Archive of Our Own

“Please do me this favor.”

He wants to ignore Kuroo’s pleading eyes, but they’re less than a foot in front of his own, staring soulfully across at him from where Kuroo is perched on the ottoman. Beautiful, soft golden-brown pools that want to drown him in their beauty until he has no willpower left to say no. Kuroo uses his charm for evil purposes sometimes, but Kenma knows tonight the request is genuine.

That doesn’t make it appetizing.

“I will pay you back in literally any way. With chores, with food, with my body-” Kuroo rattles off until Kenma’s hand swats at his mouth, stopping the flow of promises. Because he’s really trying to sell it or perhaps because he’s just that insufferable, Kuroo’s tongue slips out and licks his finger.

Kenma’s face pinches into a glare.

“I’m tired,” he says.                                                                                                                                                                             

An understatement he doesn’t need to explain. Two hours of filming, three editing, a business lunch, and then four hours of studying after popping his head into the office. Every time Wednesday rolls around, Kenma regrets shoving so much work into a single day. Not even remembering that he does it to have an extra day with no obligations is enough to revive him. He’s beyond tired; he is drained without an ounce of life left to spend on anything, even this valid quest Kuroo is trying to assign to him.

Kenma removes his hand and flops back against the couch, sighing. Then he leans sideways, leaving the perfect amount of room for Kuroo to fit into beside him. Predictably, Kuroo dives for the opening, maneuvering his long limbs around Kenma like a starfish clinging to prey.

“You know,” Kuroo says, breath gusting hotly into his ear, “even something like this might be enough. You don’t usually cuddle him first unless you’re drunk.”

A huff or a groan leaves his lips – Kenma isn’t sure what the noise resembles more.

If it were that simple, he would consider taking on this task.

He curls his fist into the sleeve of Kuroo’s sweater and debates before he answers. In the short time he has had to process the situation, Kenma’s mind has circled back to a single thought. A single strategy he thinks would be effective here.

“He needs honesty. But I don’t know if he wants it. Or wants it from me, when I’m so tired I might bite his head off.”

Kuroo lays his chin on top of Kenma’s head, nearly dislodging the high bun he has his hair gathered into. He adjusts his perch once he senses the judgement being laser-beamed at him from below, and nuzzles off to the side instead. Kenma endures the affection with as much grace as he can muster.

Though Bokuto is the one in crisis, Kuroo is taking it hard. When someone he cares about is struggling, Kuroo sympathy struggles. Sometimes even when it’s a stranger. He can’t help but pour his soul into being helpful to that person, worrying about them, working tirelessly to find a solution. That quality is something Kenma loves and loathes about him.

Because ultimately, Kuroo being self-destructively caring makes him unsettled too, and Kenma doesn’t have the energy stores to run around in circles like his boyfriend does.

One of his boyfriends, anyways.

It’s weird to think that he has three now, when not that long ago, it had just been Kuroo.

“Bo is strong,” Kuroo says eventually. “And I trust you to say what needs to be said. You’re good at that, even if your delivery can be harsh.”

Kenma sighs and then his lips purse into a frown.

Maybe that’s true.

Maybe Kuroo believes it is true.

But is it?

This whole relationship is a new and tenuous thing – on some fronts. The four of them have been friends for years. They have dated in separate halves, Kuroo and him, Bokuto and Akaashi, for most of that timespan. Stress from navigating career paths and university courses had driven them closer together rather than fracturing their bonds. Like a group of shipwreck survivors clinging to the wreckage.

Becoming four rather than two and two had happened one night when they’d stayed up late talking about their current concerns in this same room. Kenma’s living room. The fact that he owns a house is still absurd, but purchasing it feels now like it had been the first step toward this thing that makes him happy down to the most guarded parts of his soul.

Conversation had dwindled, coming to a natural lull. He remembers thinking it was societally appropriate for Bokuto and Akaashi to leave then. Their options for getting a train back were limited.

