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For all the slack Kenma and Tsukishima and Yaku and his own mother give him, Kuroo actually isn’t stupid. He’s in the top ten contenders for full university scholarships of all the third years in Nekoma, has won the county science fair for three consecutive years, and even does part-time maths tutoring. Sure, he’s not that good of at maths but if he speaks with enough confidence the kids believe him — but that’s not the point; the point is that Kuroo is intelligent and doesn’t like being called stupid because he knows he isn’t.
But, parked up outside of Bokuto’s apartment complex at eleven on a school night, he starts to wonder if he’s finally seeing through the smoke-screen of his own ego because he can see exactly why he’s called an idiot.
He rolls up to the pavement and sticks his head out the window. He has no spare change on him and even though he’s a good boy who can’t afford to get a black mark on his university application, he doesn’t bother paying for a ticket. “Already going to do one incriminating thing tonight,” he mutters to himself, pulling up the handbrake. “May as well make it two.”
From across the street the swinging doors from the apartment’s lobby open. Bokuto trips over himself halfway in his sprint and face-plants into a bed of weeds. Kuroo wonders if he’s chosen the wrong people as accomplices when he catches sight of the flip-flops crammed over Bokuto’s socks.
“Kuroo!” Bokuto greets once he’s rounded the car, far too loud for the sleepy neighborhood. Kuroo jams his finger up to his lips and hisses shh! just as Bokuto offers him two thumbs up. The palms of his hands are gritty and scraped up and he’s grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
Kuroo turns off the child lock to his mother’s truck and Bokuto crawls into the back seats. His hair is damp from a shower and he’s pink-cheeked from the run. He’s still in his pyjamas. “Where’s Akaashi?”
“His house,” Bokuto replies, pointing through the gap between front seats to the road ahead. “Ten minutes. Here, lemme give directions.”
“I don’t think so. Type in the postcode on Google Maps.”
“Hey, what’s that meant to mean? I can direct perfectly fine!”
Kuroo clicks down the handbrake after barking at Bokuto to put on his seatbelt before pulling off down the street. “You led us off a mountain instead of Burger King when we went to my uncle’s fishing hut.”
“That was different. Can’t blame a guy for holding a map upside down. It didn’t even tell me what side I was meant to read it on!” Bokuto defends. He shifts in his seat to tuck the seat belt from over his shoulder to under his arm, beneath the duckling-print cotton of his pyjamas. The roads are practically empty so Kuroo flicks on full beam as they round a corner to take them through an overhang of trees. Despite all the times Kuroo’s been in the neighborhood he still finds it creepy at night. It’s the shift from busy Tokyo nightlife to the quiet side streets, he thinks; at least here they wouldn’t see a drunkard trying to pee into a bin. The area is residential, which explains the lack of people, but even back home in the quieter parts there’s at least a few lights on in neighboring houses. Here, save for the odd street-light, it’s silent. Damn these rich people and their rich, big houses .
Bokuto sticks out like a sore thumb among the prim and proper students who he usually catches sight of on the trains.
Kuroo’s eyes flit up to the rear-view mirror to study him. Bokuto’s idly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve when he asks, unabated, “How is Kenma doing?”
The muscles around Kuroo’s jaw tightens. He tries not to think too hard about it all as he draws up to a stoplight behind a Mercedes. Damn these rich people and their rich people cars , he curses. “I think he can write with his hand now.” From over his shoulder Kuroo takes the phone Bokuto passes and peeks down at the directions on the screen. He takes a sharp left once the lights turn green and sends Bokuto sliding across the seats into the door. “No volleyball, though. I told Coach not to even let him run. Not like he’d do it of his own volition, of course.”
Bokuto picks himself back up and leans forward to stick his head through the gap between the chairs. Kuroo watches him in the rear-view mirror as he fiddles with the air conditioning controls. For all the slack he gives him, Kuroo loves Bokuto in the truest sense of the word: he loves to see him succeed, to spend time with him, to know him and to hear him laugh. He wears his heart on his sleeve without bothering to defend it and Kuroo can read him like a book; that he’s trying his best to be quiet, even past the urges to blurt what comes to mind first. For all that Kuroo tries to maintain his cool, calm, and collected persona Bokuto is one of the only people he allows his guard to come down on because he knows he’d never try to do anything malicious.
