Chapter Text
As soon as Akaashi takes a step towards the set of stairs in front of him, he knows something isn’t right.
The cellar doors look something akin to gates, a fucked up stairway to hell if he ever saw one. No light, no sound. Only that strong, metallic stench wafting up from the concrete at the bottom.
"Ah," Akaashi whispers to himself, his expression neutral as he regards the entrance. There's that sensation...
The rain outside pours down as the police force multitask around him, sharing information and getting ready to investigate the crime scene. Everything is merely a buzz as Akaashi stares into the darkness below him, body stiff.
"Did you check for vital signs?"
"There were no signs of forced entry."
"The victim's been dead for hours."
"When's the coroner getting here?"
Akaashi lets it all rush past him. None of it matters quite yet, and it does nothing but skew his thoughts.
How no one else feels it, he doesn’t know. Metalbenders can be quite dense.
It’s still too early to be out, around four in the morning, and Akaashi's eyes burn as they struggle to make sense of his surroundings. He doesn’t bother with an umbrella, letting the water run off his cap and through his uniform. Frigid. He knows his skin is icy to the touch, but his chills are not from the cold. He's hardly moved since he approached the side of the town home, staring down into the open cellar.
Behind him, he hears footsteps sloshing in the street puddles, but doesn’t both turning around. Akaashi wonders how he looks right then, standing here. Normally, Akaashi is efficient, meticulous. He likes getting investigations started as soon as possible, and usually paces the floor while he waits for the security sweep to be finished.
This time is different.
Akaashi hasn’t felt this numb since his first homicide, over six years ago. Since then he’s become calculating, professional, and perfectly capable of separating work from emotion.
Yet that bone trembling tension in the air is not something he can ignore, and it should not be there. It means nothing good, and he is too experienced for his intuition to be a mistake.
Whatever is down there is purely sinister, and something he likely won’t forget. Worst of all, he doubts the case is as simple as one dead body on the floor.
Regardless, he'll have to go find out.
"Are you ready, Bokuto-san?" He asks, because no one else is brave or comfortable enough to approach Akaashi when he gets so in his head like this. He welcomes the interruption from Bokuto each time though, the only one who can energize him. At least Bokuto is with him. Akaashi doesn’t know if he'd want to face this without his partner.
He expects the usual boisterous, far too awake voice to come booming into his ear, would've preferred it actually. Bokuto's natural positivity would've helped. Of course, Akaashi knows that after all this time, Bokuto can read him better than that, and he’s far more attuned to things than people give him credit for.
"You think something's wrong?" Bokuto asks, abnormally grim, and Akaashi peers up at him in time to see the grimace settling on his partner's face. He didn’t have time to gel his hair that morning, the loose strands falling in front of his eyes, but nevertheless Akaashi can tell they’re piercing the darkness of the cellar with the usual owlish intensity. It’s rare to see Bokuto so...uncomfortable. Akaashi doesn’t like it. He misses the easy-going smile, the radiance.
For once, he sort of needs it.
Without waiting for an answer, Bokuto holds up his hands, giving Akaashi a pair of gloves so as to not touch or contaminate anything.
Akaashi sighs, thoroughly dreading the work, but he takes them.
Yeah, something is wrong, but not the normal wrong. They’ve worked in the violent crime division for years, they've seen a lot of ominous, horrid things.
"It's not normal," is what he eventually comes up with, and he pulls on his gloves with a snap, knowing Bokuto will understand the meaning all too clear.
The steps down to the cellar crunch like gravel under their feet, untiled and unpaved. Akaashi shines his flashlight into the depths as they descend, the smell of metal growing stronger and stronger. It chokes him, singes his nostrils, and Bokuto coughs beside him, raising his hand to cover his mouth.
The walls are wet, and Akaashi stays as far from them as possible.
He doesn’t know if it’s all from the rain, and once they actually reach the bottom, he knows for certain it’s not.
Had he been a rookie, he might've vomited.
"Holy shit," Bokuto whispers, and just as Akaashi thought, that foreboding hunch from before wasn’t accidental.
