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The air is clear and bright and smells of cherry blossoms when Kei is finally allowed to exit the school and, for the first time in several hours, he feels like he can breathe. He blinks in the sunlight, allowing his eyes to adjust to the natural light and, as if on instinct, sweep across the crowd. He knows there won’t be anyone there waiting for him, with the exception of the first-and second-years in the volleyball club, and he hardly thinks they count, but that doesn’t stop him from looking anyway. His mom is working late and Akiteru won’t be able to come visit until the weekend and that’s all fine because commencement isn’t really a family thing and he has plans with his friends today anyway.
Friends. Plural. What a concept.
He supposes it was inevitable with the amount of time he spends with them, but somewhere along the line Yachi, Hinata, and (somehow) even Kageyama have moved up the rungs from mild annoyances to tolerable peers to actual friends. He’ll blame Yamaguchi’s soft influence, though he knows there’s probably more to it than that—he just refuses to acknowledge the idea that he’s gone soft too. He’s still got a reputation to uphold, after all.
The group chat between the five of them has shifted almost imperceptibly from infrequent and strictly volleyball-related content—the only reason he’d allowed himself to be part of it, and even then he didn’t go quietly—to daily, lengthy conversations about everything and nothing. On the rare night he does go to bed before 10 pm, it’s not unusual for him to wake up to 205 new messages. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he’s glad he at least gets to carry that part of them with him when he goes to Tokyo.
He won’t think about that, though. Not yet, anyway, not while he’s standing in the sunlight surrounded by those friends who, despite all odds (at least in Kageyama and Hinata’s cases), have managed to graduate. Not when he has three lazy weeks ahead of him before they’ll all split up for the first time in three years.
He won’t think about how Yachi and Yamaguchi are both going to school in Miyagi, Kageyama straight to the pros, and Hinata all the way to fucking Brazil to play beach volleyball of all things. He won’t think about how Miyagi and Tokyo aren’t really that far apart, but that it won’t be the same. He won’t think about the fact that he’ll be alone in Tokyo, starting from square one in the getting-to-know-people department because, honestly, he’ll probably be way too busy to be lonely and, really, who needs new friends anyway?
“What’s that face for, Grumpyshima?” Hinata’s voice at his shoulder breaks him out of his thoughts. He bites back a smile and rolls his eyes instead, refusing to give the redhead the satisfaction of any further reaction. Hinata grins anyway, undeterred, and bumps Kei’s shoulder with his own.
“It’s okay to get emotional, Tsukki!” Yachi pipes up, looping her arm through his and grinning up at him. Her smile is as big and blinding as Hinata’s, though on her the expression is far more tolerable.
“Yeah, Tsukki, you don’t have to pretend to be a robot around us,” Yamaguchi laughs, pushing his hair back from where it’s slipped out of its ponytail. “We all saw you get choked up the night we watched The Land Before Time.”
“I-“ he starts, but before he can come up with a more suitable retort than ‘Shut up, Yamaguchi,’ (which has long since lost its bite and become something of a joke in the last couple of years) he’s interrupted by Hinata’s joyful screech.
“Kenma!” he shouts, dropping his diploma at his feet and taking off in a blur of orange and black, Yamaguchi and Yachi trailing after him.
Kei raises an eyebrow at Kageyama in a silent question and the setter just shrugs a shoulder before reaching down to pick up the scroll. His expression is one of practiced neutrality, but his blue eyes are sharp as he tracks Hinata’s movements and when the redhead all but throws himself into Kenma’s arms, nearly toppling them both, Kageyama’s jaw clenches noticeably.
For someone who pretty consistently wears their emotions on their sleeve (and face—the guy’s not exactly a closed book) Kageyama has held it together remarkably well in the year that Kenma and Hinata have been officially dating. If it weren’t for the night that he had ended up running back to the gym after practice for a forgotten book and found Kageyama in the empty gym furiously hitting jump serve after jump serve to the point of collapse, he wouldn’t have realized just how affected he’d been.
That night, Kei taped and bandaged Kageyama’s bruised fingers and wrists, helped him clean up the gym, and walked him home. They had never spoken of it again.
“Are you-“
“Fine.”
