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Axis Mundi : world axis : line or stem through the earth's center connecting its surface to the underworld and the heavens and around which the universe revolves
1
I’m not a cat, Kuroo thinks in absolute despair, I’m a fish. A sardine to be exact. A sardine among other sardines in a metal can, smothered and in fish hell because there is no worse fate than to be squashed with te-
“Stop it,” Kuroo looks sharply down at black roots and blonde hair when the quiet voice interrupts him.
“Stop what?” He tries not to sound sheepish or guilty, because he hasn’t been caught red-handed doing whatever he was supposed to have been caught red-handed doing.
“Being overly dramatic, I can practically hear your exaggerations spilling out of your head,” Kenma tilts his hair away from his face and fixes the brunette with a knowing look and raised eyebrow that proclaims that he’s right. Ignoring someone’s bag pressing into his ribs, Kuroo grins at golden eyes veiled by smooth strands.
“But Kenmaaa,” Kuroo lets teasing affect his tone, drawing his best friend’s name out, “I can’t help it if I’m just a naturally emotive person.” With a muffled announcement of the station’s name, train doors slide open, and even more people stream into the carriage as Kenma huffs an exasperated sigh at him.
“It’s only a few more weeks of school,” Kenma mumbles with humour tingeing his voice, “You’ll live.” They sway as the train pulls out of the station, Kenma bracing himself on a pole while Kuroo reaches up for a handgrip.
Ducking his head down, Kenma pulls his PSP out and starts on a new level because the number of people on the train is close to overwhelming and he needs to focus on something that isn’t the experience of being on the train with half of Tokyo trying to get to work and school.
A lady shoulders past Kuroo, someone else steps on the back of his shoe, a businessman jostles Kenma on his way out and a fresh wave of commuters start to press in. Kuroo watches the line of Kenma’s shoulders as he sighs; while the peak hour rush is something that office workers and students have resigned themselves to, that doesn’t make it any less agonizing every morning. On days like this, it’s almost too much, and Kuroo can sense Kenma’s discomfort rolling off him in thick waves when It happens.
It being a harried looking businessman vacating a corner near the pair. Even before his brain fully processes it, Kuroo is moving before he can tell Kenma.
And Kenma, whose eyes have been on Kuroo’s shoes as he battles his way up a level, turns so fluidly that it melds into the same motion as Kuroo’s. With practised ease, he slips into the space against the wall while Kuroo plants himself directly in front of him, bracing his arms against the wall and creating a bubble of space around Kenma.
Another elbow jabs into his back but Kuroo only leans in minutely, allowing people to flow around them but preserving as much air around the setter as he can. It’s not much of an improvement but it’s as good as it’s going to get, so Kuroo takes a deep breath and counts down the stations until they can get out.
Cat-like eyes flicker up briefly before darting back down to a screen, and then back up again, longer this time. Kuroo, studying the map above, seems completely oblivious to the crush of people against his back, the strain his arms take to become a fence between Kenma and the rush hour throng, the multitude of people bumping and pushing him.
And oblivious to the way contemplative eyes trace his jaw, and soften, blinking up at what feels like sanctuary in a silhouette outlined by the harsh glare of overhead train lights.
2
The heat is so brutal that their popsicles begin melting before they finish unwrapping them and it becomes a race against the summer sun to get more of the frozen treats in their mouths than on the ground.
Feeling the ice on his tongue and the way it disappears almost instantaneously is akin to smelling rain in the desert but never actually having it run down his face. Kuroo savours it anyway, the popsicles a brief respite from the blazing day.
It’s the only day out of the week they get to take a break from volleyball so of course they’re going to spend it the way they usually do, which is spread out on one of their living room floors underneath the fan, with Kenma gaming and Kuroo reading.
They’ve spent every summer together that Kuroo can remember and over the years, they blend into a blur of warm, lazy days, peppered by the frequent forays to nearby supermarkets and shops to search for cold, edible reprieves from the relentless heat. Volleyball practices aside, they end up sprawling out at someone’s house, holding conversations about anything and everything in low murmurs as though the sun has sapped all their strength, leaving them to talk in the irregular, slurred manner of people about to fall asleep at any moment.
