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The bass reverberates throughout the house, echoing along the crowded street and hardly muffled by the overwhelming chatter of the party’s attendants. They all talk amongst themselves, each holding an alcoholic drink and enjoying the atmosphere of the event— a familiarity accompanying each of them. Blatant evidential props indicating their belonging here, if the carefree nature in which they all seem to dance and chat isn’t something to go off of.
It’s a stark contrast to you, who stands uncomfortably at the entrance of the event, dressed much too modestly for the informal attire that this type of establishment seems to demand, and a clear example of estrangement.
The smell of various bodily fluids mixing together permeates the air, sending a pointed wave of nausea to your stomach and you have half a mind to turn around, walk home and forget that you even tried to come here, but the hands that are pushing at your waist from behind beg otherwise.
“We’ll be here for an hour and then we’ll go. I promise!” Kaito’s voice shouts in your ear, deafened by the blaring music despite his close proximity. The eagerness is discernible, however, as his gaze twinkles brightly at the amassed group of people and never removes itself from the sight. Hardly even glancing twice at his incredibly uncomfortable girlfriend— not that that is much of a surprise.
He’s been raving about this party the whole week, pleading for you to come despite being given no clear answer as to why. You should’ve asked for one, should’ve demanded a reason as to why it was at all necessary for you to show up to a party hosted by Sendai’s infamous mechanic considering that you were not at all interested or a part of that area of occupation, but you didn’t.
Kaito asked, and like the good girlfriend you imagine yourself to be, you agreed. A stupid mistake on your part, considering the smell in the air is pungent and you’re can feel the sweat of discomfort beading along the column of your neck. The chance to speak to Kuroo Tetsurou is not at all a valuable opportunity cost for your safety and sanity.
You bite the rebuttal down, hold the swirling thoughts of anxiety back when Kaito opens the door and ushers you in, introducing the two of you to a crowded home filled to the brim with intoxicated people of varying thresholds dancing and shouting in your face. The groan of unease rushes from your mouth before you have a moment to catch it, but it’s not like it matters much anyway. The atmosphere is too loud to notice it and even if it weren’t Kaito is too concerned with the surrounding activity to even care about your wellbeing.
It would be a different scenario were there someone in this party aside from Kaito that you could rely on; That you could attach yourself to their side and pass the time with. Alas, your social status as someone who doesn’t affiliate with the underground racing scene of Sendai does not grant you that opportunity. Regardless of the fact that you may have gone to high school with a couple of people now associated with this particular locus.
Regardless of the fact that you were quite familiar with the name Kuroo Tetsurou and the face that came with it. Regardless of the fact that at one point in the shared history, you would’ve called him something much deeper than just a friend.
But that’s all it is. History. A past that is meant to stay in the past.
Kaito in all of his forward fervor pushes you into the house, shouting greetings left and right to people you can hardly make out in this low lighting, before ushering you into the kitchen. There are a few people stranded there sipping contentedly on their drinks and barely sparing you a glance. You’re too perturbed with the overwhelming sensory overload of flashing lights and flooding noises to realize that Kaito is pushing a cup into your hand, his lips pushing against your temple.
“Stay here! I’m gonna go mingle around, I’ll be back in a minute!”
And then he’s gone, not waiting to hear any response you may have given before he’s lost out in the sea of bodies with a large smile on his face and determination to make himself known. Hardly waiting for you to make peace with the idea of being an afterthought as quickly as he had.
He doesn’t come back after a minute, but it’s not like you really expected him to. You can see him occasionally, flittering through the throng of people and always speaking to someone new each time you manage to make him out. He’s excited, incredibly in his element in this foreign environment and you wonder, not for the first time, how much time he actually spends in the underground racing scene.
He’s always said he was an observer, but that he never really dipped his toes in the waters. That was enough to keep you at bay, never having enough of a reason to question otherwise. You took him at his word, but now, as he talks exaggeratedly with these people who are clearly members of that world, you start to remember how suspicious all those late nights are, where he would come home smelling of peculiar, intoxicating scents and bringing home bags and boxes that he would shove deep in his closet and lock.
You wonder if he was even telling the truth whenever he gave you excuse after excuse detailing why he would be late, or wouldn’t be coming home that night. Wonder briefly if he was even telling the truth when he said that he only knows these people because he moonlights as an auto parts supplier for some of Sendai’s garages.
You wonder, truly wonder in this flux of blasting music, increasing discomfort, and growing suspicion, if you can even say you know your boyfriend. If he’s been involved in this world to an extent you weren’t even aware of (much less that he was even involved at all ), you can hardly fathom what else he might be hiding.