Kei nods, debates giving Kageyama a pat on the shoulder, but Kageyama tucks the two diplomas under his arm and takes off after the rest of the group before he can make up his mind and then there’s nothing left for him to do but follow.
“Tsukki!” a voice exclaims as he approaches and Kei’s eyes snap up, drawn like magnets, as they always are, to Kuroo Tetsurou.
He’s not sure how he missed him before. It’s not like Kuroo is ever one to especially blend in to a crowd, what with his ridiculous hair and his brash laugh and his bright eyes that always sparkle like he’s either just heard or just thought of the funniest joke of his life. But now that he’s seen Kuroo, he can’t see anyone else.
He stands, as ever, next to Kenma, and for a moment Kei is propelled back in time three years when seeing the two of them together flared up something sharp and irritable in the pit of his stomach that he refused to blame on anything but bad meat buns. But the feeling only lasts for a quick half second because Kenma only has eyes for Hinata and Kuroo is staring at Kei and grinning like an idiot, all the while looking like he just walked out of some dumb Tokyo fashion magazine.
Kei takes in the whole look—the black boots and dark jeans (he can’t decide if they’re too tight or just tight enough), the red and black flannel slung low on his hips, the white v-neck shirt topped with a fitted leather jacket, and finally the infuriating smirk on his face that tells Kei he’s spent far too long staring.
Fuck.
He fights down the flush he can feel coloring the tips of his ears and has never been more thankful he listened to Yachi’s suggestion that he try letting his hair grow out a little shaggier than usual.
“There’s my favorite middle blocker!” Kuroo crows.
“Better not let Lev hear you say that,” Kei scoffs, ducking his head in an attempt to hide the pink dusting his cheeks and maintain some semblance of dignity in the face of all his friends.
“Ah, what Lev doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Kuroo laughs and then fucking winks like that’s a thing people do in normal, natural conversation and damn if it doesn’t make Kei’s stomach flip in the way only that stupid, smug face ever does.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“What are you doing here, Kuroo-san?”
“Cordial as ever, Kageyama-kun,” Kuroo laughs loud and obnoxious and Kei curses the way his heart flits uncomfortably in his chest at the sound. Kageyama rolls his eyes but Kuroo just continues, paying him no mind. “Kenma here hates travelling alone, so I decided to keep him company!”
Kenma, tucked into Hinata’s side, doesn’t look up from his phone, but his thumb pauses its scrolling and he arches an eyebrow at Kuroo’s enthusiastic explanation and mumbles something under his breath. Kei doesn’t quite catch what he says, but he’s pretty sure he hears something that sounds like, ‘Bullshit, Kuro.’
Kuroo just smiles wide and Kei can’t tell if the comment didn’t register with him or if he didn’t hear it or if he’s just purposely ignoring Kenma, but he keeps chatting easily with the group. Even when Coach Ukai and Takeda and a few junior members of the Karasuno Volleyball Club come by the group to extend their congratulations, he fits in like no time has passed at all.
But time has passed—two years of it. He’s seen Kuroo briefly, a few times since they last faced each other at the fated Battle of the Trash Heap (which is still, in Kei’s opinion, a terrible name) in his first year. They’ve talked a little more than that, mostly in yet another group chat he allowed himself to get roped into (though he has to admit he did go a little more willingly into that one) along with Akaashi and Bokuto. But casual conversation has long since tapered off, especially after Kenma’s graduation and Kuroo’s stopped coming as frequently to Nekoma’s games. But now he’s here, looking like that and all the feelings that Kei thought he buried and paved over at least a year ago are pounding at his chest something fierce, demanding to be let out.
“-join us, Kuroo-san!” Yachi’s voice breaks through Kei’s thoughts and he blinks.
“Oh, I mean, if you’re all sure,” Kuroo shoves a hand through his hair and looks around the circle they’ve formed. If Kei didn’t know better, he could have sworn Kuroo’s gaze lingers on him a half second longer than everyone else. “Don’t feel like you need to invite me along just ‘cause I’m here, it’s really no prob-“
“Of course we’re sure! We’d all love to have you and I’m sure the rest of the club would enjoy meeting you as well!” Yamaguchi pipes up and the rest rush to agree. Kei has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back the ‘Shut up Yamaguchi,’ that’s there on the tip of his tongue, but he does manage a terse nod.
