Archive of Our Own ^beta

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” the taller man says with an apologetic smile—which is pretty much all Kenma can see of his face anyway, with the mask on—and Kenma agrees.

“I’m just walking,” he mumbles, then fixes the other man with his gaze. “You could probably stop doing—” Kenma waves his hand in a vague gesture towards him, in an attempt to encompass the mask, ridiculous outfit and, god, the hair, “— that more easily.”

There’s a braying noise, and Kenma startles, glancing around to see if a hyena has somehow broken loose from Ueno Zoo. A moment later, he realises his accidental companion is shaking, and—

Oh my god. That’s his laugh?

Kenma doesn’t know whether to be horrified, sympathetic or amused despite himself. Perhaps some combination of all three.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ll tell Simba to stick to the routes so I don’t have to chase him halfway across the city just to figure out where the fuck he is and mow down unsuspecting citizens in the process,” the masked guy says wryly, and Kenma can feel the furrow between his brows pinch.

“Tell him Google Maps is free,” Kenma mutters, and there’s the braying laugh again. God, Kenma can’t think of anything worse. It’s the kind of noise that can’t help but draw everyone’s attention, which sounds like Kenma’s nightmare. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, it seems unfortunately distinctive for someone who runs around in a mask and presumably wants to keep his identity secret.

“Your laugh is very noticeable,” Kenma says reprovingly, glancing up to frown at his mask. “Probably more than your face would be.”

“I’ll have you know, I have a very noticeable face,” is the retort. Kenma can’t see much of his eyes, obscured as they are by the mask and the angle created by their height difference, but he has a distinct sense of a wink. Gross.

“So does a goblin shark,” Kenma says, unimpressed.

“My thing is chemistry, not marine biology,” the other man complains, and Kenma raises an eyebrow. “You have very judgemental eyebrows,” Weird Hair continues, but he sounds more amused than affronted. Kenma can’t decide if that’s a bad thing or not.

“Don’t you have…” Kenma trails off, gesturing towards the alleyway with a flick of his wrist, eyes widening a fraction. Shouyou’s told him he’s not very expressive sometimes, which is probably worse when it’s strangers trying to decode him, but Kenma really doesn’t have the energy nor the patience to exert more effort in indicating his meaning.

Thankfully, Weird Hair seems to understand him. “Ah, yes. Cat-wrangling. Well, duty calls,” he says, giving Kenma a jaunty salute. “See you next time!”

And then he’s gone, quick and quiet as a cat, and somehow even better at melting into shadows. Kenma watches for a moment longer, his eyes having adjusted to the dim, but there’s nothing there: Weird Hair is gone without a trace, same as ever.

“There’s not meant to be a next time,” he mumbles to himself, and then picks up his groceries and goes home.

The first time Kenma had met Weird Hair, he had quite literally knocked Kenma over.

To his credit, he’d also managed to catch Kenma before he actually hit the ground, but seeing as it was entirely his fault that Kenma was off-balance in the first place, Kenma isn’t particularly inclined to count that as a point in his favour.

Kenma had been walking home, eyes fixed on his PSP, when a sudden ear-splitting yowl had filled the air. He’d flinched, and had been about to look around when something zipped past him, knocking him off his feet and towards the pile of garbage at the edge of the alley. Then there was the sound of something skidding to a halt, and a hand had reached out to grab him within a second of him even being knocked off-balance.

“Hi,” a breathless voice had said, and Kenma, disoriented, had glanced up to find more than six feet of ridiculous hair, dark clothes that Kenma couldn’t manage to distinguish from the shadows, and hazel eyes that gleamed in the darkness.

Not that it should have been as dark as it was.

Before Kenma had been able to pursue that thought—or do literally anything except blink—a yowl had sounded through the air again, and the stranger had cursed. “Shit, gotta go,” he’d said, and then he was zipping away, faster than Kenma’s eyes could track.

“Sorry about that!” he’d called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

Kenma, blinking at the end of the alleyway (that all of a sudden seemed much brighter, and much more appropriately visible for the time in the afternoon it was), had half-wondered if he’d dreamed the entire encounter.

Three weeks later, when some absolutely absurd gangly mess of limbs and what looked like a silver mane had bled all over his school bag before being dragged away by Weird Hair with an apologetic look and a promise to make it up to Kenma (which seemed misplaced, given that it wasn’t his fault the idiot had bled all over Kenma—as far as he could tell, anyway—but also difficult to execute given that they didn’t actually know each other), Kenma had been forced to reassess that possibility.

He was definitely real.

He was also definitely trouble.

“Tokyo is a big city,” Kenma says, brows knitted into a frown.

“I mean, yeah,” Weird Hair says distractedly, ducking back into the shadows and slinging—god, Kenma doesn’t know what, but slinging something—at the swirling mass at the end of the street before reappearing into view. “There’s like 37 million people in the area.”

“It’s a lot,” Kenma agrees, holding tightly onto his PSP as he suddenly finds himself lifted five feet in the air as something blasts right through where he used to be standing. He glances down, and immediately fixes his gaze back onto his PSP, deciding he doesn’t want to know what that thing is. “So it’s weird we keep seeing each other.”

It’s possible that ‘seeing’ each other is a bit inaccurate here, considering Kenma still doesn’t know what Weird Hair actually looks like beyond his hair, eyes and the lazy smirk that’s usually adorning his face when he isn’t fighting snakes and whatever the thing with seven limbs and two heads is. 

Kenma sneaks a glance down at Weird Hair—he should really put him down at some point, Kenma thinks absently, because even though Weird Hair is definitely not a normal human, he could probably fight better if he wasn’t expending some of his energy on keeping Kenma elevated—and amends that previous thought. Apparently sometimes he wears the lazy smirk even whilst fighting said creatures.

“The city knows what it’s doing,” Weird Hair says, before flinging what looks like tendrils of shadows at the two-headed thing and lassoing it.

Kenma sighs. “That’s such a weird thing to say,” he points out quietly, then squeaks when he gets suddenly flung another three feet in the air as something electric crackles through the whole alleyway, illuminating his companion for a second.

Weird Hair catches him before he hits the ground. Kenma’s not even surprised anymore.

The thing is, Kenma has lived in Tokyo his entire life. He’s pretty sure he’d have noticed if random silver-haired lion-people and unnaturally large snakes—or really any snakes—had always been a fixture of the city streets, let alone shadow-people who can apparently use darkness as a tangible weapon.

“Humans suck at paying attention,” explains Mohawk Guy. As far as Kenma can tell, he doesn’t have any fur, but he does seem to have retractable claws, impenetrable skin and “guts, bruh, guts”, whatever that means.

“Coming from you,” Weird Hair snorts.

“Kuro—oof,” Mohawk Guy whines, before being cut off when a boulder hits him. Kenma doesn’t even know where anyone could find a boulder that size in Tokyo, let alone throw one at someone. He also doesn’t know if Mohawk Guy had finished what he was saying before he got interrupted by an unexpected flying rock, but he figures Kuro is a better name for now than just Weird Hair.

After all, it’s been like five times now. Kenma really thinks they all need to up their introduction game.

Game… Kenma blinks, then straightens up slightly, glancing around to assess the situation. There’s a haze in the air, blocking him from seeing clearly, which is undoubtedly frustrating, but also… His lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners. A challenge. He likes challenges.

“Can you make shields?” Kenma asks quietly.

Kuro hears him anyway, like he has some sort of radar for Kenma. Or maybe preternatural hearing is another one of his abilities. Kenma’s not sure why that option wasn’t his first thought.

“I haven’t before, but…” he says thoughtfully, then nods decisively at Kenma. “Yeah, should be able to.”

“Will they be able to see through them?” Kenma asks.

Kuro makes a disgruntled noise. “Depends who they’ve got with them,” he says, sounding put-out. “Probably not, though. Pretty sure Yakkun said the fox bastards aren’t involved this time—though if Tendou’s around, they don’t need to see …” He chews on his lip. Kenma’s fairly certain he’s talking to himself—and if he’s not, he needs to work on providing context to conversations, honestly—so he just waits patiently, staring at him unblinkingly.

“We’ll assume not,” Kuro says after a moment, a crooked smile on his face as he looks at Kenma. It’s not exactly as reassuring as Kenma had hoped, but seeing as there’s apparently people capable of throwing boulders in the vicinity, it’s about the best he thinks he can ask for.

“Do you have any other friends around?” Kenma asks quietly.

Kuro opens his mouth, like he’s about to answer, when his expression suddenly turns sharp and then he’s darting towards Kenma, and they’re crashing against the wall before Kenma can even blink—

Except they’re not crashing into anything. At least, nothing Kenma can feel.

It’s an odd sensation. He feels kind of like he’s underwater, but everything around him is moving more fluidly, more quickly, than he can ever recall feeling in the few times in his life he’s been forced to submerge himself into water. He feels disembodied, which is absurd, because his body is right here—

Kenma suddenly realises he can’t feel anything, and a slight panic bubbles in his gut.

Shh, it’s okay, and it’s Kuro’s voice, but Kenma doesn’t think he heard it. As impossible as it sounds, he thinks he felt it, somewhere in the space surrounding him. Whatever it is, it pauses that wrenching in his gut for a moment, everything clearing for his mind to start working. If he’s aware of the space around him, then he must still have form, he thinks. It’s just that he can’t feel that form, but there’s an awareness there. He’s not sure he likes it.

You’re quick, Kuro says—thinks?—and Kenma blinks. There don’t seem to be any boundaries here—and seriously, where are they?

Hold on is the only response he gets, and then suddenly there’s light everywhere, and it’s almost blinding, but Kenma blinks and finds he’s just in the alleyway, a terrifyingly large scorch mark in the place he had been standing before Kuro pushed him aside.

Kenma has so many questions, and now that he has to actually verbalise them, he has no idea where to get the energy to start.

“Are they still here?” he asks after a moment, his brain sorting through his whizzing thoughts and picking that one out first.

Kuro glances at him sidelong. “Yeah—we were only there for a second,” he says, turning his head back to the sky to scan their surrounding area with narrowed eyes.

Kenma blinks. He’s very sure they were in there for longer than a second. He’d have thought they were there for longer than a minute, even. His mind is running through theories and simulations, wondering what abilities could stack like this, wondering—not for the first time—whether these are the weapons of a hero-class character or not.

(Kenma has no real predilection towards character types. He supposes he is slightly inclined towards magic classes as a first choice, but he understands how there are battles where you need more than one type to win, and how teams are built from balance and connection. Every type of character matters, and every type has skills and weaknesses which can be defeated on their own, but can be leveraged against each other to build something interlocking and unstoppable.

So he doesn’t mind playing as heroes, or anti-heroes, and he has a deep understanding for the purpose of a well-crafted villain, and a respect for their skill sets. Most of the time, there’s no character in a game more interesting than the one you have to try beat.

He thinks about how Kuro wields shadows like knives, shapes them into weapons and creates his own darkness wherever he walks, using it to fall into and hide from things which look too keenly. He thinks about how Kuro has never made a shield with it, but decides he could try when Kenma asks; about how Kuro releases some of his shadows from their sharp points and uses them to lift Kenma out of harm’s way; about the concern which had flitted across his face before it was replaced by a mixture of exasperation and fondness that time he’d found the silver-haired one bleeding all across Kenma’s belongings. 

He thinks about Kuro, and how he’s not sure if he’s a hero or a villain in this particular game, and thinks: interesting.)

“That fucking hurt,” Mohawk Guy says, his voice breaking Kenma from the thoughts whirring through his head.

Kenma stares at him, and then where he came from. There’s no sight of the boulder anywhere. Then he realises that it’s probably pretty rude that his first reaction wasn’t to check that Mohawk Guy was okay. Even if they’re all significantly less destructible than Kenma, a boulder to the face would presumably be painful for anybody.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, furrowing his brow slightly.

Mohawk Guy blinks. “Oi, Cap!” he shouts out, instead of answering. Kenma is starting to think maybe he didn’t need to worry about being so rude. “How come you never ask me if I’m okay?”

“Because it’s a question that would require multiple psychology journals to answer honestly,” Kuro calls back wryly, not even turning his head to look at them. “Who’s got that kind of time?”

Mohawk Guy makes a face at Kuro’s back, but rolls his eyes. “He’s so rude,” he complains to Kenma. “But yeah, I’m okay, thanks—it was no big deal, nothing I can’t handle!”

Kenma distinctly hears Kuro snort.

“A boulder is no big deal,” Kenma repeats. He thinks he’s using that tone Shouyou frowns at him for sometimes, the one he says sounds exactly like his normal voice except even less impressed, but Kenma can’t help it. It was a boulder.

Mohawk Guy deflates slightly, then bolsters himself up again. “Bruh, I’m unbreakable,” he stresses.

“We don’t know if that’s strictly true,” Kuro’s voice comes, a slight hint of rebuke to it, and Kenma sees him step closer to them from the corner of his eye. “Anyway, your full ability debrief is gonna have to wait. Air’s getting fuzzier. I think Hiroo’s around.” His lips twist in distaste, and Mohawk Guy scowls. “Besides, something’s around that can throw boulders and fireballs, and somehow, I don’t think crossing our fingers that any of Datekou are around and feeling helpful is a useful plan.”

“Not that we’d know,” a new voice calls, a playful lilt to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever even heard the mighty Core of their Iron Wall speak.”

Kuro raises an eyebrow at the newcomer. “You mean even you haven’t annoyed him into speech yet? It’s a miracle.” His tone is taunting, but Kenma can detect a slight warmth beneath it, and maybe a touch of relief. He surveys this man who can bring such a reaction to Kuro, committing him to memory.

The startling thing—the thing which causes Kenma to inhale sharply—is that unlike Kuro and Mohawk Guy, his face is entirely uncovered. Nothing about the way he’s dressed is attention-seeking, but there’s also absolutely nothing hidden about him. His eyes remind Kenma of Kuro—they’re a different colour, more like hot cocoa than Kuro’s gleaming hazel, but there’s something sharp in them regardless, a depth that Kenma’s not entirely sure how to fathom. It’s a very rare instance when he feels off-kilter about what he can perceive about someone from a glance, constantly aware of other people’s presences as he’s always been, and he’s not sure he likes the feeling. There is something heady about it, though—that sense of a challenge, of something he doesn’t know yet but wants to pick apart.

The man’s eyes are the most interesting thing about him, Kenma thinks, but he supposes he’s also beautiful. And—Kenma narrows his eyes slightly, focusing on the space between the man’s fingers. Are those flowers blooming…?

“Rude, Kuro-chan,” the man says reproachfully. “And after I came out here to help you, out of the sheer goodness of my heart… What do I get? Wicked character assassination!”

Kuro snorts. “If Iwaizumi was here, he’d back me up,” he says, and the other man’s lips twist into a pout.

“This is just bullying,” he complains. “Anyway, Iwa-chan only says those things because he doesn’t know how else to deal with his overwhelming affection for me.” Seeing Kuro open his mouth, presumably to argue, he adds hastily, “not that we have time to discuss that right now.”

Kuro’s mouth snaps shut. “Okay, yeah—got any of the others with you, by any chance?” he asks, not sounding particularly optimistic. “Eyebrows-kun would be ideal, or even Mad Dog.”

Kenma blinks. Maybe Weird Hair wasn’t the worst name he could have labelled Kuro.

“Just me!” the man says cheerfully. “It’s all right, though, Oikawa-san shall be your saviour today. I’ll distract them for you. Iwa-chan’s back at Seijoh—he and Makki are doing something with Shallot-kun, so hopefully it isn’t all an explosion of haywire feelings when I’m back… last time it took weeks to get the secondhand embarrassment out of my sweater, I had to track down Sanitiser-kun to get one of his lint rollers to get it out, all because Akaashi was out of the city—”

“Oika’a-kun,” Kuro interrupts, while Kenma hears Mohawk Guy ask himself Sanitiser-kun? “He means Sakusa,” Kuro supplies to Mohawk Guy, before turning back to Oikawa. “You know I’m always keen to hear your dramatics—” from the sound of his tone, Kenma doesn’t even think he’s joking, which strikes him as a mark of poor taste, “—but we’ve got a human here who seems to be attracting all sorts of Tokyo’s denizens, and they can throw boulders and fireballs.”

“Fine, fine,” Oikawa says, waving them off with a bright smile. “I’ll regale you with more tales over drinks. But you owe me,” he says, wagging a finger, and Kuro shrugs.

“Sure—see you back at Seijoh? Or Nekoma, depending on what your lot are up to,” he says, and Oikawa grins.

“You got it,” he says. Kenma’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Oikawa’s grin shift—the pull of his mouth at the corners seems sharper now, and while the curve of his lips and flash of his teeth are as modelesque as they were when he first arrived and set that smile upon them, something about them seems determined and dangerous now.

“Let’s go,” Kuro says, tugging at Kenma’s hand. He’s too busy watching Oikawa to question it, or even to blush at the sensation of his hand clasped in Kuro’s, but some distant part of his mind notes the warmth and steadiness of his grip.

The last thing Kenma sees before they turn the corner, Mohawk Guy running ahead faster than should be humanly possible (which, Kenma supposes later, makes sense), is Oikawa grinning at the haziness in the sky, fearless and bright and beautiful, and the way plants start rising from the ground and weaving themselves into a wall as he raises his hands in a grand, sweeping motion, like he’s a conductor and the entire world is his orchestra.

“Who is he?” Kenma murmurs, more to himself than anything, but Kuro hears anyway, glancing down at him.

“A pain in the ass,” Kuro snorts, but there’s a smile glimmering at his lips. “But a good friend.” He glances down at Kenma. “By the way,” he says, in a casual tone that makes Kenma immediately tense in suspicion, “hold on.”

Before Kenma can even shape his mouth around a response— o what , or what for?, or even oh no being the primary contenders—Kuro scoops him up and suddenly everything is darkness, except for two wide, luminous eyes staring at him from twenty feet—ten feet—five feet—

“That’s the worst form of travel ever,” Kenma says flatly, twenty minutes later, when he thinks he can look at another person without throwing up.

They’re not human—not in the strictest sense of the word—but he thinks they’re people. He thinks about the useless blabbering of the silver-haired guy (who seems to be hiding in the corner right now) when he’d been bleeding over Kenma, about the indignation in Mohawk Guy’s tone when Kuro teased him, about the warmth in Oikawa’s smile when he’d shown up to save them.

He thinks about all the times Kuro’s kept him safe from harm, and the feeling of his hand in his, and wonders what a person is, if it’s not this.

“I hate it too,” Mohawk Guy says, grinning triumphantly, as if Kenma’s equal distaste for it is some sort of personal victory. “By the way, I’m Tora.”

Kai—the only one who had actually introduced himself to Kenma, and therefore Kenma’s favourite, his brain can shut up about Kuro’s weird hair being endearing, thanks—raises an eyebrow. “That was quick,” he says mildly.

Tora shrugs. “He asked me if I was okay after being hit by a boulder and, like, didn’t run away when he could’ve, but was coming up with ideas for Kuroo-san when I got back. Far as I’m concerned, he’s got guts.”

Kenma’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “I take it back,” he mumbles.

The short blond kneeling beside him snorts. “I don’t blame you,” he says. He stands up, hands on his hips, and surveys Kenma critically. “He seems fine from his foray into your shadows, Kuroo,” he says, though there’s a furrow on his brow. “We won’t know for sure until anyone can get Akaashi here—and I guess even that’s not sure as much as it’s just a better idea—but there’s definitely nothing latched onto him from it.”

“How do you know?” Kenma asks. It’s quiet, as he almost always is, but it still came out of his mouth without any real intention, and he tenses under the sudden force of all their gazes.

“Yakkun can—it’s kind of hard to explain,” Kuro says, grimacing slightly. He looks to Kai and the man in question for help.

“Yaku’s abilities…” Kai begins, then pauses, thinking how to word it. “He can deflect pretty much any kind of input. Which, we’ve discovered, can include energies.”

“Energies?” Kenma echoes.