The callused pads of his fingers fiddle with the knob of the air conditioning idly. Kuroo decides against telling him that it’s broken. When Bokuto speaks up after a moment it’s quiet and hesitant, like a shy child asking a teacher a question. “Say, why would someone want to pick on him? Kenma’s pretty scary, y’know.”
Kuroo’s breath huffs out his nose. “‘Cause they’re assholes,” he says. “Some people are just indecent; it’s just the way they are.”
“Still.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Still,” Bokuto repeats, “I don’t get why people’d bully someone else. It’s not right, y’know? I mean, even though no-one picks on me anymore ‘cause I’m bigger than I used to be but sometimes they still do, and it makes me feel like crap.”
Kuroo’s frown pulls at his face. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve said something to them again; I didn’t realise those assholes came back. What did they do?”
Bokuto shrugs. “They just make fun of me in class sometimes —but it’s okay, ‘cause I told Saseda-sensei on them and they’ve moved now...but even so, it makes people feel real shitty, y’know? Especially someone like Kenma, ‘cause he won’t try to fight them. I don’t get it, Kuroo.”
Kuroo is protective over his friends and teammates without including Kenma. When he falls into the equation, however, the situation changes drastically.
He hadn’t meant to stumble across them. It had been a freak coincidence; a re-route from Maths to English when he realised he was looking at the wrong time-table, when he’d seen the sight of two second-years towering over Kenma by the bathrooms. Thank God I hit puberty early, Kuroo thought, otherwise I wouldn’t sound anywhere near as menacing when I shout.
Whatever they’d taken from his bag was long gone; Kuroo only cared to make sure Kenma himself wasn’t hurt. He’d crouched down next to the lockers Kenma was pressed back against and immediately took notice of the bruising around both of his wrists, as well as the split in his lip. “Leave it, Kuro,” Kenma had said, quiet and dismissive as he always is, and Kuroo had blatantly ignored him, like he always does.
“What did they do?” Kuroo reached out to swipe the blood pooling beneath the puff of Kenma’s lip. It wobbled but he didn’t cry, even if Kuroo could see him visibly bite them back.
Kenma was quiet for a while, stuck between keeping silent or merely dismissing Kuroo with a I don’t want to talk about it face, but ended up going against both options. He straightened his tie and murmured, embarrassed, “I dunno. They just do it sometimes. It’s fine, let’s just go.”
He’s been in verbal confrontations before but he’d never physically fought someone. Kuroo thinks back to the text message he’d sent Bokuto earlier that day captioned only im picking u up at 11 and tries not to regret the choice of backup. “I should’ve brought Yaku,” Kuroo groans to himself, giving Bokuto another once-over in his pyjamas and flip-flops. Bokuto offers him a grin when he catches his eyes.
The Akaashi’s estate is big, with a spacious lawn and a double driveway. It’s Kuroo’s first time here, and he already feels out of place between the sports cars and Jeeps. His shitty wagon parks up between a mustard yellow Lambhorgini and a minivan before he turns off the car to save gas.
The lights in the house are off and the street is dark save for the lamps above. Kuroo leans back, arm slung over the chair, to ask: “What did you tell him, exactly?”
“To be ready by eleven-ish, and that Kuroo was really angry.” Kuroo’s frown pinches at that. “See! That’s the face I told him you’d probably be making — the constipated looking one.”
“I do not look constipated.”
“You do. Like,” Bokuto pulls a face like he’s just sucked a lemon. “like that.”
He’s cut off by the sound of Miley Cirus’ Party In The U.S.A. ringing through Bokuto’s tinny little speaker. He clicks a button and raises it to his ear, immediately greeting the caller with a boisterous: “Akaashi!” From the front seat Kuroo’s gaze shifts back to the house, looking for any source of movement or light. “Akaashi, we’re outside. Come quick! Kuroo’s in a bad mood! He’s making the face.”
“Of course I am! Can’t exactly say I’m ecstatic to go beat up a second year,” Kuroo seethes, glaring daggers up at Bokuto through the rear-view mirror. “I’m also very nervous and desperately need to go home before my mom notices the car is gone, so let’s chop chop.”
“Understandable,” Akaashi says over speakerphone. “I will be out promptly.”
True to his word Kuroo spots a dark figure moving across the lawn within a minute of ending the call, heading towards their car. In true Akaashi nature he’s come overprepared, dressed like he’s ready to rob a bank. Kuroo flips the headlights back on and blinds Akaashi in his pathway, taking note of the black polar-neck pulled up to his chin and the fingerless gloves on his hands. “Jesus,” Kuroo groans, “you both are as bad as each other. Sorry about blinding you, by the way,” he calls, opening the door to the passenger side for him to climb into.