Takeda claps his hands and grins. “Well now that that’s settled, we should get going. You all go get changed into your comfortable clothes and we’ll see you at the park in an hour or so!”
---
“Can I ask you a question, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks later, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. It’s a short walk from his house to the park, but, true to form, Yamaguchi senses his need for a few extra minutes to calm his spiking anxiety, so he takes them the long way around.
“Yes, that shirt looks fine and I’m sure Yachi will think you look great.”
Yamaguchi’s cheeks instantly flare up and he glares as best he can behind the blush. “That’s not what I was going to ask!” But he smooths down the front of his soft green sweater anyway, the half-hearted glare almost immediately replaced by a small, pleased smile.
“Fine,” Kei huffs, though there’s no venom in it, “ask away.”
“Are you okay?” Yamaguchi asks. Kei arches an eyebrow and his friend shrugs. “I mean, with Kuroo here and everything…did he tell you he was coming today?”
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “Why would he? He’s a big boy, he can do what he wants, why should I care?”
He pulls his cardigan tighter around his body, grateful he grabbed it before leaving the house. There’s a nice breeze outside (though it’s not cold enough to warrant a stupid leather jacket, obviously, no matter how cool it makes the wearer look) and the fact that this particular shade of blue just happens to bring out the gold in his eyes is mere coincidence and nothing else.
“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says in a stern tone, one typically reserved for when the first-years are acting up. Kei steals a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and has to stifle a laugh when he sees the way his eyebrows pinch together and his lips turn down at the corners.
“Oh, put the captain face away, you know that won’t work on me.”
Yamaguchi huffs, but a smile tugs at the corners of his lips and he bumps Kei’s shoulder with his own. “Alright, fine. We’ll talk about it later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he insists as they approach the park. His eyes betray him though, because without his permission they’re scanning the area for a certain dark-haired nuisance.
As it happens, he’s settled under a tree next to Kenma, a bemused expression on his face as he watches Hinata relay some story or another to the pair, complete with wild hand gestures and bouncing on the balls of his feet. After a particularly excited outburst, Kuroo fully throws his head back and laughs, wild and carefree, and Kei can’t help but trace the line of his throat with his eyes.
When Kuroo regains his composure, he catches sight of Kei staring at him like some sort of idiot and his expression shifts into something soft and unreadable that makes his stomach flip and his palms break out in a sweat. Kuroo lifts his hand in a greeting and Kei hopes he looks more casual than he feels as he mechanically moves his arm to return the gesture.
“Sure, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi bumps his shoulder again, a knowing smile on his face and a glint in his soft brown eyes. He arches an eyebrow as he glances between Kei and Kuroo, his smile widening as he watches the blush and the scowl fight for control of Kei’s face. “Anyway, I’m gonna go see if sensei needs any help setting up, I’ll catch up with you later!”
Kei makes a rude noise at his friend’s back and Yamaguchi responds with a loud laugh and a peace sign thrown over his shoulder.
---
The party is good, if not quite relaxing—not that he had really expected it to be with nearly two dozen teenagers running around and snagging barbecue off the grills—but his fellow third years (graduates, now, he thinks) are happy, not fully come down enough from the high of graduating to realize that this is the last time the Karasuno High School Volleyball Club is assembled with them as members. Kei realizes it, of course, it’s in the forefront of his mind, but he also realizes he has a habit of dwelling on the worst aspects of every situation and catastrophizing, so that’s not entirely surprising and he tries to spend the party distracting himself with food he doesn’t really want to eat and people he’s not especially in the mood to talk to.
Yamaguchi is fully in his element, surrounded by three second-years, including Eiji, the newly-named captain, a setter who spent the better part of his first year in the club trailing after Kageyama like a lost puppy. He’s a broad serious boy with shaggy dark hair and blue-grey eyes and is nothing at all like Yamaguchi, or Ennoshita, or Daichi, but the other club members respect him all the same and Kei suspects Karasuno will go far under his leadership next year.
