Work Text:
The miracle is that it takes three years of summer training camps before it happens.
It isn't that Kuroo's immune—he picked up on it early too, you know, that Bokuto Koutarou is a handsome boy with an attractive personality, that the way he laughs has this way of lighting up a room just like that, that he's fun to be around and good at what he does.
Kuroo saw all that the first time they met, so it's not like he doesn't know. But, they also met on opposite sides of the net during a practice match the first time he was made starter, and, well.
He can get a little competitive from time to time, what of it. He had stuff to prove too.
So it was easier to put those things to the back of his mind. Shove them back behind things like, this is how you can block his spikes, and he can get a little moody on the court so take advantage then, and Dance Dance Revolution is just a game there is no need to defend Nekoma's honor the next time you go out with the Fukurodani team!!
And it got easier the more they hung out and texted and turned from acquaintances to friendly rivals to friends. Because Bokuto is a great guy who gets Kuroo, and Kuroo likes him in a totally platonic kind of way.
That's all.
Really.
"Kuro," Kenma murmurs next to him, low enough that only he can hear.
"Yeah?" he asks, tearing his gaze away from— "What is it?"
Kenma snorts. Pointedly glances sidelong toward the Fukurodani team—fresh out of the baths and heading to their rooms—which just so happened to be the general direction Kuroo had been facing earlier. Completely by coincidence. Honest.
"You were staring," Kenma says. "Any longer and we'd have to pick your jaw up off the floor."
"I was not—excuse me—"
"Never saw him with his hair down before, huh?" Kenma quirks an eyebrow. "It's only the first day of training camp. Are you gonna be okay?"
"Whatever it is you're trying to say, I don't like it. I am not—whatever it is you're implying."
He wasn't.
Promise.
More volleyball is the last thing Kuroo wants to watch, so close after losing to Karasuno in the Spring Interhigh. He's exhausted, spent, and every muscle in his body aches for rest. Sleep can't come soon enough.
But Fukurodani's match is wrapping up one court over, and between Karasuno and Nekoma it was a no-brainer to have everyone head over there to see how it ends.
They're in the final stretch of the second set, Fukurodani with a healthy lead over their opponent after, it looks like, winning their first. The team looks sharp as ever, focused and unstoppable. On the other side of the court, their opponents look tired and beaten.
"They keep winning everything in straight sets," Kai says beside Kuroo. "Bokuto looks really good."
"He does," Kuroo agrees. He wants to keep his eye on the entire game, to watch the court as the plays start to develop, but his brain is too fried to process anything more, and his eyes keep getting drawn to a single player on the team.
Bokuto's always been easy to read. He's the kind of player that will rally a team from the dumps through the sheer force of his stubborn optimism, whose downward moodswings would legitimately manifest a gloomy cloud overhead. It's a credit to Fukurodani, really, that they've found a way to let his energy carry them through, but not let his moods bring them down.
They don't have to worry about anything today.
Bokuto's in top form, calling for tosses with an exuberance that rings out throughout the entire arena, the smile on his face tireless.
"Left! I'm open!" he yells, before he takes to the air, a perfectly curved silhouette against the gymnasium lights, back arched, arm drawn back, knees bent so that a sliver of skin peeked out between his kneepads and shorts.
Game over. Fukurodani moves on.
Congratulations, Kuroo wants to say. Tries to say. But at that moment the rush of their loss catches up to him, and he realizes, they've already played their last game against each other.
Bokuto's pulling him into a hug before he can try for any more words. Kuroo finds himself letting out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. When Bokuto lets go, he's grinning.
Ah, Kuroo thinks, mirroring the smile and feeling lighter than before. So this is what it feels like.
It isn't until the school year nears its end that Kuroo sees Bokuto again, when the graduating class of players from Fukurodani and Nekoma finally coordinate schedules to meet up at one of their favorite arcades, spending an afternoon there before hitting up one of their usual restaurants.
It'll be the last time they can all be like this. Most of them are staying in Tokyo for college, but it's not all of them. Bokuto's signing with the Black Jackals down in Hirakata, Yaku's going even further to Hiroshima, and Kai's taken up an apprenticeship in Kanagawa with an uncle.
They try not to talk about it like that, though.
Instead it's next time this, and when you come back that, like finding a moment like this again is as simple as penciling it into a calendar.
Kuroo lets it go, laughing around the conversation, taking a sip out of his soda when he finds himself without much else to say. He gets refills twice. Yaku calls him out on it, and when they're all ready to go their separate ways, calls him out again for having to stay back to use the restroom.
"You all go on ahead," he says, waving them off.
He's not very big on grand goodbyes either.
He's surprised to find Bokuto stayed behind to wait for him, hands shoved into his pockets.
