looked for an explanation, who looked at her. Everybody did. Everybody without the inclusion of Fukunaga and Kenma.
If this were the suicide mission his dear secretive friend was talking about, then he was the one surely to die at the sight of the girl on the doorway.
Kuroo was glued on the spot. His teammates moved past him, forming an arch around the mysterious presence; still gaping, still unbelieving. The scene almost reminded him of mortal men surrounding a miraculous appearance of a goddess. Nekomata-sensei's grin grew wider from where the old man watched at the back. Coach Naoi stood like a proud parent. Kenma and Fukunaga exchanged nods, bumping fists.
All the days of his third year life, he never saw a girl willing herself to stand at the gym's entrance. Right here, she might had been just passing by to say hello to one of them or to talk to the teachers, but no. They knew from the get-go. They need not be told why she was here.
She won't be hypothetical anymore.
The captain began calculating the time elapsed in silence, until Yamamoto wailed.
And fainted.
"IS HE OKAY?!"
It was the girl who shouted, stepping inside out of panic. Realization dawning on her, she stopped halfway through. She turned pink, covered her mouth with her hand; and meanwhile, the current Nekoma team all hunted for lost speech in their throats. The way her voice bounced off the walls and landed on Kuroo's ears was like foreign music with unknown lyrics, but bearing a catchy tune he wouldn't forget for days. Her voice was the oasis in a desert.
But, unlike an oasis, this moment wasn't constructed by the imagination.
"Um!" She placed her hands on the sides, bowing at ninety degrees. "I apologize! It's a pleasure to meet you! I am−"
Her name disappeared with the abrupt thundering voices of the team coming together. Eight boys, without the ace, returned the bow with fervor and reverence. It was though that they, he, was brought back to life.
"Please take care of us!"
"Y-yes! It would be an honor!"
Kuroo Tetsurou could get used to such a voice. When he looked up, she was smiling and it was contagious. Yamamoto regained consciousness, greeting her and apologizing with a sob fit for a two year-old. Yaku and Kai started talking to her normally. Inuoka and Lev did a solid high-five. And the captain− Stupid. I should be doing something!
He joined the third years shortly, wondering if he looked like a madman or if he could pass as an ordinary human. When Kai gestured to Kuroo, he was spared from the thought and bowed slightly, acknowledging her. She easily got comfortable in speaking to them. But would he, in turn, achieve that level of comfort in speaking to her?
"Kuroo Tetsurou, captain. It's nice to meet y−"
"Thank you for winning a lot of games for Nekoma, Kuroo-san!"
His speech came out well enough. Would she always be this lively and endearing?
"I heard great stuff about you guys!" she went on, as if affirming his musings. "Also, would you want me to call you third years senpai? Huh. Come to think of it, I should have done so from the very beginning. I can start over, Kuroo-sen−"
"Ah you don't have to!" He raised both his hands, chuckling. "Kuroo-san is fine."
Better, actually.
"Then I'm thrilled to work with you all." The corners of her mouth formed a smile again, making the fact that Yaku and Kai were still there with him slip off his hazy mind.
"Me too. I mean we− us too." stuttered Kuroo and found Kenma smirking beside him. He'd have to confront the setter later. Or should I thank this pudding-head after all?
He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this, but maybe there was really no explanation necessary. He could accept the hunch that he woke up on the right side of the bed. He could embrace the theory that the universe may had been conspiring for him, or he could just say he got lucky that day.
Yeah. Lucky.