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“An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break.” – Ancient Chinese Proverb.
➳
A tiny, red knot enveloped Kenma's right pinky as long as he could remember.
He remembered staring at it in solemn fascination as a little kid, almost fearing the way he could barely feel it around his finger, the way the thread disappeared into nothingness; he always regarded it as something to treasure, to protect. His eyes always darted to it in panic whenever he bumped into something, scared that it would break off. His left hand always hovered over it, never quite daring to touch it.
"The red thread you have wrapped around your pinky, there," always reminded him his mom, with gentle words and reassuring smiles, "it links you with your soulmate, Kenma. Only you and your soulmate can see it. It's the proof someone in the world is linked to you, and will always be yours," and she always finished her short speech with a pat on his head. Little kid Kenma watched her with wide open eyes and wondering thoughts.
His soulmate. The person he was supposed to be with for the rest of his life. The person who was supposed to love him, him and his qualities as well as his faults, and the person he was supposed to love back. He had thought of it as something so wonderful, yet so far away; something right out of a fairy tale.
Maybe that was why now, as time went by, Kenma felt so detached by the concept of it all.
Maybe that was why, if he never dared to touch it as a little kid, throughout his teen years he picked up on the habit of fidgeting with the little knot on his pinky, of tugging on the disappearing thread, of wrapping it around his thumb. Of bumping on things, knowingly, to see if it'll break. Of hovering over it with a pair of scissors, dared by the impulse of just cutting it off and see what will happen.
It was not like his so-called soulmate ever reacted to his constant fidgeting with the red thread, anyway: Kenma knew of Hinata's soulmate, who always tugged on it harder as a response to Hinata slightly tugging on it as a joke, as if to spite each other; he knew of Akaashi's soulmate, who never seemed to stop playing with their thread, as if wanting to make their presence very obvious; but Kenma knew of his own soulmate too, who never tugged on it as a response to Kenma's own constant fidgeting, and Kenma kind of irrationally convinced himself his soulmate wasn't even real. Or maybe they were real, and they simply didn't give a shit.
Because, honestly, who would've even cared about Kenma, at least romantically? Who would've liked Kenma so much to spend the rest of their life with him? The concept seemed so foreign to the boy. The red thread was obviously there, so there had to be a soulmate, but. Kenma never fell in love, never even liked someone romantically. He cared about people, sure, but he felt so detached from reality he wasn't sure he could be capable of loving someone for the rest of his life, nor having someone love him for the rest of his life. What would that even be like? What was love like? Would Kenma ever be able to experience it, no matter the existence of a so-called red thread of fate that was supposed to convince him he could? A mere, frail-looking knot around his little finger, disappearing into nothingness. Into fate. Kenma was foreign to the concept of fate, and love; and he wasn't sure he would ever believe in either of them.
So, he still played with the knot, and tried to untangle it subconsciously; he tugged on it, and bended it, and held it in between scissors, curious as to what would happen if he just- if he just snapped the scissors close, and cut it off. Was that obstructing fate? Was that obstructing love? The love he was supposed to feel, and to experience, even if Kenma had no idea whether he wanted to or not- whether he was worthy of it or not?
The thread never broke, though. Trying in the first place was stupid, because Kenma knew the thread couldn't break; it could bend, but never break. But it was a habit Kenma quickly picked and latched on, now always subconsciously playing with the thread, the thread he once saw in fear and solemn fascination now reduced to some annoying part of his body he played with and fiddled with and subconsciously tried to tear off, as if daring its purpose, as if daring fate itself.
Kenma knew it was stupid, daring its purpose, daring fate; because the thread never broke off. Never even untangled.
Fate was ironic like that.
➳
On a Thursday morning, Hinata asked Kenma this: "Why do you always play with your thread? Aren't you scared it'll break off?"
Kenma didn't say Because I kind of want it to break off or Because I don't believe in fate or Because I don't think anyone could ever love me. Instead, he replied with: "I don't know."