But Kenma also remembers the way Akaashi had looked at him, with a hair’s width of space between their shoulders on the couch they shared, as if he was searching for a sign. Gauging where Kenma’s head was to give himself the courage to breathe life into what he was holding in his heart. It had snapped Kenma into awareness, and his pulse had sped up before a word was spoken.

Akaashi had glanced at Bokuto next, for the briefest of moments. Despite fighting his growing sleepiness, Bokuto had gifted him an encouraging smile. Kenma had missed the expression Kuroo chipped in when it was his turn. His eyes had been firmly fixed on Akaashi, waiting.

“I wonder why we bother leaving, when it already feels like we are home.”

His voice had been quiet, halting midway out of nervousness. But they had all heard him. And for perhaps the first time, the four of them had agreed unanimously on something.

Since then, becoming a unit and living together has been a learning process, but Kenma hasn’t regretted any of it. Not even now, when he’s exhausted and unsure that he can be helpful to Bokuto.

They gel together more than Kenma thinks anyone expects them to, but they haven’t been through anything difficult yet just the two of them. Emotions are touchy, and Kenma deals with sensitive matters about as well as if he had knives for hands. He can form an objective, clinical opinion about the issue and propose solutions. Comforting people isn’t his strong suit, and he never knows how an attempt will land beforehand. What if his delivery is harsh, too harsh for the headspace Bokuto resides in currently?

He doesn’t want to risk that guilt.

“Plus,” Kuroo begins anew, “You’ve figured out what’s bothering him, right?”

Kenma shifts his weight against the armrest of the couch. His fingers release the fabric grasped between them and he taps a shapeless pattern on the top of Kuroo’s hand.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, ‘maybe’ my ass, Kenma! I bet you have it all pinpointed. And if I’m right, then you know that I’m not the best person to talk to Bo about this. Use your world-famous wisdom on him.”

There’s a laugh in Kuroo’s voice by the time he quiets, and it gives Kenma some energy back.

Still, he’s not sure. And he doesn’t like taking risks with people he loves.

“We could call Keiji,” he says. It’s the best option.

Kuroo snatches his hand, putting an end to the movement. He grips Kenma’s fingers inside his large palm and ensures all of the focus is on his response, not whatever thoughts are swimming through Kenma’s overwrought brain. They have been through countless moments in their long history like this. Kuroo knows what to do with him, and he knows how to handle Kuroo. If they’re lucky, then their knowledge will expand to include data on how to help the other two.

“Don’t you think this is a great chance for you and him to work through a rough patch together? Form your own routine?”

Kuroo knows him. Too well sometimes.

Kenma holds his breath, and feels the splay of Kuroo’s against his hairline.

“Akaashi may get his moods best right now, but we’re all a part of this relationship. You can’t rely on his experience as a crutch forever.”

His hand is squeezed tight.

“I trust them both to take care of you for me. It’d make me happy if you got to a place where you could reciprocate with them,” Kuroo admits hopefully. “I know you can. You’ve been my greatest comfort since I was eight years old. I owe a lot to you, Kenma.”

Air shudders out from his lungs, matching the tremor in his heart. Kenma’s head is suddenly full of memories. Childhood to now, images of Kuroo becoming who he is, of them both changing as people. It’s overwhelming to have spent most of your life with someone, let alone to have gone on to fall in love with them. The sum is almost too much knowledge. The praise directed at him is embarrassing, but he accepts that it’s merited. That Kuroo means every word. But Kenma doesn’t want to dwell on that blind trust.

“Stop,” he grouses, trying to ignore his stomach tying itself into knots.

Kuroo snickers.

“I could elaborate, or you could go hang out with Bokuto. He’s not in a complimenting mood, so you won’t be so flustered if you’re with him.”

“You’re the worst, Kuro.”

“Yep, really convincing me with your huge blush.”

“It’s secondhand embarrassment. From how cringy you sound whenever you open your mouth,” Kenma replies sourly.

“Go talk to him?”

“Fine.”

In the worst-case scenario, he can claim the other edge of the bed and fall asleep. If Bokuto isn’t in the mood to talk, or Kenma botches it, they can let that space on the mattress be a barrier. Space in between them until the mood runs its course and things are more stable.