“Not a problem. Good evening, Kuroo-san, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi dumps his bag in the car and climbs in. He buckles himself up and shifts his bag back up to his lap.
He isn’t Kuroo’s type; his hair isn’t long enough for one thing and Kuroo wouldn’t want to meddle in Bokuto’s relationships even if they’re both oblivious to one another, but Kuroo would be damned to say he hasn’t stared from the sidelines more than once. In his defence he isn’t the only one; even Kenma had mentioned in passing just how pretty Akaashi was. Akaashi has delicate features like a Disney Prince and speaks like one, too. If he wasn’t already head-over-heels he might have tried to shoot his shot, but Kuroo knows that even if he had Akaashi would never look at him like he looks at Bokuto, and he’s strangely content with that.
“What’s with the backpack?” Kuroo asks, pulling out of the estate and heading back towards the city. Had it not been dark and had he already passed his driving test Kuroo would’ve looked at the items Akaashi was pulling out. As it was he was very not an experienced driver and would get fined if they got caught driving without a licence, let alone dangerously.
“I have granola bars,” Akaashi says, pulling out a multipack. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
“I would!”
Akaashi leans over the back and passes Bokuto the whole pack.
“Careful about crumbs, Bo,” Kuroo calls. His eyes flit up to the rear-view mirror in search of flashing police lamps before they return to the road. His hands squeak against the steering wheel with the sweat on his palms.
Akaashi hoists out something heavy and solid from his bag and puts it on his lap. “I also have this,” he says, gesturing to the item in his lap.
Kuroo’s gaze flits over to the utensil. His eyes bulge out of his skull. “Wh — is that a meat hammer? Put it back!”
Akaashi’s head recoils back in confusion. “I don’t understand the problem here.”
“Why on Earth have you got a fucking meat hammer? We aren’t going to kill somebody!”
“Well,” Akaashi begins, clearly taken aback, “I apologise for assuming. I had heard Kenma-san had been hurt in school and after getting a message from both of you to meet late at night, I merely filled in the blanks and assumed we were going to beat someone up, for lack of a better term.”
“Not literally! I meant metaphorically, or figuratively, or something !”
“Idiomically?”
“That isn’t a word, Bokuto-san.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kuroo groans, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m going to jail. Screw that, you’re going home.”
“What? No!” Bokuto cries around his mouthful of oats. He swallows a chunk dry and rocks forward to shake Kuroo’s chair by the shoulders. “Please, Kuroo! Promise we won’t do anything funny. Promise.”
“Yes,” Akaashi repeats, deadpan and wholly serious, “I promise. I’m sorry for assuming and bringing along the utensils. Should I also leave the crowbar in the car?”
Kuroo blanches. “Yes, please.”
The football club is just on the outskirts of Nerima, tucked between tennis courts and a running track. Kuroo pulls up to the car-park toward the back, slowing to a crawl to park out of any street-light’s trajectories so, worse case scenario, no one would be able to see his number plate.
Getting in trouble with the police is one thing. Getting in trouble with his mother is a whole different story.
“How do you spell his surname?”
“Na-na-se,” Kuroo repeats, fingers drumming against the wheel. He looks out past the windscreen to the front of the building and does his best to make out faces of the few who stand outside. A group of parents stand smoking in one corner and a hooded figure is talking on the phone by the doors. Kuroo squints past his poor eyesight to try and focus on their features but to no avail.
“Aha!” Bokuto harks, lifting up his phone to show Kuroo. “Is this him?”
In his Facebook profile picture Nanase is a little taller than Kenma with shoulder-length hair and a slit in his eyebrow. Kuroo gives a small nod, then looks back to the front of the building in search of him. “So, what now?” Bokuto asks, handing over his phone for Akaashi to look at the profile. He holds it like a grandmother would: in one hand while his pointer finger stiffly taps the screen. “Do we just wait for him to come outside, and ask him to leave Kenma alone?”
Kuroo’s fingers stutter their drumming rhythm. He watches a few figures come in and out, sweaty from practice, but none of them match the profile of the person who’d sprained Kenma’s wrist. “I...actually didn’t think this far ahead,” Kuroo admits. He clenches his hands around the wheel. From his right Akaashi hands the phone back to Bokuto. “I mean, I found his Facebook profile and saw that he’d be here tonight, but other than that I didn’t actually — uh — plan.”