Yaku sighs, exasperated. “Whatever comes at me, I can pretty much send back,” he says. “Or absorb it like a sponge, sometimes, but I never really need to do that. Anyway, Kuroo’s shadows give off a specific kind of… aura, I guess? I can feel it coming off him after he uses them, and in the places he’s used them. I can’t feel any of it coming off you. So I figure you’re fine on that front, but Akaashi would know better. Hell, he might even be able to work out why you could go into the shadows.”

Kenma frowns. “Was that weird?” he asks.

Kuro shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Dunno. Never tried it with a human before. Not even all of them—” he jerks his thumb towards the others around them, “—can. Yamamoto and Fukunaga can, but Lev can’t.”

“Lev can’t do anything,” Yaku and Tora mutter in unison.

“Hey!” squawks the silver-haired one.

“Zip it, Simba,” Kuro calls over his shoulder.

Kenma blinks, assembling all the information in his brain. The silver-haired guy—Kenma thinks he might actually be younger than him, even as ridiculously long as he is, just from looking at his eyes—is actually named Lev, and is also the Simba who Kuro mentioned the third time he ran into Kenma. He thinks Tora is Yamamoto, given that he had come through with Kenma and Kuro, because he’s pretty sure Fukunaga is the one with the huge eyes who had somehow helped Kuro transport them here.

He mulls it all over, and thinks back to the alleyway—the haziness in the sky, the items that were thrown, Oikawa’s words and terrifying demonstration of power over nature that seemed to cling to his very skin.

“Is this Nekoma or Seijoh?” he asks. He’s fairly sure it must be Nekoma, given that there doesn’t seem to be an influx of emotions running around as Oikawa had alluded to at Seijoh, unless he counts Lev’s sulking in the corner.

“Nekoma,” Kuro answers, at the same time Yaku levels him with what Kenma can only describe as a Look.

“Did you run into Oikawa?” he asks. “Or Hanamaki?”

“Oikawa,” Tora answers. “Covered us, even. Bruh’s got guts.”

“What are guts?” Kenma mutters. Tora, thankfully, does not hear. Kai does, and shoots Kenma a small smile.

“Can he take them?” Yaku asks Kuro, looking concerned now.

Kuro shrugs, but something about the set of his shoulders makes Kenma less than convinced about the nonchalance he’s displaying. “It’s Oikawa,” he says. “He can do anything he puts his mind to.”

Yaku frowns. “Inuoka,” he calls, and a tall figure darts towards them. He’s got bright eyes and a beam that reminds Kenma of Shouyou, but he smells a little like lightning. For a second, Kenma thinks it’s the only off thing about him, but then he sees it—the way the air around him vibrates, like something is thrumming with more kinetic energy than the world knows what to do with.

“Can you check on Oikawa? Take Fukunaga and Shibayama with you,” Yaku says, and Inuoka’s beam—somehow—gets even wider.

“You bet!” he says, and then, before Kenma’s eyes can even process any of it, he has Fukunaga clinging to his back like a monkey and a smaller figure he assumes is Shibayama held in his arms, and then they’re gone, leaving nothing behind except for that lightning smell.

“He’s just really fast,” Kuro says wryly, near Kenma’s ear, and Kenma glances up to face him. Then he blinks.

“Your mask’s gone,” he says, furrowing his brow, unable to stop his eyes from scanning over every plane of Kuro’s face, mapping every inch of it and committing it to memory.

Kuro blinks. “Oh, yeah,” he says, sounding slightly self-conscious. He rubs his face lightly. “It’s made from my shadows,” he says. “I guess I just dissolved it by habit, being here.” He throws Kenma a teasing smirk. “I said my face was noticeable, didn’t I?” he asks, with a wink.

Kenma fights a blush. “I stand by the goblin shark comparison,” he says in an unimpressed tone. Yaku chokes on a laugh.

Kuro’s expression, though. The smirk fades, but in its place is a crooked grin, tugged slightly higher at one corner, and so endearing that something stutters in Kenma’s chest.

Stop it, he scolds his misbehaving heart.

It doesn’t listen. Nor, apparently, do his eyes, which are still fixed on Kuro’s face. He’s handsome, Kenma thinks, in an entirely different way to how Oikawa is beautiful, but there’s something sharp about the edges of his face. Like they’re more pronounced than they should be, maybe—like he’s built out of bold strokes and smooth planes, an ink drawing come to life and filled with colour.

Kenma blinks, refocuses. “Are your shadows around your face?” he asks slowly, tugging his lower lip between his teeth as he scrutinises Kuro. The bold strokes seem to be shifting in the light, enhancing different planes of his face, darkening different edges.

Kuro frowns, blinks, glances at Kai for help. “I don’t think so?” he hazards. “Maybe? They usually do what they’re told, but…”

“You have a keen eye,” Kai observes. He beckons Kuro closer, examining him closely, as Kenma tries not to huddle in on himself because of the compliment. He thinks it was meant as a compliment, anyway. It’s not really a talent, though—just a skill he developed to help protect himself from other people’s eyes. He’s not sure he deserves to be praised for it.

“I think he’s right,” Kai says after a moment of careful scrutiny. “I’ve never seen it like this, but I don’t know if it’s something new, or if we just never noticed before.”

Yaku, however, frowns. “C’mere,” he commands, beckoning Kuro closer. He makes a face, but does as his friend commands, obediently tilting his face down so Yaku can examine it.

Yaku furrows his brow, then closes his eyes, ghosting his fingers over Kuro’s face. Something on his face shifts—a tightening at the corners of his eyes, Kenma thinks, and a stiffening of his jaw. Shock, maybe, or concern.

“Did you get hit by anything?” Yaku demands, opening his eyes.

“Nothing significant,” Kuro says carefully, but his expression is serious now. “What’s up?”

“I think…” Yaku begins, sounding astonished. “I think you’re bleeding.”

“There’s no blood, Yaku-senpai,” Lev says, sounding patient. “It might be difficult to see from how low down you are, but—”

Lev suddenly rockets backwards towards the wall, effectively silenced as he crashes into a sofa and tumbles over the back of it.

“Bleeding shadows, you fucking moron,” Yaku says, scowling at the couch Lev fell behind.

Kenma can’t stop staring. He thinks about what Yaku said his powers were—deflection of energies, but also absorption when necessary. He hadn’t seen anyone send anything towards Yaku right then, so maybe he was able to store and release things he absorbed? In which case, was it like a sponge as he said, or more like a receptacle—was there a limit to his capacity, like something to be filled, or did he soak it up inside him—

“Bleeding what?” Tora says, sounding alarmed, and snapping Kenma back to the conversation.

“The shadows are like… coming off in pinpricks,” Yaku says, nonplussed. “Like you’ve been grazed, and they’re welling up a little beneath the skin. I’ve never seen this happen before—I’ve never even seen anything like it.”

Kai looks thoughtful. “Sounds kind of like Nakashima,” he says. “Or the seagulls, maybe.”

“Might be claws,” Yaku argues. “Which could be the foxes.”

“Or about half of us in the city,” Kuro says, rolling his eyes.

“How many?” Kenma asks. All their eyes swivel to rest on him, and he shrinks away from their gaze. “How many of you are there in the city?” he clarifies, voice steady, if small.

“Probably hundreds,” Kuro says, then shrugs, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips, a little rueful. “Dunno exactly. Not like there’s a census or anything.”

“We’re everywhere,” Yaku says, “but I reckon there’s more here than anywhere else.”

“There’s more of anything in Tokyo than anywhere else,” Lev says confidently, now splayed across the couch he fell over earlier.

“There’s no way that’s true,” Yaku mutters.

“Yaku-san’s right, though,” Tora says to Kenma, dropping down to sit in the chair beside him. “A lot of us end up in Tokyo, even if we don’t start here. It’s like… magnetic, bruh. Like, it’s the brightest thing you can see when you close your eyes. You just gotta go.”

That makes absolutely no sense to Kenma, at least on the face of it, but he thinks maybe he understands what Tora’s trying to describe, even if he’s failing at it. Not from personal experience—Kenma’s never felt anything pull him anywhere, except maybe the brightness of Shouyou’s smile drawing him out of his head when the rest of the world wants too much from him—but from games: there’s always a sense of where to go, even if just a direction to explore in. Some of the time, you don’t know what you’re looking for until you find it, but when you find it, it settles in your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Kenma’s always liked games that make him feel that way. Like he knows the next step to take, like it’s something he can belong to, even if only for the time it takes to play through the game; like it’s a place he’s meant to fit in.

Maybe that’s why he’s always found nothing sadder than finishing a game. What’s worse than finding a space you belong, then having to say goodbye?

When Kenma looks up, he finds Kuro watching him carefully. When their gazes meet, Kuro sends him a crooked smile, and something about it settles into Kenma’s bones, like the warmth of hot cocoa in winter or the feeling of his hands being clasped by Shouyou and Natsu as they drag him to their favourite arcade. It’s somehow familiar and wholly not at the same time, and Kenma doesn’t know what to do with that. This messy-haired boy built out of shadows, sharp smirks and uncommon kindness shouldn’t be able to give him comfort with a half-smile, he thinks. 

“You doing okay?” Kuro asks quietly, and that’s when Kenma realises they’re alone. Even Tora’s slipped away from beside him, which completely baffles Kenma, because he’s always been extremely observant and nothing about Tora has suggested subtlety, but maybe that’s how Kenma never noticed them until that first time he met Kuro. Maybe they don’t all need shadows to disappear.

Kenma’s used to brushing off conversation, saying something to effectively cut it to a close, and has a lifetime’s worth of prepared responses on the tip of his tongue, all ones designed to get eyes off him.

None of them spill out.

Instead, he considers the question. Something about Kuro’s eyes makes him feel like he can tell him truths without judgement—no, more than that, they make him want to try. It’s almost entirely unprecedented; there’s something similar to Shouyou, he supposes, in that he’d also been drawn into comfort with him quickly, but it manifests entirely differently. Shouyou is so bright, like sunshine, that it’s impossible not to be drawn into and effused with his warmth. Kuro feels like the sanctity of shadows, but somehow more—like not only is he a safe space to hide in, but somewhere Kenma can trust, can exist in without fear of judgement.

It’s utterly illogical, and in a game, Kenma knows this is exactly how the player would be trapped, but he can’t help it: part of him just trusts Kuro, despite it all.

Maybe it’s the way he came back to help Kenma the first time they’d met, even when he was clearly chasing after Lev; maybe it’s the way he bantered with Oikawa and teases his friends, yet they all obviously follow him despite it all; maybe it’s the way he weakened his offensive power just to spare the shadows to keep Kenma safe during the various fights he found himself stuck in.

Maybe it’s just the way Kuro’s hand felt wrapped around his, warm and steady.

“Just thinking,” Kenma says, and it’s not really an answer, but it’s no less true for it.

“It’s a lot to process,” Kuro agrees. “I wonder what changed.”

Kenma raises an eyebrow, and Kuro clarifies: “If you haven’t always seen us, I mean. I wonder why you can now.”

“Bet it’s your fault,” a bright voice quips, and the two of them look up to find Oikawa tucked into Inuoka’s chest, his arms wrapped around Inuoka’s neck for security.

“Where are Shibayama and Fukunaga?” Kuro asks, furrowing his brow as he catalogues the pair for any damage.

“Spotted Kuguri,” Inuoka says, carefully helping Oikawa to his feet. “Yuuki-kun thought he might know more about what’s going on with Shinzen and Ubugawa right now, so he went to talk to him.”

“Is something going on with Shinzen and Ubugawa right now?” Oikawa asks curiously. “Or is it just that Shiba-chan thinks the famously inexpressive rock boy is cute?”

“There’s something, but it’s no big deal,” Kuro says, rolling his eyes. “Goura probably just blew Ogano into the sea because he was being annoying or something, and now Ogano’s sulking.”

“Ah, Broccoli-chan,” Oikawa says with an indulgent sigh. Kenma just blinks.

“Okay, so Shibayama’s with Kuguri,” Kuro says. “What about Fukunaga?”

Inuoka shrugs. “Y’know how Kuguri’s… like that? I think Fukunaga-san just thought it would be fun to go with Yuuki-kun! Pretty sure he finds Kuguri interesting to watch.”

Kenma frowns, thinking back on Oikawa’s words. “Rock boy?” he echoes quietly. “Like… the boulder that was thrown at Tora?”

“Not really Kuguri’s style,” Kuro says with a grimace. “The sneaky snake he hangs out with, maybe, but… not Kuguri. Fuck, not even really Daishou—it’s a bit on the nose for that scheming bastard.”

“Coming from you,” Oikawa snorts, before meeting Kenma’s eyes. “He’s right though. Not really either of their style. Actually, I’m not even sure if Kuguri could do that. I’ve never seen him move rocks from the environment—it’s more that he is rock. Totally implacable and impossible to read or get into the mind of... and also he can literally turn parts of his body to stone and form rock from his body, like making a stone knife extend from his hand or something.” Oikawa grins. “He’s pretty fun to go up against!”

Every time Oikawa speaks, Kenma feels like he has three times as much he needs to process as when anyone else does.

“Go up against?” Kenma asks, furrowing his brow in thought.

“You’ve been there for a few of the run-ins,” Kuro says. “Nothing serious—well, today’s could have been, mostly because we didn’t know who we were dealing with, but normally it’s no big deal.”

“You get two powerful people together,” Oikawa says, sounding savvy, “and they’ll naturally start to wonder who’s stronger. It just gets much harder to contain when there’s this many of us—it’s not even about power or anything, it’s about sharing spaces.”

“Same as humans arguing with their friends, really,” Kuro says, tilting his head. “Just with more dramatic methods.”

Kenma can’t say he’d expected that. He thinks about the scorch mark in the alleyway, where he’d been standing just moments before Kuro had dived at him and pushed him out of the way, and flinches slightly at the idea of that being just a day-to-day occurrence for anyone.

“So when Tora said the boulder was no big deal…” Kenma says carefully. Kuro snorts.

“Oh, he was definitely posturing,” Kuro says wryly. “There’s always some risk, even when you know who you’re dealing with and it’s a friendly skirmish.”

“These guys were troublesome,” Oikawa says thoughtfully. “Not sure if they’re new or just rude.”

“Rude?” Inuoka asks, all guileless eyes and an inquisitive tilt to his head.

“Come on, Inu-chan,” Oikawa chastises lightly. “How many times has someone thrown a boulder or fireball at you in this city without you knowing who they were?”

Inuoka thinks about it for a moment. “Not a boulder, but only once,” he says, and Oikawa looks shocked for a moment, before his brow smoothes.

“Little Simba-chan?” he asks, glancing between Inuoka and Kuro.

“Little Simba-chan,” Kuro confirms, grimacing. “He injured Shibayama by accident.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “And he was new, right? That was the problem?” he checks.

Inuoka nods. “Yeah, he had no idea what was going on. He roared at Yaku-san and Yaku-san sent his roar right back.” He brightens. “It was pretty funny.”

Kuro snorts. “I’d bet on Yakkun against any lion, even one with more know-how than Lev,” he says.

Oikawa looks amused. “Fair call—but the point, Inu-chan, is that normally, if something’s meant in good faith, there’s a certain amount of transparency, no?” Inuoka tilts his head, and Oikawa continues: “For the most part, we all know each other, and most of the time, we’re not actually trying to cause each other any lasting harm. When you’re going up against an unknown quantity, though…”

“There’s more danger than usual,” Kuro says, finishing the thought.

Inuoka’s eyes widen. “Ah! Okay!” He bites his lip, thinking. “If they’re just new, like Lev, shouldn’t we help them?” he asks.

“Sure, if they’re new and don’t mean to be causing trouble,” Kuro says with a shrug. “But not everyone’s Lev.”

“Thank god!” Yaku’s voice calls out from another room, and Kenma suppresses a snort.

“They might just want to cause trouble,” Oikawa explains, “or worse.”

“Worse?” Kenma echoes.

Oikawa and Kuro exchange a look. “It’s been a while, but we’ve had trouble before,” Oikawa says.

“Like you and Daishou-san?” Inuoka asks, turning to Kuro.

Kuro snorts. “Nah. We’re just like pretty boy here and Ushiwaka—well, actually, we’re probably not even that bad,” he tacks on, possibly in response to the astounding acrobatics Oikawa’s facial expressions are doing. Kenma, who has only ever been accused of being expressive by one person in his entire life (one of his college professors, a kindly man named Nekomata with eyes more keen than most), is rather impressed by it.

“Ushiwaka-chan is a menace and I will beat him,” Oikawa growls, and Kuro snorts.

“Seijoh and the swans have a feud of sorts… mostly Oikawa and Ushiwaka,” he explains to Kenma, grin playing at his lips.

It reminds Kenma a little of a game, with different territories and feuding areas. Maybe even a magical RPG, with various kingdoms and alliances and rivalries, though a little messier and more complicatedly interconnected than most that he’s played.

Then he frowns, thinking about what Oikawa said. He will beat him, implying he hasn’t yet… Kenma’s brow furrows. As far as he can tell, Oikawa controls plant life, to the extent of being able to build a wall of flowers and vines blooming from concrete, enough to hold his own against opponents who had Kuro and Tora in a bit of a bind—admittedly held back a little by looking out for Kenma, but Kenma’s not sure what they would have done against fireballs and boulders anyway. The thing that’s caught on the edges of Kenma’s mind, however, is not their opponents from the alley: rather, who’s strong enough that Oikawa hasn’t beat them yet?

“Speaking of the swans,” Oikawa says, sounding incredibly grumpy, “meeting’s in their territory.”

Kuro’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought it would be in Datekou’s zone,” he says. “Didn’t Moniwa call it?”

Oikawa shrugs, clicking his tongue. “Maybe it was a collaboration? Or Ushiwaka said something rude and brutish again, like ‘Shiratorizawa is the best location, you should all come to Shiratorizawa—’”

“Careful, your bad personality’s showing,” Kuro interrupts dryly, but he shakes his head. “Okay, whatever. We should probably head off then—unless you wanna come, Inuoka?”

Inuoka gives them all an apologetic look. “Sorry! I have practice with Teshiro today! It was Kai-san’s idea, to help with Teshiro’s geo-sensing—he’s gonna try move the earth where he can sense me, and I’m going to try dodge it. Kai-san said ‘it’ll help Teshiro refine his sensory control and will help me be spatially aware’,” Inuoka informs them, clearly imitating Kai’s steady speech, before tacking on, almost sheepishly: “Also he says it’ll help me run off some excess energy.”

Kuro laughs. “That seems optimistic,” he snorts, but his eyes look fond. Kenma thinks that maybe he could spend hours cataloguing the different things he sees in Kuro’s eyes, and still not capture them all. It’s an oddly comforting thought. He’s never liked things he can’t understand, analyse and break down into their bare bones, but some part of him warms at the idea that Kuro is a puzzle that won’t be so easily solved. Like he’s a game Kenma won’t be able to finish so easily.

“So, pudding-chan,” Oikawa says, and Kenma realises, with a vague sense of alarm, that Oikawa is talking to him. “Are you coming with?”

His eyes are dancing, gleaming like there’s something he knows that the rest of them still haven’t caught up with, and Kenma hates it. He glances away, and finds his eyes meeting Kuro’s. There’s a question in them, softer than Oikawa’s, and Kenma has to swallow for a moment before collecting himself enough to answer.

“I—should I?” he asks, looking down at his hands. “It sounds… important.” Too important for a powerless person you barely know is what rests at the tip of his tongue, unspoken but undeniable. He should say it. It’s not like he doesn’t think it’s true. It’s just… he doesn’t want them to agree with that, he realises; doesn’t want to make it easy to be left behind. This world he’s stumbled into isn’t like any he knows, and he’s out of his depth and hopelessly outmatched when it comes to the power stats of everyone he’s run into… and it’s the most fun he’s had in his entire life.

“If the fireball rock people are still out there, it might be safer to stick with us!” Inuoka of all people chirps, giving Kenma a space to slot in with a friendly beam. He reminds Kenma of Shouyou, and he gives the taller boy a tiny smile.

Kenma’s eyes return to Kuro’s, and Kuro gives him a languid smirk. “Inuoka’s got a point,” he admits. “Might be best to stick around for a bit, if you’re game. Besides, someone at the meeting might have a better idea of who they are, and I get the feeling you like getting answers.”