Akaashi stares as Bokuto circles the...body, marveling at the asymmetrical gashes and flayed flesh. Crimson blood soaks the walls, the floor, and Akaashi can’t step anywhere without coming into contact with it.
He misses the rain terribly, he wants it to cleanse him, wash him off. He swears he feels blood dripping on him just looking at the ceiling.
The...victim, if the corpse can even be considered a person anymore, is split open like a bug smashed on the hood of a Satomobile, entrails out, but dried up. It’s like the corpse had been robbed of all moisture, all life. The remnants of what was once skin sit pallid and sickly against the black floor, the veins drained of blood.
"Akaashi..." Bokuto says numbly into the thick air, mostly for comfort. He sounds like he’s holding his breath, refusing to breathe in the smell of blood and fear which feel ingrained into the room.
Akaashi just shakes his head, listening as more thunderous footsteps come from behind him, the rest of the team flooding in. "It's like he burst..."
The first officer lays eyes on the victim, and the footsteps halt, the cries echoing into the space.
It’s too loud now, way too loud for Akaashi to think.
"Oh god," an officer whimpers against a chorus of gasps, already backing away. Too soft for this, and Akaashi doesn’t have the time for it. "Oh fuck, oh shi--"
Akaashi's eyes narrow, and in an instant, his brain kicks into gear, and he no longer has the time to get lost in the suspicion coursing through his mind.
The sort of people who commit crimes like this do not stop. But they made a mistake in their murder method; the sort of bending used is far too obvious.
Akaashi spins around, locking onto the nearest officer who looks semi-coherent, and gives his orders. "Get the bending experts in here now, and close off the street."
Everyone stays at a standstill, and Akaashi throws off his cap, voice firm. "Go, now!"
Akaashi never raises his voice; they know it’s serious.
The force scurries, but Bokuto stays, giving Akaashi a look he’s all too familiar with.
Those owlish eyes peer at him, unrelenting in their intensity, the golden hue the only pleasant color against the red backdrop.
"Looks like we've got a waterbender on our hands," he says, and as much as Akaashi wishes it wasn't the case, he knows it’s nothing but the truth.
"Yeah," he replies, glaring at his stained shoes. "I guess we do."
--
Republic City's usual gleam is gone, replaced with dull gray and thunderous echoes, the precursors to lightning not even the dragons could conjure.
When Kuroo looks out the window that morning, he wonders if the gloom of the city will ever end. The rainy season has dominated the sky, large droplets splashing against the water of Yue Bay. It never seems to stop, and considering Kuroo lives in the thin walled apartments of the shipping district, it’s impossible to ignore.
His abode sits not even one block away from the docks, and the tiny square which he calls home doesn’t allow him much escape from the brunt of the storms. The streets are flooded, and getting dry is a task each and every day.
Sighing at the roaring beat of the water, Kuroo gets up from his bed, minding the low, dysfunctional placement of shelf above him. His muscles ache from his lumpy mattress, and he considers sleeping on the floor from now on. But then again, maybe that’s just the rain getting to him. Zaofu always felt sunny…
Kuroo shakes his head. His grandmother never liked a negative attitude in her house.
So, enough of that. He definitely wants to steer clear of those thoughts more than anything, and to do that he needs--wants to get out of his place, rain or no rain. His neighbors, two earthbenders who moved in recently, have done nothing but yell at each other all night.
They haven’t stopped either.
Dirt and dust fall from his ceiling as a door slams in their apartment, and Kuroo rolls his eyes. Breakfast be damned, Kuroo will pick something up on the way to the loading docks. Last thing he wants is to get worked up into a bad mood before he even leaves the house.
Arguably, leaving his apartment is the best part of any day. He loves living in the city, so much so he sacrificed his spacious condo in Zaofu to move here. It’s a nice change, a new beginning. Simpler. He lives poor, but that means nothing with the center of the world at his fingertips.