He hopes it won’t be.

. . . . . 

The bedroom is dark when Kenma slips inside, with the sole bit of light emanating from the hallway through the crack in the door. He looks behind himself, and then across to where he knows the bed is, weighing his options.

Kenma finds he kind of prefers closing the door and boxing them both inside. Not to keep anyone out, because Kuroo won’t intrude and Akaashi is traveling for work, but to make the area secure.

He might not be an expert, but Kenma has seen Bokuto gravitate toward smaller spaces when he’s upset.

His mood swings happen less frequently than in high school, so Kenma hasn’t witnessed that tendency for a while. But he remembers seeing Bokuto duck beneath folded-up tables in the gym one night at training camp, squeezing in as if the lack of room held him together. At that point, Kenma had observed from a distance, surprised, maybe curious. But he didn’t have anything to say, and he didn’t think he could offer any other assistance. They hadn’t been close yet.

Now that they’re dating, the irony that he still doubts his ability to help is strong.

But he is here and he’s going to try.

“Koutarou?”

Silence echoes back at him. Their bedroom is large, as it has to be for four adults, even if they don’t always share it. Kenma hears that in the empty reverberation. He wonders if the room is too big for Bokuto, although this is where he’d made a beeline to when Kuroo had driven him home after the game.

Having Bokuto speed past him with barely a glance thrown his way had stung. Kenma had muted his lecture recording to wait near the front door. He’d hoped for at least a greeting. Their schedules hadn’t matched up for the past week. But he’d been ignored. Which was just as strange as it was irritating.

He can understand their other boyfriends letting small contact like welcoming each other home slip. Akaashi is often preoccupied, and his sense of romance is different. Kuroo is good with communication, but not rigid about routines. But Bokuto loves stuff like this normally.

When he’s home, they know it, because rather than a ‘on my way’ text, Bokuto bursts through the door and finds them to make the announcement in person. Bokuto had been the one to suggest having regular date nights scattered throughout the month, with rain checks if they had to cancel. Bokuto loves sharing a bedtime with him, separate from the others, and their nightly routine.

Kenma likes it too. He never pegged himself as the type to enjoy that stuff, but somehow, Bokuto’s enthusiasm melted his resistance. It’s easier when they’re doing simple stuff with each other than it is to talk about their feelings. He doesn’t feel forced.

Coming in here at all had taken some coercion, but Kenma remains out of his own volition.

If he didn’t want to talk to Bokuto, he wouldn’t. He knows there would be no grudge held, and then eventually, when the mood wore off, things would be fine between them. It’s not like he’s why Bokuto is upset. There’s no risk in simply not acting. But there’s a lot to gain if, somehow, Kenma can figure out the right things to say to pull him out of his rut.

He wants to be there for Bokuto. He hopes he can be as reliable as Kuroo claims.

The silence expands for another few seconds, any hope of a reply going cold. 

Kenma picks his way towards the bed without switching on the lights. Once he’s there, he kicks off his house slippers and crawls up onto the mattress, over the layers of blankets. He knows he’s gone as far as he can go when he feels a barricade of pillows under his fingertips. A nest with three walls. Another thing Bokuto seems to like on an off day, though the structure isn’t reserved solely for downswings. 

Sometimes that’s just a Sunday spent in bed, him tucked under Bokuto’s arm holding the tablet so they can watch a movie together. Kisses dropping on the top of his head, and the feeling that nothing important is happening anywhere else in the world. He likes that rarer, sedate version of Bokuto, even if the rest of him is just as good.

But tonight, it isn’t the weekend, and Kenma doubts he’ll be joining the pillow nest.

He lays down without breaching the barrier, gathering his thoughts.

“Koutarou,” he repeats. “I’m here.”

Nothing.

A hint of nerves skitters through Kenma’s veins, but he tips his head back on the bed and wills it away. Staring up at the inky ceiling, the words he is considering start to build to the surface. His eyes flicker, slowly getting adjusted to the darkness, taking in the blocky shapes of the wood beams overhead. The more details he catalogues, the more his breathing evens out. The less his tongue feels tangled.