Hinata was on the living room's floor, toned legs crossed in front of him and his mouth lazily munching on some snacks. He had crumbs all over his lips. "Are you doing it to get a response from your soulmate?"
"I guess."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Did you get a response?"
Kenma uncomfortably shifted on his couch, unfocused eyes darting down to stare at a dirty spot on his jeans. "No." He didn't know why he felt so upset by this conversation. He shouldn't have cared all that much, shouldn't have cared at all.
"Oh," Hinata sounded deflated. Then, he suddenly perked up. "Well, maybe he's one of those soulmates who want to save their first tug for when you first meet."
Kenma's eyes snapped up. "What?"
"You don't know about this?" asked Hinata, now grinning because he knew something exciting that Kenma didn't know. "There's this whole thing about making their first tug a romantic gesture and all that. That's how I knew my soulmate is such a meanie! They started tugging on the thread such a long time ago!"
"Oh."
"Yeah! Mine is so rude! You got lucky, Kenma."
Kenma chuckled to himself.
Yeah, he thought. I totally did.
➳
The thought that his soulmate might've been a romantic person - saving their first tug and whatnot - made it actually a hundred times worst.
Because. Because if his soulmate was a romantic person, that meant he had a certain belief in love. It meant he expected some perfect love story, a fairy tale soulmate, someone who would've been able to love them for the rest of their life; and that haunted Kenma's thoughts, and made him tug and fiddle with the thread even harder.
How could he possibly be that person? How could he possibly be someone's soulmate, him, who wasn't even sure he could ever experience love, or deep affection, or romantic feelings? And if he did end up experiencing love, how could he be able to recognize it? How could he ever satisfy someone's fairy tale expectations, how could he ever pretend something like meeting his soulmate would lead to a perfect love story - when all he always got from first meetings was a stammering heartbeat and trembling fingers?
(It wasn't like- it wasn't like Kenma didn't want one. He wanted one, so bad it hurt his lungs sometimes and made him want to tear them out and sob himself to sleep at night.
It was just that Kenma couldn't get rid of the hollowness, the numbness in his chest whenever he was in other people's company.
And he wasn't sure anything, or anyone, could ever get rid of it.)
➳
Hinata's first meeting with his soulmate went like this:
He was rushing towards his university, clearly out of time and breath, when a sudden, violent tug interrupted his running and made him trip on his own feet, palms coming down to steady himself and back painfully hitting the ground. But this tug was different - as Hinata always liked to narrate in a very dramatic voice -, because the thread didn't disappear into nothingness like it always did, but Hinata, looking up from where he painfully fell, could see the end of it.
The end of Hinata's red thread of fate connected to a tall, intimidating boy with blue eyes and a frown who almost always pulled the edges of his lips down. Kageyama Tobio, to be more precise. Hinata's soulmate. The person he was supposed to spend eternity with.
Hinata was already smitten; Kenma had seen it in his sparkling eyes, which had stared up unfocused and wonderingly as he first told him the story of their first meeting. He was already gone, and it was a matter of time before he fell in love with Kageyama.
"He helped me up and he just went Wow, you're so short," Hinata had stated, hands flying around in excited gestures. "He's so rude, Kenma. He's so- ugh, Kenma, he's so handsome. So tall, too. Big tall towery asshole."
Kenma had felt amused with his friend's choice of words, and he had felt happy for him, obviously. He really had - but he couldn't help the tinge of sadness that made his chest tighter and tighter.
Kageyama Tobio was a perfect fit for Hinata, Kenma later found out. He was tall and pointy and brought out Hinata's most competitive and passionate parts, and Kenma was glad for him. He could see them falling in love, eventually.
(Some days after he found out about Hinata's soulmate, Kenma caught himself tugging on his own thread harder than usual, as if actually attempting to break it off.
He stopped himself immediately as if burned.)
➳
Time went by, as it always does.
Hinata did fall in love with Kageyama, and Kageyama did too - even if he was much less extravagant in his demonstrations.
Kenma became a full adult, eventually. He was twenty-three. He wasn't sure how he got there.