A volleyball game starts. Kei supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised, not with the crew in attendance, and especially not with Hinata having three setters present to goad into tossing for him. And when he allows Yachi to take him by the hand and pull him towards the bedraggled net set up in a clearing in the park, he feels a familiar buzzing through his fingers, not quite the adrenaline he gets before an official match, but something close to it. He can’t help but think back on his first training camp, his reluctance to put in any extra effort, to show anything remotely resembling excitement, and he wonders, not for the first time, what happened to that boy.
And, like he knows exactly which rabbit hole Kei’s thoughts have gone down, Kuroo appears on the other side of the net, smug grin firmly in place.
“Been a while since we’ve been in this position, eh Tsukki?”
Kei struggles to keep his face neutral, but Kuroo’s shucked his jacket and his arms are thicker, his shoulders broader than the last time they saw each other and there’s something in Kuroo’s tone he can’t quite decipher. It’s teasing (typical), but there’s something else behind it, almost a shyness, though he’s fairly certain Kuroo doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But his eyes, a warm caramel flecked with gold—hazel, he guesses, though the name hardly does the color justice—hold Kei in his gaze, bright with excitement in a way he hasn’t seen in years, though it suddenly feels like yesterday.
Kei’s head has spontaneously emptied of any coherent thought, let alone an actual good comeback for Kuroo, so he settles for simply rolling his eyes and turning his attention toward where Hiroki, a first-year wing spiker, is attempting to split up Kageyama and Hinata. The two have settled into their usual positions on Kei’s right as though it’s second nature which, Kei supposes, it is.
“Come on senpais, you’ve gotta at least give us a fighting chance!”
Kageyama opens his mouth to argue, but Kenma pipes up before he has a chance.
“I’ll toss for you, Sho,” he says. His head is still ducked toward his PSP, but his thumbs are still. A tiny, soft smile flashes across his face when Hinata whoops in excitement.
Kageyama’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click and he nods tersely and moves to the other side of the net, allowing Kenma to take his place. Kei meets his eyes as he ducks under the net, but he only catches the wounded look for a brief moment before it’s like a shade is drawn and he’s booting Yamaguchi to the side to take his position as first server.
Kei grits his teeth and readies himself for what’s sure to be a killer jump serve, studiously avoiding Kuroo’s steady gaze.
It takes a minute for both teams to get into the swing of things; they’ve all played together and split up before in practices, but the addition of Kenma and Kuroo throws things off kilter and provides a distraction that Kei’s loathe to admit takes him a few missed points to get past.
Kei’s team wins, but just barely. It’s not the best game any of them have played and it’s not the most intense, but it’s easy to throw himself into it when he’s facing off against Kuroo. That jackass has always been able to goad him to action with a word or a look and he apparently hasn’t lost the touch. He has good blockers on his team, though, ones he’s worked with for a long time, and they move together in their synced attacks as flawlessly as ever. Kenma and Hinata make a good duo, too—maybe not as seamless as Hinata and Kageyama, but it’s clear that Kenma’s tossed for Hinata plenty and they have a similar sort of silent communication that makes for a tough team to beat. It’s odd to see Kenma and Kuroo on opposite sides of the net, but Kuroo is nothing if not adaptable and easily keeps up.
It’s unfair and inhuman, he thinks, the way Kuroo can still move like that in jeans that tight.
There’s a rematch, which Kei declines to be a part of, opting instead to help clean up. At least he tries, until Takeda shoos him away and he takes a seat next to Yachi who is diligently keeping score. She smiles when he sits next to her and rests her head against his shoulder. It’s a familiar, comforting weight, one that he would have never imagined tolerating, let alone welcoming. One that he knows he’ll miss in three weeks.
“I’m going to miss this, Tsukki.”
“Scorekeeping? I’m sure one of the teams in Miyagi would be happy to have you keep score for them.”
“No, not that, dummy,” Yachi makes a face and laughs. “I mean this. Us, all together.” She sighs and pushes her head further against his shoulder. “How long do I have to wait before I can ask you to come visit?”
“Now who’s being a sap?” he gives Yachi’s braid a playful tub.
“Oh, so you admit you were being a sap earlier?”
Kei hums noncommittally, but doesn’t bother trying to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.
“Kenma says Kuroo-san goes to school in Tokyo, too.”
Kei stiffens, unsure what Yachi expects him to do with this information. Information he definitely didn’t already know or anything. He can’t decide what exactly to say, so he just hums another acknowledgement.