And through it all, the knowledge that Kenma was within reach, be it to sling an arm around on the way to the store, or on the other side of the lemonade pitcher on the Kozumes’ wooden floor, with his witty replies and that laughing gleam in his eyes that Kuroo was sure only he got to see.
Trudging in the direction of Kenma’s house, Kuroo turns his face defiantly to the sun, closing his eyes as he realises this is the last summer they have together as high schoolers.
This time next year, I’ll be preparing to go to college, maybe moving in, maybe joining the college team for summer practice... We’ll never get this again.
A spark of unease needles its way into the bottom of his stomach and his jaw tightens ever so slightly. They’d been together since they were kids and now, everything was about to shift.
Just for a while, can you slow this down? Kuroo finds himself pleading, to who, he isn’t sure, but he asks anyway. The world is spinning too fast, the days are flying too quick and I just want to hold on to this for as long as I can, so please, please let me.
He’s so caught up in his thoughts that it takes him a moment to register the soft “oh” and the fact that Kenma is no longer next to him. His eyes snap open and he doubles back to where Kenma is standing, staring at the broken strap of his slipper.
Gingerly, Kenma tries making do with the remaining bit of plastic still clinging to the sole of the slipper and takes a couple of steps before nearly tripping, saved only by shooting a hand out to hold onto the front of Kuroo’s tank top.
Kuroo darts a look back to where they came from, thinking that maybe he can make a dash to the store and get another pair of slippers, but they’re at the halfway mark between the store and the house which means he could just as easily run to Kenma’s house and get him another pair of shoes.
“It’s fine, I can get back to the house like this,” Kenma shifts the hand fisted in the soft cotton to Kuroo’s arm as he moves to take off the offending footwear.
A lesser man may have balked but there’s no hesitation in the way Kuroo sinks to one knee, back facing Kenma.
“I’ll carry you,” he says over his shoulder.
The briefest of hesitations, so infinitesimal that if Kuroo didn’t know Kenma better, he would have thought he imagined it. But the two are so finely tuned to each other that like a conductor of an orchestra, the barest variation in pitch or beat is heard clear as day.
Kuroo hears Kenma pause for less than a heartbeat, it’s barely the wing beat of a butterfly, but he falters nonetheless.
“Don’t be silly, I’m not as light as when we were kids,” Kenma steps next to Kuroo and comes close to toppling, clamping down on Kuroo’s shoulder for balance. Kuroo lets out a mock gasp as he straightens and stands anyway.
“You doubt me? My abilities? My incredible, awe-inspiring, undeniable strength?” He injects a hurt tone into his voice and grins as Kenma lets out a long-suffering sigh, albeit with a tiny smile on his lips.
“Kenma! You’re supposed to be my everlasting support!” Kuroo continues as he shucks off his slippers, leaving them in front of Kenma, his cheeky smirk unwavering even when the soles of his feet hit the burning pavement.
“No, I’m your everlasting voice of reason,” Kenma says dryly, at the same time looking slightly questioningly at Kuroo until the taller boy motions at the larger pair.
“Wear mine, they’re bigger,” he studies his own red slippers that dwarf the broken pair, “But at least you’ll be able to walk in them.”
He can feel thoughtful, bright amber eyes on him and wonders if this is how other teams feel during matches, closely examined and carefully taken apart, but he keeps grinning and reaches out a hand, offering himself as balance again. Two wing beats this time, before a nail bitten hand slips into his as Kenma slips out of his footwear and into Kuroo’s.
The red flip flops are comically oversized on Kenma’s bony feet and while Kenma’s feet aren’t exactly small, Kuroo’s feet just happen to match his lanky height. Scooping up the defective slippers, Kuroo adopts a smaller stride and observes Kenma out of the corner of his eye.
Shuffling along, Kenma quickly finds a rhythm and gait that accommodates the fact that his feet are swimming in Kuroo’s flip flops and Kuroo gradually gets accustomed to the sensation of his feet frying like a couple of eggs on the scorching ground; their conversation proceeds as per normal.