Kenma didn't stop fidgeting with his thread. He didn't think he ever would.
Kenma's soulmate still didn't tug back, and Kenma stopped thinking of them as a person and more as a ghost. Somehow, that last thought was more comforting to him than the first.
People questioned Kenma about his soulmate, about whether he met them or not, and Kenma always dismissed them with a polite smile and a quiet, "I still haven't gotten lucky." He hated those conversations, because they made the weight of the thread on his pinky heavier and his fidgeting harder.
But time still went by, as it always does. Kenma eventually forced himself to think that the soulmate problem wasn't even a problem in the first place, even if it obviously was, especially when that tight feeling in his chest returned whenever he did as much as glance towards Hinata and Kageyama smiling at each other; especially since his obsession with his thread didn't get more frequent or less frequent, but just continued steadily in his silent and irrational quest for daring fate. Especially since Kenma eventually identified that tight feeling in his chest as loneliness.
Time went by. It didn't make things any better, nor worse; but it went by, as it always does.
➳
On a cold Friday afternoon, Kenma went to visit his mom.
It went good, because she offered him burning hot apple pie and made him tea and lighted up the fireplace in her living room. She asked about university, and talked about the stray cat she was feeding those days, and didn't question Kenma about his thread - which was good. Very good, actually.
That evening, he caught the train back home against his mom's energetic protests to "At least stay the night, honey, it's so cold out." His response had been: "I have uni courses in the morning, mom. You know how it is,", so she finally let him leave with a cold nose and three apple pie slices in his backpack. He was now sitting on one of the seats in the train, which wasn't crowdy at all - just a couple of old men on his left, a woman on the seat opposite to his and a boy far on his right who was listening to music - so Kenma was still cold due to the lack of human warmth around him usually making trains stuffy and suffocating. He buried his face into his scarf and rubbed his palms together a few times. One of his fingers caught on the thread on his pinky. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and started fidgeting with the thread single-handedly.
His glance stared, unfocused, on the floor beneath him, as he let his thoughts drift away to the sound of the train moving on its racks. Teeth shivering. Fingers fidgeting, tugging.
Then, it happened.
A tug: a single tug; determined, sharp, purposeful. Kenma's right hand shook into his pocket with the sudden force of it, and it left him so stunned he couldn't do anything but snap his glance to the thread peeking from his right pocket and stare. He brought his hand out of his pocket. The thread looked like it did all the time, but also not, because this time it didn't disappear into nothingness; no, it led to something, someone, to fate, to love, to-
To a boy. The boy who had been far on his right all this time, and had his headphones now abandoned on his lap and his eyes wide open to stare right at Kenma. Kenma could see the boy's red thread; because it connected to his own.
The boy got up. Kenma's hands were shaking. The boy was smiling a hopeful smile. His canines were sharp. "Hey, I'm-"
The train came to a stop, and the boy's voice was overpowered by the sound of the doors when they opened and the robotic woman voice when she announced the stop's name.
Kenma grabbed his backpack, and got off.
➳
He couldn't get the image of the boy out of his head.
The boy had been beautiful; not beautiful in an aesthetically pleasing way, but beautiful in the way he had smiled at Kenma. In the way he had gotten up towards Kenma, tentative, hopeful. In the way his eyes had pierced their gentle glance in Kenma's own, and in the way he had been clutching at the thread as if he couldn't believe he had just tugged on it.
Kenma couldn't get the image of the boy out of his head, because now he knew his soulmate was a real person and not a ghost, a myth, something he was supposed to believe in but never had the chance to prove itself until then. And that was terrifying.
Kenma clutched harder at the backpack that was now on his lap, his fingers searching for something to grasp onto but twitching now that he was forcing himself not to play with the thread. He was sitting on one of the benches at the station he got off to, trying to calm his breathing and trying to ignore the fact that he didn't know where the hell he was. He was shivering, but he wasn't sure it was because of the cold anymore.