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. But I want to,” Kenma says. He emphasizes the latter bit, feeling that’s crucial. That’s the basic condition he needs to meet to make Bokuto listen. If Bokuto thinks he’s just being pitied, nothing he says will be effective.

Kenma curls a hand around the outer edge of the pillow wall. What he prefers is beyond his reach for now, so this will have to do.

It had been clear after Bokuto and Kuroo returned home earlier, and Bokuto isolated himself, that something happened at the game. Initially, Kenma hadn’t known what. Bokuto’s team had won. He’d performed well. Kuroo hadn’t shed any light on the situation either, because from where he’d stood, Bokuto had a productive day. But their two brains were similarly stubborn about not letting a problem go unsolved, so he’d made Kuroo bring up the media coverage of the game, and they’d watched it together. In relative silence, until the closing opinions were given and the broadcast shut off.

Kenma’s still not sure he homed in on the correct issue, but it’s a decent guess. And not a bad issue to bring up.

“I heard what the reporters said.”

The mattress shifts enough that he feels the undulation. 

Maybe he guessed right.

“Part of their job is to give opinions on players. It’s not personal,” Kenma says, eyes still trained overhead. 

He knows well enough that criticism can feel intensely personal.

“They said passable. Not bad.”

Another shift occurs, but it’s followed by the louder disruption of Bokuto rolling over inside his nest, and the faint whine he lets out once he’s facing Kenma's direction. A quicker response than he was expecting, but Kenma isn’t complaining. The worst meltdowns are the ones where Bokuto refuses to talk to anyone. At least this isn’t that.

“Basically did,” Bokuto mutters from the other side of the pillow wall. 

“Putting words in their mouth,” Kenma counters. “Neither Kuro or I heard anything negative.”

Another quiet noise of protest issues. He wonders what part merits the complaint - shutting down the idea that Bokuto messed up, or that the two of them had watched the game footage. More likely, it’s the former, judging by his boyfriend’s mood. On a typical day, Bokuto would have loved to know they watched him in action. Much as the three of them try to catch every game, sometimes life gets in the way. 

But there was no way Kenma wasn’t going to watch today’s after what happened. More than reconnaissance, he’d wanted to know for himself what had been said. What people on the outside thought of Bokuto. What they got wrong.

“Then why bother mentioning me?! If I wasn’t good enough to say nice stuff about!”

“It’s a broadcast. While they give opinions, it’s also just… informative,” Kenma replies. He tilts his head, blinking through the darkness in the bedroom. Peeking over the top of the barrier between them are tufts of light-colored hair that weren’t visible before. 

Emotion swells in his heart, and he represses the urge to reach across and pet the protruding strands. 

They aren’t at that point yet. But maybe later, if he doesn’t mess the conversation up.

“Bokuto Koutarou scored two service aces today, a far cry from his average,” Bokuto rattles off, irritation making his voice rough and petulant sounding. He must have lifted his face off the mattress, because the line echoes clearly.

Did he memorize the reporters’ statements?

Kenma frowns, fingers tightening around the edge of the pillowcase.

What he’s having the hardest time with right now is deciding what route to take. What dialogue options to choose to help him breeze through this simulation. Only, it’s not a game, and there are no playthrough guides that will tell him the right answer. All he has is instinct, and what he knows of Bokuto from other times. Times where he’d contributed less in the effort of cheering him up, because their other partners had jumped in first. Akaashi most of all.

Once again, he wishes Akaashi was home to help. He would know what to tell Bokuto.

“I trust you to say what needs to be said. You’re good at that, even if your delivery can be harsh.”

His lips crease into a deeper grimace, but an ember kindles to life in Kenma’s heart as he recalls Kuroo’s words. The ember isn’t pure confidence, but more so the feeling that he has a chance not to mess this up.

There are two options. He could grit his teeth and try to be sweet. Reassuring, maybe plying Bokuto with compliments. But that’s not his way, and deep down, Kenma doesn’t think that’s right. As dejected as Bokuto sounds, what seems better, what he would want for him, is for Bokuto to be realistic. So that stuff like today’s broadcast doesn’t get under his skin again. 