Kenma frowns at him, scrunching his nose slightly. He’s unprepared for the way Kuro’s eyes widen, his cheeks warming slightly. Oikawa’s snicker breaks their eye contact, with Kuro immediately shooting his friend a dark look.

“Anyway,” Oikawa says, blithely ignoring Kuro’s expression and walking to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “that sounds like a plan. We should best be off, if Inu-chan isn’t giving us a ride. Can’t keep Ushiwaka-chan and his monotone lectures waiting, can we?”

“Such a terrible personality,” Kuro sighs, but the affection in his voice is clear. “All right—Inuoka, update me on how it goes later, right? And let Teshiro know about Shibayama and Fukunaga, so you guys remember to swing by Kuguri later, okay?”

“Such a doting parent,” Oikawa mutters. Kuro swats him.

“Brat,” he says, before grinning down at Kenma. “All right. Ready to meet some more of us?”

“So you just… walk everywhere?” Kenma asks incredulously.

Kuro barks a laugh. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “A lot of us are pretty fast, and then I normally use the shadows if I really need to get somewhere quickly and I know where I’m going. But some of the time… yeah, it’s foot travel.”

“It’s not like we have a public transport system that follows our routes and locations,” Oikawa chimes in. “Though sometimes I get Mattsun to help me along.”

“Mattsun?” Kenma questions.

“He can kinda move people where he wants them to go,” Kuro says, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “It’s a bit hard to explain. He kind of makes you want to go somewhere, and helps get you there?”

“Helps you get there,” Kenma says flatly.

“I’ve never quite been able to work out if it’s reality manipulation or just location manipulation,” Oikawa says airily, as if he’s talking about normal things like the weather, and not things that belong in movies, stories of mutants and magic. Though, Kenma reflects, this probably is as normal as the weather for him—something as part of his world as the very air he breathes. Kenma wonders what it’s like, to have myths and magic and whatever else they’re built of surrounding them so utterly that it’s buried into their very bones. “I think there’s an element of intent to it, because it’s not like you just suddenly get relocated somewhere else in a flash, but I think there’s still some physical element to it—like he doesn’t just make you want to move where he wants you to, but he actually nudges you a little too?” Oikawa looks to Kuro thoughtfully, and Kuro nods.

“Yeah, like, he doesn’t do it to me much because I can just shift into the shadows, but sometimes he gets me before I notice,” Kuro grumbles. “I think you’re right, there’s both. I don’t know that he actually like… moves me, but it’s like. Faster? Than I’d be going normally?”

“Mental redirect,” Kenma murmurs, mulling it over.

“Sometimes it’s not even like he’s making you wanna go somewhere so much as he’s making you not want to go places… does that make sense?” Kuro asks, before huffing a laugh. “Man, I’ve never tried to explain what any of us can do before. We’re totally fucking this up, aren’t we?”

Kenma suppresses an amused twitch of his lips. “I think I get it,” he says softly, brows knit together as he puzzles it out. “It comes down to redirection?”

Oikawa hums, then nods. “Essentially,” he agrees. “It’s funny—he’s probably the most easy-going person I know, but I’ve never seen anyone actually resist him when he’s doing it to them.”

Kuro raises an eyebrow. “Ushiwaka?” he asks.

Oikawa scowls, but shrugs. “Never seen them go one-on-one,” he says. “I wonder how that would play out.” His tone holds a gleam of interest, one which makes Kenma kind of want to warn this Mattsun person, but mostly reminds him of himself when he’s trying new combos in games. It’s a little unnerving.

“Unstoppable force versus immovable object,” Kuro quips, grin playing at his lips.

“This yer attraction to me versus yer envy of my skills?” a voice drawls, and Kenma’s head snaps up at the way Oikawa suddenly bristles.

Then, a moment later: “Don’t do that, Suna-kun!” Oikawa groans. His stance is more relaxed now, but there’s still a tightness to the way he holds himself, a wariness in the set of his shoulders, that makes Kenma step slightly closer to Kuro. Kenma’s not known Oikawa very long, but he’s never seen him on guard before, not even when covering their exits earlier, and he can’t help the apprehension creeping over him.

“You’re getting way too good at that,” Kuro says conversationally, smirking at the newcomer. “Almost thought you were him for a second.”

“He never shuts up, so I have a lot of material to work with,” the stranger says, in a voice so different from what it sounded like just before that for a second, Kenma wonders if there’s another person around that he can’t see. 

“You could gag him,” Oikawa suggests brightly, though Kenma doesn’t get the sense that he’s entirely kidding.

“Kinky,” Kuro remarks, expertly dodging the jab Oikawa immediately aims at his side, grinning at his friend’s offended expression as he does so.

“Kuro-chan, please, you know I have better taste than that,” Oikawa protests, wrinkling his nose.

“Normally I’d argue, but in this case, he’s right,” the stranger—Suna, Kenma remembers—says blandly.

Oikawa throws up his hands. “How did this turn into an ‘everyone bully Oikawa-san’ session?” he asks nobody in particular. He rounds on Kenma. “You’re on my side, right, pudding-chan?”

Kenma must stiffen slightly, or give off some sort of physical reaction, because Kuro immediately steps closer to him, frowning at Oikawa. “Leave him alone,” he chides. “Don’t drag him into your losing battle to maintain your dignity.”

Oikawa pouts. Like, actually, genuinely, big-bottom-lip pouts. Kenma kind of can’t believe it.

“Besides, it’s not as if foxface here was really bullying you,” Kuro continues. Kenma sneaks a glance at the stranger again, and blinks. He does look rather foxlike, with his narrow eyes and the shape of the tufts of his hair. He also looks entirely unperturbed by Kuro’s name for him, so either he’s used to it or he’s not easily rattled. Kenma studies his face for a few moments longer. Perhaps both. “He did say you have better taste than to go for Atsumu, after all.”

Oikawa frowns. “He also said that normally he’d argue,” he points out, before adding on, tone a touch petulant, “besides, everyone has better taste than to go for him.”

“You’re impossible,” Kuro says, but there’s a touch of fondness to his voice as he says it. Kenma’s starting to think an entire language could be puzzled out from the tones of Kuro’s speech, whole worlds of meaning held in every syllable. It’s a new experience for him: not listening to voices that have multitudes of possibility layered in their words, but actually wanting to decipher them, for reasons that venture beyond just trying to navigate and escape an awkward social encounter.

“So,” Suna interrupts, his voice quiet yet carrying. “What brings you here? I don’t usually see you in the western districts, Oikawa-san.”

Kenma wonders if there are reputations for the areas of their Tokyo; he’d originally only thought about it as far as there seem to be zones, like various groups’ territories, but he supposes it makes sense that there might be more to them than who the main players are in each area. He wonders if it’s like his Tokyo, where his father likes spending Sundays in Shinjuku, but he could waste away four hours in Akihabara with Shouyou and not even notice the time passing. For the first time on this day full of discoveries and revelations—maybe for the first time since that very first interaction he had with Kuro, all those weeks ago in the alleyway—he thinks that perhaps he’s underestimated the world he’s stumbled into. Why wouldn’t their world have as many distinct areas as his one—why wouldn’t their Tokyo be as vibrant and overwhelming as his own, just because he’s never seen it?

“Does this really count as western?” Oikawa sniffs, side-stepping the question. “It’s a little off the beaten track for you, Suna-kun.”

Suna flicks a glance at Kuro.

“Moniwa called a meeting,” he says simply, and Suna nods.

“Ah. Yes, Kita-san mentioned that. We’re nowhere near Datekou territory, though,” he says, tilting his head.

“We were coming from Nekoma,” Kuro explains. “Besides, it’s in Shiratorizawa.”

Suna’s face suddenly goes blank.

“Suna-kun?” Oikawa asks sharply, his eyes very clearly studying the other’s face. “What is it?”

“Why are you here?” Kuro asks suddenly, scrutinising Suna. Kenma feels something prickling in the air. “Oikawa’s right—I didn’t question it because you lot are always doing something weird, but this is a little out of Inarizaki area.”

Suna’s lips quirk at the corners, into something that could have been a smile had it not been so unsettling.

“You know how Kita-san is,” he says. “All foresight and preparedness—I know he thinks his magic is more in steadiness and support, but I’ve always had a suspicion…” he trails off, before looking up, eyes focusing on a point behind them. Kenma turns, but he can’t make anything out. “I’ve learned to trust his hunches,” Suna continues, and Kenma swivels to look back at him. “And he had a feeling someone should be here.”

Kenma can’t look away from Suna. He can feel the prickling more sharply now, has a sense of presence in the air around him, but Suna’s body is… shifting. It’s hard to focus his eyes on him now. His face is bleeding into his hair… or his hair into his face? Kenma can’t tell, but suddenly Suna’s head is all one thing, no clear division between hair and face, like he’s covered in fur, but his face is still distinctly Suna, just… just something more as well. His body is rippling with something sleek, and he’d been in a crouch before, his shoulders hanging low, but he’s rising up, up, up—until suddenly his body is corded with powerful muscle, his skin covered in fur, and a tail popping out from behind him. No, multiple tails. Kenma’s breath hitches. Five tails.

Suna’s a fox. No. Suna’s a kitsune.

Then there’s a shuddering, tearing sound behind Kenma, the prickling in the air so sharp that the hair at the back of his neck is standing on its ends, and Kuro’s voice swearing loudly. A second ago, Kenma would have said nothing on earth could force his eyes away from the fact that there was a youkai before his eyes, but he finds himself turning, and gaping at the scene.

The sky is tearing itself in half. He literally doesn’t know how else to explain what he’s seeing—the air around him folding in on itself, pulling itself apart at the seams, and something cracking from the sky, like thunder without lightning.

“Well,” Oikawa says after a moment, sounding remarkably composed for someone whose eyes are the size of dinner plates. “That’s new.”

If someone asked him later, Kenma thinks to himself, to describe what he had seen, he doesn’t think he’d have anything useful to say.

He experiences it in glimpses and flashes: Suna, springing forward, inexpressive eyes at odds with the way the very sight of him in motion had Kenma’s instincts screaming DANGER; Oikawa’s hands weaving in front of him, the ivy growing on the walls creeping towards the hole in the sky, poking and prodding at the whirling expanse of the void before them; Kuro’s shadows darting around Suna, shrouding him from view—from what, Kenma’s not sure, but he’s picked up pretty quickly that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there—and joining Oikawa’s plants; an incomprehensible wall of pure sound, emanating from the sky, causing Kenma to buckle at the knees; and Suna again, and—

Kenma might be seeing things, but he thinks he’s glowing.

Or, not quite glowing, but shimmering, maybe? He’s almost impossible for Kenma’s eyes to catch, which is disconcerting. Kenma had managed to catch Kuro’s tiny pinpricks of shadows moving around his face back at Nekoma, after all; what is Suna doing that’s so hard to perceive?

He hears Kuro laugh—a bark of adrenaline and joy, like this is where he’s meant to be, this is his element, throwing everything he’s built of at a sky that’s tearing itself in half—and a smile jumps to his lips, unbidden.

Then, almost as suddenly as it began, it stops.

Kenma almost doesn’t notice it at first, the absence of the prickling. It’s not until Suna slows down enough that he can really see him again that Kenma realises the air feels normal again, that the utter force of sound from the sky has stopped pressing down on his shoulders, and he glances up to watch the sky knit itself back together, as if nothing was ever wrong. As if nothing was ever there.

To be fair, he’s still not sure anything was. He’s starting to learn anything’s possible, in this world of Kuro’s, full of powers and magic and monsters.

“Bit anticlimactic,” Kuro comments.

Oikawa arches an eyebrow. “Are you complaining about that, Kuro-chan? Can’t blame you for wanting to put off seeing Ushiwaka-chan as long as possible, but really, avoidance is such an unattractive personality trait.”

“You’re a very irritating person,” Kuro tells him, not sounding like he means it one bit.

“Stop quoting Iwa-chan, it’s unbecoming,” Oikawa sniffs.

Rolling his eyes, Kuro turns to Suna… who is still in fox form. “So, you were here for that?”

Suna’s face shimmers for a second, almost like molten silver, and then suddenly his face is even more clearly his own. It’s oddly fascinating. Kenma can’t look away.

“Not exactly,” he says, tone flat. Then again, Kenma thinks most people’s voices would seem inexpressive compared to Kuro and Oikawa. “Just figured there’d be something. Worth waiting to check.”

It’s saying something, given all the ridiculous things he’s experienced since that first day he met Kuro in the alley, but Kenma thinks hearing Suna’s clear, bored tones emerge from a fox is the most bizarre thing he’s seen yet.

“Any ideas?” Kuro asks.

Suna shrugs—well, as much as a fox can. “Might just be a happening,” he says. “I don’t have a sense for intent—Moniwa or Sawamura are the only ones I know who have anything like it—so I can’t be sure, but I know mischief. I live with the twins. This didn’t feel like that.”

Oikawa nods slowly. “I didn’t sense anyone,” he says. “Not really much danger either—well, other than the soundwaves and tearing of the world, but we held the effects of that off anyway. Nothing lasting.”

Kuro tilts his head. “That’s the first rip we’ve had in a very long time,” he says. “I reckon you’re right—I think we’d know if there was anyone around who could do that. Still, been a while since I noticed a happening,” he adds, frowning slightly.

“Maybe you’re just unobservant,” Suna says blandly. Kenma doesn’t know what a happening is, but—sneaking a glance at Kuro’s sharp, hazel eyes—he highly doubts that’s the case.

Oikawa narrows his eyes. “So you’ve noticed some?” he asks shrewdly.

Suna makes the rolling motion which Kenma has been taking as the closest equivalent a fox has to a shrug. “More Kita-san’s wheelhouse than mine,” he says carefully. “But the twins have been more…” he trails off, lips twisting into a facsimile of a smirk as he chooses his words. “Mercurial than usual. We’re probably moving into a new astral phase. You know how they’re more affected by the celestial than most.”

None of this makes sense to Kenma, but Kuro’s nodding thoughtfully, and Oikawa looks thoroughly fed up. “If he rips up my flowers again, he can blame the heavens as much as he likes, I’m still going to set Mad Dog-chan on him,” Oikawa warns.

Suna snorts. “I’ll let him know,” he says wryly. “I should go tell Aran-san about this anyway—he’ll want to know if it’s a new phase, and might have ideas if it’s not.” He sniffs the air—really fucking weird, Kenma thinks, given how almost-human his face looks—and his eyes narrow, fixing on some point on the horizon to the west of them. “That’s interesting,” he murmurs, and then suddenly he’s gone, a streak of black and silver—where did the silver come from?—darting through the streets until Kenma can’t make him out anymore.

“Nice talking to you too,” Oikawa calls out after him, rolling his eyes. “The baby foxes and their manners, honestly.”

“He kind of reminds me of Matsukawa,” Kuro says thoughtfully.

“Mattsun is also disrespectful and up to no good, so that tracks,” Oikawa says airily.

“Also one of your best friends,” Kuro says with a snort.

Oikawa shrugs. “I’m a very gracious and charitable person,” he says.

“Uh huh.”

“He’s a kitsune,” Kenma says, finally shaping his mouth around the word. For some reason, it’s harder than he’d have thought. He’s already seen a thousand impossibilities in the last few hours alone—why should actually recognising one of them be so surprising to him? Even if it’s from myth and legend, faith and belief, all stories start somewhere.

When neither of them say anything, he looks up at them quickly. “Right?” he asks, before a thought occurs to him. “Are you all youkai?”

Kuro shakes his head. “Nah, definitely not,” he says, exchanging a glance with Oikawa.

“I’m actually not entirely sure he is a kitsune,” Oikawa says thoughtfully. Kuro glances at him in surprise. Apparently this is news to him too. “I mean, most of Inarizaki—his crowd—definitely are,” Oikawa explains for Kenma’s benefit. “There’s no denying it with those twins, and Kita-kun is. Aran-chan’s the only one I’m not sure about, other than Suna-kun.” He glances at Kenma, studying him for a second, before coming to some sort of decision. “Did you notice how he seemed to gleam at times?” he asks.

Kenma gives a small nod.

“A lot of kitsune do have something like that, emanating starlight when they’re invoking their magics, but it doesn’t look like that. Suna-kun’s is more like quicksilver—I actually think he’s a shapechanger rather than a kitsune specifically, but I’ve never been able to watch him transform back into a human to find out.”

“Kitsune are fox spirits first and foremost,” Kuro says, obviously clocking Kenma’s uncertainty about Oikawa’s last statement. “They turn into humans, rather than the other way around, and there’s like a… I dunno, a ritual? A specific method? To taking human form, but they can revert to fox form at will. Oikawa, so you reckon Suna’s a shifter?”

Oikawa nods. “Probably ended up with Inarizaki because like calls to like—even if they can’t turn into anything like he can, they’re still changeable. Easy for him to blend in—have you noticed? He always has five tails, same as the twins and Gin-kun, but I’m sure I saw him with six once, when he was sparring with the twins. My guess is he was riling up the golden brat for being annoying, but normally has five to match with those three. They’ve always been a remarkably close four, especially for kits—it makes sense if they’re not all actually warring. The twins keep each other in line—well, Osamu-chan keeps his brother in line—and Gin-kun tends to fall in behind them, and Suna-kun shapes himself to slot into the spaces between.”

“And then Kita and Aran keep them from being too chaotic,” Kuro snorts.

“Are shifters odd?” Kenma asks. Oikawa turns to look at him. “For him to want to blend in,” Kenma clarifies. It’s weird. Suna can turn into a fox—can maybe turn into anything—at will, can run headfirst towards a void torn into the fabric of his world, can see things so far away that even Kuro can’t seem to, and clearly lives and breathes this world, born into magic in a way that’s steeped in his very bones. Objectively, he’s nothing like Kenma. But that phrase keeps catching on the edge of Kenma’s mind, turning itself over in his head. Easy for him to blend in. Shapes himself to slot into the spaces between. Kenma doesn’t exactly try to shape himself into spaces to find himself a home—rather, he tries to find ways to avoid being perceived—but the idea of blending in hits very close to him, and the idea of always being aware of the ways you need to change in order to fit into the crowd… that’s something he knows intimately. He’s never wanted to fit in for the sake of being part of something, only for the sake of not standing out, but he feels an odd kinship to Suna right now. Like for all that’s obviously, irrevocably different between them, maybe hiding from others’ eyes feels the same no matter who you are.

“Not… odd, exactly,” Kuro says slowly. He’s started walking again, so Kenma falls in step with him, Oikawa at his other side. “But they’re not exactly common, and, well, we tend to group together based on commonalities.”

“Shifters are usually not born into the same families,” Oikawa explains. “Kitsune are youkai, so they’re not really families, I guess, but they’re all from the same area—they’re guardians of the west, and trust me, if you meet the twins, you’ll be able to tell—but shifters are kind of nomads. Most of us end up in Tokyo, because if you can see… whatever we are, magic or phenomena or energy, Tokyo’s the brightest thing in the entire country, so people tend to come here if they have nothing to keep them elsewhere, so my guess is he came here and just followed his feet until he found the closest thing to what he is.” Oikawa shrugs. “There are worse things to be than a shifter.”

“Oh, yeah, speaking of ‘whatever we are’,” Kuro says, obviously borrowing Oikawa’s phrasing with a roll of his eyes. “We’re not all youkai. Like, Inarizaki probably all are, or at the very least they’re all magical beings, but some of us just like… deal with magic? Like, you met Kai. He’s not an… entity, I guess, but he’s a witch.”

Kenma’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

“Did you just call us entities?” Oikawa asks, snorting. “Way to make us sound like alien forces.”

“What else was I meant to say?” Kuro defends. “I have no idea how to differentiate any of us—or like, I do, but not how to describe it.”

“So there are witches?” Kenma asks, cutting off the argument before it can get itself underway. He’s only known Oikawa for a few hours, but he has a feeling that when the two of them get going, it’s hard to make them stop.

“Yeah, there’s kind of—everything, I guess,” Kuro says, turning all his attention back to Kenma. “I mean, there’s probably some things your lot think are just myths which I can’t personally be sure aren’t, but chances are, they’re real.”

“Speaking of your lot, we’re nearing the surface,” Oikawa says, glancing ahead.