Kenma felt shame so deep in his bones they started aching. The boy - the soulmate, his soulmate - had looked at him so hopefully, so cheerfully, and Kenma just - he just left. Just like that. And now he didn't know where he was, and the boy was probably so disappointed, so confused, probably asked himself What did I do wrong or Did I scare him off or What's wrong with him or-
Lots were wrong with Kenma. So much, he surprised himself sometimes. (Actually, his reaction hadn't been all that surprising, because not taking chances and ruining opportunities and regret were things Kenma was already used to. But now it hurt a little more than usual, because he ruined something that could've been beautiful- something that could've been love. Something that could've made him understand what love really felt like.
And that was terrifying.)
After he made sure he would've spoken without making his heavy breathing sound obvious, Kenma decided to call Hinata and ask him to pick him up, because he couldn't just rot away on that bench in a totally unknown place - as tempting as that sounded. The phone rang. Kenma stared at a spot in front of him, and concentrated on the words he was about to say. Hinata picked up. "Kenma?"
"Hinata. I need a favour."
"Yeah?"
"I was on the train and I got off to the wrong station by mistake," he lied. "I'll send you my position, can you come pick me up?"
"Oh, of course! Just send me the location and I'll be right there!"
"Thank you," Kenma sighed. Hinata hung up. Kenma sent the other boy his location with unstable fingers, and sighed once again.
Minutes passed, and Kenma made sure to concentrate on that one spot he began staring at earlier because he knew that if he did anything else he would've burst into tears. He buried his face into his scarf and kept his eyes wide open. His mind was set into not thinking about anything, and that was a bad coping mechanism, Kenma knew it was, but it felt nice. Grounding.
And now you'll ask yourself: was that the end of it all? Would Kenma not see that boy, his soulmate, the person he was destined to, ever again just because he had done the mistake of getting off at the wrong station? No, of course not. His red thread was still there - Kenma noticed with growing and irrational frustration -, it could still bend but never break, and it still led to someone, someone who Kenma could now picture in his mind, and vice versa; someone who was destined to be with Kenma one way or the other, no matter the bumps and the difficulties and the digressions: because fate was ironic like that.
So, of course they had to meet again, and of course it had to be in an unknown, desolate station, and Kenma found that so ridiculous and cliché it almost made him chuckle.
Now, here's what happened:
Other than the sound of the trains quickly drifting by on the racks and Kenma's breathing, Kenma could suddenly hear feet tapping on the ground, running towards him on his right. Kenma turned his head, expecting Hinata to be there, and instead he found this: a boy, the boy, stopping at one metre across from him with his palms on his knees and his chest heaving. Kenma's eyes stuck on the red thread that enveloped the boy's right pinky, and that led to his. He couldn't do anything but stare, stunned.
The boy was trying to regain breath and his head was tilted down, making his black hair fall in front of his eyes and hiding them from Kenma's sight. Even hunched like that, Kenma could recognize he was tall. After some time, the boy finally brought his head up, and his eyes caught Kenma's own which had already been staring.
"Hey," the boy said. Kenma didn't reply. Then, "Look, I'm- I'm so sorry, I probably scared you on the train, I didn't mean to scare you, I just tugged on the thread because I imagined it as this big romantic gesture - lame, I know, you don't need to tell me - and you were there and you looked terrified and then I decided to catch another train to this station because I hoped you'd be here and I'm so sorry-"
The boy must've realized he was rambling, because he snapped his mouth shut and looked at Kenma with his brows furrowed and a scared look on his face. "And I probably scared you off this time, too," he then said in a tiny voice. "I look like a creep. I'm sorry."
Kenma didn't know what to say. His mind was buzzing, and he felt like he didn't have any thoughts left. The boy was looking more and more terrified as time went by. Then, Kenma did this: he chuckled. He chuckled, and tears left his now damp eyes, and he chuckled once more, and now Kenma was laughing, but his nose was running, and his mouth tasted salty tears, and-
"What?" the other asked, sounding panicked, "What's wrong?"