He opts for option two.

“It is less than your average,” Kenma states bluntly.

Bokuto makes an unintelligible noise. A squawk that is soon cut off. He buries his face in the pillows again. For around ten seconds before Kenma notices the fluffy hair on top of his head rise up.

“Yeah? So?” Bokuto grumbles.

“An average counts both good and bad attempts.”

Slowly, Kenma watches as Bokuto shifts, until his eyes are peering out over the pillow wall.

“Sometimes you’ll play like shit,” he adds. Bokuto’s expression tightens, eyes narrowing. “But other times, you’ll do well. This wasn’t either of those.”

“I don’t get why they’d say that then. Just talk about someone else,” Bokuto huffs.

“You’re the ace. A decent reporter won’t leave your name out of a game summary. Even if you flop.”

The words flow out from Kenma’s mouth before he can overthink them, but as he observes the changing canvas of Bokuto’s lips and brows, twitching from frown to neutral and back, he feels sure. What he’s saying doesn’t seem to be worsening his mood. Bokuto is distracted from spiraling deeper. He’s thinking about the problem from a new perspective. Even if Bokuto doesn’t like what he sees, it’s better than drowning himself in negativity and living with blinders on.

Reality is a tough pill to swallow, but it doesn’t have to be all bad. You can turn it to your advantage, shape it into a tool to keep yourself balanced.

He knows that intimately.

“People grade my streams,” Kenma offers quietly, curling in more where he’s laying and getting comfortable. He’s not sharing to dig for sympathy, but the topic isn’t light. It’s doubtful he’ll want to crawl out of bed straight after. “Not just rate it, or comment. Letter grades. I’ve seen it from random fans, but some of the e-sports blogs and magazines too.”

Bokuto’s thick eyebrows arch, forming triangular peaks.

“Why would they grade an athlete?” he asks, all confusion and sincerity.

Had Kenma not heard “athlete” attributed to him before, he might have been thrown off. But the term is odd enough that he lets out a snort. As soon as he hears himself, he stifles it with a hand against his lips. It’s definitely not the time to be laughing.

But still-

A part of him likes hearing Bokuto’s perception of his career. Not that any of his partners have had anything negative to say about him gaming for a living, but Bokuto’s take is unique. Kenma can understand it. The competitive aspect is called e-sports. He sometimes participates in tournaments, and level grinding can maybe be considered training if he squints. But unless it’s Wii Sports, there’s zero physical activity required beyond furiously overworking his wrists and hands. It’s nothing like playing professional volleyball. And yet Bokuto has never budged on calling him an athlete, years after he’d left that world behind in his own mind.

Kenma hides a brief smile behind the hand. Then he composes his expression.

He was going somewhere with this story.

“When your work is public, people feel entitled to give their opinion,” he says, picking up where he paused. “Some are more annoying than others about it.”

Even now, Kenma dislikes the concept of feedback. When the responses are constructive, they’re tolerable. But the rest, good or bad, make him feel awkward. It takes a special message to pull anything more out of his heart. But he’s accepted it comes with the territory of being a visible face to the world. On a streaming camera anyway. He still tries not to leave the house unnecessarily.

Nearby, he hears the mattress groan. In a few fluid motions, two pillows in the stack disappear, and a gap forms in the wall. Bokuto’s hand shoots through the opening, fingers latching on to the sleeve of his hoodie. Loosely holding on as if second guessing the movement.

Kenma wouldn’t be surprised. Bokuto’s body moves far faster than his brain can think better of it.

But there’s nothing wrong with what he’s chosen to do now.

Shaking off the tentative grasp, Kenma adjusts, matching their palms together. His lips purse as he registers the warmth of the inside of Bokuto’s hand. Momentarily distracted, Kenma slides his index finger down, mapping the rough, calloused skin. Their lack of softness is yet another difference between them. The width and size of Bokuto’s hands compared to his is another, but he’s less concerned about that factor. All of his partners have bigger hands. Kenma will take the secret to his grave, but it’s calming when any of them hold hands, and their fingers engulf him completely when they curl over the tips of his.