“The surface?” Kenma questions.

“Well, yeah. I mean, we’re around you guys too, Tokyo’s not big enough to avoid you all, but if you hadn’t noticed, we haven’t really run into your lot for a while,” Oikawa says, a wry smile at his face. Honestly, Kenma hadn’t—he’s been much too focused on unravelling the world he’s been discovering to even think about the fact that he hasn’t seen anyone from his for a while. His cheeks flush slightly, a bit embarrassed to have missed such an obvious fact.

“Wait, are we… underground?” Kenma asks, flummoxed. They just watched the sky tear itself asunder, and Suna’s eyes fix on the horizon.

“Not… really,” Kuro says, scrunching his nose as he thinks about it. “It’s more like… a mirror of the city? There’s gateways throughout the city, where our world bleeds into yours, and you can go through them to pop between. We don’t usually go through them unless we need to—bit risky—but they can be shortcuts sometimes. It’s weird, I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s kind of like our version of the city doesn’t always map perfectly on yours. A lot of the time, the gateways are quicker. But also if you don’t know where one is, you can get really fucking confused about where you end up.”

“They’re like wormholes,” Oikawa says, sounding extremely pleased with himself. Kenma catches Kuro rolling his eyes.

“Oikawa deliberately goes through the gateways a lot so he can watch shitty sci-fi movies,” Kuro says.

“Okay, for one, sci-fi is an excellent genre—it’s humans seeing what they believe in, and trying to find a way to bridge the gap between what they know and what they see. It’s like… not being able to do something that you feel is possible, and reaching higher to do it anyway,” Oikawa says passionately. “Anyway, I saved your ass because I was near a gateway, didn’t I?”

Kenma frowns, thinking that sentence through.

He barely remembers where he’d been before he’d run into Kuro and Tora, but he doesn’t think he was that far from his normal route between his home and the conbini with his favourite onigiri. Is it possible that he lives so close to a doorway between this world and his own?

“Where’s the gateway?” he asks quietly. When the other two look at him, he clarifies, “the one from earlier.”

Oikawa frowns. “I mean, you guys were kind of in it.”

Kenma blinks. “What?”

“Not exactly in it, but the gateway was in the alleyway you guys were in—it’s how I showed up so quickly, I’d just been around Ikebukuro earlier for some milk bread, and I’d tried to cut through Datekou but Kamacchi must have been in a bad mood or something because I got bounced all the way out to Nerima, and then you guys were there when I made my way through the gateway,” Oikawa recounts.

“Do you call it Nerima here too?” Kenma asks.

“Nah, I was on your side,” Oikawa says.

Kenma stills. “So we were on this side of the gateway?” Kenma asks, perturbed. He can’t remember actually going anywhere with Kuro and Tora, just… the weird haze, and the boulders, and the other two being there. “Does that mean anyone can just walk through them?”

“Humans aren’t meant to be able to,” Oikawa says. Kenma stumbles at that, Kuro’s hand immediately snaking out to steady him, capturing his hand to ensure his balance. He doesn’t let go once Kenma is standing upright again, and Kenma’s cheeks warm. He doesn’t know what to think about it, but he deliberately doesn’t look at Oikawa. He has a feeling he won’t enjoy whatever expression is on his face. 

“I’m human,” Kenma mumbles.

“Yes,” Oikawa says, and now Kenma can hear the glint of amused interest in his voice. His hand tightens slightly around Kuro’s, who sends him a reassuring squeeze back. “And isn’t that interesting.”

It’s a weird sensation, walking between two people and realising nobody else can see them, but Kenma doesn’t realise it until they’re halfway to the next gateway. He’s too busy mapping the route they’re taking, trying to work out if there are any patterns to these paths that run through and interweave their worlds, and by the time he notices, he’s probably been guided out of the path of others by Kuro’s hand at least twelve times.

“Can they not see you?” Kenma asks, noticing Oikawa deftly sidestep a group of chattering teenagers.

“Nah,” Kuro says. “At least, they never have.” He doesn’t say before you, but Kenma can tell he’s thinking it.

“Not that Kuro-chan normally has to dodge them anyway,” Oikawa says. “Seeing as he can just melt into the shadows.”

Kenma raises an eyebrow at Kuro, then glances down at their still clasped hands. Kuro clearly catches his meaning, his cheeks pinking slightly.

“I’m not going to shadow-walk when I’m with people,” Kuro defends. “That’s just rude.”

Kenma’s oddly pleased by the idea that Kuro won’t be dropping his hand, even if it’s probably not the taller boy’s reasoning. He wonders if he could actually travel in the shadows like Kuro can—he knows he can go into them, weird as it feels, for reasons unknown, but that had been like finding a sanctuary; somehow, he’s apprehensive about the idea of navigating them, moving within them, instead of just stepping into the cover of darkness. He has a horrible feeling that he could lose himself in there.

“Through here,” Oikawa directs, and Kuro tugs him by the hand. Kenma follows. He’s never trusted easily—not out of a lack of trust for others, but rather a lack of connection that’s ever asked him for that—but he doesn’t bother looking up, instead committing the path of their feet to his memory. He knows Kuro won’t let him fall.

There’s something about the air that Kenma can’t put his fingers on. It’s not quite like being in Kuro’s shadows, where he felt entirely disembodied, but there’s something about it that makes him feel like he’s not in any place he knows. He’d felt it when they’d gone through the first gateway, but had been too busy mulling over Oikawa’s revelations to really hone in on the sensation; now, his entire consciousness is dedicated to teasing out the feeling. It’s an impossible feeling, somehow simultaneously stretching endlessly and yet only lasting for a second, and Kenma feels kind of like that moment in an elevator as it first starts to move downwards. A light swooping in his stomach, a feeling of ungroundedness, a sense that he’s in no real place, just existing in a liminality for a second—

And then it’s over, his feet stepping firmly onto ground that doesn’t look any different from the one he just stepped off from, immediately anchored the same way he feels the second after that moment in an elevator, when his body is adjusted to its new motion.

It doesn’t look any different, but something feels different. Older, maybe. Distinctly other.

Kenma doesn’t think it’s tangible, exactly, but something about the air feels different. Like it’s fizzing with possibility. He’s not sure if it’s a real sensation, or just his mind trying to find any sort of difference it can in order to catalogue his experiences, but the way Oikawa’s shoulders relax slightly isn’t just his imagination, nor the way Kuro’s eyes brighten.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Kuro murmurs. “The magic in the air.”

“I like your Tokyo,” Oikawa says, stepping forward, Kuro—and by default, Kenma—falling in step with him. “But I like the feeling of coming back just that little bit more.”

“It’s not like a drastic difference,” Kuro says, in that same low tone as before. Its warmth seeps into Kenma’s bones. “But it’s enough that we notice if we pay attention, even on short jaunts like that. It’s much stronger when you’ve been on the other side for longer, though.”

Kenma turns that over in his mind, tries to navigate what it suggests for incompatibilities and impossibilities between the two worlds. The thought aches in his chest for some reason.

“We’re here,” Oikawa announces.

“That was quicker than I expected,” Kenma murmurs, almost inaudibly, but they both hear him anyway.

“Shiratorizawa is huge,” Oikawa says, a twist to his lips Kenma’s not sure how to identify. Aggravation, maybe? Petulance? “They should really move their entrance further away from the gateway, though, or baby swan might get lost.”

Kuro rolls his eyes. “You’re just salty that he always gets around you when you’re sparring,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not like he even really needs gateways.”

Oikawa sighs dramatically, weaving around some—Kenma’s not sure what to call them. They look like rocks, but there’s a silvery sheen to them, almost the same colour as Suna had been. They don’t look dangerous, but noticing the way Oikawa avoids touching them, Kenma skirts them carefully, leaning closer into Kuro’s side to give them a wide berth.

He catches sight of Kuro’s face as he does so, and the warmth of the smile he’s wearing before he schools his expression into a casual smirk when Oikawa glances back at them.

“You know how Kuro-chan called them mirror cities earlier?” Oikawa asks, clearly talking to Kenma even though he’s eyeing Kuro with a knowing expression. “I don’t know if they are dimensions, or anything, but if we borrow the term from sci-fi movies for a bit—” and here, sticking out his tongue at Kuro, Kenma’s hard-pressed to remember why he’d found Oikawa so intimidating that first time they’d met, “—and we assume gateways are like… where dimensions meet, then baby swan can like.” Oikawa pauses, eyes flicking away from Kuro’s face as he considers how to explain this best. “It’s as if he folds the dimension in on itself. Instead of having to move from A to B, he brings A to B. It’s impressive,” he admits grudgingly, before tacking on, with a scowl, “and really fucking annoying.”

“It actually is annoying to deal with,” Kuro admits in a low tone, leaning closer to Kenma. “Oikawa’s usually exaggerating, but the kid’s pretty impressive, even if his hair makes it hard to take him seriously.”

Kenma gives Kuro a flat stare, then flicks his eyes up to Kuro’s own hair dubiously.

“Okay, point taken,” Kuro says, huffing out a laugh as he moves back, standing upright again. “But trust me, if he’s at the meeting, you’ll see what I mean.” Glancing ahead, his expression turns wry. “Speaking of, pretty boy’s finally led us to the center,” he says, raising his voice so Oikawa can hear him. Oikawa flips him off.

They approach an archway: it’s wrought from some sort of metal, Kenma thinks, but it’s emitting a soft white light. The crest of the archway is two swans, necks entwined, and the rest of the arch is shaped like feathers falling from the swans’ bodies, ending in a pool of feathers on the ground which makes up the foundation for the archway. Kenma’s seen a lot of things since he first met Kuro, but this is easily the most beautiful, and he swallows a breath of surprise.

“Hey, Soekawa-kun,” Kuro greets the person standing in front of the arch, giving a nod of acknowledgement. Kenma’s privately just proud he doesn’t call him something based on his impressive eyebrows. “Door duty today?”

Soekawa shrugs. “It was me or Tendou,” he answers wryly. “I thought this would start the least fights, especially if Kamasaki-kun came with Moniwa-kun today.”

Oikawa snorts. “He is rather reactive for someone from Datekou, isn’t he?” he muses.

“And Tendou could rile up a door,” Kuro says, smirking. Kenma thinks he detects a glimmer of respect in his expression, and rolls his eyes. Of course Kuro would be impressed with that in a person.

Soekawa sends them an apologetic smile, paired with a resigned shrug, but there’s something firm about the action too. It’s simultaneously a sorry, a what can you do and an i wouldn’t have him any other way. Kenma admires the way he can express so much with so little. He thinks Soekawa seems understated, but there’s something steady in his spine, something that Kenma likes.

“Hello,” Soekawa says politely, and Kenma starts, realising he’s being addressed. “I’m Soekawa Jin—I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Kenma didn’t think anything could surprise him anymore, but he thinks this is the first time he’s been given a full introduction from someone, and, therefore, the first time he’s heard two names offered. He thinks about what Oikawa said earlier, about whether or not kitsune really have families, as such, and wonders how many of the people he’s met actually have names like his.

“I’m Kenma,” he says. “Kozume Kenma,” he adds, mirroring Soekawa’s own form of introduction. He’s never much cared about the formalities of naming conventions—all the -kuns and -sans and -chans Oikawa is so fond of, though he gets the impression that at least half of them are to be disrespectful—or even the level of intimacy required to use his first name. It’s not like he’s ever really gotten to that level with anyone but the Hinata siblings before, anyway. He’d never considered offering anything other than ‘Kenma’ when Kai had introduced himself back at Nekoma; it was like being introduced to this world was already the most intimate thing Kenma could imagine. What use were family names when someone was letting you into the heart of them, into the core of their world, making space for you in a place where you inherently didn’t fit, carving out a hollow for you to feel like you belong?

Soekawa dips his head in acknowledgement and greeting.

“He’s with me,” Kuro says, tugging Kenma closer into his side. Kenma decides the warmth in his cheeks is just the effect of closer proximity to Kuro’s body heat. Nothing else.

Soekawa’s impressive eyebrows raise slightly, as if in question, but he nods. “All right,” he says. He presses his hand to the archway, and Kenma’s eyes widen as threads of glittering purple light begin weaving their way through the arch, adding depth and a richness of colour to the swans and their feathers. Suddenly, the space between the archway no longer looks like a dead end of a street, but more like a college town, with smoothly paved paths twining through grassy patches, sakura trees dotting the grounds.

Oikawa steps through, posture regal and chin held high, and Kenma thinks, bizarrely, that he looks like a king.

Kuro and Kenma follow a step later, Kenma pausing to duck his head to Soekawa in a quick nod, and receiving a small smile in return.

“He’s one of Ushiwaka’s seconds,” Kuro says conversationally, following Oikawa down one of the paths.

“He has multiple?” Kenma asks.

“He has two,” Oikawa says. “Sort of like Kuro-chan and Nekoma, except Yakkun isn’t technically a second, just everyone knows he, Kai-chan and Kuro-chan are all a team.”

“We all run ourselves differently,” Kuro explains, “and there’s no real need for formalities except for, like, giving everyone else a heads up on who to go to if you can’t find a leader or whatever. Ushiwaka just went the full mile and sent everyone really formal letters to let us know that both Soekawa and Reon are seconds.” He shrugs, before a wicked smirk paints itself on his face. “Gives me a reason to send Kai to hang out with Reon, though.”

“You’re a meddler,” Oikawa calls out over his shoulder.

“Oh, as if you can talk,” Kuro snorts. “You’re like a gleeful puppetmaster at the best of times.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, as if to rebut, before he closes it, a satisfied smile on his face. “Ah, Crow-san!” he calls out, giving a jaunty wave to a crowd of people in the center of the amphitheatre he’s led them to.

Kenma’s not sure who he’s waving to at first, but then a man turns his head, arms crossed, unimpressed expression on his face. For a moment, Kenma wonders at the nickname, and then huge black wings unfurl from the man’s back, and Kenma’s mind silences.

“You’re late,” Crow-san says flatly. He doesn’t actually look angry, Kenma thinks, but his eyebrow is raised, strong features brooking no argument, and Kenma thinks that maybe this is someone who could counteract Oikawa’s airy whirlwind of a personality.

“We ran into some trouble in the western districts,” Oikawa says dismissively, before tacking on, “well, western-ish. Not that west, but Suna-kun was there.”

“Suna?” someone says, and Kenma blinks at the speaker. He has white hair, with black tips, and a solemn expression on his face. There’s something steadying about his presence, like when he stepped closer to them, he brought with him a new trustworthiness to the very ground beneath their feet.

“He said he was following your hunch,” Kuro drawls, and Kenma studies the speaker with new interest. So this is the Kita-san Suna had spoken of, the kitsune with the knack for knowing what needs to be done. He remembers Suna saying that Kita had thought his magic was in support and steadiness, and Suna’s own theories about Kita’s potential… precognition, perhaps. He wonders if they could both be correct. There’s something frustrating about not knowing all the rules he’s working with, about not being able to tell if something’s impossible or just improbable, but he has to admit that part of him finds it thrilling as well. There are few things in his life which not only interest him, but engage him, and Kuro and his world have been doing that from the moment they collided.

“He’s all right, then,” Kita says, and it’s not a question. Kenma wonders if it’s faith in Suna, or an irrevocable belief that Kuro and Oikawa would have stated if something was wrong. Both, he decides, examining Kita’s expression further.

“Ran off into the distance saying ‘that’s interesting’,” Oikawa supplies, rolling his eyes. “And something about telling Aran-kun.”

“Mmmm,” Kita says, which isn’t a response in the slightest, but somehow manages to convey a sense of acceptance. He bows his head graciously, then turns back to the man he’d been talking with before Oikawa attracted his attention: a tall, sculpted figure, with a chiseled bone structure and serious hazel eyes. He’s huge, but there’s something else about him that makes Kenma lean further into Kuro’s side without even intending to—something forceful and oppressive about him, like he could intimidate stone just by breathing.

“Ushiwaka, can you tone it down?” Oikawa snaps. “You’re scaring Ken-chan.”

Kenma wonders briefly when he got upgraded from pudding-chan to Ken-chan, then realises his introduction to Soekawa was probably the first time Oikawa had heard his name.

Ushiwaka—oh, Kenma thinks, recalling his earlier thoughts about who could possibly be undefeated by Oikawa—frowns slightly. “I am not doing anything,” he says, his tone gravelly yet flummoxed.

“You’re always doing something,” Oikawa mutters. Crow-san throws him what Kenma can only classify as an exasperated look. “Tone down the imperiousness,” Oikawa says in a louder tone, giving Ushiwaka a look very similar to the one Crow-san just gave him. “We’re all used to your gravitational bullying, but Ken-chan’s never met you before.”

There’s a noise like the clicking of a tongue, and Kenma looks over to see what might be the prettiest person he’s ever seen, and he’s spent half the day with Oikawa. His hair is kind of like Kita’s, ash blonde with dark tips, and—Kenma squints—shades of lilac threading through it, shimmering in the light. In fact, all of him seems to be shimmering; he’s almost pearlescent, light catching on his skin like sunshine dappling on water, or moonlight playing across the scales of fish in a pond. Kenma can’t put his finger on why, but he’s struggling to look away. It could be the strong arch of his brow, the smooth lines of his jaw, or maybe even the multitude of piercings dotting his ears, the swirling symbols spanning his arms which Kenma assumes are tattoos, even if they’re not like any he’s ever seen.

“What Oikawa is saying,” he says, and Kenma’s heart literally stops in his chest at the sound of his voice, “is that when you’re not thinking about it consciously, your ability can be a little… overwhelming. We’re all used to it, but I’m sure their friend would appreciate some relief from the force.”

He glances at Kenma, who can’t even process a response. Luckily, he seems to take Kenma’s unblinking stare as one anyway, and returns his gaze to Ushiwaka. Kenma doesn’t know what this feeling is, but he doesn’t think he likes it. If he thought the new speaker was pretty before he spoke, he doesn’t even have words for how he felt when he could hear that voice. For a second, he couldn’t keep his eyes off him, even if he’d tried.

“Ah,” Ushiwaka says gravely, before inclining his head towards Kenma. “I apologise. I did not realise the effect it would have on you. I shall adjust.” He closes his eyes for a second, brow creasing in concentration, and then his expression clears at the same moment that Kenma suddenly finds it easier to breathe.

“Thank you,” Kenma says quietly, looking at him. He hates meeting people’s eyes when he’s not searching for something from them specifically, but he’s very determined not to let his eyes float to the other person again, and this seems like the safest option.

“I think someone else is having an effect too,” a voice trills out, wicked and amused, and Kenma glances out the side of his eye to see the weirdest person he’s met yet. He’s tall, almost as tall as Ushiwaka, with skin tinged green, and his hair is a vicious, vibrant red; the overall effect reminds Kenma absurdly of a christmas tree, albeit with an unbalanced colour scheme. There’s an amusement in his eyes that lights up his face, though, and Kenma thinks he’d find it less unsettling if it didn’t seem to be aimed at him.

“Don’t tease, Satori,” someone else chides, coming up to stand beside the two of them. “You know Eita can’t control that.” He looks at Kenma, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’m Reon. This is Semi—” he pats the ash blonde on the shoulder, “—and this is Tendou,” he says, jerking his thumb at the redhead with a wry grin.

Kenma remembers Kuro mentioning Tendou earlier, back in the alleyway, something about him not needing to see to know where people are, and the conversation with Soekawa in the doorway, but he doesn’t think he can recall any mention of Semi prior to this.

“He’s right,” Oikawa says to Kenma. “Eita-chan can’t control it—he’s a siren,” he explains. “It’s not too bad when he’s just talking—it’s only full power if he sings, which he doesn’t tend to do, for obvious reasons—but short of taking a vow of silence, there’s not much he can do. You just get used to it.”

“It only affects his voice?” Kenma asks, frowning slightly. He remembers how hard it had been to look away at first, and he’d never considered himself someone easily swayed by a pretty face.

Oikawa sighs theatrically. “Unfortunately, yes. Everything else is just—” he waves his hand, gesturing at Semi.

Kuro grins. “It’s okay, Oikawa, you can say he’s pretty, we all know it’s true,” he says easily, affecting an innocent expression at the disgruntled look Oikawa shoots at him.