“Why don’t we just confront him?” Akaashi proposes, calm and collected, with his hands folded over one another in his lap. His back sits perfectly straight against the chair, prim and proper in comparison to Kuroo’s stressed hunch. He can already feel the muscles in his back aching from the position. “Merely walk up and ask him if he’s the one who hurt Kenma-san, then be on our way.”
“No,” Kuroo’s voice comes out more like a whine than he intends to. Where his elbows bend against the steering wheel, arms tossed out in front of him, he reaches to scruff his own hair up. “Y’know, I really had the intentions of not chickening out — ”
“ — it’s not too late yet, Kuroo!”
“ — but I really don’t know if this is a good idea, guys. I mean, what if we get in trouble?”
“He beat up Kenma-san,” Akaashi points out. “I think this warrants getting in trouble.”
Kuroo’s head drops onto his hands at the steering wheel. The guilt that comes in the aftermath of nearly backing out is enough to make him sick. He does his best to try and conjure up the same rage he’d felt earlier on in the day when he’d stumbled across the scene but it’s difficult to go ahead with the knowledge that Kenma will probably scald him for it in the morning. “So long as he doesn’t find out,” Kuroo decides, “then it’s okay.”
Then, from the back, he’s cut off by Bokuto’s exclamation of: “There!”
From the left of the building, stepping out of a fire exit, Nanase raises a cigarette to his lips and lights it. The nervousness from moments ago feels far away to the curling rage in his gut at the sight of him, unscathed and healthy, going on about his day when Kenma’s at home doing his homework with a sprained wrist. He gets out of the car before he realises what he’s doing, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rock the car.
Behind him Bokuto scurries along, flip flops scuffing against the asphalt of the car park, followed closely by Akaashi. They weave through the cars until they reach the football club’s building, poorly lit and practically empty. “Let’s go,” Kuroo says, moving from his standstill to the figure standing against the wall, alone.
It’s Akaashi who speaks first. “Are you Nanase Hajime?” he asks, plain and simple, arms hung straight at his side. Bokuto’s arms cross, while Kuroo’s stuff into his pockets, doing his best Corleone impression.
He raises his head from where he’s sat, cigarette hung from his lips, and raises a brow. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Akaashi Keji, and I’m a second year student from Fukurodani High School.”
“Alright?” Nanase’s brow draws together. “What gives?”
“You got into an altercation with one of my friends, Kouzume Kenma, from your year earlier today.” A pause. “We’d like you to say sorry, and return whatever you’ve taken.”
“Sorry?” Nanase barks a laugh. He stubs out his cigarette with a twist and flick against the wall before rising to his full height. He stands to Kuroo’s chin, and looks like he hasn’t bathed in a few days. “Is this some kind of joke? Are you Kenma’s lackeys?”
“Watch your mouth,” Kuroo warns, low and clear. He takes a step closer; the added bonus of height does wonders, because suddenly the scowl on Nanase’s face slips. “None of us here want to get in any trouble. We’re just here to tell you to lay off.”
“Yeah,” Bokuto encourages, thrusting a fist in the air like he’s at a concert. The print of his pyjamas catches the light’s shine from the fly killer on the wall and highlights a single duckling with aviators above the breast of his shirt. “What he said.”
Nanase’s scowl returns. “I don’t have time for this,” he murmurs, shouldering past Kuroo to head to the car park. The studs of his shoes click against the pathway. Kuroo sweeps an arm out to catch him where he stands, and offers a thin smile. “Get off me.”
“I don’t think we made ourselves clear enough,” Kuroo says. “You stay away from him from now on, and we’ll have no problems.”
“You think I’m scared of you three? You look like members of the theatre club. Fuck off.”
Akaashi momentarily looks offended at being called out. “There’s nothing wrong with the theatre club,” he interjects. It was going so well , Kuroo agonises internally. I should’ve brought Yaku.
“Nothing wrong with the theatre club?” Nanase barks a laugh. “Yeah, alright. Get off me, Lanky, or we’ll really have a problem here.”
“We already do.” Kuroo nudges him back by the shoulders and uses his height to tower over him.
“The fuck are you? His boyfriend?”
“Sure am,” Kuroo says, tucking his hands in his pocket. “Push me again. Go on.”