That’s enough to give him away, though. “Relax,” Yachi laughs, “I wasn’t insinuating anything.” Kei presses his lips together in an attempt to keep from yelling that there’s nothing to insinuate, Yachi. “Anyway, she continues, “I just meant it’ll be nice for you to have someone that you already know around.”
“Tokyo’s a big place, I’m sure there will be a lot of people there I know.”
Yachi digs her elbow into Kei’s side, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get him to emit an indignant grunt. “Ugh, you’re impossible!” she huffs, but her voice is soft when she makes another mark on her score sheet and adds, “I’ll miss that too.”
“Two weeks,” he says after a beat and Yachi laughs into his shoulder.
“That’s not even enough time for you to get settled into a routine.”
“Fine, three.”
“Deal,” Yachi agrees, and he can hear the smile in her voice.
They watch the rest of the match in relative silence. Kei does his best to watch his kouhai closely, knowing they’ll want notes afterwards, but—and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised by this—he’s hard pressed to watch anyone but Kuroo. Now that he’s not in the game and at risk of missing a serve or an easy receive, he’s more able to appreciate the competitive glint in his eyes, the wild grin that spreads across his face when he blocks a spike like it’s nothing, the curve of his back and arm when he leaps into the air or a jump serve. He hits a service ace—the winning point—and catches Kei’s eye, shooting him a crooked did-you-see-that-Tsukki? smile that has Kei ducking his head to feign a sudden interest in Yachi’s notebook.
To Yachi’s credit, she (mostly) contains her laughter as she marks the final point down in the scorebook and closes it with a snap that jerks Kei’s attention back from the butterflies taking up residence in his stomach.
“Looks like everyone’s ready to eat again,” Yachi says, gesturing towards the pavilion where a table filled with desserts has been laid out in the time it’s taken for the game to wind down. Kageyama and Hinata are both yelling for a tiebreaker match, but most of the other players have lost interest in favor of small slices of cake and plates filled with cookies. “Coming?”
Kei makes a face at the crowded pavilion; he likes his teammates, enjoys the company of his friends, but it’s been a full day and his social battery is running dangerously low and the mere idea of once again being surrounded by people and chatter and food makes him want to duck out of the party right the and there.
“Okay,” Yachi says brightly and without even a hint of judgement or disappointment in her tone. She stands and brushes the grass from her jeans, her smile gentle and filled with understanding. “I’ll try and keep them from harassing you too much. Want me to bring you a cookie or anything?”
“No thanks,” Kei says, shaking his head. He watches her go, gracefully diverting a couple of the second-years’ attention away from him along the way, and the gratitude he feels for her is overwhelming.
Never in his life did he think he’d consider the tiny, terrified, blonde that used to tag after Kiyoko like a duckling after its mother would be one of his best friends, nearly as close and comforting a presence as Yamaguchi.
Actually, if he’s truly honest with himself, he never really saw himself leaving high school with any friends. The fear that Yamaguchi would stop putting up with his attitude, his walls, his whole general personality, and find someone fun and friendly and nice lingered in the back of Kei’s mind for a lot longer than he would ever care to admit.
“Cake?”
“Um.”
Kei blinks, startled, and sees Kuroo standing over him holding two small plates in his hands and grinning expectantly. Kei flicks his eyes to the distance where Yachi is standing; she shrugs her shoulders, not looking the least bit apologetic--the mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes and the shit-eating grin on her face is visible even from this distance.
“Can I…?” Kuroo nods at the empty space on the bench next to Kei. His smile dims into something more hesitant and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Kei shifts a little to allow Kuroo to sit and keeps his eyes trained on his hands clasped tightly in his lap in a valiant attempt to avoid watching the way his legs stretch out in front of him. He’s shorter than Kei by a good two or three inches at this point (he hadn’t been lying when he said he was still growing in his first year) but Kuroo always seems to take up so much more space. He’s quite tall himself, and built, but it’s so much more than that; everything about him--his personality, his intellect, his confidence--it all demands attention and space that Kei has been all too willing to provide since they first met. And, from the way his heart flutters against his ribcage when Kuroo settles in next to him, it doesn’t feel like that’s changing anytime soon.