It’s what he tells himself, whenever the itch comes back, telling him something is missing, that he has no real, tangible attachment to anywhere anymore.
Today the itch stays far though, washed off in the storm drains like rain water.
Already feeling better, Kuroo flicks his wrist, pulling his keys into his palm from where they sit across the dining table. Maybe he’ll treat himself today, there’s a new cafe down the road which promises authentic dishes from Zaofu. He'll see about that.
In his heart, nothing will ever beat his grandmother’s bean curd puffs, and he’s getting better at pushing those thoughts away with the strength to move entire building foundations.
Kicking on his shoes and running a hand through his hair (which surely looks the same as it always does and therefore can’t be fixed), Kuroo slams his own door just to be petty.
He pulls up his hood as he jogs across the street, eager to pick up the morning paper from the stand near the docks. Workers, mostly waterbenders and earthbenders, are already packing and unloading ships, and probably have been for hours. The smell of fresh caught fish and the screech of metal hulls make Kuroo scrunch up his nose, but this is his everyday, and it calms him. He always did like to be useful, and his bending talent never failed him.
He smiles at the folk around him, hoping they feel that same sense of momentary belonging.
To his right, a group of waterbenders help to steer a ship into port. It fascinates Kuroo, how smoothly they bend the falling rain into arches, offering cover for the ship’s crew, each arm movement delicate and flowing. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, waterbenders. They’re the majority around the ports, commonplace, but Kuroo becomes aware of eyes on them. The docks are normally crowded, but...not this much.
He watches as a group of civilians pass by, eyeing the workers cautiously, the whispers flowing like the water around them. It catches Kuroo's attention, sure, but he quickly shrugs it off. It isn’t uncommon for some people to look down on dock workers. Hell, he’s been at the receiving end of classist comments plenty of times.
"Hey Kuroo," a voice disrupts his thoughts, and Kuroo turns, noting how he’s reached the newsstand without realizing. Yamaguchi sits there, smiling gently, though there’s a certain edge to it this morning. Not a good sign.
Yamaguchi is a guiding light, about as chipper and warm as the flames which can dance off his fingertips. Kuroo takes the paper held out for him, rolling it into his coat for safe keeping.
"Slow morning?" Yamaguchi asks, loud to compete with the rain.
"Not slow enough," Kuroo shouts back, looking towards where the dock workers are retreating onto the ships. Around him, Kuroo can still sense the whispers, the mutterings. His brow furrows. "Did something happen?"
Maybe an accident...
A few feet away, a mother hoists her child into her arms, glaring at one of the waterbenders who has come onto the docks for his break. Okay, that’s...odd.
Kuroo continues to stare as Yamaguchi’s voice rushes in his ears.
The other laughs nervously, a bit of playfulness in his tone. "For how much you read the paper, I'd think you would know. They found two more bodies last night over by the butchery."
Bodies? What--
"Oh," Kuroo says, the realization dawning on him. "Shit, you'd think the damn police force would catch the guy by now. It's been two weeks!"
A very stressful two weeks.
Kuroo hasn’t read up much on the crime specifics, but he knows the flashy points. It’s sort of hard to avoid. Ever since the first body had been found two weeks ago, everyone seemed on edge. This was one of the worst crime sprees since the mob fights over a decade ago. Republic City has never had a serial killer before, not one without a motive or pattern.
A curfew was put in for some districts, and now more police roam the streets in the evening as a result. Like it helped.
Whoever they have working on the case needs to be fired, Kuroo can’t help but yearn for at least some progress.
Now since the first body, two more people have been taken, left out like roadkill. The public has been ravenous for information, but they haven’t been told the cause of death yet, and Kuroo has a bad feeling about it, especially right now.
Kuroo doesn’t understand, but he’s pretty sure he will, sooner than he wants to.
"The butchery is down the road, what are they all doing here?" he asks Yamaguchi, and off to the side, he can see a few police cars parking at the curbs.
Great. The last thing he wants is his neighborhood clogged up by cops.
