Archive of Our Own

It happens as an afterthought, like muscle memory, a half-distracted peck on the cheek for good luck before the big game.

The moment freezes; they do too—there's no memory of the warmth of Bokuto's cheek for Kuroo's lips to have remembered—but Bokuto's coach yells, Kenma tugs Kuroo away, and then there's three sets of play from afterthought to aftermath between them.

Maybe it plays out differently if Bokuto doesn't score the winning spike, doesn't rush to sweep Kuroo in his arms, kissing him yes in response.

But maybe it plays out exactly like it's meant to.

The next game they play—the finals—doesn't go as well, and Kuroo finds Bokuto in an empty corridor of the stadium that's only half as dark as his mood. Kuroo hasn't ever played with stakes this high, at least not in years, but he thinks he understands a little.

He folds his legs to take the empty spot next to Bokuto, holding out his arms and letting Bokuto melt into his side. His lips brush against Bokuto's temple for a brief, tender moment.

It won't be okay for a while, so he doesn't say it will be.

Bokuto bounces back eventually, as he's bound to, but in a stroke of poor timing, Kuroo's labs and finals and papers all start colliding into one massive stress-inducing hellscape.

"You need a break," Bokuto says during a date that gets railroaded when a groupmate sends a panicked text Kuroo's way. He drapes himself over Kuroo, squinting at the chemical equations laid out before them. "This is starting to look like gibberish."

Kuroo snorts out a laugh. "I know," he sighs. "But I need to finish this."

Bokuto presses a soft kiss to his shoulder. "Then I'll get you some tea."

By the time spring turns to early summer and Bokuto's schedule is made lighter by the off-season, Kuroo learns just how much of a morning person Bokuto can be. And a midday person. And a night person.

It's obnoxious, it's endearing—Kuroo's reluctant to wake until he's coaxed out of bed with playful raspberry kisses, stressed over labwork until a surprise lunch and a sunny smile (and a stolen kiss) brighten his day, exhausted in the evening until he curls up against Bokuto and trades lazy, sleepy kisses with him.

It's too, too easy to get used to it.

They had the dates marked down, making plans only for before and after, but Kuroo's brow still furrows and his lips draw to a pout when Bokuto hefts his duffel bag over his shoulder.

"Don't work yourself too hard in Hokkaido," he says, rearranging his face to force a smile when Bokuto looks up. "Make sure you're bundled up when you go, it can be colder than—"

Bokuto's palm is warm against the back of his neck, his mouth hot enough against his that Kuroo melts a little.

Bokuto's smile is bittersweet when he lets go. "M'gonna miss you too."

Kuroo makes a goofy, schmoopy sign, buys a goofy, schmoopy bouquet, and wears a goofy, schmoopy grin to the airport. Bokuto spots his garish sign, and though Kuroo can't see how wide he beams from behind his face mask, or how bright his eyes light up behind his sunglasses, he can see the way he straightens up and tries to walk a little faster, like he can't close the distance between them fast enough.

He pulls his face mask down, and his grin is really, really wide.

"Hi," they both say.

They can't close the distance between them fast enough.

Bokuto's pro career only increases the madness of his schedule, and Kuroo's graduate program only gets more demanding with each new semester, but they figure out a rhythm and fall into a habit, so that it can play out like it's meant to, like a favorite song, that first note heralding the rush of lyrics and melody learned over time:

Bokuto returning from a game or road trip, Kuroo coming home from the lab, an arm wrapping around a waist, a half-distracted peck on the cheek prompting a deeper, more deliberate kiss in greeting.

(It's real muscle memory this time.)