Only once does Kenma miscalculate the size of step that he needs to take and as he lurches forward, his hand finds Kuroo’s almost immediately, with him reaching out blindly for purchase and Kuroo catching the flailing appendage.
Kenma breathes out a laugh, white teeth flashing and eyes downcast as he steadies himself, fingers tightening around Kuroo’s broad palm. There’s an unsteady intake of breath above him as Kuroo looks at him and believes that it’s the brightest thing he’s seen on this blinding summer’s day.
3
Kenma doesn’t always regret joining the volleyball team, but when he does, it’s because Lev’s mother packed inarizushi in his bento and he won’t stop crowing about it to anyone who will (and won’t) listen. Kenma is only grateful that he’s sitting further away from Lev than Yaku, who is barely tolerating the beanpole of a junior shoving the rice wrapped in beancurd skin under his nose every few minutes.
The russet leaves shudder in the October wind, swaying branches casting glancing patterns of sunlight on the boys’ faces as they sit scattered beneath a massive oak tree. Lunch is in the courtyard today because there’s not much space for a team of twelve rambunctious boys indoors, although on some weeks, they dominate a sizable quarter of the school rooftop.
Reclining at the edges of their makeshift circle, Kenma sets about opening his bento at a slovenly pace, letting their banter wash over him as he keeps an eye on the others from under his lashes. Normally he prefers the quiet, but this is a different kind of quiet, the kind that makes the outside sounds morph into a peaceful hum on the inside.
Opposite him, Kuroo cracks a joke and lets out a bawdy laugh while snapping open his chopsticks, and Kenma’s molten gold eyes linger just half a second longer on him before roaming to the rest of the team. A nice kind of quiet.
After their coach suggested they work on teambuilding outside of practice, Kuroo had initiated a weekly team lunch day. It’s been pretty successful because these lunches have extended into occasional weekend outings. Even without it, Shibayama and Inouka eat together on a regular basis, Yaku, Kai and Kuroo can be found together in corridors between lessons, Lev is seen in Yaku’s classroom more often than Yaku would like and Kuroo is in Kenma’s classroom at every lunch without fail.
But Kenma thinks that maybe their coach was onto something after all, considering that their plays have gotten a lot tighter. Perhaps, he supposes, the Nekoma team is so smooth on the court precisely because they’ve learnt the sound of Yaku’s laugh when Kai tells a joke, they know the exact pitch Yamamoto whines at when bemoaning the rejection of the pretty girl in his class and how Shibayama turns a deep crimson when teased for being the baby of the team.
Perhaps, they’re such a fluid team because they’re friends. It’s a startling realisation on a cool, copper-leaved afternoon; startling and warm, the dawning comprehension that for the first time, he has friends outside of Kuroo, glows enough to block out the wind’s bite.
He takes a bite of the broccoli and instantly makes a face, setting it back down on the fluffy rice. Catching his expression, Kuroo starts transferring the green abominations from Kenma’s box to his own, never once breaking his heated debate with Yaku about the pros and cons of a conveyor belt showering system in hospitals.
“Eh? I thought Kenma liked broccoli?” Kai has curious eyes fixed on the transaction, with Kuroo now moving fishcake with swirled designs into Kenma’s bento.
“And he didn’t want to eat the fishcake at dinner last month!” Lev points out, looking faintly betrayed and puzzled at the same time.
Nibbling on one of the Naruto fishcake that Kuroo had given, Kenma tries to figure out how to enlighten his teammates in as succinct an explanation as possible, but Kuroo beats him to it.
“Kenma only eats broccoli if it’s cooked until soft,” Kuroo reveals, biting into the broccoli as though to demonstrate its crunchiness, “And he only likes the Naruto fishcake, not the regular red ones.”
A small ‘ohh’ of understanding ripples across their group of friends, and several of them exchange knowing looks, eyes darting between their captain and his setter. Kenma, adorably preoccupied with the ratio of rice and salmon flakes that he’s picking up, is entirely unaware of the flying looks that are going around their misshapen oval.
Equally blind to the smirks that his team is hiding behind hands or mouthfuls of rice, Kuroo picks the debate back up, waving half a broccoli around to make his point.