Yamaguchi shakes his head, holding up another copy of the paper. The headline read: Killer Still at Large; Methods Revealed. "The victims are missing all their blood, like the killer had used..."
Looking around, Yamaguchi leans in closer to Kuroo, his voice hushed as he utters one of the most taboo offenses in their lifetime. Even still, it seems comical, up until he processes it. "Bloodbending."
Just the word, the mention, makes chills climb up Kuroo's spine, and he can’t help it, his eyes flick over to the group of waterbenders currently being questioned by the police.
Well, that’s one lead at least. The killer is a waterbender, but Kuroo doesn’t know if it’ll do much good. He frowns in pity at the troubled faces of the workers, good-natured, normal citizens, and apologizes for even suspecting them for a second. It’s not them, and he feels that deep inside himself, but the thought of the police understanding that…
Kuroo sighs. This surely won’t make life easy for the docks. But Kuroo can’t do anything about that, can only hope things get resolved quickly.
Kuroo gives Yamaguchi a quick nod before he’s off, eyes drifting back to the tribal blues and furs by the port.
--
The next day, those blues and furs are on the floor of the docks, sopping wet and treated without care.
They slap onto the wet pavement, hand crafted and warm, and Kuroo can't help but cling to his coat.
"I read but..." Yamaguchi begins, since even he abandoned his newsstand in favor of watching the commotion slowly escalate. "I didn't think it was true."
They wished it wasn't.
The public is walled off from the affair, but Kuroo can see enough as cops line up some of the workers, unfortunate souls who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Kuroo knows. He asks a cop what the waterbenders are being questioned for, and he looks at him like it's the stupidest question in the world. Like it doesn't matter.
Yesterday's headline flashes in Kuroo's head, and he's scared to reach for today's paper, the one wrapped tightly in his coat. It will offer an explanation, but Kuroo isn't quite prepared to acknowledge this as reality yet.
Yamaguchi keeps him distracted enough as the questioning continues, so Kuroo doesn't lash out or get involved.
It's hard. More than that, it's unbearable. No one else seems that perturbed though, and any other waterbenders in the vicinity scattered as soon as they realized what would be happening.
Kuroo can't blame them.
He watches in half anger, half curiosity as policemen fit small, metal squares onto the wrists of some of the waterbenders. They all wince at the pinch of it; it whirs a robotic sound, three small, distinct lights blinking one after the other on their sleek surfaces. Red, orange, yellow. One of the female workers whimpers when hers is administered a little harsher, in attempt to speed up the process, but Kuroo soon learns the initial prick is nothing compared to the lasting consequences.
"What...are those?" Kuroo asks finally, because he can't avoid it any longer.
Yamaguchi's gaze is worried, and he's always been the type to express pity and empathy openly, something which used to strike Kuroo as odd. The aggression and stoic veneer of firebenders did not reach Yamaguchi, but then again, maybe Kuroo's simply more naive about these things than he thinks.
"Do you know Oikawa Tooru?" Yamaguchi asks, like he didn't just speak the name of one of the most famous inventors of all time. He's responsible for the railway tech of the city, the bridges, and half the infrastructure. Hell, his name is probably burned into the sides of all the dock equipment.
Kuroo tilts his head, as if to say as much, and Yamaguchi's eyes lower to Kuroo's coat. The paper.
The police pull away in their cars to terrorize more of the docks as Kuroo whips the paper out, and the headline screams at him in bold, rain blurred ink.
Oikawa Tooru Sues the City for Chi-Blocker Tech Initiative
Oikawa, who as far as Kuroo knows, always smiles too bright and sunny for the cameras, is pictured with nothing short of a scowl on his face. Kuroo can almost feel the snarl on his face as he reads the direct quotes from the press conference.
"The police have no right to take my invention to use for their witch hunts. These devices were created to control violent, convicted criminals in our city's prison! This is theft as far as I'm concerned, and I won't rest until full restitution is paid to me and all the victims. All I can say is that I'm sorry."