Kenma brought his hand up to dry his nose with his right sleeve. "You- you kept your first tug all this time because you figured it'd be romantic," he chuckled. "I thought Hinata was telling bullshit. Turns out you really did."
The boy seemed to deflate at that, and he began stepping closer. He grinned sheepishly. "Was it not romantic?"
"Not even a little bit," Kenma sniffed.
"I'm sorry. Why are you crying?"
"I don't know," and it was the truth. He had no idea why he was crying - but at the same time he did, somehow.
The boy was now very close to the side of the bench, and he crouched down to Kenma's height instead of sitting down next to him, which Kenma found incredibly stupid. The boy looked up at Kenma. Kenma stared back.
"Did I scare you off, on the train?"
"No." Then, Kenma thought about it. "Maybe."
"Oh."
"It's more like-," he licked his lips. The boy's eyes were a deep hazel, and he had a sharp bone structure. "More like I scared myself off."
"Are you scared now?"
"A little bit."
"Okay," the boy replied, careful, and he sounded like he had understood everything even if the conversation had been very short and cryptic, like he could see right through Kenma - and Kenma was transfixed. Then, the boy brought his eyes down to stare at their hands, and Kenma followed him: the thread was now shorter, as if it could shorten up or lengthen up depending on their closeness, and Kenma could clearly see the end of it. It was a strange sight.
Kenma's face was cold because of the chilly air now drying his tears. The boy asked: "I felt you tug on the thread a lot. Why?"
"I have a habit of fidgeting with it. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I liked it."
Kenma snapped his eyes up and looked at him, startled. The boy looked back and smiled. "It felt like a reminder," he explained. "A reminder that there was someone out there who shared this thread with me. It felt nice."
"I fidgeted with it to see if it could break. I wanted to cut it off sometimes," Kenma blurted out, and he didn't know why. He just felt like he needed to prove something. He felt like he needed to be a hundred percent honest about the real nature of his fidgeting.
The boy looked surprised, of course, but it lasted just a few seconds. "Why?"
"The sight of it, it frustrated me. I-I didn't know if I could ever be capable of understanding the concept of fate, or love, and it just reminded me of those. I still don't know."
"That's why you ran away."
"I guess."
"Do you want to find out? If you can understand them, I mean."
They were close, but the closeness didn't bother Kenma as much as he expected it to do. The closeness felt warm and comforting, attentive and respectful, expecting and hopeful, wondering and curious. It felt like a new opportunity. An opportunity to something that could've been good for Kenma, something that could've made him understand, and something that he didn't want to give up on anymore. Something that made fate still sound ridiculous, still sound like a cliché, but that also made it sound a little less frustrating. A little less like a myth, and a little more like reality.
Kenma knew that his insecurities, his doubts, his skepticism were things he couldn't get rid of anytime soon, if not ever. He knew it would've been hard to get out of the mindset he was so used to, hard to stop his frustrated fidgeting, hard to understand concepts that still felt so foreign to him.
Things weren't either black or white; he couldn't just stop feeling like he did because his soulmate was suddenly there and he found Kenma in a desolated station as if they were in some cliché romance movie and fate finally worked for the both of them and all that jazz. He knew he couldn't.
(But God, did he want to.)
"Yes," he replied, and he meant it.
➳
(Kenma totally forgot about the fact that Hinata was supposed to come pick him up. He totally forgot about it - and who was he to blame, really, when his mind was buzzing and numb and only occupied by the thought of a very specific boy hunched in front of him, sharing breaths and chuckles and stares and quiet meaningless questions.
So, really, he couldn't help but be violently startled from his position on the bench when across the silent station reverbed a very loud, very close: "Kozume Kenma! Are you snuggling with a boy in the middle of a deserted station? How dare you call me to pick you up and save you from your misery when you're obviously very occupied and very not in misery-"
Kenma slapped his hand on his forehead and stared at Hinata's collarbone, trying to block out his obnoxious screaming. His soulmate just started laughing uncontrollably, and Kenma wanted to kick both of them.)
➳
His soulmate's name was Kuroo Tetsurou.