Lunch period is almost drawing to a close when Kenma is interrupted mid-sentence in his discussion with Inouka about last minute study techniques by a thumb lightly wiping at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes flit to Kuroo who looks mildly bewildered, and faintly pink as he rubs his thumb on a napkin.
“Sorry, you had a…” He gestures, failing to finish his sentence and Kenma just nods, turns back to Inouka, and continues with what he had been saying. Inouka, mouth agape, dark butterscotch eyes wide and glazed over, nods absently though it’s clear that he’s not really keeping up with their conversation any longer.
There’s a cough that disguises a laugh and someone else clears their throat, in a burst of activity and chatter, the boys scramble to fill the momentary lull in conversation that had coincided with the pause in Kenma’s.
“They’re dating, right?” Comes as a whisper from Lev, and he looks even more confused when Yaku shakes his head, a warning look on his face.
As they pack up their empty boxes and trickle back into the building, Kenma trails behind and for a fleeting moment, pale fingers take the trajectory of a warm thumb.
4
Kuroo watches as a couple of snowflakes dance their way down the icy air to land on his best friend’s maroon beanie. They stay there, tiny and perfect, until Kenma sneezes, a small kitten sneeze really, but they’re jolted and melt where they sit.
Holding his breath for a second sneeze that would tell him that Kenma was falling sick, Kuroo flips up the blonde’s hoodie as another sneeze fails to arrive and he lets out a cloud of breath. Just cold then.
Kenma trudges on, head down, eyes closed and one hand buried in Kuroo’s own winter coat pocket, just as he has done every year since he was eight. Kenma hates waking up early on school mornings but he absolutely loathes getting out of bed on winter mornings.
Kuroo knows that Kenma is either retreating inside himself where it’s warm and cozy or trying to sleepwalk and dream away the cold. Either way, he tucks his hands inside his pockets, adjusting his left hand so that it doesn’t squash Kenma’s and walks Kenma to school, listening to the ice crunch under their feet as their steps fall into sync.
“We’re here,” he murmurs, as they reach the concrete steps that they would have to take to their respective classes. Pausing in front of the first step, Kuroo feathers his hand over Kenma’s in his coat pocket, gently bumping it to get Kenma’s attention before starting up the stairs.
With a sigh so quiet Kuroo’s ears barely catch it, Kenma withdraws his hands and lifts up the hood to see where he’s going, laboriously tramping up step by step.
A lazy smile spreads itself on Kuroo’s face as he gazes after Kenma, so bundled against the cold that from the back, he looks close to a black ball of coat over jacket on top of sweater upon sweater upon sweater with a scarf for good measure.
It’s a testimony to how much Kenma despises the cold that he is willing to carry all this extra weight with him (on top of his school bag), just to stay a comfortable shade of warm. Kuroo chuckles as he recalls the usual face that Kenma makes when the cold starts setting in. His eye would twitch as his nose scrunches up and with an expression of long-suffering aggravation, he would head to the cupboard and start yanking out winter wear.
Above him, Kenma is slowly but steadily making his way up the stairs and Kuroo takes two at a time to catch up, slowing just before he hits the same step as Kenma.
Reaching out with a practised hand, Kuroo places his palm under Kenma’s bagpack and lifts, keeping the same rhythm as the smaller boy but remaining a couple of steps behind.
People usually assume that Kenma follows Kuroo, that his steps are blindly where Kuroo treads, his decisions not so much a choice but an imitation and that his path is paved by his taller friend.
But here is the truth, traced out on a winter morning like a finger writing in the snow, asphalt showing through the white. The truth is the sound of a single set of feet making its way through the ice, the brush of warm knuckles against cold fingers and Kenma, plodding up the stairs with Kuroo, two steps behind but never once losing the other’s momentum and easily keeping the weight of a school bag in his hands.
5
Winter hasn’t quite ebbed away yet and Kenma huddles into his oversized woollen sweater as he and Kuroo make their way down a crowded street in Akihabara. The temperature is still in the single digits so Kenma is wrapped up in a bundle of jackets and scarves and coats but Kuroo only has a single jacket on, Kenma feels cold just looking at him.