Yamaguchi's voice interrupts his reading horror, but Kuroo gets the gist. "They're anti-bending chips. Apparently, they have a time limit. If the person starts to bend, a timer stops, and it only allows thirty seconds. I think the colors are warnings, and they beep too...Yellow and orange mean the person isn't a risk yet..."
Yet...
Just the presence of the chips marks waterbenders as a threat period. How is this allowed? Surely, the council...the president...
Someone has to be stepping in.
"None of the city officials have released a comment," Yamaguchi whispers, as if reading his mind, and Kuroo throws the paper into the nearest trash. Cowards.
He knows it's unfair. Surely, Ushijima Wakatoshi will make a statement, Zaofu had better. But he feels sick. He can't imagine being robbed of such an essential part of himself. Metalbending is more than a defense for him, more than just a convenience. It's what he spent all his summers learning in the parks with his grandfather, in the sculpture gardens with his grandmother...
He might have left Zaofu behind, but it's his culture, where he's from, and his bending is woven into that like the beams of Zaofu's steel domes.
How are these people supposed to live the same? Work the same?
Kuroo watches as the defeated band of workers reluctantly get back to work, but gone are the aqueous arches and gentle sweeps of the shore, manipulated by their arms. He wants to say he's sorry, but even that seems like an insult, too much.
He's late for work at this point, but he's sure he won't be the only one. He looks to Yamaguchi as he starts to slink back to his newsstand, only one question on his mind. "What happens when it gets to red?"
Yamaguchi just shakes his head. "It administers a...a shock."
It sounds far less sinister than it is, but it still makes Kuroo want to go back to bed for the next two years, until the crime is solved.
Just one shock, but he's sure it's not small.
--
In the following days, the weather doesn’t change, but a lot of other things do.
"Why hasn't the Water Tribe representative denounced these attacks yet? It's his people!"
"Be careful around that street, it's a Water Tribe district."
"I always knew they were suspicious! The way they keep to themselves, you can't trust any of them."
The gossip and fear mongering is in full swing. Kuroo has managed to somewhat separate himself from the drama. He's more than sympathetic to the waterbenders' plight, but he can't do much but go about his day.
It's harder than it looks.
Kuroo purposefully shoves at one of the men he passes who’s spewing the same hateful words, uncaring of the gruff scoff he gets in return. The fish market rows are narrow enough, Kuroo reasons. If people are going to talk and not shop, they should leave.
Not even Ushijima Wakatoshi, the councilman for the Southern Water Tribe, could quiet the storm with the comments the previous day. All attention came back to his husband, Oikawa, and the press has gone off in every different direction since.
Kuroo slips past the morning crowd with his basket as he tries to get the thoughts out of his mind, throwing in helpings of fish and crab for his dinner. As gross as it smells, he loves the outdoor fish markets, the bright blue tarps providing nice shield from the rain. It’s the only place to get such fresh food, but a lot of the merchants in the fishing business are Water Tribe, and the amount of uncomfortable tension sitting in the air is nearly too much for Kuroo to take.
It's as if they're all lookouts, waiting for police to show so they can cut and run. Kuroo would certainly help.
As Kuroo passes a stall of freshly caught trout, he throws an apologetic smile at the vender, who stands decked out in Water Tribe garb. He’s clearly heard every word.
At least here, waterbenders have strength in numbers. Most of the people shopping are either open-minded like Kuroo, or fellow waterbenders themselves. No one wants to be in an area where a killer could've likely originated.
Whatever, more fish for him.
"Can I get a pound please?" he asks, grinning as he watches workers package his mackerel. Just the thought of his savory meal makes his mouth water, so much so he almost doesn’t notice the quarrel happening a few stands down.
The yells fix that right up.
"P-please, I've worked this stall for years, I have a permit and--"
Kuroo recognizes the voice instantly, and he runs, forgetting his basket. Of all the people...
When he gets to the stand, he sees Asahi with his hands raised in surrender, always trying to placate people who didn't deserve it. People usually stayed away from him, his height and bulk enough to seem intimidating, but these people were bold.