“Here,” Kuroo offers Kei one of the plates again. It’s a small slice of white cake with what looks like strawberry jam between the layers and soft white frosting topped with a sliced strawberry. “I looked for strawberry shortcake, but there wasn’t any.” Kuroo shrugs apologetically, as though it’s his fault Kei’s favorite food isn’t at the party, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush.
“Thanks,” he says, taking the plate. He’s unable to stop the half-smile from slipping over his lips or the heat from rushing to his cheeks and when he steals a look at Kuroo from the corner of his eye, his cheeks are a little pink too. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he just shoves a forkful of cake in his mouth before he lets something embarrassing slip.
“You looked good out there,” Kuroo says around a mouthful of his own chocolate cake and Kei nearly chokes before he sees Kuroo’s gaze settled on the volleyball court. Kageyama is doing jump serves and Kei wonders vaguely if he’s going to need to tape up his hands again after the party. “You’ve gotten even better than the last time I saw you play,” Kuroo comments.
Kei lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe,” he hums. “Or maybe you’ve just gotten worse.”
Kuroo chokes out an offended noise, and Kei’s smirk widens.
“Could it be that you’re just old and out of practice?”
“Tsukki, you wound me!” Kuroo whines, shoving shoulder against Kei’s half-heartedly. His body, previously drawn up tight as a bowstring, relaxes slightly at the touch and it’s frustrating how easily he’s pulled back into Kuroo’s orbit, how quickly his mere presence fills him with a nervous energy and, somehow, relaxes him at the same time. “Didn’t you see me score the winning point during that last match?” he pouts.
He shrugs, putting on an air of nonchalance that fools neither of them because yes, he definitely saw and yes, Kuroo absolutely knows that he saw. “Well, I wasn’t playing that last match,” he sniffs.
Kuroo throws his head back and laughs and Kei’s chest warms pleasantly at the sound. “You’re still an arrogant little shit, aren’t you?”
Kei can’t stop the small huff of laughter that escapes him at that, though he tries to quickly smother it with another forkful of cake. Kuroo follows suit, looking so pleased with himself that Kei kind of wants to punch him.
---
It gets dark faster than Kei would like, especially considering he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the concept of a party to begin with. Their juniors have gone home and the park has mostly been cleaned up (with the exception of the plates of cookies that Hinata and Kageyama are still, somehow, shoveling down) and after a few more ‘congratulations’ and ‘be carefuls,’ Takeda and Ukai head out as well.
He’s half-listening to Kageyama and Yamaguchi discuss the details of the new training program the coach for Japan’s national team has created for Kageyama while Yachi idly works braids through Yamaguchi’s hair. Kei gives her a pointed look and quirks an eyebrow; she has the decency to blush in response, but sticks her tongue out at him and scrunches up her nose and while he just wishes one of them would ask the other out already, he’ll never outright say it for fear of either of them calling him out like the hypocrite he is.
Hinata is uncharacteristically quiet, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he watches the hushed conversation between Kuroo and Kenma taking place a few yards away. After a moment, Kuroo draws back with a wide grin and tousels a hand through Kenma’s hair. Kenma bats Kuroo’s hand away and scowls so hard, even Kei can feel it from where he’s standing.
“‘Spose I should head out soon if I’m gonna catch the last train tonight,” Kuroo announces when he and Kenma rejoin the group. Kei has to stamp down a little pang of disappointment at the thought, despite the fact that he never expected Kuroo to be there at all, let alone stay in town for the night or the weekend or any length of time. It’s for the best, he reminds himself, because the sooner Kuroo leaves, the sooner he can get back to being completely and totally over this dumb crush.
“Are you heading back tonight too, Kenma?” Yachi asks, her voice too innocent to be genuine, as though Hinata hasn’t mentioned that his mom and sister are going to be out of town about a dozen times in the last two days alone.
Hinata grins and Kenma ducks his head with a mumbled, “No,” and both boys are blushing so hard that Kei can’t help but join in the laughter that rings out at their expense.
Goodbyes are exchanged. Hinata and Kenma are the first to leave and the mere thought of pedaling that dumb bike all the way out to Hinata’s house in the middle of nowhere, especially with another person on the back of it, makes Kei’s legs ache. Kuroo calls out a jovial, “Be safe, kiddos!,” to them and Kenma removes his hand from Hinata’s waist long enough to flip him off.