“I’m Kenma,” Kenma says, turning back to Reon, before letting his hair fall in front of his face like a curtain. It’s nothing personal; it’s just a little overwhelming, having all this attention. Of all people, Semi’s face softens.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks gently. Beside Kenma, Kuro stiffens slightly. Nobody else has asked, but he’s also fairly sure nobody else had even considered him being something other than just a magical person they hadn’t met yet, at least until Kuro set them straight: he can’t be sure that’s what Semi’s asking here, but Kenma gets the feeling that it is. That maybe there’s someone here who isn’t entirely startled at the idea of being seen by a human—that maybe he knows a little bit about it.

“No,” Kenma answers. He can tell Tendou is paying keen attention, and Reon nudges Ushiwaka in the side, attracting his renewed notice. Kita, Crow-san—Kenma hopes someone refers to him soon, because he’s extremely confident that it’s not the man’s moniker of choice—and the two people they’re talking to don’t move any closer, but tilt their heads in Kenma’s direction. He feels his face heat up, but then Kuro’s hand squeezes his—he hadn’t realised they’d never released each other, but he’s too relieved to feel embarrassed—and Semi’s gaze stays soft and steady, and Kenma takes a deep breath.

“I’ve seen Kuro a few times,” he says, extremely conscious of the weight and warmth of Kuro’s hand in his. It’s a surprisingly comfortable feeling. “Mostly in alleyways,” he adds, a teasing curve to his lips. “But today, Tora was there, and Oikawa, and whatever was throwing things at us wasn’t leaving, so Kuro and Tora brought me back to Nekoma with them.” He tries to think if there’s anything else important—or at least immediately relevant—because whilst he doesn’t like speaking at length, he’d rather do it all now than have to keep chiming in with new thoughts. “Yaku suggested that someone named Akaashi would have a clearer idea of any effects of Kuro’s shadows on me,” he says slowly, “and Oikawa suggested it was Kuro’s fault I could see him.” It had been a joke, or at least delivered as one, but as Kenma thinks back to all the things Oikawa had said regarding Kenma’s presence, thinks about all the times he caught Oikawa staring at him thoughtfully, he thinks maybe Oikawa had been completely serious.

Lapsing into silence, he watches Semi’s expression shift, brow furrowing as he considers everything. At his side, Tendou and Reon turn expectantly to Ushiwaka, so Kenma flicks his eyes to the taller man’s face.

Ushiwaka is silent for a few moments, his expression solemn, like he’s thinking it all through. He seems to be the leader of the swans, and very powerful in his own right, so Kenma waits with bated breath. Then: “His name is Kuroo,” he says.

Oikawa rolls his eyes violently. “Excellent insight, Ushiwaka-chan,” he says sarcastically, clapping his hands slowly. “That was absolutely the thing you were meant to take away from the story.”

Ushiwaka frowns. “His name is Kuroo,” he says, as if questioning Oikawa’s ability to grasp factual accuracies. Kenma can feel his cheeks warming; he knows it’s not his fault that nobody ever offered a formal introduction to Kuro—Kuroo—but he feels wrong-footed right now, like he’s somehow failed some sort of test by not knowing his name properly.

And then Kuroo’s hand tightens slightly around his, and Kenma flicks his eyes down towards their clasped hands in surprise—he must have started pulling away subconsciously, which isn’t all that surprising. What’s surprising is that Kuroo didn’t want him to.

“He can call me Kuro,” Kuroo says casually. “I don’t mind—it’s cute. Besides,” he says, winking at the assorted crowd, hopefully paying no mind to the way Kenma’s cheeks flushed again at the word cute, “it’s pretty accurate, right?”

There’s an amused expression on Semi’s face, and he quips, “Probably the politest nickname you’ve ever gotten too.” Kuroo affects an affronted expression, clutching at his chest with his free hand, but Semi just smirks. “I think Oikawa’s right,” Semi says, turning to Kenma. “It’s probably Kuroo’s fault.”

“This is character assassination,” Kuroo mutters.

“No, I mean—Kenma, when you first saw Kuroo, was it just seeing him?” Semi asks, rolling his eyes lightly at Kuroo.

Kenma shakes his head. “He knocked me into garbage,” he says flatly.

“Hey!” Kuroo protests. “I caught you before you could land in it!”

Kenma gives him a level look. He hears a snort from their right, he thinks from Crow-san, and a peal of laughter that he can’t be sure of, but he instinctually attributes to Tendou.

“Yeah,” Semi says, fixing Kuroo with an amused look. “It’s your fault. You touched him.”

Kuroo blinks, and for a second, everyone else pauses too.

“I didn’t know touching humans could do that,” Crow-san says after a moment.

“I don’t know if it’s all humans, or if there’s something latent that can be woken up in some of them, but yeah,” Semi says wryly.

Kuroo cocks his head to the side. “How’d ya know?” he asks.

Tendou bursts out laughing, quickly joined by a spiky haired person behind him. Ushiwaka, oddly, looks like he’s faintly blushing. Semi looks resigned.

“You’ve met Shirabu, right?” he asks.

A little indent forms in the furrow of Kuroo’s brow. Kenma is appalled to find it cute.

“Hair almost as bad as baby swan’s?” Kuroo asks. “The kind of polite that’s actually rude?”

Semi nods. “Yeah, he’s a brat,” he says, but Kenma thinks he catches a twitch of fondness in his voice. What is it with all these people he’s met and their affection for people they seem to think have terrible personalities? He supposes someone could argue that Shouyou has the same approach to him, but even if Kenma agrees he has a difficult personality—which he does, he knows he does, he knows he is shy and unapproachable and anxious, he knows—the crux of the matter is that Shouyou would never say so, would never even think so. Shouyou is built of faith and open-hearted affection, fondness which can’t be buried beneath quips and sighs.

“Also, don’t be rude about Tsutomu’s hair,” Semi tacks on, suddenly looking stern.

“Yeah,” Tendou chortles beside him. “It’s so cool.” Semi elbows him in the stomach.

“Anyway,” Semi says, rolling his eyes at Tendou’s dramatic groans, “Shirabu’s human. Wakatoshi was trying to save a kitten, things got extremely out of hand, and then he touched Shirabu and now—”

“Now we have the blessed comfort of Kenjirou-kun’s presence,” Tendou says with a beam, tugging someone from behind him. Kenma blinks. He hadn’t seen anyone come up, hadn’t heard any footsteps to mark an approach, but there’s a boy in front of him, roughly Kenma’s own age, with a disgruntled expression and light brown hair. Kenma glances at his haircut—a bowl cut with a triangle cut-out, like a preschooler’s craft project—and then at his own dyed strands, and wonders if maybe calling Kuroo ‘Weird Hair’ for so long was a little unfair, given the hairstyles being represented by the only two humans they seem to know personally. Then he glances at Kuroo’s hair and wrinkles his nose. Nope. Definitely weird. Even if it is kind of cute. Even if it does kind of suit him.

“Don’t do that, Tendou-san,” the newcomer—Shirabu—says crossly. “It’s rude.”

“You think so loudly, Kenjirou-kun,” Tendou says, utterly unashamed as he smirks at Shirabu. “I would be able to find you even without my talents.”

“It’s a miracle you can find anything with how loud your presence is at all hours of the day,” Shirabu mutters crossly, before peering around at the assorted group.

“Shirabu,” Semi says, stepping closer to the shorter man as he does so. Kenma does not miss the way Shirabu stills for a moment, then adopts a deliberately stiff posture, as if to say he’s above the effects from any of his peers. He wonders if Shirabu is more prone to being affected by Semi—by any of them, really, though Semi’s the most obvious option—because he’s human, either for physiological reasons or just a lack of familiarity with whatever it is that thrums beneath Semi’s skin. Observing everyone else, though, even those who complained about Semi’s effects—so, Oikawa—none of them seem as distinctly affected by Semi as Shirabu, and even Kenma, who had found Semi’s presence so overwhelming at first, finds it has now simmered down to a steady warmth, rather than a flustering crescendo. Perhaps, he thinks, eyeing Shirabu’s posture analytically, watching the deliberateness of his breaths, the way he so carefully looks at Semi but does not meet his eyes—perhaps this is something separate to Semi’s magic.

“This is Kenma,” Semi continues, gesturing towards Kenma, who blinks in greeting. Shirabu inclines his head forward about an inch, so Kenma feels like they’re equally as inexpressive here. Oikawa looks exasperated. “He’s human too.”

At this, Shirabu’s eyes widen. “Was it Tendou-san?” he asks, fixing Kenma with a clear gaze, before his eyes travel down to where Kenma’s hand is still wrapped in Kuroo’s. His eyebrows raise slightly. “Kuroo-san,” he says, bowing his head slightly, and somehow managing to convey a sense of judgement alongside the respect of his gesture. Now Semi looks exasperated.

“Yeah, it’s Kuroo’s fault,” he says, before nudging Shirabu lightly in the side. Kenma thinks it’s a gentle admonishment, maybe you don’t have to sound so critical when you say his name, or play nicer, please. He can’t decide if the light flush creeping up Shirabu’s ears is because of the potential admonishment, the physical contact, or both.

“Yes, Semi-san,” he says, nodding his head slightly, still not looking at the siren, and Kenma sees another flash of exasperation pass across Semi’s face. “So, how long have you been around?” Shirabu asks, directing it to Kenma.

Kenma frowns, mulling it over. “Today’s the first time I’ve been… in this world,” he says. “First time I’ve met more than just Kuro, too—” and it slips out, just from habit, because he called him that for so long in his head, but the way Kuroo’s hand squeezes his just the tiniest bit tighter for a second, the little breath he lets out, makes Kenma think he meant it earlier, that he really does like it, “—except for once Lev bled all over my school bag, I guess. But I first met Kuro a few weeks ago, kind of.”

“He knocked him into garbage,” Tendou tells Shirabu gleefully.

Kuroo flips him off. “I caught him before he hit the garbage,” he reiterates, and Shirabu fixes him with a look.

“You sure you’re not one of us? You’re doing a pretty good job of telling me off without saying anything,” Kuroo grumbles.

“Yeah, he’s good at that,” Semi says wryly, but when Shirabu glares at him, all he gives him in response is a smile, a touch too fond to be wry, and Kenma watches Shirabu’s face do something complicated.

“Tsutomu’s the usual recipient, Kuroo-kun, you should feel lucky!” Tendou crows, effectively breaking through the moment. Kenma finds himself relieved. It wasn’t even involving him, but there was something about the energy building in the steady gaze they had been sharing that felt like it was rising through him too. He eyes them carefully, watching the way Semi takes the moment to turn his gaze onto Tendou, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, and Shirabu’s gaze stays on Semi’s profile for a beat, two, three, before he turns his eyes back to Kenma. They narrow when they notice how carefully Kenma has been watching them, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I don’t want to take up too much of Moniwa-san’s time, because unlike certain members of his circle—” Shirabu says, his expression shifting to one of extreme distaste, making Kuroo let out his awful cackle and Oikawa smirk, muttering something that sounds like Kenji-chan, “—he actually has sense and would never call a meeting needlessly, but if you don’t need to stick around, I guess I can talk to you a bit more about.” He waves his hand dismissively to gesture their surroundings. “Everything.”

Kenma doesn’t miss the way Semi’s eyes flick to Shirabu after his offer, expression pleased, nor the slight eyebrow raise from Reon. Kenma glances up at Kuroo, as if to gauge what he thinks, and he finds Kuroo looking down at him.

“Probably a good idea,” Kuroo says, a hint of reluctance in his voice. Kenma can’t work out why. “I’ll ask if anyone knows who we met in the alley,” Kuroo continues, glancing at the others, then back at Kenma. He cocks his head to the side, studying Kenma, who feels his face heat up. 

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Kuroo says, shaking his head, then: “It’s just, you looked surprised for a second.” Kenma blinks, and Kuroo shrugs, shooting him a lopsided smile. “I got you here on a chance for answers, didn’t I?” he asks. “Did you think I’d forget?”

Kenma doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s not really that he thought Kuroo would forget, it’s more… he had figured any answers he’d get would be by proxy. That Kuroo and Oikawa would be given answers if any were to be found, and Kenma would get them too by standing at their side by default. He’d never thought that they were something Kuroo would actively give him, that they were something anyone would think he deserved. He’d been there, sure, but it wasn’t like he’d done anything then, or that he’d be able to do anything if he found out now. Kenma doesn’t know how to explain that being included feels extremely similar to belonging, close enough that he doesn’t know how to pull them apart, and he doesn’t have words for how it feels to be given that so easily by Kuroo.

“Not forget,” he says at last, twisting their fingers together a little. He realises, then, that they’ll need to separate. It makes something lurch in his chest, which is absolutely ridiculous, because he doesn’t even like physical contact all that much, let alone with someone he’s only met a handful of times, but there’s no denying it: part of him—perhaps larger than he’s willing to examine at this point in time—is genuinely disappointed about having to detach himself from Kuroo’s side.

Conversely, it’s that thought which motivates him to slip his hand from Kuroo’s. He can’t resist the light brush against his wrist as he goes, but still, he pulls away.

He examines Kuroo’s face, gaze flicking over the planes and edges, searching for any sort of reaction, any sort of hint of emotion. Relief, maybe, or amusement, a voice in the back of his head suggests. Wistfulness, says another, and his heart thuds a little at the thought. There’s something in Kuroo’s eyes, something he doesn’t know how to identify, a touch too bittersweet to be rueful, a touch too warm to be bittersweet: a myriad of emotions, so many glimpses of things Kenma has never paid much attention to, and he doesn’t know what to label it.

He knows what to label the feeling blooming in his chest, though. Hope, a very small bud of it, slowly raising its head like the flowers unfurling in the gaps between Oikawa’s fingers, with roots buried in the warmth that Kenma still feels in the pit of his stomach from when their hands were linked.

“I’ll debrief you too,” Kenma says quietly, then steps towards Shirabu.

Shirabu raises an eyebrow at him, and opens his mouth, before shutting it suddenly. Before Kenma can even try to figure out why, he hears Kuroo’s voice behind him.

“Looking forward to it!” Kuroo calls out, and Kenma doesn’t even need to look around to know he’ll be wearing that lazy smirk he wore half the times they’d run into each other before today. He doesn’t want to examine why he’s so certain about that, but he refuses to turn around and indulge that appallingly attractive—and annoying—expression with his attention and reaction, so he just hunches lower into his shoulders and scowls at his feet.

“Go away,” he responds, a hint of a smile twitching at his lip as he hears Oikawa’s tinkle of laughter and Kuroo’s dramatic gasp. He shakes his head slightly, allowing his hair to fall in front of his face for a moment as he wills the fondness to leave his expression, then peers at Shirabu again.

Shirabu doesn’t say anything yet, just raises his eyebrow again, and turns around, leading Kenma away.

“A few weeks, was it?” Shirabu asks quietly, his tone deceptively mild for something that makes Kenma’s entire face flush.

“He’s… friendly,” Kenma says, after a few moments of struggling with how to respond.

“I bet,” Shirabu says dryly, then adds, “but you’re not.” It’s not a question.

It’s not wrong, but Kenma’s not sure it’s entirely accurate either. He’s not unfriendly, exactly, in that he’s not actively attempting to be unfriendly to others; he just prefers not to engage with others, and finds that most people prefer him that way too. Except for Shouyou. And now, he thinks, Kuroo. Maybe even Kuroo’s friends, he thinks, his mind flashing to Tora, Inuoka and Oikawa.

“I don’t like talking to people,” he chooses to say in the end.

“Then you two are a match made in heaven,” a voice drawls, and Kenma looks up to see a lithe figure, all tired eyes and messy hair, and—

Wings. They’re the same soft white as the archway was, but the feathers are tipped with copper.

Beside him is a boy, taller than Kenma, but he thinks younger. Then again, he thinks wryly, there’s no reason to assume any of them look their age. Well, except for Shirabu.

The boy has glossy black hair, styled into a bowl cut yet distinctive in an entirely different way from Shirabu’s—instead of having a triangular cut-out, he has triangular bangs on either side of his face, resting on his cheeks. Kenma knows immediately that this is baby swan, and hates to admit that Kuroo was right: it is a little hard to take him seriously with that hair.

But Kenma has played many games, and knows better than to judge only on appearances. He remembers what Oikawa said about his powers, how Kuroo admitted they were annoying too, and observes him carefully.

“Jumping into conversations, Taichi? Trying to emulate Tendou-san?” Shirabu asks, smirking at the taller boy. Kenma thinks it’s the first expression he’s seen Shirabu make that feels friendly, even if it’s quite clearly mocking the swan-boy.

“Ugh,” Taichi says, “okay, low blow, Kenjirou.” He rolls his eyes at baby swan—Tsutomu, he thinks Semi had said—and nudges him in the side. “You don’t think I’m like Tendou, right?” he asks.

Tsutomu looks aghast at being put on the spot. “No!” he says after a moment, and then: “Wait, yes! I mean, sort of?”

Shirabu rolls his eyes so hard that it’s practically audible. “Which is it, Goshiki?” he asks impatiently.

“You’re really good at fending off attacks like Tendou-san!” Tsutomu—Goshiki? Kenma hates that he might have to ask for what to call him—says, then barrels on, “but like, you’re really different in lots of ways! Except you’re both cool! But Tendou-san is always coming into my room to watch things with me instead of using the scrying mirror in his room, which is—” his voice drops to a whisper, and Kenma can’t decide if he finds the obvious nervousness endearing or embarrassing, “—really annoying, so! I’m glad you don’t do that.” He stops, and Kenma feels the need to take a breath, even though he wasn’t the one speaking. Suddenly, Goshiki adopts a stricken expression, and Kenma eyes him warily. “Not that I’d mind if you came to my room!” he says hastily. “That would be fine! Fun, even! Just, I like to be asked, you know, and Tendou-san doesn’t, and neither does Shirabu-san, and—”

“Fucking hell,” Shirabu mutters, then says in a louder tone, “Goshiki.” That’s it, just his name, but it’s all that’s needed. Goshiki snaps his mouth shut, looking vaguely embarrassed. Taichi looks like he’s still processing everything that was just thrown at him a mile a minute by his extremely earnest companion, and Kenma doesn’t blame him. He feels overwhelmed, and none of it was even directed at him.

“This is Goshiki Tsutomu,” Shirabu says dryly, rolling his eyes as he gestures towards the dark-haired boy. “And this,” he says, inclining his head towards Taichi, “is Kawanishi Taichi.”

Kenma nods in greeting. “I’m Kenma,” he says. “Kozume Kenma.”

“How’d you end up stuck on a tour with Kenjirou?” Kawanishi inquires, looking vaguely amused about it all. Shirabu elbows him sharply in the side.

“We’re not on a tour,” he says, then frowns. “Ugh, I suppose Semi-san would expect us to give you one…” he trails off, looking put-out, before his expression clears. “Yamagata-san would probably enjoy giving you one more,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to rob him of his joy.”

Kawanishi lets out a very loud snort.

“We could help!” Goshiki says, and Kawanishi’s expression shifts to one of mild alarm. “Yamagata-senpai is always losing things, so he might forget to take you somewhere, but Taichi-san is very good at finding them when he does, so between all three of us, we’d give you the best tour.”

Shirabu’s expression doesn’t betray anything, but his eyes are filled with wicked amusement. Kawanishi looks like he’s choking.

“Oh? Taichi-san, is that so?” Shirabu says innocently.

“I don’t want to hear anything from anyone who choked on their breakfast because Semi-san was wearing a skirt,” Kawanishi says flatly, though his ears are scarlet. Shirabu immediately scowls at him. Goshiki’s eyes widen.

“It’s very understandable, Shirabu-san,” he says earnestly, clearly attempting to be comforting. Kenma thinks he’s starting to get why Semi seems so protective of him. “Semi-san is very distracting sometimes, but he’s really—”

“Really cool, I know,” Shirabu says through gritted teeth, cutting him off.

“I was going to say nice,” Goshiki says stubbornly, “.......but cool is true too.”

“You have the worst taste,” Shirabu says flatly to Goshiki, then tracks his eyes to Kawanishi. “You too.”