“You can’t be at your best every game,” Kenma states, after what feels like an hour of laying there.

Bokuto’s response is to wiggle his body closer. As he moves, pillows are displaced, shunted to the side of his advancing limbs. Kenma blinks. But before long, he’s not alone on the outskirts of the demolished pillow fort. Bokuto lays down inches away, facing inward. Toward him. Their hands are now linked together in a loose grip.

Bokuto’s hand is really warm now that he’s feeling it through more points of contact.

“Just… savor the better days,” Kenma finishes lamely.

His heart is beating faster. 

It shouldn’t be. Not in this situation. He’s trying to give advice to tug Bokuto out of a weird headspace. But Bokuto is getting closer, like he’s giving off some sort of cheering up magnetism and Bokuto is drawn in. If whatever he’s doing works, fine, but Kenma wonders if he’s not being just as weird, feeling flustered just because they’re holding hands in bed.

That’s nothing new. And not the point.

He can’t think.

Kuroo was wrong. About both the saying the right things bit, and somehow, about the harsh delivery part. Once he climbed next to Bokuto, the words that had come out were softer than he imagined himself capable of, even if they still aren’t complimentary. 

Kenma wrinkles his nose. Peering across the short distance, he spots a frown spreading across Bokuto’s lips.

“I hate that.”

He flinches at the audible irritation. Bokuto doesn’t pause for long.

“Guess you’re kinda right. But I don’t wanna let anyone down! I’d hate that more,” he confides, expression wilting into a pensive, uneasy one. Bokuto’s shoulders hunch inward, and he seems to shrink where he’s laying. A few locks of gel-free hair tumble into his face, completing the haggard look.

Should he say anything, or leave it be?

Kenma’s pulse starts to quicken further as apprehension sets in.

He doesn’t want to fail Bokuto, just as Bokuto seems not to want to fail everyone else. His teammates, the fans, maybe the three of them. If Bokuto somehow misguidedly believes they wouldn’t love him anyway, win or lose.

Akaashi isn’t here. Kuroo is trusting him with this task. Preferably, in the future, Kenma wants to be capable. Bokuto might not be the same as he was when he was younger, but he’s human. There are going to be times when he struggles. When those days roll around, Kenma wants to help.

“You aren’t going to,” he whispers.

He's met with an armful of Bokuto as he surges forward to lay down on his chest, head tucked inches below Kenma's chin. Gasping under the new weight, he blinks in surprise. But he settles, resting his free arm over Bokuto's shoulders, locking him into place. 

He doesn't mind this. Never has minded being clung to. Touch is an easier medium for him to express his feelings. If somehow, the gap between his arms can be the small space that Bokuto feels safe in, Kenma is happy to let him hide there.

Before long, there's a rumble against his chest.

"Speak up."

Bokuto lifts his head.

"Ken-Ken..."

Kenma blinks again, tension swirling low in his stomach. He's been called that nickname before. Frequently, when Bokuto's feeling in a sentimental mood. But it's never sounded so sad on his boyfriend's lips.

"Do you ever feel like, if you aren't good often enough at what you do... that.. you don't deserve it? Where you've climbed to?"

"Mm, yeah," Kenma hums, ignoring the prickle of nerves. Their eyes are meeting, and he's more concerned by the way Bokuto's lashes are damp. Probably, his sweatshirt has a few new wet spots. If he can help it, he doesn't want the quantity to increase. "Every time I would check my follower count. Stopped doing that couple of months ago."

The leap between seeing the numbers and feeling pressured to produce more, better content had been too simple to make. 

"But you're the only one who can decide that. If you deserve it. You put in the effort, not them."

Bokuto stares up at him, brows furrowed.

"Maybe," he responds thoughtfully, voice still scratchy as it tumbles out. "I wouldn't wanna do anything else."

Kenma nods.

"Then stop listening to other people's expectations."

Doubt flickers in his partner's golden eyes, and Kenma moves quick to silence it.

"You don't need to live up to anything, Koutarou."

