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Goodbyes were a tricky thing. Some might say relationships, platonic or otherwise, were fickle, fading away with time, new ones coming to take their place. After a lifetime of memories, Kenma couldn’t quite say he agreed.
Graduation brought with it it’s own sort of goodbye, not necessarily permanent, but still insistent in the ache it dragged along. The promise of loss, moving on, maybe not now, but later. Later. After all, all good things must come to an end.
It was warm. The sun coated every corner of the room, casting things in rich hues of orange and yellow. The closet, by comparison, was cooler, calmer, blues and indigos weaving their way into the shadows.
Kuroo’s room held a certain familiarity, wrapping him in a sense of comfort not many other places could. Kenma sat on the floor, soles of his feet pressed together, as he tucked the sleeves of shirt after shirt underneath fabric and folded it all with a gentle flip. Faint rustling from the other side of the room, where Kuroo stood packing boxes for college, set a steady soundtrack to his work. He couldn’t shake the feeling creeping up his throat.
The carpet beneath him had seen him through so much of his childhood. Year after year, anything from talking, to playing, to simply being, it had been there, a study foundation on which to grow. Everything atop it had experienced it alongside him, forming a road map of memory in his mind. It was almost startling when he came across something he had never encountered before, an island of uncertainty in the middle of an ocean of assurance.
“Kuroo?” he called, fingers wrapping around the bridge of the never seen before guitar. The soft padding of footsteps preceded the peeking of Kuroo’s head around the door frame.
“What’s up?” his voice was smooth, perhaps even more familiar than anything else in the room. A small smile appeared on his face as he glanced at Kenma’s handiwork: A towering pile of neatly stacked shirts.
“What’s this?” The smile climbed higher on one side, turning teasing.
“A guitar,” Kuroo returned briefly, knowing full well that was not what he meant.
“Yeah but…” Kenma trailed off, footing unsure with such an unknown object in his grasp. “You play?” Fingers brushed against his as Kuroo took the instrument from him, hands glancing across the surface of the strings just light enough to paint a hint of music in the air.
“Mhm,” he answered, fingers plucking the strings for real now. Just a few notes at first, seeming to blend together and hang, suspended in the small space. Kenma stood silent for a moment, watching as his hands floated up and down the bridge, looking well practiced.
“Since when?” How come you never told me? he wanted to ask; he couldn’t get the words to leave his tongue, their weight drawing his mouth shut once more.
“Remember when you started listening to instrumental music?” Of course he did. Something about the sound of strings and light percussion put him at ease in a way only a familiar arm around his shoulder or the feeling of thumbs tracing joysticks could compete with. His eyes widened fractionally, still glued to where Kuroo’s fingers plucked gently at the strings.
“Then...” he breathed, glancing up at Kuroo, who met his gaze with something soft and unreadable in his countenance. The sound of music fluttered to a gradual stop and his friend's hand curled gently around his arm. Kenma followed as he led him to his bed to sit, comforter sunkissed and warm beneath his legs. Kuroo settled beside him, guitar sitting so naturally over the curve of his leg. Neither spoke, the wisp of fingertips against taut metal filling the silence between them.
Eventually, finally, Kenma was able to grasp at words once more. “Play for me?” he asked, breathy despite his best efforts to produce something solid. Kuroo nodded his assent, fingers pulling more firmly at the instrument beneath him now. The air seemed to swell with the drifting sound of strumming, the glance of each chord off another. Kenma couldn’t help but sway along to the rise and fall.
Something warm and comfortable settled in his chest. The gentle crest of the music, the sunbeams stroking his hair, his best friend by his side, it all mounted into a soft thrum through his veins. There was nothing to worry about here, no anxieties, no one leaving, it was just them. Simply Kenma and Kuroo for a moment suspended in time.
Quietly at first, Kuroo’s voice joined the notes dancing through the air, low, rich, and steady. It was magnetic, pulling at Kenma until he was situated, pressed lightly against the other’s side, head lying on his sloped shoulder. The sound reverberated pleasantly through the point of contact. He let his eyes drift shut.
If asked, he’d probably be unable to tell how long it lasted. Only that he was content, heart full to bursting, so different from the nervous ache in his throat that had been present that morning. The sound eventually drifted away, snuffed out by the return of peaceful silence. Kuroo’s head settled atop his own.
“Did you like it?” Kuroo asked, sounding unsure in a way he didn’t often. Kenma let a contented breath fall from his nose.
“Yeah,” he assured the other, “I really did.” Kuroo turned then, hiding the curve of a smile against the top of Kenma’s head.
“I’ve been practicing.” The for you was unspoken, made apparent in the way an arm snaked around his waist. Warmth settled high on Kenma’s cheeks.
“Oh,” he offered, almost inaudible. His heart set a steady tempo, faster than that of the song he’d just heard. Lips grazed his forehead, fingertips skimming his jaw before Kuroo was standing once more, making his way back over to the stack of boxes by his dresser. Struck by sudden, hopeful fervor, the younger could only sit and watch.
“Oh,” he exhaled again, sun steady at his back, warmth steady in his chest.