Kawanishi, significantly less red now, waves his hand dismissively at him. “You’re such a grumpy cat sometimes,” he says, then gives Kenma a once-over. “So, if you guys aren’t doing a tour, what are you doing?”

“Kenma’s human,” Shirabu says bluntly.

Considering how earnest and expressive Goshiki is, how wide his eyes can go probably shouldn’t surprise Kenma as much as it does.

“Ah,” Kawanishi says.

“That’s so cool,” Goshiki breathes, then asks: “Wait, did you guys know each other?”

“Do you have any idea how big Tokyo is?” Shirabu demands, looking at Goshiki like he just grew another head.

Goshiki blushes. “It’s possible,” he argues. Kenma thinks about how many times he ran into Kuroo over the past few weeks, and has to agree with Goshiki, even though he would have made the exact same comment as Shirabu if he knew Goshiki even slightly better. Even accounting for the fact that Kenma was the only human Kuroo knew who could see him, it was surprising how many times they’d managed to collide.

Kenma thinks about what Kuroo had said when he’d brought it up, about how the city knew what it was doing. He still maintains that it’s a weird thing to say, but he wonders now if Kuroo had a point. Kuroo had spoken about it with such simple certainty, like Tokyo having a mind of its own is a tenet of his universe, and maybe it is. Kenma thinks about all the powers he’s seen and heard about today, all the magic he’s felt fizzing in the air, all the creatures of legend he’s seen come to life, and wonders whether a city can be humming with so much magic without being imbued with it. He thinks the same could be true for his Tokyo—maybe not magic, exactly, but his Tokyo is full of life, every inch of the city thrumming with it. Perhaps that was a type of power too.

Shirabu looks sorely tempted to debate the point further, but he spots something behind Kawanishi and Goshiki and his expression clears. Kenma peers around them and notices the spiky haired person who had been laughing earlier with Tendou.

“Yamagata-san is looking for you, so that’s our cue,” Shirabu says abruptly, lightly tapping Kenma on the sleeve to let him know to follow. “Have fun on finding duty, Taichi-san.”

Kawanishi flips him off, but turns to face Yamagata, Goshiki swivelling with him. The light catches on Kawanishi’s wings as he does, and Kenma takes a moment to marvel at the sight, before turning his focus back to Shirabu, arriving at a bench beneath a sakura tree.

Shirabu sits down, cross-legged, and Kenma joins him. He adopts a similar position, but instead of crossing his legs, he places his feet together, sole against sole, knees sticking outwards. Shirabu’s gaze feels heavy, but he doesn’t comment.

“So,” Shirabu says, “I assume you have questions.” His tone is crisp, but clear, and as abrasive as he clearly can be, Kenma doesn’t entirely mind it. He doesn’t find him as easy to be around as Shouyou, or even Kuroo or Tora, but he seems efficient and precise, deliberate and unflinching, and as intimidating as the combination can be, it also makes him a useful person to be able to discuss this with.

Kenma considers Shirabu’s statement. He’s correct, of course; Kenma does have questions, or rather, things he’s curious about.

“Why do you live here?” he chooses to ask after a few moments. It’s an assumption, but one built from educated guesses: the way Tendou had said they had the blessing of Shirabu’s presence, Goshiki saying Shirabu was guilty of invading his room, the idea that Shirabu could have given Kenma a tour… They all suggest a permanence to Shirabu’s space in Shiratorizawa, one which Kenma wouldn’t have expected.

Shirabu doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he exhales.

“Knowing this was here, I couldn’t leave,” he says slowly. “The first time I saw Ushijima-san, after he caught me, he was in motion, and he was controlling everything.” He looks up at Kenma, and Kenma doesn’t know how to describe the look in his eyes—enthrallment, but something analytical too, and maybe the slightest bit pleading. He settles on awe after a moment; admiration and apprehension in almost equal-parts. That’s what he sees in Shirabu’s eyes, and thinking about Ushijima’s powers, Ushijima’s stature, Ushijima’s strength, the way Oikawa wants to beat him, the way his fellow swans look up to him, Kenma thinks he understands why.

“It was like watching a force of nature,” Shirabu continues. “If a tidal wave was alive—though, I suppose, technically that would be more Semi-san, association-wise.” At Kenma’s questioning look, he expands, “Sirens are from the sea. Semi-san keeps a pearl on him at all times, to maintain his connection to the ocean, and those runes on his arms are the language of the sea.” He pauses, then: “Semi-san is defiant, and bold, and extremely irritating, but he’s not a tidal wave.”

“He’s dangerous,” Kenma says quietly—not a disagreement, exactly, because he thinks a tidal wave is too oppressive, too uncontainable a force for Semi, but an observation. Different things can be dangerous. Not all of them come with obvious warning signs.

“Yes,” Shirabu says after a moment. “He is.” His lips twist into something that’s almost a smirk, almost a smile. “He’s a wave, just not tidal. He could drag you out to sea, but he could bring you in to shore too.”

Kenma thinks that’s probably the most revealing thing Shirabu will say during this entire conversation, so he chooses not to comment.

“How does it work?” he asks. Shirabu’s eyes demand clarification, so Kenma scrunches his nose slightly, thinking about how to elaborate. “Being here—how does it work, you staying here?”

Shirabu hums. “I still go to classes in the hu—our world,” he corrects himself. Kenma wonders how true it is for him anymore. “I hated the accommodation I was in, and I think they were all curious about me.” He looks at his hands. “After all, I was the first human who could see them. There was a lot of discussion about how it happened—Soekawa-san was the one, in the end, who posited that it could be because of Ushijima-san’s physical contact that opened the world to me. We contacted Shimizu-san—she’s a midnight witch, but she knows the lore and histories better than anyone other than Takeda-sensei, but he’s a travelling dedicate and much harder to find—and she warned that now that I could see everything, it meant I straddled the line between the worlds, and I could be affected by both.”

Kenma swallows. A ghost of a smile flits across Shirabu’s face. “I thought that might catch your attention,” he says.

“What does it mean?” Kenma asks.

“I’m honestly not sure,” Shirabu admits, looking somewhat disgruntled to have to utter those words. “I do know that things find me more easily in the city, though, when I’m going to uni. One of the others tends to come out with me, to guard in case something happens.”

Kenma feels a little light-headed. Shirabu must see it on his face, because he clicks his tongue in exasperation. “It sounds more serious than it is,” he says. “Semi-san just fusses over things. It’s like—things have always been in our world, whether it’s magic or spirits or, I don’t know, fucking superpowers. They may have started here, but they’ve always been in our world too. Kita-san told me once that the world tends towards balance—I think he was trying to tell me that Atsumu would get his ass kicked by the universe so I didn’t have to, but he’s surprisingly pacifistic for the leader of that lot, so I didn’t pay too much attention to that part—anyway, he told me that it tends towards balance, and as far as I can tell, it applies to our world too. Sometimes there’s less well-meaning forces—well, relatively well-meaning,” he says, scowling. “Futakuchi and Atsumu are fucking pains in the ass, even if they’re mostly harmless.”

“Point is,” Shirabu says, regaining his momentum, “it’s always been there, even if we couldn’t see it before. And it could affect us too, before—it’s just that it’s more aware of us now.”

Kenma wonders if that’s why he’d crashed into Kuroo so much—if it hadn’t been Kuroo bringing the trouble, but Kenma attracting it. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“So you stay here because it’s safer?” Kenma asks.

“I stay here because I can,” Shirabu says seriously. “I didn’t know what I could do, what liabilities I would bring with me, so I researched. I worked with Shimizu-san, Akaashi, Kai-san and Oohira-san a lot—we did a lot of experiments, trying to work out what effect my introduction to this world had on me, and what effect I could have in return.” Shirabu looks at him carefully. “I cannot defend myself the way the rest of them can, but I am not helpless,” he says firmly. “There’s magic items even we can use, things that can make things easier, but there’s also lots we can do in our world that they can’t do here. I’m useful. I don’t stand out, but there are resources I can get which they can’t touch. There’s lots of weird old rules and laws of nature that prevent them from the most bizarre things, but they were never made with us in mind. I don’t stand out, but I help them be stronger. Do you see?”

And Kenma does. He sees why it appeals to Shirabu—sees why it’s important, why it’s useful, why Shirabu would be someone welcome in Shiratorizawa even if the rest of them weren’t as fond of him as they clearly are.

He’s just not sure where he fits in. Whether he would provide anything useful to Kuroo or the others.

Whether he wants to.

“Oi, Kenjirou, where the fuck are you,” Kawanishi’s voice comes from nowhere. Literally nowhere. It sounds like he’s right beside them, but Kenma can’t see anyone. He and Shirabu have been talking for a while now, maybe an hour—they’d been silent for a while as he’d mulled over each of Shirabu’s revelations, but they’d been communicating for at least forty minutes of it. Kenma thinks Shouyou would be ecstatic if he could see him now.

“Ugh, who gave you one of Saeko’s echoes?” Shirabu mutters, before his eyes narrow. “Or are you misusing Goshiki’s ability again?”

There is a silent beat, and then: “No comment. Doesn’t matter. Get your ass back to the meeting zone. They want Akaashi to check over Kenma.”

Shirabu sighs. “You are a terrible role model,” he says flatly, but he gets up, stretching out. Kenma rises too. “We’re coming,” he says, to nobody in particular, though Kenma assumes he’s addressing Kawanishi.

“Good,” comes Kawanishi’s voice again. “Semi-san’s talking to Akaashi. You can impress him with your ability to be helpful to those in need by showing him that Kenma is still alive.”

“Fuck off,” Shirabu says, and then starts walking, beckoning Kenma to follow.

As they approach the others, the first thing Kenma can hear is extremely loud, boisterous laughter.

“Please don’t be talking to Tendou-san or Yamagata-san,” Shirabu mutters under his breath. Kenma slants him a curious glance. Shirabu sighs heavily. “Bokuto-san—he’s the leader of Fukurodani, Akaashi will have come with him—is extremely energetic. Also very gullible, and willing to do pretty much anything. It makes for a bad combination with either Tendou-san or Yamagata-san, especially if Kuroo-san involves himself.”

“Kuro’s got a good head,” Kenma says quietly, almost defensively.

Shirabu gives him a pitying look. “Maybe usually,” he says. “But if you thought he and Oikawa-san were a pair, you might want to prepare yourself for what he and Bokuto-san are like.”

Kenma blanches.

When they finally arrive at the group, Kenma can see Kuroo and Oikawa standing on either side of Crow-san, and next to Kuroo—

Kenma’s eyebrows shoot up. He has white hair, streaked with black—or maybe black roots coming through whitened hair? It’s hard to tell—and spiked upwards. His eyes are huge and gold, eyebrows prominent and expressive, and he appears to be… Kenma squints. He seems to be glowing slightly, a faint golden light surrounding his body. Overall, he looks like the human version of a great horned owl.

“HEY, HEY, HEY!” the man shouts, catching sight of Kenma and Shirabu. “You must be Kenma!”

Kenma is too busy recovering from the sudden volume to do more than blink. Thankfully, Kuroo elbows his friend in the side.

“Bo, try not to burst his eardrums on the first impression, yeah?” he says, rolling his eyes fondly as Bokuto’s expression immediately turns stricken.

“Ahhhhhh, I’m sorry!” he cries out. Kenma thinks this might honestly be worse. “I just got so excited to meet you! Kuroo’s mentioned you and—”

“Bo!” Kuroo complains, flushing darkly.

Kenma raises an eyebrow at him. Next to Kuroo, Crow-san and Oikawa do the same, although Oikawa also looks extremely amused.

“Why is that a secret?” Bokuto demands. Kuroo just drags a hand down his face, groaning as he does. Evidently deciding he won’t be receiving a useful answer any time soon, Bokuto turns back to Kenma. “Anyway, it’s really nice to meet you, Kenma! I don’t know any humans—well, actually, I know Shirabu, hi Shirabu, but I don’t know him well, and I also forgot he was a human because he knows so much—but if you’re hanging out with Kuroo, I’ll probably get to see you allllll the time, because Kuroo’s my best bro!”

Bokuto is extremely overwhelming, but he’s also extremely warming. It’s kind of like meeting a louder, chattier Shouyou, with an even stronger personality. Kenma would have sworn that was impossible if someone had asked him yesterday, but apparently he would have been wrong.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Kenma manages after a few moments. It’s almost as hard to talk in the face of Bokuto’s beaming light and warmth as it was to try to form words in the immediate aftermath of Semi’s voice.

Bokuto beams at him, clearly satisfied by his response, even though it pales in comparison to how much Bokuto had said to him. Then someone clears his throat, and Kenma’s eyes travel to the lithe, dark-haired person on the other side of Bokuto from Kuroo. It’s a relief to set his eyes on him; not just because the brightness and sheer earnestness of Bokuto’s gaze is draining to hold, although it is, but because his companion is the opposite.

He reminds Kenma slightly of Suna, but there’s a fondness in his eyes as he looks at Bokuto that Kenma never got to see in the fox’s expression, and while his movements are graceful, they’re nothing like the quicksilver of Suna’s. He’s steady, though, in the same way Suna was, and there’s something clear-sighted and astute about his gaze that Kenma saw in Suna too.

“My name is Akaashi Keiji,” he says to Kenma, dipping his head in a bow of greeting.

“Kozume Kenma,” says Kenma, returning the gesture. His eyes flick towards Kuroo, and feels his face flush lightly when he finds him already looking back. Kenma fixes his eyes back on Akaashi.

“Kozume,” he says, “I hear that Yaku-san suggested I examine you. Would that be all right with you?”

Kenma shrugs. “I guess,” he says. “What do you have to do?”

Akaashi steps closer, away from the others, and Kenma can feel Shirabu slip away. “You were examined by Yaku-san, correct?” he asks. At Kenma’s nod, he says, “Yaku-san’s abilities manifest similarly to mine. It will feel fairly similar to that.”

“Oh,” Kenma says. “That’s fine.”

Akaashi gives him a small smile. He closes his eyes, and then stands extremely still in front of Kenma, his only movements his breathing. After ten long seconds of this, he begins to move his hands, twisting them in front of him, fingers twining around each other like he’s digging into a knot that only he can see. His expression creases for a second, his fingers stilling for a second, and then he returns to tugging at the air, movements methodical. Kenma doesn’t feel anything at first, and then—he doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s like he’s a lock, and Akaashi is turning the key. It’s not unpleasant, exactly, but it’s not comfortable. He wants to shy away, but how can he shy from something invisible? Something that isn’t using eyes to see?

His eyes flick to Kuroo again, seeking something to anchor him. Kuroo’s listening to Bokuto and Oikawa bicker lightly about something, but he looks up at Kenma’s gaze, and his lips curve into a smile. It’s steadying and exhilarating at the same time, and Kenma doesn’t know what to do with that contradiction in motion. He looks down for a second, then glances back up to Kuroo, and gives him a small smile. He knows it’s not that noticeable, knows from the way his lips only tilt slightly at the corners that some wouldn’t even call it a shift in expression, but Kuroo’s grin pulls wider in response, turns softer, a touch fonder. Kenma feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest, and then hears a slight change in Akaashi’s breathing pattern.

He turns his eyes back to him, and finds gunmetal blue eyes looking at him thoughtfully. “Ah,” is all he says, but there seems to be a world of understanding in that syllable. Akaashi is too tactful to glance at Kuroo, but Kenma has no doubt in his mind that Akaashi noticed something, and attributed it correctly.

“What’s your ability?” Kenma asks suddenly, realising he’s not entirely sure.

Akaashi blinks, his lips curving into a smile. “I’m an empath,” he says, and Kenma shuts his eyes in mortification. “It’s all right,” Akaashi says gently. “I was being thorough, but I have seen many emotions in my life. I know what to handle with care.”

Kenma breathes in, then opens his eyes. He nods at Akaashi, who nods back.

“Nothing seems to be out of order,” he says, pursing his lips. “It’s fairly in line with Shirabu’s readings when I first examined him,” he says, before adding, a crooked smile at his lips, “accounting for some initial personality differences, of course.”

“So there’s nothing that says why I could go into the shadows?” Kenma asks.

Akaashi’s brow furrows for a moment, and he mutters something under his breath. It kind of sounds like pain-in-the-ass Kuroo-san but Kenma can’t be sure. Maybe he’s projecting.

“I suspect Kuroo-san got distracted by Bokuto-san and forgot to relay that question,” Akaashi says after a moment, wry smile at his lips. “However, I do have a theory. Similarly to Shirabu, I believe you received an—” he pauses, brow creasing as he chooses his words carefully, “—echo of Kuroo-san’s ability.”

Kenma blinks.

“I can’t exactly be certain about this, because it would be irresponsible and unethical to just go around testing the theory on humans, but I think there must have been something in you both that was open to having a seed planted in you—something latent, perhaps, if it’s physiological, but I deal in that which isn’t physical.” Akaashi pauses, then says, “I personally don’t think it’s physiological. I think it’s in the anima—that there’s something in you that was willing to hold on when Kuroo-san’s came in contact with you.”

Kenma blinks again. “Nobody’s ever accused me of being welcoming,” he says.

Akaashi snorts. “Nor Shirabu, I imagine,” he says, amused. “I could be wrong, of course, but I’ve long held the belief that much of the phenomena that occurs around us is closer to metaphysics than anything entirely tangible on the physical plane—something inherent to who we are, rather than how we are.” At Kenma’s questioning look, he clarifies, “Anima—souls, if you will—rather than anything in our bodies.” He shrugs. “All our abilities manifest differently—some of us call it magic, others would say powers, like in those films Bokuto-san and Kuroo-san enjoy so much. There are youkai among us, older than the trees that surround us, who have breathed for millennia, spirits and monsters and everything in between. Yet we all recognise it in each other, no matter how different our abilities may be,” Akaashi says, then huffs a laugh. “The more I think I understand it, the more questions I have,” he admits. “But I recognise that which I’ve seen before—Kunimi’s better at it, however, if you ever end up near Seijoh and can convince him to expend some energy on you—and although everyone’s sources of power feel different, there’s a commonality to all of them. A spark, like when one strikes flint.” He looks steadily at Kenma. “I believe you and Shirabu were like flint, and Kuroo-san and Ushijima-san’s contact struck a spark.”

Kenma processes all this, thinking over all the concepts Akaashi has introduced. Kenma likes breaking things down into that which he can analyse, like character stats and levels, but he’s used to navigating emotions. Generally for the ability to avoid further engagement with them, but he supposes this entire day has been about flipping everything he knows on its head; why should this be any different?

“You said echo,” he says at last. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“I noticed it when I was examining you,” Akaashi says. “I can’t read abilities that precisely—they’re kind of like emotions, but it’s tenuous, so it’s more that I get an impression of them rather than anything specific—but entangled in your… reactions to Kuroo-san was a bead of something that felt like his spark. I would have missed it, most likely, if I hadn’t noticed the same thing in Shirabu with Ushijima’s echo—Kuroo-san’s ability is a fairly subtle feeling, but Ushijima-san’s is decidedly not.”

Kenma shudders, remembering how heavy Ushijima’s presence had felt initially. “I can imagine,” he mutters, and Akaashi looks amused.

“I don’t believe it gives you any of his actual ability,” Akaashi says, “but it allows you to engage with our world, and that which belongs to us.” Kenma thinks of what Shirabu had said about there being magic items they could use, and he wonders if it’s because of this echo Akaashi is talking about, or if anyone could, even if they couldn’t see the world it was from. “It stands to reason that Kuroo-san’s shadows would recognise their like even better than I could, and accept you into them,” Akaashi says, shrugging. “I can’t be sure, but that would be my hypothesis.”

Kenma nods slowly. “I felt… comfortable in them,” he says, deciding it was a less vulnerable word than ‘safe’. “But also that it would be a bad idea to try navigate them myself.”

Akaashi nods. “Takeda-sensei might have more ideas, when he’s next around, but that sounds in line with what I’d expect.” His expression shifts, eyes glinting with amusement. “Shall we go inform Kuroo-san about his echo?”

Kenma thinks about telling Kuroo that he left an impression on his soul—that there’s a part of him with Kenma now, always—and immediately scrunches his nose. Akaashi straight up laughs. Kenma glares at him.