"Exactly, who's to say you haven't been scoping the area? You waterbenders should stay off the streets as far as I'm concerned," an older man says, his face red and blotchy from all the screaming he's doing. Kuroo would rather be locked in a square room with the killer themselves than with this guy.
Anyone who yells at someone as nice and generous as Asahi, who gave Kuroo free fish when he first moved to the city and was still lost and homeless, is on Kuroo's shit list.
Asahi shakes his head, his parka jostling. Of course, Asahi would never think of disguising himself. A proud member of the southern tribe; Kuroo has always respected it, the joy with which Asahi talks about his home. "Sir, I'm not a bender, I don't have anything to do with--"
The man and a few of his friends step closer, too close, to Asahi's stand, and their fists are clenched tight, ready to spring into action at any moment. Kuroo has been in fights, he can feel the escalation in the air, the gasoline, waiting to be ignited. "As far as I'm concerned, you're all guilty."
The minute the man's hand grips Asahi's table, Kuroo moves into action. His hands come up, unlatching the slants of metal around his neck until they sit floating in the air, sharp and ready to halt any attack. He plants his feet, feels that rush which always comes before a strike, and his eyes narrow to slits.
But just as his arm moves back, ready to fire, there's a flash of movement, and someone has beaten him to it.
Green is all he sees, and a speck of blond, before reality settles back in.
Someone steps heavily on top of Asahi's stand from behind, the one step like a boom of thunder. He's careful not to damage any of the goods on top of it, until his feet are back on the ground and he's face to face with the ignorant man. It's so immediate, so loud and commanding, the man and his companions flinch back in an instant. Hell, so does Kuroo.
His metal shards almost hit the concrete, but he manages to collect them, and they fall back into place around his collar.
Kuroo watches, in a trance.
The man is blond, and he towers over the ignorant spewer in front of him. Hate is no longer enough to stamp out fear, and the man stutters, putting more distance between them.
Or maybe it's the blond's clothing. Challenger or not, he's dressed similarly to the men in earth kingdom attire, shale greens like a forest. There's something off about it though. Earthbenders who weren't born in the city are twice as stubborn, they come from landscapes of dry heat and humidity. Winter garb exists, but is often ignored. And Kuroo knows, he knows this man is new. Kuroo frequents the markets often enough to know names and faces.
He's not dressed like a new earthbender, one too prideful and tough to throw on thick coats and tailor hoods. The blond's tunic is long and an olive hue, reaching past his waist, but it takes nothing from his height. The long sleeves partially hide the bandage wraps on his wrists, and his hood accompanies them. The darker green of it brings out the porcelain of his skin. The sweatpants are thick and tucked into brown boots, like he's trekked a thousand miles just to meet this one asshole face to face.
Even through all this, Kuroo can't look past the weirdest thing. The bright blue, clashing betrothal necklace which sits tightly around his neck, two shells carved expertly into the pendant.
The crowd holds its breath when the blond sneers down at the man, his words a commandment. "Leave now."
Asahi looks somewhere between shocked and thankful as his eyes track the blond, and Kuroo can't help but feel the same.
The hateful man stutters, thrown off, as if he's never been challenged so publicly. "Y-you....you shouldn't be so quick to protect the likes of him! Have some common sense, people are being killed! They're all liars!"
The words sting even Kuroo, and he glares himself, not nearly as powerful as the pure disgust on the blond's face.
Something in his steady scowl cracks though, like he's ready to lunge and tackle the man into the nearest pile of clams, and Kuroo thinks he just might. The man would deserve it, but Kuroo doesn't think it'll resolve anything.
The blond opens his mouth with a snarl, but then his arm is being grabbed, wrenched back with a force. Kuroo winces; the pull is hard enough to dislocate an arm, but the blond just seems inconvenienced at most.
He twists to look behind him, and Kuroo gets a glimpse too. Another man stands there with thick, dark hair parted to the side, and eyes cold and prying like a snake's. His clothes leave no room for analysis. They scream water tribe, violet parka lined with white fur and geometric lines. He stares at the blond defiantly, like his frenzied touch wasn't enough. He whispers something, and the blond flinches, a war playing out on his face.