Kuroo was from another city not very far from Kenma's, and he was attending university to become a psychologist. He had two roommates, he liked volleyball and dogs a little more than cats, his favourite food was salted mackerel pike and he had a terrible bedhead in the mornings. He had a lot of small moles across his neck and cheeks, and Kenma loved kissing the one right under his jaw because Kuroo always made a purring sound; Kenma called him a big smelly cat. Kuroo called him a kitten, and Kenma wasn't sure how that was supposed to be insulting.
He was tall, taller than Kenma and taller than Kageyama, which was very tall. He always made fun of Kenma for not being able to reach cupboards. Kenma just scowled at him and forced him to hunch over and make Kenma climb him, which felt very triumphant and petty.
Kuroo had a very ugly laugh, which wouldn't have been a problem if he didn't laugh all the time. But Kenma liked it, in his own fucked up way. He liked it, even if it never stopped sounding hideous.
Kuroo was very competitive, and flirty, and extroverted, and everything Kenma wasn't - although it didn't feel like a difference, but more like something that was supposed to be that way, something that was supposed to bring the best out of Kenma. Kenma often hoped he did the same to Kuroo.
Kuroo was also kind, and honest, and genuine, and careful with everybody, but especially with Kenma. He understood when Kenma needed to be alone, and he understood when Kenma needed company; he understood Kenma's timings, and didn't try to coax him into anything; but he also understood Kenma's potential, and tried to bring it out every chance he got. He understood Kenma, simple as that.
Kuroo was everything Kenma admired in a person, and as time went by, he caught himself thinking that slowly but surely he was learning to think of him as the person fate assigned him to. The person he would've spent eternity with. Kenma caught himself not thinking of it anymore as something he was supposed to do, as something he had to do because fate decided so, but as something he wanted to do.
He wanted to be with Kuroo Tetsurou, and fate didn't have the last word in it anymore.
➳
"Kuroo."
"Mmh."
"What do you think love feels like?"
It was late into the night. They were in Kuroo's bed, facing each other, naked and sated bodies tangled up, breaths interlocking and foreheads touching.
"I think it feels like- it feels like that feeling I get when you're cuddled up on my couch and I come to bring you hot tea and you look up at me and make grabby hands at me like some toddler," Kuroo chuckled, but the whole sentence sounded solemn. "That's- that's what I think it feels like."
Kenma stayed silent and looked at him. Kuroo spoke again, and asked: "Is that okay?", tentative, careful.
"Yes."
"Really?"
Instead of answering, Kenma said this. He said: "I think it's the same feeling I get when you- when you bring me tea and you look at me like you always do," Kuroo let out a soft gasp, and Kenma broke eye contact, suddenly feeling shy, "I think."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to reciprocate, Kenma, don't feel forced to-"
"But I do. Reciprocate."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Kenma looked back at Kuroo, and Kuroo was staring at him with a big dopey grin on his face. He looked ridiculous. Kenma snorted. "Don't look at me like that."
"You're in looove, Kenma."
"I regret everything."
"You're crazy for me."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love too. With you. Obviously."
Kenma stopped. Kuroo looked expectant.
"How do you know it's love?" he asked, carefully, breathlessly, because he wasn't sure if he understood yet.
"I don't. Nobody really knows what love is, I think. It's just this feeling I get and- and love is a name for it. Love can be anything you'd like."
"Oh."
"It's okay if you're not comfortable with the word yet."
"It's not that I'm not comfortable, it's just that- love sounds so serious. It sounds like it could never belong to someone like me."
"Kenma." Kuroo snuggled his left hand under Kenma's head, and buried it into his hair to card his fingers through it. His right hand was still close to Kenma's own, and the small length of the red thread connected them by their right pinkies. He said, "You're exactly the kind of person I would identify love with, if love had a definition."
And Kenma, well.
Kenma understood, at last.
He brought his face closer to Kuroo's own to make the tips of their noses touch; then he closed his eyes.
"In that case, I guess you were right. I am in love," he said, and kissed him.
➳