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one
Sometimes, Kuroo forgets.
He forgets that he and Bokuto are not, in fact, two halves of one being,
no matter the terrifyingly easy way they seem to click from the get go.
That Bokuto is still his very own person, with his own little quirks,
and Kuroo cannot expect to have known them all like the back of his hand
in the span of only a month and a half since they first met.
That Bokuto can take him by surprise, still.
Not because it’s Bokuto’s name flashing on his phone screen
as he lies there on his bed, relishing the sweet freedom of having seen
the last of a rather hellish finals week.
Not because Bokuto decides to forgo any kinds of proper greetings
when the line connects, and simply comes barreling down
with his words a million miles a minute,
never-ending and unstoppable.
And not even because Kuroo finds himself thinking that
it is somewhat endearing, cute even.
No, it’s the words Bokuto leaves him with,
when the phone call stretches to hours,
and it’s getting a little too late,
and Bokuto yawns into the phone more often
than he is capable of forming decipherable sentences.
Kuroo chuckles, is about to tell him to go get some sleep
before he starts snoring into the phone,
but his words die on his tongue, because.
Love you, Kuroo.
Bokuto mumbles, sleepily and a little too quietly,
and the line goes dead quicker than Kuroo
can think of anything to say, but the words echo in his head
all night.
He wonders if perhaps he has fallen asleep
at some point during their long conversation and this is
but a fragment of his dream.
two
Bokuto writes the same way he lives life;
bold, daring, and assured,
with such graceful ease and too much gusto that is
bordering careless,
but is always, always honest in its sincerity.
Each time Kuroo looks at his handwriting,
it is as if the words spring to life, out of the paper
and bouncing off the walls and floating in the air,
constantly moving, narrated by imaginary Bokuto’s voice
that he can hear clear as day.
Hey, hey, hey!
The bright yellow post-it Bokuto has stuck on the back
of his Chemistry notebook begins, and Kuroo grins,
thinks, rather fondly, that it’s so Bokuto.
He can easily picture it in his mind,
Bokuto hunching over his desk, tongue poking out from
the corner of his mouth, excitedly scribbling down
you, my friend, have saved my miserable life with these notes
(obviously exaggerated, but that’s Bokuto for you), and that
I owe you some free food, man,
but hastily adding
Just don’t push your luck and make me broke>:|
He can easily see Bokuto saying those words and making that face
as if he’s right there, right in front of him and not
two train rides away. He chuckles.
Love you!
His laughter dies, his breath catches.
He stares, and stares – and the words remain.
They start slow, hesitant, almost like an afterthought,
but are then finished in one swift motion before doubt can slither in
and take those words back.
They are silent words written on paper with solid, black ink;
yet Kuroo hears them clearly, still quiet but
just a tad louder than the first time.
He wonders if he reads too much
into everything.
three
If there is ever such a thing as perfect first-time drinking,
then this must be it, Kuroo muses; the beach is tranquil, surprisingly empty
at this time of the day, the sunset
a picture perfect painting of exuberant reds and yellows.
And then there is Bokuto, right next to him.
Perhaps this moment comes a little too early, perhaps they
should wait until they are of age and out of high school,
but they are young and foolish, believe they are invincible until
reality comes crashing down, kicking both their teams out of Interhigh
before they even get the chance to prove their worth.
Let’s drink our sorrow away, Bokuto says,
so even if Kuroo never believes in such notion, he knows
he won’t say no to this, because there are only few things he is capable
of denying Bokuto; fewer still when Bokuto is sad and
looks like the world is going to end.
The alcohol tastes awfully bitter and burns his tongue,
and after a few more sips he gives up pretending to like it,
lowers the cheap-looking bottle to the sand carelessly and
watches as the liquid spills and wets the fine grains.
Dude, that was just vile, he admits, pulling a face,
completely unbothered even as Bokuto laughs raucously and
takes a few more swigs from his own bottle, looking all smug
about holding his liquor better.
He feels oddly peaceful,
just sitting there before the vast, endless ocean,
with Bokuto’s endless cackles
that only seem to grow louder and louder.
Hey, Kuroo.
What?
Love you.
He hears the lapping of the waves, hopes its gentle sound is enough
to smother the thundering of his heartbeat.
That’s it. You’re drunk.
Am not!
Bokuto pouts, followed by another bout of uncontrollable giggles
that surely invalidates his point. Kuroo snorts.