Kageyama begs off shortly after, citing an early morning run as his excuse. From the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders, though, Kei predicts he will be up for at least a few more hours, setting volleyballs against the side of the house until his mom comes out to yell at him to go to bed.
Yamaguchi and Yachi don’t even bother to offer an excuse before they head out together. They simply agree that Yamaguchi will walk Yachi home and tell Kei to text them when he makes it home with some not-so-subtle nudging of his shoulder. If he could kick them without drawing attention, he would, but he can’t so he has to settle for a glare in their direction. They laugh and he wonders when the look became so ineffective.
Kuroo watches them leave with a smile and a tilt of his head. “They official yet?”
Kei huffs and rolls his eyes. “No. They’re both too damn stubborn to confess to each other.”
“I’m betting it’s only a matter of time,” Kuroo says, tapping his chin thoughtfully. His eyes flick back over Kei’s face and smiles and that infuriating, unreadable something is there in his expression again. He thinks (hopes) that despite his earlier statement, Kuroo looks reluctant to actually leave. And even Kei can admit that he’s not exactly looking forward to parting ways for the foreseeable future. They’re friends, after all, in a strange, roundabout way, and you should want to spend time with your friends.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the way the fading light hits his high cheekbones or the tiniest dimple that appears on his right cheek when he smiles wide, or-
Yachi’s voice, unbidden, interjects to remind him, “You really have the self awareness of a box of rocks, Tsukki.” and he scowls.
The silence stretches between them, nearly (but not quite) to the point of uncomfortability. Words stick in Kei’s throat--an invitation to stay longer, to come back soon, to call him, text him, god, anything--and shit, he’s glad they’re stuck because he’s not sure he’d ever survive voicing any of that.
Kuroo checks his watch and Kei watches his lips turn down slightly and before he can stop himself he blurts out, “I’ll walk you to the station.”
“Oho,” Kuroo’s grin is back and he immediately regrets extending the offer, if that’s even what it was. “So you’re not quite ready to get rid of me, huh?”
“I was taught it’s polite to help old people cross the street,” he retorts, falling into step easily with Kuroo as they cross the park. “Or is that just old ladies? Maybe I should just leave you to-”
“Tsukki, no!” Kuroo interrupts, laughing as he reaches out to circle a hand around Kei’s wrist and it takes all of his willpower not to jerk his hand out of Kuroo’s grip, to not draw attention to the way his skin feels like it’s scorching under Kuroo’s touch or his pulse is fluttering wildly beneath his fingers. “How will you feel if I get lost in this big city, or mugged, or hit by a-”
“Relieved,” Kei deadpans, but the facade cracks the tiniest bit when he sees the exaggerated pout on Kuroo’s face.
“That hurts, Tsukki!” Kuroo announces dramatically, clutching at his chest with the hand that’s not (still) loosely gripping Kei’s wrist.
“Fine, Grandpa, I’ll walk you to the station.”
Kuroo squawks out an offended noise, though his expression is anything but when he shoves his shoulder against Kei’s and calls him a model citizen.
For as big of a loudmouth as Kuroo is, the walk to the station is low-key, quiet, even. They keep the conversation light, neutral; smalltalk isn’t anything Kei is fond of or good at, but Kuroo is able to pull the mundane and inconsequential words out of him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They talk about school (they’re both going to Todai, though Kei reminds himself that it’s a big campus and it’s not like they’ll see each other in passing often, if ever), volleyball (Kuroo insists he’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t try out for the university’s team, despite Kuroo’s own course load making it impossible for him to commit to playing), and housing (Kei’s in the dorms, as most first years are, and Kuroo is sharing an apartment with Yaku and Kenma, a fact that churns his stomach uncomfortably). He loves the teasing lilt in Kuroo’s voice, the curve of his lips when he speaks, the crinkle of his eyes when he laughs, but when the conversation trails off into a comfortable and easy silence, a warm sense of contentment settles in Kei’s chest, tainted only by the knowledge that they’re fast approaching the station.