Before Kuroo can think about it or catch up, his brain pushes him into action during the lull. Kuroo steps out into the crowd, right in front of the blond, and the crowd somewhat remembers to breathe again.
Kuroo thanks his stars his grandfather taught him good public speaking skills; his voice carries, booming across the stalls.
He fixes the hateful man with a stare, and Kuroo can feel the blond's eyes on the back of his neck. "Please, you can't hold all these people accountable."
When the man opens his mouth, Kuroo fixes him with sharp eyes, not allowing him to interrupt for even a moment. He doesn't deserve it. "Asahi has worked here for years, and he's one of the nicest men I've ever met. I'd appreciate it if you'd move along, so I can buy from him. You're clogging up the row."
Kuroo has always been the civil type in most cases, but there's no warmth in his voice, and the underlying threat of 'move, or I'll move you myself' sits thick around them.
He sees the man swallow, eyes burning with more, but under the scrutiny of all the onlookers, he eventually retreats with a scoff. Kuroo watches their backs as they retreat, until they're completely out of sight.
Kuroo allows himself to exhale, and the bustle of the market seems to resume slowly, the wrapping of paper and slapping of fish filling the space soon enough. He's grateful for it, and turns back to where the blond stands with his water tribe friend, and Asahi.
"Thanks Kuroo," Asahi breathes, slumping into his chair. Kuroo smiles, but it's only half as bright as usual. To think things have gotten this bad...
And then, Asahi perks up, looking over to where the other two men stand. "And thank you, Tsukishima."
The blond's eyes widen in surprise, and the bold defiance from earlier melts away. Tsukishima bows his head, pulling his hood up as if to blend away from the eyes of the word. His voice is nothing more than a mumble, shy and small. A trickle of a stream instead of the boom of ocean waves. "It was nothing," he says, but then his face contorts into a grimace. "If Daishou hadn't stopped me..."
"You'd be in police custody right now," his friend (or so Kuroo assumes), barks back. Daishou's eyes are unkind as they fix onto Kuroo, looking him up and down like he might have some potential disease. "And what are you still doing here? Want some kind of award, huh? Proud to be a decent metalbender?"
"Ah, hey..." Asahi mumbles, smiling nervously. Tsukishima says nothing, but pulls his arm away from Daishou's hold with no ounce of gentleness.
At the words, Kuroo bristles. He knows it's rare for metalbenders in republic city to not be cops, and well...cops aren't really beloved now, but he'd never expect praise for being a decent person. He just wanted to help...
He tries not to take offense as he shakes his head. "No! I-I swear, I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay--"
"Yeah, peachy," Daishou mutters, and he's having absolutely none of it. Kuroo squashes the instinct to argue with him. Kuroo understands the hostility, especially with what's been going on, but the bite in Daishou's tone isn't easy to overlook. Then, Daishou is storming away without another word to Kuroo. "C'mon, Tsukishima."
Kuroo knows nothing about him, but the blond doesn't seem like the type to take orders.
And he doesn't, not right away.
Tsukishima breathes, and stays put for a calculated five seconds, right before he might lose Daishou in the crowd or around the next corner. The blond looks to Kuroo, quiet, but without the wrinkles and ridges of contempt which had been there for the protesters. Tsukishima's eyes are as silent and loud as he is, contradicting Kuroo's analysis. They hold so much that Kuroo can't name, like a slow-moving fire. Stealthy, but capable of so much destruction. Kuroo feels weak under the stare, and he shivers, like he's naked inside and out. Thinking Tsukishima can sense as much is ridiculous, but Kuroo feels it, the gradual pulling apart of everything Kuroo has to offer.
Then, the blond's eyes soften, and he mumbles two genuine, warm words, and they're arguably more powerful than anything he's uttered prior. "Thank you."
Kuroo feels them, down to the tips of his toes, and by the time he remembers he exists, Tsukishima is gone.