He wonders if he is justified in feeling this flustered by some words
Bokuto won’t even remember ever saying the next day.
four
His ears are buzzing,
assaulted with a dizzying mix of sounds he cannot tell apart
from his own voice as he screams on top of his lungs
to overcome the other constant noises, telling Lev
not to jump too quickly.
Yaku is yelling something at him, the opponents are shouting,
most likely throwing taunts to get him riled up
(which is hilariously in vain since he still can’t hear a thing),
but he is as calm as the eye of a raging storm,
timing his jump just right to convert Kenma’s calculated toss
into a spike that will make Bokuto proud.
The crowd roars, probably alternately chanting his name
and his team’s, but still it’s all muffled, as if he’s submerged yet
trying to catch what’s being said above the water.
Go go, Tetsurou! I love you!
Kuroo isn’t sure if he is supposed to hear that, although
it’s impossible not to, the voice piercing through all the noise
like a silver bullet, fierce and unrelenting,
and it takes all his willpower not to whirl around and try
to find one too-familiar face in the stand.
Because that voice, that piercing voice
can be no one else’s but
Bokuto’s.
He wonders if he could still hear that voice even from halfway
across the globe – not that he’d ever be willing to put
that much distance between them in the first place.
five
Kuroo wants to curse everything, really –
the overnight frost;
the icy patches on the roads;
Bokuto, that clumsy idiot,
for not watching where he was going
he ended up stumbling and twisting his ankle.
But mostly, he wants to curse himself,
for letting it happen and not being quick enough
to break the fall.
Bokuto is solid warmth on his back, and it’s getting harder
to pretend that the way he clings so tightly, almost desperately,
is simply out of fear that Kuroo will drop him, because they both know
plenty well he won’t, not even if his life’s on the line.
I love you.
Those words are soft, perhaps the softest Kuroo has ever heard them,
breathed into the navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck, too gently
and too quickly he nearly misses them, with a painful edge to it
that has never been there before.
He wonders if, at that moment, Bokuto’s heart aches
as much as his does.
…
(And then,
as abruptly as they have started,
the words stop coming.
Gone from every end of their long late-night phone calls;
dissolved from Bokuto’s bright yellow post-it notes;
vanished without a trace from his half-drunk giggles,
from his piercingly loud cheers and soft, warm breathes
against Kuroo’s scarf.
They are nowhere to be found, and
Kuroo’s world falls dead silent and he goes astray,
adrift without those words to anchor him.
He wants them back, oh how he wants them back,
but he doesn’t know how to ask for it,
not sure if he even has any right to,
not after all this time.
He wants those words back, to be kept safe
where no one can ever take them away again.
But he wonders if they are even his to keep
to begin with.)
six
I love you.
Kuroo cannot tell who is more surprised when those words
escape his lips into the crisp mid-spring air,
gently riding the breeze across the short distance
between him and Bokuto, who is lying there at his side
on the fresh green grass.
Perhaps he will be able to, if only he opens his eyes,
and yet he keeps them closed, wanting to feel nothing
but the exhilarating thrill of finally – finally – letting it out
in the open.
It’s liberating, like he’s been set free out of the cage
he has trapped himself in, and his chest is warm with
indescribable happiness, laughter bubbling inside him,
threatening to spill from his lips, loud in the quiet morning.
Except no sound comes out,
because his lips are sealed with a kiss.
Bokuto is kissing him,
the same way he whispered the words Kuroo has missed so much
into the scarf around his neck that one last time –
warm and gentle, almost feather-light, as if Bokuto thinks
he deserves nothing less than the softest of touch.
Tetsurou.
Now that is just unfair, Kuroo thinks, because
Bokuto is saying his name like a prayer and there is
only so much his heart can take.
So he opens his eyes, at last, and his breath catches
because all he sees is Bokuto,
and he is so heartbreakingly beautiful like this,
staring down at him with those bright, golden eyes.
That took forever, Bokuto chuckles, his grin teasing and
playful and Kuroo just has to laugh with him.
I love you.
They are three simple little words, but Kuroo mean them
for everything else he cannot say;
it’s an apology, for being foolish and afraid and hurting him;
a thank you, for still being there;
a promise, that those words are as true to him as they are to Bokuto,
then and now and always.
I know, Bokuto smiles, kisses him again, I know.
Kuroo doesn’t doubt that he does, because he thinks he gets it now;
that even though there are still things they know not
of one another, things that can still take them by surprise
even years down the road, those are trivial;
that when it really matters and truly counts,
they understand each other like no one else does.
They always do.
Kuroo wonders if he and Bokuto are, in fact,
two halves of one being after all.