Already, Kenma’s regretting his decision to venture out on a weekend to one of the most crowded districts of Tokyo, but a new game has just been released and he’ll be damned if he has to wait until the crowds dissipate to get his hands on it.
Letting out a small huff, he frowns as he chastises himself for convincing both himself and Kuroo that he would rather brave the crowds than wait another three days to play the game. But he really wants it because he’s seen the trailers and the graphics are incredible. So here they are, weaving through the packed streets of Tokyo, trying not to get lost or separated.
“Do you want to go to that café again later?” Kuroo asks as they wait for the light to change at a crossing. Kenma knows exactly which one Kuroo’s talking about because he’s been thinking about it as well.
“Only if you buy me apple pie,” his eyes light up at the prospect of some hot apple pie because he knows what Kuroo’s answer will be.
“Done.”
“And only after you get more tape because I know you ran out at yesterday’s practice,” Kenma doesn’t look at Kuroo’s face as the green man appears and he starts walking, but he can imagine that the third year is probably pouting at the prospect of delaying the acquisition of a hazelnut latte.
“Kenmaaaa,” Kuroo draws his name out like it’s a complaint on its own.
“Kuro,” Kenma responds, keeping his tone neutral although he presses his lips together to keep from smirking at how silly and immature his best friend is.
“Can’t we get it after the café?”
“No, because you’ll sloth around the café so much that by the time we leave, we’ll forget or it’ll be too late,” Kenma delicately sidesteps a small girl toddling after her mother.
“Kenma! I won’t!”
“You will.”
“Will not!”
“Will too.”
“Won’t.”
“Will.”
“Wo- Oh wait, your shoelace is out,” Kuroo herds them towards the side of the street, near the wall where they won’t be in people’s way. Bending to reach the offending shoelace, Kenma is stopped by a hand on his arm.
“I’ll do it,” Kuroo says simply, “You’re practically a snowman, I’m afraid you’ll fall over if you try to do this yourself.”
Without further explanation, Kuroo is crouched on one knee, deft fingers taking care of the shoelaces as Kenma stands there, lips parted, though whether to stop Kuroo or to thank him he isn’t sure.
People blur past, blending into a whirl of colours and a hotchpotch of snatched conversation as they chase their lives down, rushing forwards to some distant place and point in the future.
What’s the hurry? Kenma wants to ask. What’s so great about being there? What do you see there that isn’t already here?
Amidst the rush, he’s a still figure, a stone in the centre of a brook, unmoving as water bubbles on and away. Even with the veil of hair that shields him from the full force of what feels like the world moving at top speed, Kenma finds it hard not to get swept away in this whirlpool of figures.
It’s like being out on an open field when the wind blusters in and threatens to tear you away from the ground, toss you up into the endless sky with nothing to hold on to. Kenma feels like he might float off and away, carried by the unceasing motion of life, into a perpetual stumble toward a great unknown. He wonders how he doesn’t just simply get pulled into the riptide and out of himself.
But then he looks down and finds that he knows, he knows why.
Because he has an anchor. Because there are broad hands hovering over his feet, long fingers lingering over his laces, a messy, dark head achingly comforting in its familiarity, and a lean, lanky figure that stays steady even when the world is flashing by like lightning in a thunderstorm.
Under his long sleeves, Kenma’s fingers curl, nails grazing the wool, as though he’s subconsciously trying to grasp onto the boy in front of him. Because to Kenma, life is like a typhoon, a sea storm, a cyclone and a hurricane all at once, but at the centre of it all has been Kuroo. Just as he is now, an anchor that Kenma holds on to for stability, a harbour that promises safety and a lighthouse to show that there is a destination in this seemingly unending dark.
Except that destination is Kuroo, Kenma realises, is and has been and always will be.
As Kuroo finishes double knotting the laces, he looks up and grins, a bright smile exactly like the one he used to give when Kenma acquiesced to his pleas to toss a ball around instead of playing Pokemon. Kenma’s fingers tighten and then relax, and he offers a small smile, one that only Kuroo has seen.