"Started to rain," he explains, pointing outside. "Forgot my umbrella, but I figured you—"
Kuroo snorts. "Only until the train station."
"Of course!" Bokuto says, enthusiastically thanking Kuroo along the way.
It's not a very big umbrella, and they are two very big guys. Staying dry is futile—they're half-wet by the time they get to the station.
"Well, can't say we didn't try," Kuroo says, his laugh cut off when he sees Bokuto shaking the water out of his hair, the way his wet shirt sleeve clings to his bicep. "Uh. Here. Keep the umbrella. You live farther from where you get off anyway."
"I'm fine. I just—" Bokuto glances up at Kuroo, eyes wide and golden and earnest. "Hey. You are gonna visit, right? You weren't just saying that? 'Cause it kinda felt like you were and I—"
"Aw, were you gonna miss me?" he can't resist teasing, laughing when Bokuto's frown turns to a sulk. "Okay, okay, I'm joking. Sorry. Yes, I'll visit."
Like Kuroo could ever resist him.
Kuroo visits Osaka exactly once, shortly after Bokuto moves in and he needs two extra pairs of eyes to help him set up his apartment. (Indoor hammock: no. Toilet brush: yes.)
Between Kuroo and Akaashi they do okay, and Kuroo heads back to Tokyo assured Bokuto's got things sorted out, even though he's usually the first call when Bokuto isn't sure if he can still eat the thing of miso he'd forgotten in his fridge or how to find ripe watermelon from the store.
Then his college courses start up in earnest, and Kuroo gets slowly buried in schoolwork and his own club practices, so free weekends become something of a daydream.
By the time he's adjusted to his schedule, the V.League season's begun, and so Bokuto's weekends are lost to games all across the country. It's harder to time visits when they're rarely in Osaka, and Kuroo's got class deadlines to meet.
But the Black Jackals do play in Tokyo late in November, and Kuroo had planned to see the game since the schedule was released, anyway.
"Maybe we can meet up for dinner after," Bokuto says over a call. "You'll be free, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it for anything," Kuroo tells him. "Thanks again for the ticket."
"It's nothing, we get a few every game, anyway, and I haven't seen anyone in so long!"
There's more Fukurodani in the group than Nekoma, and Kuroo makes idle chatter with Akaashi while they wait for the match to start.
Bokuto bounces out with a brilliant smile when the teams are introduced, radiant in the black-and-gold he'd worn so well while in Fukurodani, that he wears even now.
"Have you seen his games lately?" Akaashi asks.
Kuroo nods. "The league loves him," he says. He'd been following what volleyball magazines and sports outlets said around the 'monster rookies', as people had taken to calling them, and even among them Bokuto's personality stands out.
He scores a point just then, a beautiful spike that breaks through two blockers. His fans are already on their feet, Kuroo and Akaashi following along as they call out his now-famous catchphrase.
"Hey hey hey!" he cheers back, fresh-faced and lively, his grin wide. He sees Kuroo and Akaashi then, waving excitedly until they both wave back.
Is it any wonder, really, that the world adores him?
In his final year of college, Kuroo lands an internship with the Japan Volleyball Association.
Though he had no plans to pursue a professional career in volleyball, Kuroo knew he at least wanted to continue working in or around the sport. The internship was a lucky break, though the job itself not as glamorous as it looked on paper.
At least it has some perks.
Guess who's been asked to assist for the V.League promo shoot today? he sends in a text message that morning. You still the face of the Jackals?
Bokuto's reply is peppered with enthusiasm. That's awesome!! So I'll see you today?
Yeah, but don't expect much, Kuroo replies. I'll just be running around like a glorified gopher.
Kuroo shows up at work with a little more pep in his step, preparing all necessary materials before following his boss to the studio.
The shoot is for the league's promotions, intended to run in print and online media featuring players from all teams. And though the Black Jackals has many strong players, Bokuto's popularity as a fan favorite was unquestionable.
Kuroo arrives early, and he sets to work helping set up the studio. By the time the players start trickling in, everything is ready. Bokuto beams when he sees Kuroo, opening his mouth to say hi, but he is immediately whisked away to makeup. When he comes out, Kuroo's neck-deep looking for the prop list they needed for one of the players.
Kuroo was right—it's a hectic couple of hours that leave both of them too busy to catch up.
But there is a blessed moment near the end of the day when there are no more errands left for Kuroo, and he's able to watch as the photographer takes Bokuto's solo shots.
He's made to run, to jump, to spike against pretend opponents, action shots taken from better angles than during games. His form is perfect each time, the muscles more defined, sharper, in studio lighting. There are close-ups too, after, where his smile is natural and infectious. His eyes are warm and golden, sparkling so incandescently it's bound to singlehandedly sell a thousand tickets.