“You guys are a bunch of —”
Kuroo doesn’t realise he’s thrown a punch until he registers the rush of adrenaline in his legs and the aching skin over his knuckles. He shakes his hand off to try and play it cool but he’s pretty sure he’s chipped a bone. From over his shoulder Bokuto steadies his swaying gait, both of them staring down to Nanase as he clutches his jaw and groans through his nose. Kuroo blinks in surprise at himself, the moment of pride lasting only a brief second before he’s caught off guard by the swing of Nanase’s fist.
The second punch is thrown right at Kuroo’s eye. He just about dodges it so it only skims his face but it’s enough to burn his nose and churn bile in his stomach. Kuroo twists out of the way, swings a leg out to knee Nanase in the hip to send him skidding to the floor. He manages to catch himself on the wall; he spits, growls, and reaches into his pocket before lunging at Kuroo.
There, from his side, Akaashi jumps out to swing his mallet right into the crown of Nanase’s head.
He hits the deck like a sack of flour. Kuroo watches with his mouth hung open, Bokuto soundless, as Akaashi grips the stupid meat hammer in a stance over Nanase. “Please, do so kindly as to stay away from my friends.”
“You bitch!” Nanase cries, clutching the bloodied spot beneath his hair. “I’ll tell my father about you!”
“You better fucking do. Stay away from him or I swear to God I’ll swing that goddamn hammer down on both of your testicles.” Kuroo threatens. Mustering up the courage past the ache in his face he spits on the ground next to Nanase and turns on his heel to walk back to the car. Don’t look back, for God’s sake, he internalises, don’t ruin the moment .
Even if he doesn’t see it he can feel the eyes they draw as they walk from the club back to the car. Bokuto gives Kuroo’s shoulder a little pat and says, “Well done. You were cool as hell, Kuroo.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I think I’ve dislocated a finger.”
Through the rush of adrenaline it’s difficult to find the car. They try three before locating his shitty truck parked right at the back of the lot, shrouded in darkness which, in hindsight, wasn’t the best choice to make. Bokuto looks over his shoulder in paranoia every few seconds, his grip slowly but surely tightening on the material of Kuroo’s hoodie, until he barks a short: “What?”
Bokuto jumps. His head snaps around to look at Kuroo, and the guilt is immediate. “Sorry,” he apologises, reaching out to give Bokuto a nudge. “Sorry, I’m just a little stressed.”
“It’s okay,” he says, offering a wobbly smile, “I just... I wish I could’ve done something, but you know how I get around people like that,” Bokuto apologises, wringing his hands. “Sorry.”
“You were great, Bo,” Kuroo reassures. He slaps him on the back for good measure. “I’m more so shocked about you, Akaashi. Holy shit.”
“I don’t like people insulting my friends,” he says, plain and simple. “Here, let me drive. Your eye must be sore.”
“You don’t have a licence.”
“Neither do you.”
Kuroo shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says, climbing into the back of the truck alongside Bokuto, who does his best at holding up a luke-warm water bottle to Kuroo’s eye. His hand throbs like it’s been caught between a door and the pain in his eye bleeds to the rest of his face. Kuroo wonders if Nanase caught a tooth in the process. “If anyone asks, you’re eighteen and my cousin.”
“Not to worry, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi reassures as he buckles up, “I’ve driven illegally before.”
“Here,” Akaashi says, holding up a small McDonalds cup to Kuroo’s face. “Sit down on the bench for me.”
Kuroo slumps down against the table with a wince. Akaashi lifts the Coke to his eye and applies minimal pressure to the bruising, earning a sharp hiss from Kuroo. Opposite them Bokuto helpfully offers a chicken nugget.
“My mom’s going to kill me,” Kuroo grumbles around a mouthful of chicken, earning a don’t move from Akaashi. He steadies his head and holds his hand out for another nugget. “How the hell am I going to explain this to Coach?”
“Say you fell over,” Bokuto suggests, putting another piece of chicken in the palm of Kuroo’s outstretched palm. Even though they’re below shelter beneath the umbrellas at McDonald’s outdoor seating booths the air is chilly. Kuroo hikes his hoodie higher up his neck after a short gust of wind and tucks his fingers into his sleeves. “Or, just tell the truth! I mean, it’s a pretty badass story. You’ll have your own fanclub like that annoying guy from Seijoh.”
Kuroo’s expression relaxes. “That does seem pretty cool.”