“I promise you, Kozume, his reaction would be more amusing,” Akaashi says, “but I won’t say anything if you don’t wish.” With that offer extended, Akaashi turns slightly, to move back towards the others, and Kenma follows.

Oikawa notices them first, and he whispers into Crow-san’s ear. Kenma shoots them a suspicious look, but Oikawa just grins shamelessly back. Crow-san and Oikawa’s eyes are on Kuroo, and Kenma thinks he knows why. Ugh, embarrassing.

“And Konoha was saying that Saru could have been cursed in a past life, and Komi said owl spirits don’t have past lives, but Washio said—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and Bokuto leaps into the air, clearing at least four feet. Kenma stares in astonishment, then glances at Akaashi. His face is composed, but his eyes are alight with amusement, and Kenma gets the feeling this was exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.

“‘Kaaaaaashi!” Bokuto whines. Kuroo is laughing, but his eyes are on Kenma, checking over him. Kenma chances a glance at Oikawa and Crow-san, and—yeah, they’re looking as amused as he expected. He stifles a sigh, then looks back at Kuroo, shrugging slightly. It seems to be answer enough for Kuroo, who brightens slightly.

Next to them, Bokuto seems to be telling Akaashi all of the excellent ideas he and Kuroo came up with while he was busy with Kenma. Crow-san sighs at one of them.

“Bokuto, I told you, it’s not a good idea—I don’t care how powerful Saru’s wings are, I can fly too, and I’m telling you, there’s no way he can juggle you guys in mid-air.”

“Aw, Sa’amura, c’mon,” Kuroo says, slinging an arm around Crow-san’s shoulder. He’s clearly practiced at it, because he’s careful to avoid ruffling his wings, even though the move looks fluid and casual. “You never know! He could surprise you.”

Crow-san—Kenma has no idea what to do with what Kuroo just called him—rolls his eyes at him. “The only thing surprising here is that you guys still manage to come up with ideas that rival the Kaiju Incident for lack of foresight,” he says dryly.

“That wasn’t so bad!” Bokuto argues.

Oikawa stares at him incredulously. “Bokkun, we created a new island,” he stresses. “I’m still surprised we didn’t accidentally cause a natural disaster.”

“It’s alarming how often I have to worry about that with you guys,” Crow-san comments.

“Aw, Sawamura, you don’t have to worry!” Bokuto says earnestly. “Nothing bad’s going to happen—we’ve always got it covered!”

Akaashi looks like he’s tempted to comment, but he refrains. Kuroo smirks at him, and Akaashi rolls his eyes in response.

“Did you learn anything interesting in your meeting?” Kenma asks, mostly because Kuroo looks like he’s about to say something that might make someone tempted to hit him.

“It’s Kiryuu’s birthday soon,” Bokuto says promptly.

Kuroo’s shoulders shake with laughter, and he gives him an affectionate look. “I think Kenma meant about who we ran into in the alley, Bo,” he says wryly, ruffling Bokuto’s hair. Kenma is fascinated to note that it doesn’t seem to lose its shape when he does, immediately popping back to its original position once Kuroo removes his hand. Does it naturally look like that?

“But that was interesting,” Oikawa chimes in. “I didn’t know mujina had birthdays.”

Kenma wracks his brain. He thinks he remembers a story Natsu had told them—she had ousted Shouyou from the duty, because according to her, he never told the stories the way she learned in school, which Kenma was inclined to believe—where she mentioned them… Badger spirits, maybe?

“To answer your question,” Kuroo says, ignoring Oikawa and Bokuto and turning back to face Kenma, “not really. Kita didn’t seem too surprised by what we’d seen—or, I guess, didn’t see, really—but he didn’t have anything definite, just said he’d talk to Aran and Oomimi about it and get back to us. Towada said he’d heard from his boys about something similar, and he thought there’d maybe been some scorch marks in Johzenji area, so he was going to get us some locations to check out.”

“In absolute fairness, given who lives in Johzenji, that could be totally unrelated,” Sawamura says.

“They’re an excitable bunch,” Kuroo explains wryly. “They’re really close to Datekou, which is really fucking hilarious, mostly because Johzenji never shut up and Aone—he lives in Datekou, you’d probably like him, he keeps to himself when he’s not sparring—like. Never speaks. So seeing them together is always a laugh.”

Kenma remembers Oikawa’s words when he’d first shown up, something about having never heard the mighty Core of the Iron Wall speak, and surmises it was likely this Aone he was referring to.

“Either way, the other locations sound promising,” Sawamura says, Oikawa nodding beside him.

“Who’ll check it out?” Kenma asks.

“Me and Kuroo!” Bokuto declares proudly.

Kenma gives Kuroo a skeptical look, which Bokuto clearly doesn’t miss, if the way his hair wilts slightly is any indication. Kenma’s a little distracted by the fact that his hair seems to be linked to his mood.

“I know they don’t seem like it, but they’re a pretty good duo for it,” Sawamura says wryly. “Their abilities counteract in a way that should let them manage something—especially if Bokuto draws their attention and Kuroo slides around.”

Kenma eyes Bokuto, wondering what his ability is. His initial thought had been that he was perhaps an owl spirit, given the uncanny resemblance, but he doesn’t think that’s the case anymore, not if Bokuto was going to assign the task of juggling people in mid-air to someone else.

“You know how I’m shadows?” Kuroo asks, tracking Kenma’s gaze. “Bo’s light.”

Kenma blinks, then looks harder at Bokuto. He hadn’t been mistaken earlier; he does glow slightly. When he meets Bokuto’s eyes—gold and bright and earnest, like molten sunlight—and Bokuto smiles, clearly perked up a little from what Sawamura had said, Kenma feels like he’s standing in full force of summer, the warmth and brightness of an entire season distilled into a single moment.

It’s overwhelming, but there’s also something incredibly reassuring about it. He’s always flinched from lights being shone too brightly on him, unhappy about the idea of anything about him being thrown into such stark relief, but in the light of Bokuto’s smile, it almost feels like a shroud. Like his light could protect Kenma almost as well as shadows.

It doesn’t feel like Kuroo’s shadows had, exactly—those had enveloped him into a sanctuary, a safe space where he could simply exist and feel at peace, whereas this feels more like Shouyou and Natsu turning their matching beams on him, overwhelming but exhilarating—but it’s comforting in its own way.

“I’m sorry for doubting you,” Kenma says to Bokuto. He wants to say that it wasn’t personal, that it wasn’t about Bokuto, not really; that it was about the combination of him and Kuroo, and what they’d seen in the alley, and just Kenma’s general tendency towards—not pessimism, exactly, but certainly not the hope and wonder that Bokuto seems to emulate. He wants to say all of that, but he doesn’t know how. From the way Bokuto lights up, beaming at him, he wonders if Bokuto somehow understood anyway.

“Still, that might just help us find them,” Oikawa says thoughtfully. “It mightn’t necessarily help us actually get them to chill out enough to figure out who they are.”

“I had a thought about that, actually,” Kenma says. Everyone turns to look at him. There’s only five of them now, but it still makes him shrink back ever-so-slightly for a moment. Shaking it off, he glances at Kuroo. “Yaku said he could absorb things like a sponge,” he says slowly. “Sponge or receptacle?”

Kuroo frowns. “What would the difference constitute?” he asks, brow furrowing as he considers the question.

“Whether he can contain it, I guess,” Kenma says. “I started thinking about it when he knocked Lev over—I hadn’t seen anyone send any sort of blast towards him, so I assumed he’d stored it somehow, and then released it on Lev.”

Kuroo nods. “Yeah, he probably kept it from the last time we went up against Ubugawa—pretty sure that was Goura’s blast. Probably not all of it, either, unless Goura didn’t use a full one on Yakkun for some reason? I’ve seen him blow Komi like three miles away before when he was worked up.”

Kenma blinks, filing that away for reference. “How about less physical things?” he asks.

Oikawa’s eyes are gleaming now, looking at Kenma in utter fascination. Akaashi’s appraising him similarly, though with less obvious interest. Kenma’s eyes are focused on Kuroo, though. It’s starting to become a habit.

“Like what?” Kuroo asks.

“Like emotions,” Kenma says. From the side of his vision, he can see Bokuto’s eyes widen. “I was thinking about what Oikawa said, about how—Shallot-kun?” he checks.

“Kindaichi,” Sawamura supplies, rolling his eyes at Oikawa, who pays him no mind. He looks like he’s worked out what Kenma’s getting at, and is running through it in his head himself.

Kenma nods at Sawamura in thanks. “Oikawa said Kindaichi—well, he didn’t exactly say, but he implied that Kindaichi’s abilities involve making emotions… tangible? Or spreading them?”

“Pretty much,” Oikawa says, chewing his lip. “Shallot-kun deals in emotions, and he sort of… spills them out. I’m not entirely sure what Iwa-chan and Makki are trying with him, but I know he can leave… remnants of emotions in things.”

“Second-hand embarrassment in a sweater,” Kenma murmurs, and Oikawa nods.

Sawamura’s brow is creased now. “So, you want Yaku to… what, store an emotion?” he checks.

Kenma raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It didn’t sound like Kindaichi was at a level to weaponise it himself,” he says. “Besides, Yaku being able to deflect and absorb things seems like a useful ability when someone is capable of throwing so many things at you.”

“Why an emotion?” Akaashi asks. Kenma glances at him in surprise; he’d have thought of everyone, Akaashi would need the least convincing as to the power and importance of a feeling. His confusion clears after a moment, though; Akaashi looks thoughtful, not doubtful, as if he’s more interested in Kenma’s reasoning than needing to be convinced.

“Everyone has them,” Kenma says, collecting his thoughts. “So everyone can be affected by them. They have more impact than most people give them credit for, and they’re hard to defend against. You can shield yourself from physical impact. I imagine, even for any of you, it’s harder to do that against feelings.”

Bokuto, suddenly, looks downcast. Kenma blinks in surprise. He wouldn’t have expected that, but he feels a thread of kinship with him. It’s interesting, he muses. First Suna, now Bokuto, and even Shirabu to some degree. He’s met many people today, and found things he understands to his very bones about some who he would have sworn were absolutely nothing like him.

“I think receptacle,” Kuroo says at last. “I can’t think of any time he’s done it with anything that doesn’t have a physical impact, but he can sense my shadows, and magic’s kind of like emotions, right, Akaashi?”

Akaashi nods. “I believe so, yes.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Oikawa says, lips curving into a pleased grin. “Kunimi-chan might be able to help too—he and Shallot-kun work exceptionally together, and Kunimi-chan’s extremely good at finding emotions, even in places that are hard to navigate. I think Yakkun should be able to store it—after all, Shallot-kun managed to spill it into my sweater, and while cashmere catches things more easily than most, that still suggests it’s at least possible. If not, though, Kunimi-chan’s got pretty good at weaving magics now. He’s not as good as Beard-chan, probably because he only bothered to learn as much as he could use to braid Shallot-kun’s overflow to get it out of their rooms, but I imagine that might be even easier to receive, though it’d probably mean Kunimi-chan will have to be around to unravel it for Yakkun, which might lose some of its force… Hmm,” Oikawa trails off, clearly turning all the options over in his head. 

“What will you do if Asahi shaves his beard?” Sawamura asks, exasperated. “What will you call him then?”

Oikawa pauses, then grins wickedly. “Sexy-chan,” he says airily. Sawamura chokes, Bokuto hoots, and Kuroo cackles.

“You’re a menace to society,” Sawamura says, but he sounds amused despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa says, waving him off. “You say that now, but you’ll be thrilled once I figure out how to execute Ken-chan’s idea.”

Sawamura grins ruefully. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he says. “If we get to it.”

“Ye of little faith,” Oikawa tuts, then says, “I’m going to head back to Seijoh. I want to run this past the others, and maybe take Kunimi-chan on a feelings finding mission.” He pauses, then glances at Kenma. “Did you have a feeling in mind?” he asks curiously.

Kenma shrugs. “The secondhand embarrassment gave me the idea,” he says, “though anxiety would work too. Insecurity as well. Anything that makes someone falter—but maybe not so strong that they would immediately run and hide.”

Oikawa looks at him for a long moment. “Yes, those would all be options,” he says quietly. For a moment, he looks serious, even contemplative. Then it passes, a smile painting itself back on his face. “Well, I’ll brainstorm some options with Kunimi-chan and Shallot-kun—Akaashi, you too?” he checks, and the dark haired man nods.

“I would be happy to assist,” he says. “Bokuto-san and I should return to Fukurodani first, to check that Konoha-san and Shirofuku-san returned safely from their trip to Sendai, but I can meet you at Seijoh after.”

Oikawa nods. “Sounds like a plan,” he says briskly. He turns to Kenma and smiles. It’s a little too knowing for Kenma to be entirely comfortable, but there’s a bead of something sincere and affectionate in there too, and Kenma feels touched despite himself. “It was nice to meet you, Ken-chan!” he says cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll remember me as the most impressive part of your day, being saved by the great Oikawa-san—Oikawa-sama —” He cuts himself off as he dodges Kuroo trying to swat him upside the back of his head, laughing as he does. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted,” he says, facing Kenma again, “I was just saying that I hope to see you again soon.” He flicks his eyes to Kuroo’s face, then casts one last knowing glance at Kenma, which is embarrassing, but Kenma supposes he should be grateful that at least it wasn’t a wink.

He’s not sure how to reply, so he nods. “Okay,” he says, before a small smile creeps over his face. “I look forward to it.”

Oikawa beams, then turns to Sawamura. “Crow-san, would you happen to be headed back to Karasuno?” he asks, clearly angling for something.

Sawamura sighs. “I can give you a ride,” he says in resignation.

Oikawa grins. “Great!”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Sawamura says, nodding to Kenma, a broad, genuine smile on his face.

Kenma nods back. A second later, Sawamura’s wings unfurl fully behind him, and their span is astonishing. They’re not fancy, but they’re sleek and beat powerfully, strong and steady. Kenma thinks that suits Sawamura, from what he can tell about him.

Sawamura holds his arms out, and Oikawa clambers into them, hooking his knees over one forearm, resting his back against the other, and slinging an arm around Sawamura’s neck for support.

“When’s the wedding?” Kuroo asks innocently, and Sawamura rolls his eyes at him.

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpans, and then he bends slightly, before pushing off the ground, wings beating loudly. Kenma watches them disappear into the sky, Oikawa’s laughter fading from earshot.

“It was good to meet you, Kozume,” Akaashi says, bowing slightly. “Please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any further questions I can help with. Kuroo-san will provide you my details.” He arches an eyebrow at Kuroo, as if to dare him to protest, but Kuroo raises his hand in surrender.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Can’t have Kenma stuck trying to find a fucking owl to send you a message.”

“That was one time,” Bokuto whines. Akaashi looks like he’s suppressing a smile.

“One time too many,” Kuroo says flatly.

Bokuto grumbles a little, but subsides. He turns his head to peer at Kenma. “It was cool to meet you, Kenma!” he says. “Make sure you come to Fukurodani next time! We’re way cooler than Nekoma!”

“Oi!” Kuroo says, but he’s laughing. “Nekoma’s great, thank you. Kenma had an awesome time lying on the floor.”

“You made him lie on the floor?!” Bokuto demands. “Kenma, seriously, come to Fukurodani next time. We have spare futons and everything.”

“I didn’t make him,” Kuroo argues. “He just flopped down after we arrived.”

“We went through a shadow tunnel,” Kenma says flatly.

“Oh, yeah, that makes me feel like I went on a rollercoaster backwards in the dark,” Bokuto says sympathetically.

“Worst form of travel ever,” Kenma says in agreement.

“ Kenmaaaa,” Kuroo whines. Kenma arches an eyebrow at him. Kuroo swallows—which is a weird reaction, Kenma thinks—then looks at Bokuto and Akaashi.

“I’ll take Kenma home,” he says, then lifts his fist. “See you later?”

Bokuto raises his fist to bump it against Kuroo’s. “You bet! I’ll come by Nekoma when ‘Kaashi goes to Seijoh, we can spar with Lev or something.”

“He could use the practice,” Kuroo says wryly. “And Yakkun could use the break.” He flicks his hand in a lazy salute towards Akaashi, who snorts, but nods in return. He turns, Bokuto falling into step with him, and they head out towards the entrance Kenma arrived through with Kuroo and Oikawa earlier. Kenma watches them go, until he feels Kuroo’s eyes on him.

He turns to look at Kuroo and, sure enough, Kuroo’s already watching him.

Kuroo gives him a crooked grin, hands in his pockets. “You ready to go home?”

Kenma’s startled to find out that it’s dark out when they go through the gateway—not the one they came in through, but one to the east of Shiratorizawa. He blinks, taking in the darkness of the sky around them, as well as his surroundings.

“Are we in Shinjuku?” he asks.

“Yeah—closest gateway to Nerima from Shiratorizawa,” Kuroo says, glancing down at him. “We could hop a few gateways to get you back to where we met earlier…” he trails off.

“Or?” Kenma prompts, sensing more to his sentence.

“Or we could take the subway,” Kuroo says, grinning down at him.

That’s how Kenma finds himself scanning his PASMO card at Shinjuku station, ready to take the Oedo line to Nerima, Kuroo sticking close to his side. It’s Tokyo, so the station’s still fairly populated, but Kenma’s not sure it’s crowded enough that he needs to stick that close. He’s not complaining, though. He doesn’t like being too close to people, particularly those he doesn’t know, and Kuroo at his side is comforting. Besides, Kuroo’s even better than he is at navigating around people, which… is actually kind of surprising, given that he should have less practice with it, given the shadow-walking. Kenma resolves to ask him about it later.

He heads through the fare gate, Kuroo sticking close behind him. There are just so many people around. Kenma scowls. This is why he hates Shinjuku. Luckily, most of them are headed towards the East end of the station, whereas he and Kuroo weave their way through the crowds to head towards the southwest corner, to the most efficient stop on the Oedo line to get them home. There are still entirely too many people, but at least it’s a little easier to breathe.

“How come it’s so late?” Kenma asks quietly, low enough that nobody else could hear him. Not that anyone would pay him any attention, given how busy everyone is, but still, he hates drawing unnecessary attention. Even necessary attention is on thin ice.

Despite everything else going on around them, Kuroo hears him. “Like, compared to how it was on my side?” he asks. Kenma nods. “I think it’s like how the cities don’t map onto each other perfectly,” Kuroo says thoughtfully. “Time works differently too.”

They emerge at the platform, Kenma glancing up to verify their location, before sighing in relief. There’s still a lot of people around, but their end of the platform isn’t too bad, and Kenma thinks they might even be able to have some space in their subway car when it arrives.

“This station is so confusing,” Kuroo says conversationally.

Kenma hums a noise of agreement. “You should see it when it isn’t a Sunday night,” he says. “It’s even worse.”

Kuroo shudders. “I can imagine,” he says, but there’s something wistful in his eyes as he looks around the platform. Kenma surveys him.

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to see Kuroo’s face better.

“Hmm?” Kuroo says, eyes flicking down to meet his. He runs a hand through his hair, almost self-consciously, and something about it tugs at Kenma’s heart. “Oh, it’s…” he trails off, and Kenma keeps his eyes on his face, focusing on the hazel of his eyes, the slight pink of his cheeks, the way his lips are settling into something almost self-deprecating. He wonders if Kuroo’s going to say it’s nothing. He hopes not. For some reason, he kind of wants to be a space where Kuroo can say true things.

“It’s kinda stupid,” Kuroo sighs.

Kenma shrugs. “That hasn’t stopped you from anything you’ve said or done since I’ve met you,” he says matter-of-factly, and it startles Kuroo into a choked laugh. Kenma tries not to let his expression betray how pleased he is at that reaction.

“You’re so mean,” Kuroo says, but it’s less of a sigh this time, more an amused huff, and Kenma will take it. It’s an emotion that sits more naturally on Kuroo, he thinks—Kenma’s very aware that Kuroo is more than just teasing and laughter, that he’s also perception and intelligence, uncommon kindness and easy affection, but he can’t help but think that amusement looks beautiful on him. He wants to chase out any uncertainties from Kuroo’s eyes, wants to run that sigh out of his mouth so intensely that it almost scares him.