They’re almost to the station when Kuroo shifts his grip from Kei’s wrist and before his brain can catch up with the action, a wide, calloused palm is pressed against his own. His breath catches in his throat and his cold skin--he’s always had the worst circulation--seems to leech the heat from Kuroo’s hand. The touch isn’t insistent, or pushy, or any of the adjectives he’s come to associate with Kuroo. It’s so light, in fact, Kei could probably trick himself into thinking there’s nothing deliberate about it if not for the slight tremble in Kuroo’s hand as he lines their fingertips up almost perfectly.
He chances a glance at Kuroo and his heart stutters in his chest when their eyes meet. For all his cool confidence, there’s a hesitance in his expression, an unspoken question hovering in the air between them. Kei’s not sure what, exactly, that question is, but he does know he likes the feeling of Kuroo’s hand against his and he really likes the way Kuroo’s cheeks flush visibly pink even in the low evening light when he slips his fingers in between Kuroo’s, resting them in the soft spaces between his knuckles. Kuroo smiles and squeezes his hand and Kei lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
When they arrive at the station, Kuroo gives his hand one last squeeze and slowly, reluctantly, disentangles their fingers so he can fumble his metro card out of his wallet.
“Guess this is my stop,” he says.
“Guess so,” Kei murmurs. He doesn’t feel like crying, exactly, but there are too many unnamed emotions swirling around in his chest and threatening to burst forth in his expression and his words and a confession at the train station seems a bit too cliche for his taste, so he bites the inside of his cheek and fixes his gaze on the glaring red clock fixed to the wall behind Kuroo’s shoulder instead.
“Thanks for making sure I got here safely.” Kuroo’s cheeky grin is back and Kei can’t help but roll his eyes at the sight.
“Not like you left me much of a choice,” he grumbles, but the smile tugs at the corner of his lips anyway and Kuroo notices and gives him a look like he’s just won a prize.
“I should probably…” Kuroo gestures vaguely toward the turnstile and Kei nods and shoves his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to reach out for Kuroo’s.
“Thanks for coming,” Kei says suddenly, before he can lose his nerve (which seems like a ridiculous thought considering the fact that his fingers are still tingling from where they were tangled with Kuroo’s). “I mean, I know it wasn’t like...for me,” he shrugs. “But it was good to see you.”
Kuroo looks taken aback by the sincerity in his tone and Kei feels a little pang of something uncomfortable in his gut because is he really that big of a closed-off asshole that something as simple as ‘It was good to see you’ is surprising? He opens his mouth to say something else--anything to deflect from the sudden vulnerability he’s feeling--when the loudspeaker announces that Kuroo’s train is departing in two minutes, cutting him off before he can even start.
Kuroo hesitates for half a second before tugging Kei forward by his sleeve and enveloping him in a hug that steals the breath from Kei’s lungs. Kuroo’s arms are strong and solid around him, his palms splayed flat and so warm against his back, Kei’s worried that when he pulls away there will be handprints scorched into the soft blue fabric of his cardigan. It lasts for only a second, just long enough for Kuroo to murmur, “It was good to see you too, Tsukki,” against his ear, and then he pulls back without even giving Kei the chance to wrench his hands free of his pockets and hug him back, if that’s what he wanted to do (and oh does he want to).
Kei’s not sure if it’s the lingering effect of Kuroo’s breath against his skin or the fact that he’s still surrounded by his scent--hair product and chocolate and something earthy that he can’t quite put his finger on--but all he can do is nod dumbly when Kuroo tells him to text him when he’s settled in Tokyo, that he’d show him around and treat him to a welcome-to-town lunch.
And then Kuroo’s gone, rushing through the turnstile to catch the train Kei’s almost certain (hopeful?) he’s going to miss. He turns to wave as he swipes his card and pushes through the metal bar, stumbling over his feet as he does and barely avoiding a collision with a tired businesswoman. She shoots him a withering look and he apologizes profusely, blushing as he does, and Kei can’t stop the laugh that spills out at the absurdity of the whole thing--both Kuroo and how quickly his overwhelming feelings for the idiot have resurfaced.
On his way home from the station, Kei’s phone buzzes twice in quick succession and when he glances at it and feels the heat rushing into his cheeks and the familiar swooping in his stomach and the dopey smile stretching across his face, he realizes just how screwed he is.
Kuroo
i like your sweater, btw
it suits you