Easy for him to say, maybe, but he knows from his own experience that it's the best way to steer your thoughts. Especially when it comes to work. 

"But-"

"You love playing volleyball more than anyone. More than Kuro-"

"He doesn't play anymore though!" Bokuto interrupts, brows arching upward and head lifting further up off Kenma's chest. Kenma wants to groan at the fact that he's latched onto that piece. He's trying to make a point here, attempting to say something that might be profound, and yet- "Just pickup games, and he's lost his touch!"

Kenma does groan.

But he's at least five percent glad the topic has driven out the forlorn expression on Bokuto's face. 

"Koutarou," he says firmly. "You and him can talk about it later. Can I finish?"

He gets a wide-eyed look of obedience.

Waiting for a few seconds to check that it's genuine, he begins again. Bokuto rests his chin against Kenma's chest, never breaking the gaze for a second. The way he looks up at him as he waits makes affection fill Kenma's heart and tugs at his resolve to speak. But if he doesn't, then he wouldn't feel like he helped fully.

"You love volleyball. You play professionally because you're good. It's never been just a game for you. Focus on that."

Bokuto's lip trembles. 

"Just that?"

Kenma nods once.

"Don't do it for anyone else. What you spend your energy on is your choice. No one can put you down if you aren't listening to what they say."

His words air out, and for that brief stretch, he feels accomplished. He can see the cogs turning in Bokuto's head, noting the advice. Tucking it away for another time where he can reflect on it deeper, because he isn't about to do that now. Kenma knows that's what's ocurring because soon enough, Bokuto's eyes harden with a determination he's intimately familiar with.

Bokuto scoots up his chest and leans toward him.

Their noses knock together and Kenma grunts at the jarring impact. Too eager. 

"Sorry," Bokuto says before turning and trying again. This time he strikes home, kissing Kenma squarely on the lips. 

Stunned motionless, Kenma lies there, basking in the warmth.

It's been over a week since he's felt Bokuto's solid frame and greedy mouth. He's missed both. More than he realized. His hand slips into Bokuto's soft, downy hair and laces in, anchoring him there. Gently, he captures Bokuto's upper lip between his then releases it, only to let his tongue dart out to lick at the seal. Bokuto doesn't make him wait.

They share breaths between them, latched together at the mouth, long enough that Kenma loses track of time.

When he stops getting sucked in by the way Bokuto is pinning him, his heart is pounding, thudding painfully against his chest wall like it wants to break free. Bokuto stares down at him, and the reverent light in his eyes makes Kenma immediately turn his head, glancing away into the darkness of their room.

He hopes Bokuto won't put those feelings into words, because he really can't survive being told all of that.

It's enough that Bokuto listened.

It will be enough if he takes the advice moving forward.

Fingers move up toward the high bun on top of his head, pulling the band off. Kenma's hair falls free from the confines, splaying awkwardly in a halo around his head atop the pillows. He starts to turn back, wanting to gauge what Bokuto's intent is, but then a hand is smoothing through the silky strands, combing them straight where they've settled.

"Thanks Ken-Ken."

Something seizes in his heart. Kenma peers from the corner of his eyes, catching only a hint of Bokuto's expression.

He's smiling, lips curled in a fond arc.

"I'm glad I have you. You're like, good at telling me the truth. Even it sucks to hear what I should do," Bokuto rattles off gradually. He laughs to himself. His hand gathers up several locks of hair, and raises them. By the soft sound and the tug he feels at the roots, Kenma knows he's pressing the hair to his lips.

Kenma grapples with surging embarrassment, and the rising color on his face. If he wasn't weighed down, he would consider bolting.

But he'll let the sap slide, since he can't. And because a part of him is relieved to hear Bokuto say that.

Somehow, he's cleared the mission. Him. On his own.

"Koutarou."

Bokuto and him jump at the name shooting out suddenly. Kenma attempts to wrangle his remaining thoughts together into a cohesive message.

"We're not... that different. Maybe. Ask me stuff if you need to. I'll try to help."

He can't guarantee his advice will always be perfect, but past tonight, he's willing to take the leap.