“Unlikely, at best,” Akaashi says. He rotates the cup so the cool side is pressed up against Kuroo’s eye. “Aren’t the girls at your school scared of you?”
Bokuto snorts a laugh around his fries. Kuroo scowls.
“Besides,” Akaashi continues, poorly concealing his own little smile, “what will Kenma-san think of this?”
“Oh, don’t even get me started on that."
It’s difficult sneaking around school when you’re doing your best to avoid any club members. Please, God, don’t let me run into Lev, Kuroo begs . Through either magic or miracle Kuroo makes it to the block of clubrooms unscathed save the odd looks he got, managing to get through a whole thirty minutes into the school day without any contact until he takes his first step into the clubroom and meets the terrifying image of Kenma, arms crossed and expression dour, stood in the center of the room. Shit.
“What did you do,” Kenma deadpans. He’s cradling his wrist limp in his hand and looking at Kuroo like he’s just smelt something bad.
Kuroo opens his mouth to speak, but Kenma quickly cuts him off with an even deeper frown. Through the tint of his sunglasses he looks like a wet cat. “Let me rephrase,” he begins, “what did you and Bokuto do?”
Kuroo, brows raised, raises a finger to point at Kenma. “Actually,” he says, “it wasn’t just us this time.”
“ Please don’t tell me you got Keiji involved.”
“He joined of his own volition!”
“ Kuro, ” Kenma groans. He shakes his head and with it his hair sways, falling loose from behind his ear to hang limply in front of his face. Had Kuroo’s hand not been in a brace he’d have leaned down like the romantic, handsome senpai he is and tucked it behind Kenma’s ear. The aviators he has on, however, are too small for his face which puts a damp cloth on the fire he’s trying to keep lit. “Take those off. You look awful.”
“I’m trying something new,” Kuroo says. “You aren’t allowed to call these bad. My grandmother got them for me.”
“Your grandmother has better fashion taste than you. Take them off.”
Kuroo’s mouth twists into a pout. He holds out until Kenma gives him a blank look and a little sigh through his nose, which means he’s really losing his patience, and reaches up to take them from his face.
“Kuro,” Kenma begins, the blank canvas of his expression morphing into that of horror. “What did you do? ”
“Nothing!” He tucks the sunglasses into his back pocket and makes a mental note not to sit down until they’re removed. He found them in the truck’s glove compartment and wore them in a last ditch effort to hide his black eye. His poor taste in fashion stems from his mother’s side of the family so if he loses them he knows he’ll have to replace them, no matter how hideous they are. “It’s cold, so I ran from the bath this morning to my room but slipped and fell into the corner of the table.”
“This morning,” Kenma repeats, deadpan. “A bruise like that formed in the last two hours.”
“I have excellent blood flow.”
Kenma groans. He motions with his hand for Kuroo to lean down, to what he reaches up to poke gently around the area. Kuroo winces at the cold touch of Kenma’s fingers but doesn’t move, watching him as he surveys the damage. The bruise has purpled overnight and spread from the arch of his brow to the hollow above his cheekbone. On his way to school this morning a couple of girls had crossed the road when he was crossing paths with them. So much for that fanclub.
He feels the press of cool, dry lips to the space below his eye through the haze of his thoughts. Kuroo looks down to the crown of Kenma’s head; feather-soft black hair which now reaches well past his ears and in desperate need of a dye, and repeats the action. “I had wondered why my PSP was back in my locker this morning,” Kenma murmurs, avoiding eye contact to hide the flush on his cheeks. He looks his best like this, Kuroo thinks; bashful and honest, a rare sight that only a few people get to see. “What did you do?”
“It was mostly Akaashi, honestly.”
“You all think he’s calm and delicate, but he’s pretty scary when he wants to be,” Kenma muses. He reaches out to fiddle with the tip of Kuroo’s tie, shy, before murmuring a small: “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Kuroo drops another kiss to the fluff of his hair, his face breaking into a grin despite the pain in his cheek, and offers a hand. “Come on, they have milk bread in the canteen this morning. Don’t act like you don’t want it.”
Kenma, after rolling his eyes and giving a performance of do I have to? reaches out to take Kuroo’s hand between his own. It’s soft and warm and makes it all worthwhile. “I’m definitely not taking them again, though,” he muses on their way down the stairs, catching the tiny smile on Kenma’s face. “They're the worst accomplices. You would not believe what they wore.”
“Oh, trust me," Kenma says, "I can.”