“I just…” Kuroo begins, twisting his fingers around each other. “Sometimes I wish they could see me.”

Kenma’s eyebrows shoot up, then knit together. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Not, like, I want to be noticed,” Kuroo says hastily, clearly noticing Kenma’s reaction. “Just that sometimes it’s weird not being seen at all, you know? Oikawa and I used to go into theatres together and commentate on whatever dumb shit people were saying, but it kind of lost its sheen after a while. Like, sometimes they notice something, like Oikawa’s breath on the back of their neck if he’s going on one of his rants about Giger’s Alien or whatever, but—I dunno, it’s not all that fun when they can’t respond. Like, I’m the provocation master—Bokuto used to call me that, shut up, don’t make that face—” he says quickly, in response to Kenma scrunching his nose at the name, but he barrels on, “—so it’s boring seeing it all go to waste, you know?”

He sounds like he’s posturing a little, Kenma thinks—not that it isn’t true, but that he’s trying to deflect some of it with a bit of humour. He thinks he understands why. Kenma uses his hair as a shield sometimes, literally protecting him from being noticed. Humour is just Kuroo’s weapon of choice, something he uses to prick and to parry with equal dexterity.

“I’d swap if I could,” Kenma says. Kuroo glances down at him, and he shrugs. “You’d be better at being seen than me, anyway.”

Kuroo searches his eyes for a moment, and whatever he finds there makes his expression soften. “I’m glad you can see me,” he says after a moment, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes Kenma flush. Kuroo doesn’t say things like Shouyou does, or Bokuto and Inuoka had, with utter sincerity and faith shining through at all points, essentially earnest and happy, and maybe that’s why the raw, honest sentiment he can hear in Kuroo’s words right now sinks into his skin, warming him from the inside out. 

Part of Kenma wants to avert his eyes, but more of him wants to hold his gaze.

It isn’t until their train arrives that they break their eye contact, glancing sidelong at the subway car closest to them. Kenma wonders what would have happened if it had never arrived, if he and Kuroo would have stayed locked in that moment forever, just soaking each other in. He shivers slightly at the concept.

Leading the way onto the train, he bites his lip, running simulations in his head, then reaches his hand out. It slips into Kuroo’s easily, and he hears a hitch in Kuroo’s breath, but no protests. If anything, Kuroo’s hand squeezes his for a moment, before relaxing slightly, the steady warmth of his hand enveloping Kenma’s smaller one.

His steady warmth enveloping Kenma, from head to toe.

They’re in the end carriage, and luckily—for once—it’s not entirely crowded. There’s a few seats open at the end of a row, and Kenma makes a beeline for them, biting his lips as he tries to figure out the best seating configuration.

“You sit,” Kuroo says, gesturing towards the seat at the very end. “More people will stare if you leave a seat at the end.” His smile turns crooked, fond but wry. “I can stand anyway.”

Kenma knows he can, but Kenma kind of doesn’t want to let go of his hand.

“Sit for now?” he says quietly, and Kuroo’s smile softens, and he nods.

He ducks into the second seat from the end, leaving the one on the end for Kenma, who slips into it. Kuroo is a steady warmth at his side, pressing into him, and Kenma thinks it’s absolutely unreasonable that he likes it so much.

“What do you normally do on the subway?” Kuroo asks as the train pulls away from the station, picking up speed.

Kenma shrugs. “Play games, mostly,” he says. “Not always when I’m by myself in case I miss my stop, but sometimes if I’m with Shouyou. He doesn’t mind if I play—he knows I’m still listening when he talks anyway.”

He feels a twitch in their linked hands, and he glances at Kuroo curiously.

“You can play if you want,” Kuroo says. “Nerima Station, right? That’s…” He squints at the map across from them, puzzling out the odd route shape, then his expression clears. “Eight stops away? I can keep an eye out.”

Kenma searches his eyes, puzzling out if he means it or if he’s being polite. Kuroo might have a penchant for teasing, an inability to resist harmless zingers, but he’s proven time and time again to be unexpectedly generous, and Kenma finds he doesn’t want to take advantage of that if Kuroo doesn’t actually mean what he’s saying.

Kuroo nudges him in the side, lips pulled up at one side. “I mean it,” he says. “Besides, I kinda wanna see you play.”

At that, Kenma’s cheeks warm slightly, but he keeps his eyes on Kuroo’s for a moment longer, searching them until he’s satisfied. He nods, then slips his hand into his pocket. It’s kind of a miracle that his PSP is still in normal condition, though he supposes that, for all the events and revelations of his day, very few of them compromised him physically.

He switches it on, and his brow immediately knits, finding himself facing the boss monster for the level. He’s very aware of Kuroo at first, especially because he has to slip his hand out of his in order to play properly, but soon enough Kuroo’s presence at his side fades to a comforting warmth, something which anchors him in the moment, whilst his mind focuses on the game, methodically working through strategies to beat the boss. At one point, the subway lurches a little as it stops, and Kuroo’s hand shoots out to steady him, keeping him in his seat. Kenma doesn’t move his eyes from his game, too committed to analysing all the data he can about how this monster reacts to ice attacks, but he murmurs his thanks. He almost gets distracted from his observations because of the sudden warmth he can feel on the back of his neck, like Kuroo is looking at him so fondly that he can feel it, but Kuroo just nods in his periphery, watching him play, and Kenma’s focus soon returns to his game.

Then Kuroo’s touching his shoulder, saying, “I think we’re here,” and Kenma looks up. Kuroo’s right, so he slips his PSP away again, then slips his hand into Kuroo’s. It’s entirely instinctual, not deliberate the way it had been when leading Kuroo onto the subway at Shinjuku Station, but Kuroo doesn’t question it at all, thumb rubbing a lazy circle into Kenma’s skin.

Kenma wonders briefly if the rush of sensation he feels is more of Kuroo’s magic, sinking into his bloodstream, or if it’s just Kuroo. There’s a voice in his head saying it doesn’t make sense to be the first one, or else he’d be full of magic from a day full of connection, so it’s Kuroo, just Kuroo, and the thought makes him feel heady.

They navigate through the station, his hyper-awareness of Kuroo’s touch slipping to the back of his mind as he focuses on finding the best exit, and by the time he scans his PASMO card through the fare gate—Kuroo, again, sticking closer than perhaps strictly necessary—it’s faded to a steady warmth in the back of his mind. He’s still very much aware of it, but it’s less consuming now, easier to allow its comfort to seep into his skin.

It’s not until they’re out on the streets again, Kenma breathing in the night air, that he speaks again.

“If everyone could see you,” he asks quietly, hand steady in Kuroo’s, eyes looking away, “what would you do?”

Kuroo’s breathing changes, like he’s surprised, like maybe nobody’s ever asked him this. Maybe nobody has.

He lets out a thoughtful hum. “I think I’d like to go to university,” he says, and Kenma’s eyebrows raise slightly, though Kuroo can’t see them. It’s not what he’d expected, but…

“Chemistry,” he says aloud. He glances at Kuroo to confirm, eyes tracking every shift in his face. “You said chemistry was your thing, that time you were chasing Lev.” He pauses. “Well, one of the times.”

Kuroo’s grin is crooked, eyes alight with amusement, but there’s something surprised in the set of his lips, something touched behind the laughter in his eyes.

“I did, didn’t I?” he says, more to himself than anything. “Yeah, chemistry—I’ve got my shadows, as you know, but I’ve always liked seeing what Shimizu and Suga-chan brew, and as much shit as I give Oikawa for his sci-fi obsession, I think he kinda had a point earlier. Don’t tell him! But yeah, like, that stuff about bridging the gap and reaching for what’s possible—I know they’re not trying to recreate magic or anything, but a lot of it hits on the same principles of magic, and it’s kind of like… I dunno. Bo and I snuck into see a movie once that said something like magic just being science you guys don’t understand yet, and I don’t know if I… agree with that, but I like it. I liked it a lot.” He runs his spare hand through his hair, and the action’s almost self-conscious, but not quite—kind of like he’s a little embarrassed, but he cares enough about this that it overwhelms the self-consciousness. Kenma wonders what that’s like. “And I like that chemistry is for everyone, that it works for everyone, whether you have magic or not—I know not everyone really gets it, or enjoys it, or whatever, but I like that it’s the same for everyone, that it’s not something that only some people are able to do.”

“You don’t need to lower the net,” Kenma murmurs, remembering an analogy Nekomata-sensei had given in class once.

Kuroo looks at him curiously, but his eyes are bright, like Kenma gets it. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Everyone’s able to reach if they’re shown how.”

Kenma holds his gaze for a few more moments. Kuroo’s built of shadows, dark hair and crooked smirks, teasing amusement and something kind behind the sharp tongue and wit, but he’s so bright in this moment, so warm, that Kenma feels a little like he’s looking at the sun. Then he frowns.

“How come you don’t have your mask on?” he asks, thinking back to the first few times he saw Kuroo. Then his frown deepens. Kuroo hadn’t had it on at all after they left Nekoma… and if nobody could see him, why….?

“Well,” Kuroo says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. Kenma eyes him critically. Definitely self-conscious this time. “You already know what I look like.”

Kenma blinks at him. Runs that sentence through his head again, trying to tease out any meaning except the obvious, but he can’t find any.

“It was for me?” he asks incredulously.

Kuroo shifts, his palm a little warmer than usual around Kenma’s. Kenma does not let go, just keeps his gaze on him, waiting him out.

“I mean, yeah?” Kuroo finally sighs. “Nobody else could see me, so…”

Kenma frowns, thinking back. He supposes he couldn’t actually see Kuroo’s face the first time they met, because the shadows had made the alley so dark, so maybe he hadn’t even been wearing a mask that time… only every time he ran into Kenma after that… and Tora, too…

“Why?” he asks bluntly.

Kuroo shrugs. “At first, I wasn’t sure if it was just you, so I started wearing it just in case. Like, I wouldn’t mind if people could see me, obviously, but if they could see me, I didn’t want to compromise any like… future chance at interacting normally with them by them seeing me running through shadows and chasing down an oversized lion-boy.”

Kenma allows a tiny quirk to the corner of his lips. That makes sense. The slight shift in his expression seems to soothe Kuroo a little too, the set of his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Eventually, I realised it was just you, but I didn’t know when I was going to run into you next—if I would, I guess, but by the third time, I figured it was probably going to keep happening—so I just kept it up whenever I was doing anything that was more to do with my world than yours.” He shrugs.

Kenma stares into his eyes, assessing him. “Did you not want me to know what you look like?” he asks.

Kuroo’s eyes widen. “No, of course not!” he says immediately. “I guess it just became a sort of habit, and then I wasn’t—I like that you know what I look like now, I just. I don’t know, it was kind of like what I was thinking if everyone could see me anyway. I wasn’t sure I’d want you to only know me as the weird guy from the alleyways with shadows if I might get a chance to know you another way too, you know?” His face flushes, like he’s said more than he had really expected to. “Besides, it was kinda… fun. Like, I think that’s why Tora covered up a bit too, because he wouldn’t normally. He just saw me do it and wanted to get in on it.”

There’s a lot here to unpack, so Kenma looks at Kuroo levelly, letting his mind detangle it all in the background. “It was fun,” he says flatly, and Kuroo scrunches his nose down at him. It startles a tiny ‘oh’ from Kenma, because it’s the first time he’s seen Kuroo make that expression, and something about it makes his heart flip in his chest. Kuroo, for his part, does not seem to be faring much better from whatever Kenma’s expression is doing, and he glances away for a second. Kenma finds himself thankful for the respite.

“I don’t think you’re just the weird guy from the alleyways with shadows,” Kenma murmurs, after a few moments of walking together in silence, their only interaction having been their still-entwined hands.

Kenma doesn’t look up from the street, but he can feel when Kuroo chances a glance at him, can feel the weight of his gaze from the prickling at his neck.

“Oh?” Kuroo asks, a little too gentle to be entirely nonchalant, but clearly trying for it all the same.

Kenma looks up at him then, a slight curve to his lips. “I think you’re the weird guy from the alleyways with shadows who has weird hair,” he teases, and Kuroo stares at him for a moment, before bursting into laughter.

“Kenmaaaaaaa,” he whines, but he’s grinning, like Kenma’s managed to pop through whatever tension was building beneath his skin. Kenma feels satisfaction at that. “You’re so mean.”

Kenma shrugs. “It is weird,” he says, glancing at it critically, then taking a deep breath. “But I kinda like it.”

Kuroo’s eyes are warm when he peers at him. “Yeah?” he says.

Kenma nods. Then, a second later: “Your bad taste must have rubbed off on me.”

Kuroo lets out his terrible, hyena cackle again, and Kenma wrinkles his nose. “You know, even if I didn’t know what you looked like, I’d still have recognised your laugh if we had met without your mask,” he points out.

Kuroo looks oddly touched at that, which is simultaneously endearing and baffling to Kenma. When he first met Kuroo, all terrible hair and cheeky quips, he would never have guessed he was such a sap.

Then Kuroo snorts, and Kenma glances at him, but he’s not looking at Kenma. He’s looking around them, at the… oh.

“Is this the alley where we met?” Kuroo asks.

Kenma points at a pile of garbage outside the closest ramen place, one that keeps building throughout the night and is whisked away each morning to the huge metal skip across the road, waiting for collection day. “That’s where you knocked me,” he says, and smiles a little at Kuroo’s immediate protest.

“Hey! I saved you from it!” 

“Does it really count as saving me if it was cleaning up your own mess?” Kenma asks, raising an eyebrow, and Kuroo pouts. Kenma thinks it looks cuter on him than Oikawa, then immediately chases that thought away.

“Hmph,” Kuroo says, then, eyes lighting up, “I saved you from a life of boredom!”

Kenma is about to deliver a sharp retort, something about whether anything can constitute salvation if it involves the personalities he’d met today, when he notices something glinting in Kuroo’s eyes. He’s teasing, yes, but there’s a hint of vulnerability behind it. Maybe it’s been there since the start, when Oikawa first said it was probably Kuroo’s fault that Kenma could see them, only to take proper root when Semi confirmed Oikawa’s theory. Kenma thinks that if he could surmise that Oikawa had not been entirely joking when he said it, Kuroo absolutely could have, and his heart lurches a little.

“Shouyou would object to anything involving him being called boring,” Kenma says instead, his hand tightening around Kuroo’s for a moment, as if that could ground him, as if that could say he doesn’t mind being here, that he even likes being here. “But I do like how interesting your world is.” It’s more sincere than he’d expected to be today, but he means it, and he thinks maybe Kuroo needs to hear it.

Kuroo lets out a soft sigh, barely audible, like an exhalation of relief. Kenma doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think it’s something that was asking for attention to be drawn.

They turn the corner, weaving through another alleyway, before they end up outside an apartment complex. Kenma moves up three of the steps then turns, finding himself face to face with Kuroo, two steps below him.

“This is me,” Kenma says quietly, arm stretched a little in front of him to remain hand-in-hand with Kuroo.

“It’s nice,” Kuroo says, but his eyes aren’t on the building at all. They’re still on Kenma, like they have been through so much of their acquaintance. Kenma bites his lip. He doesn’t miss how Kuroo’s eyes flick down to his mouth at the movement, but they’re back on his eyes before he can pursue that thought too hard, can turn it over and break it apart in his head.

“I guess,” Kenma says. “It’s just a place to live.”

Kuroo gives him a smile. “You could say the same about Nekoma, technically,” he says, and Kenma shakes his head.

“But you wouldn’t,” he says, and Kuroo’s smile turns even softer.

“No,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t.” He pauses, then says, in a tone that suggests he’s a little nervous, “I dunno if we ever actually said, but. You know, you’re always welcome there.”

Kenma tilts his head slightly, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest.

“If you want, I mean. I know Yakkun is terrifying and Lev’s a disaster, but. You’re always welcome,” Kuroo says.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Kenma says, after a moment with his heart in his throat.

“You wouldn’t, I promise,” Kuroo says quickly, then takes a breath. “I mean, if you want to come.” A pause. “I’d like it if you came,” he says, quietly, and Kenma feels like there’s a sun in his chest, bursting with light and warmth and all sorts of feelings too unfamiliar for him to decipher.

“Okay,” Kenma says, with a small nod and an even smaller smile. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Kuroo lights up like Kenma just gave him a beam as bright as Bokuto’s.

“Cool,” he says, grinning stupidly at Kenma, before sudden realisation floods his face. “Oh! Oh, one sec, shit, I almost forgot, hang on,” he says, rummaging in his pockets. He pulls out two small objects that look like they’re made of glass; one is an amber disc, and seems to have light pulsing from its centre, and the other is the same shape, but clear.

Kuroo lifts the amber one to his mouth and murmurs something to it, and when he shows it to Kenma, the centre has a splash of gunmetal blue.

“This is an echo,” he says. “Akaashi said to give you his contact details, and, well, while he normally has access to other forms of communication, there was an incident last week and he’s still restoring his beads. I set this for Akaashi, though, so all you need to do is hold it in both your hands and speak to it. Cupping it works best, just because warmth is what activates it, but your fingers should work too if you’re in a situation that would make cupping it difficult. Just say Keiji into it before you begin, and it should work.”

Kenma thinks about what Shirabu had said to Kawanishi earlier, when his voice had suddenly started speaking next to them, and concludes this was the echo he was talking about.

Kuroo spins his finger, and a shadow twines itself from him, thin and tight, like a cord. It slides itself through a tiny loop in the amber that Kenma hadn’t noticed, forming a bracelet of sorts. Then Kuroo presses his lips to the clear one, and it floods with black, but black which moves—oh, Kenma thinks. It’s filled with shadows.

Kuroo holds it up, face full of concentration, and Kenma watches as the shadow bracelet threads itself through the shadow-glass too, before looping itself into a closed circle and falling into Kuroo’s outstretched hand. He holds it out to Kenma, looking a little nervous.

“I’m not sure how long the shadow thread will last in this state, so you might want to loop a string through it yourself as well, just in case, but that one should call me,” Kuroo says. Kenma takes it from him, fingers tingling where they brush against Kuroo’s skin. “It’s not an echo,” Kuroo says, his now free hand rubbing at the back of his neck, like he’s nervous. It’s cute, Kenma thinks, and then immediately fixes his eyes on the bracelet in his hand to distract himself from that thought. “But it will—I don’t know how to explain it. It’ll be kind of like in the shadows, I think. Just hold tight to it and I should be able to hear you.”

Kenma raises his eyebrows, but he slips the bracelet onto his wrist. Kuroo swallows. Kenma ignores that, mostly for his own sanity, and holds Kuroo’s shadow-glass between his fingers.

He decides to be brave.

It’s a hard decision, but it’s a little easier when Kuroo is standing in front of him, looking at him like that, like he’s been looking at him so much throughout the day.

Do you normally use these? he thinks, and watches as Kuroo’s face changes.

“No,” Kuroo says, voice a little hoarse, before he clears it. “This is—” he seems to struggle, then cuts himself off, twining a loose strand of shadow around his finger. This is the first time.

Kenma shivers. Thank you, he thinks, then gives Kuroo a small smile. He doesn’t know how to say any of this, how to express how it feels that Kuroo chose to give him this, to give him access, instead of just trusting that Kenma would find him again because the city seems to like pushing them together. It kind of feels like Kuroo wants Kenma to be able to find him because he wants to, not just because the city breathes with something that pushes them together, and Kenma finds he wants that too.

I’m glad you saved me that day, he thinks in the end. One day, he might let Akaashi tell Kuroo about the spark of his magic that now lives in Kenma. One day, he might walk around Kuroo’s world with him, hand-in-hand, just because they want to, not because they’re trying to figure anything out. He even has some questions in his mind about Kuroo’s confession about wanting to be seen sometimes, some thoughts he’s had that he wonders if Shimizu and the others have tried. Maybe one day they’ll be able to walk around campus too.

For now, though, it’s enough to see the way Kuroo’s entire face lights up when he hears Kenma’s thought, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, his whole expression softening into something so pleased and sweet that it almost hurts Kenma to look at him, though he can’t bear to look away.

“Yeah,” Kuroo says out loud, his smile shining through his voice. “Me too.”