And Kenma knows.
+1
Kenma watches as the team swarms the third years, some of them openly sobbing (Yamamoto), while others struggle to keep brave faces despite the tears spilling down their cheeks (Fukunaga). They offer handshakes that turn into group hugs, burying wet faces in blazers and blustering words that hadn’t gotten the chance to be heard during the volleyball team’s handover.
Lev has Yaku two feet off the ground in a squeeze that could rival a boa constrictor’s and he’s blubbering into Yaku’s shoulder. For once, the senior looks less annoyed and more fond, patting the grey haired junior with his free hand and saying something in a bemused tone.
Kuroo manages to wiggle free from the pile of juniors and scans the crowd, hands in his pockets. Even from his spot pressed against a pillar, Kenma can see that his fists are clenched and his heart pulls ahead of him in an urge to soothe the slight frown lines on the taller boy’s forehead.
Instead, Kenma remains half-hidden in the shadows as he fights down the desire to turn tail and run. Because everything is too fast and there are a million people Kuroo is talking to and another million Kenma will have to wade through just to get to him and he wants to give into the irrational fear inside of him, go home and pretend that the year hasn’t passed, that the seasons haven’t changed and that Kuroo isn’t leaving.
Kuroo is stopped under a blossoming tree by a group of girls, some bearing chocolates and others holding cards and letters. It looks exactly like the graduation day scene from a teenage drama and it makes Kenma clamp down on the mass of emotion swirling in him and straighten.
His gaze doesn’t once waver from the tall, muscled frame with the endearing bedhead as he cuts through the crowd with a singular purpose, muttering small ‘excuse me’s and ducking around bouquets.
One of the girls has thoughtfully produced a bag for Kuroo to place all his gifts and letters in and the paper handle sits on the crooks of Kuroo’s fingers as he thanks them again for their consideration. Despite having completed their mission, they hang around, eyeing Kuroo’s shirt just where the tie covers it and disappears into a dark vest, and suddenly Kenma understands.
When he notices Kenma silently appear at his elbow, Kuroo’s eyebrows go up and the fist in his pocket tightens.
“I could have come to you, you didn’t have to-”
“I did,” Kenma raises his chin and meets Kuroo’s eyes. Gazes still locked, Kenma reaches for a hand that’s buried deep in trouser pockets, slim fingers encircling Kuroo’s wrist to draw it out.
For a brief moment, Kenma just cradles the slightly trembling hand in both of his, the way you would hold an injured dove or a tiny kitten, shielding it from everything else with nothing but your own flesh and tenderness.
The girls are a rapt audience, none of them move as they follow the pair’s joined hands with avid interest. Kuroo’s hazel eyes are regarding Kenma with a riot of emotion, oscillating between surprise, hope, fear, uncertainty and settling on confusion.
Gently, Kenma pries open Kuroo’s fist to reveal a small, shiny circle that has left a tell-tale gap in Kuroo’s shirt that’s hidden by his tie. This time, it’s a smaller hand, equally as calloused as Kuroo’s, that closes around it.
“This is mine,” it comes out as a statement in Kenma’s soft but firm voice, he’s not sure if he said it for his benefit or the girls’, but they finally take their cue and bow, dispersing in a flurry of whispered exclamations and hushed giggles.
“Kenma,” Kuroo starts, his other hand hovers over Kenma’s, aching to land but hesitant to, “Are you-”
“It is, isn’t it?” Doubt shakes Kenma’s voice as he starts to loosen his grip on the button. That’s when Kuroo’s hand descends, wrapping itself around Kenma’s knuckles and enclosing the small piece of hard plastic in his grip.
“It is,” the words leave Kuroo’s lips in a wheeze, Kenma looks up to see Kuroo with a single, clear emotion on his face, “Is, always has been, always will be.”
Kenma studies his best friend’s face, just as he knows his own expression is being read, since they have never needed words to understand each other.
And Kenma knows that when someone is the very axis that your world spins upon, it doesn’t matter how many rotations you endure, how quickly the seasons change, or what the rest of the world is doing, because what’s at the centre of your world is the reason it’s spinning at all.