"Hey, you okay?" Bokuto asks him once he's done, walking over with a bottle of water for Kuroo. "You're looking pretty warm."
"Ah, I've been running around all day." Kuroo smacks both his cheeks lightly. Focus. "I'm good."
Kuroo is not good.
Kuroo cannot focus.
Kuroo has dug his own grave and he's got no one to blame but himself, for wanting to do a V.League send-off for Hinata before he heads back to Brazil, and maybe Hinata, for becoming synonymous with beach volleyball that a little friendly seemed like a great idea, but most especially—
"Kuroo! What are you doing hiding under the shade? Come join us!"
"In—" he calls out, voice coming out a smidge too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "In a minute! Just putting some sunscreen on."
"Oh, yeah? Hey you're missing a spot in the back, I can help you," Bokuto says, jogging over from the net he'd just finished setting up with Hinata.
"N-no, I'm—" He's fine, Kuroo means to say. Just please don't come closer.
But Bokuto's already there, standing so close to Kuroo in all his pro athlete, beach body glory— Kuroo really hadn't thought this through— broad-shouldered and tanned, pecs and biceps shiny with sunscreen sheen. A pair of beach shorts so tiny they may as well be booty shorts clung to his thighs and hugged his pert ass and gave Kuroo a heart attack whenever Bokuto bent over, which happened often, as the ball kept getting blown away and Bokuto kept being so helpful.
And his thighs! His thighs without the kneepads!
Kuroo had never known weakness quite like this.
"Hey," Bokuto says, palms warm on Kuroo's shoulders as he turns him around—oh, good, at least now Kuroo won't have to see him—squirting a dollop of sunscreen lotion onto his palm before he kneads it into Kuroo's back. "Are you okay? You've been weird all morning."
It takes a while for Kuroo to find his voice, but eventually he nods. "It's just—" he falters— "hot."
"Okay. Just make sure you hydrate, then," Bokuto says, slapping him on the back. "All done! C'mon, I wanna do the first set with you on my team!"
Kuroo follows after him, trying to shake himself out of the Bokuto-stunned daze he's in because you know what, he's better than this. He is.
Until he tosses the ball to Bokuto, whose form silhouetted in sunlight is nothing short of blinding magnificence he's caught looking so long that—
"Kuroo! Watch out!"
—he never sees the volleyball coming for his face.
The miracle, they'll say later, is that it took three more years before anything happened.
"So this is how a big shot sports promoter lives," Bokuto says with a grin, peering out over the floor-to-ceiling window of Kuroo's apartment.
Kuroo laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. The living room's seen better days, the aftermath of the surprise birthday party they'd thrown for Bokuto earlier that evening. Akaashi had at least tried to offer help cleaning up until Konoha reminded him of his deadline in the morning, and then dragged him out with him. Kenma had long left, but what was new, and Yukie had a train to catch.
But there was plenty of leftover cake and Kuroo was not eating all of that alone, so he'd asked Bokuto to wait while he wrapped it up for him.
So Bokuto stayed.
He's still looking out over the Tokyo skyline like he hadn't lived here most of his life, one palm pressed to the window as he leans forward. He cuts a striking figure from where Kuroo's standing, the breadth of his shoulders and the solid spread of his back tapering down to narrow hips. His eyes, Kuroo imagines, must sparkle with wonder, the same way it did when he realized the party gathered in Kuroo's apartment was for him.
He'd thought going pro would change Bokuto, but over the years Kuroo has realized all it's done is only really let Bokuto be truly himself.
He clears his throat to pull himself out of his thoughts before they wandered too far down the other side of fond, toward the deeper end of longing. "Hey," he says. "I got your cake."
"You know I was kinda hoping—" Bokuto starts, pausing as he runs fingers through his hair. "Ah, never mind, it's a little stupid."
Kuroo cocks his head to the side. "It's your birthday; nothing's too stupid."
"This one is," Bokuto mumbles. "When you asked if I wanted to check your place out I thought—I thought it would just be the two of us."
Kuroo's throat goes dry. "Oh, I— "
"And it's not that I'm not grateful!" Bokuto starts, turning to face him. His eyes aren't sparkling with wonder; they're shining with that unrecognizable thing Kuroo saw when everyone yelled Surprise! "I am, I didn't expect it, I'm so glad I saw everyone again, I was just—I thought—"
He'd been disappointed.
"Aw," Kuroo says, his tone light but his words carrying the weight of years on them, "were you that eager to spend some time alone with me?"
"What if I was?" Bokuto asks, his face much closer now, the palm on the back of Kuroo's hand warm—when did Kuroo start walking toward him? When did he reach out to cup Bokuto's cheek?
"That's not stupid at all," Kuroo breathes, leaning down to wipe the last of the disappointment off Bokuto's eyes and taste the hope on his lips.