The realization settles unpleasantly in your stomach, only worsened as you try to wash it down with tentative sips of your largely alcoholic drink. It festers in the depths of your body, heightening every sense in you— eyes suddenly more attentive, skin more sensitive to passing sensations.
You hate it here. Everything in you pleads desperately for you to leave and the shuddering breaths of anxiety only make it worse.
The feelings manage to subside as you try and make a comfortable cocoon in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the counter and occasionally shifting around whenever a new person enters the area and reaches for a drink. A continuous game of Tetris in this tiny, grimy, compact kitchen and while it’s annoying, it’s a pleasant distraction from the whirlwind of displeasure that encompasses you in your entirety.
You’re on your third cup of some measly fruity drink when someone settles in beside you. You move out of instinct, used to the game you’ve been playing all night and moving to the side to grant them more access to the counter you’ve unofficially designated as your base. In the most considerate action to be sent your way all night, they move in tandem, granting you an equal amount of space as they realize that you are also shifting uncomfortably in the crowded space.
The shuffling is reserved in nature, trying desperately not to infringe on your space out of respect or their own desire to not be touched, but it’s noticeable. You look upward, if only to send a nod of understanding their way when you freeze entirely.
You know that face, spent years seeing it every day. It’s curtained by a mix of black and yellow, accentuated by sharp cheekbones long since rid of their baby fat, and quite easily the closest thing to relief you’ve felt all evening.
“Kozume,” you breathe out.
He turns to face you, bored golden eyes lazily turning upward from their phone to meet yours, only slightly widening upon realization.
Recognition floods his features, his shoulders ridding themselves of the usual slouch you often associated him with and standing to his full height before you. The relief that you felt only a moment before quickly dissipates upon seeing the pinching of his face and the narrowing of his eyes, clearly not reciprocating the familiarity between you two.
“(Y/N),” He says curtly, eyes sharply glancing over you before looking over his shoulder briefly. “What are you doing here?”
His tone is clipped, uneasy, and if you needed any more of a reason to feel completely out of the water at this party, he’s delivered it to you on a silver platter. Shared history be damned; Long gone are the days of late-night video game hangouts, instead replaced with an air of contention and resentment. A bitterness that sits deftly between the two of you, pushed onto you like an unrelenting tide from this tall pillar of frank stoicism.
“I, uh, I came here.” You stutter out, clearing your throat when he leans forward to hear you clearer. His tall, lanky figure, even more, intimidating the closer he steps to you, “With someone.”
His eyes harden even more if that were even possible. His glare conveying any and all feelings he may have had about seeing you and you wonder if going your separate ways with him and Kuroo all those years ago was really as mundane as you remember it to be. If maybe, he took more offense to the natural severance of your bond than you initially thought he did.
Kenma rubs his nose with his thumb, an action anyone with less patience would’ve interpreted to be an insult; A blatant dismissal of your presence.
“Do you even know what this place is?”
Not even the blasting music can drown out the condescension that bleeds into his voice. His lips maintain their thin line, his hardened stare coupled with his perfunctory tone serving to only bolden the growing disdain in you that is becoming more difficult to suppress. You know it shows on your face if his own challenge to it is anything to go by.
Any attempt to reconcile and reconnect over the good old days long since exiting the realm of possibility, regardless of whether or not you know why. It’s obvious, painted in the most minute of ways in this brief conversation.
Kenma wants nothing to do with you. You’re a stain in his eyes, one he so desperately wants to be rid of. It stings, more than Kaito ditching you for the night, more than the slow realization that everything you once thought you knew— about Kaito, about Kenma, about everything— is proving to be much different than you expected.
The ache settles deep in your chest, no matter how hard you steel your face to not betray the truth, knowing that Kenma— the boy you told everything to, the one you confessed your secrets toward, the one who comforted you and laughed with you and forged a bond with you— is burning any semblance of a bridge that could have been salvaged. And he’s not even blinking twice.
In the middle of a crowded kitchen that reeks of sweat and stale alcohol of all places. Your own personal hell on earth, the gates sanctified upon your entrance into this home and capitulated upon seeing the golden sharp eyes of its keeper.
If that’s how he wanted to act then so be it. You don’t owe anyone in this fine establishment any ounce of respect if this is how you were to be treated.
You stare back at him, in equal scornful fervor, swallowing the sting of rejection in your throat, “I’m starting to piece it together. Nice place you got here, Kenma .”
“You should leave.” He takes no offense to the venom that swirls around your formal addressing of his name, the distaste for him and this place obvious. He shrugs it off with a dismissive shrug of his shoulder. He moves on, eyes glancing over his shoulder once more in a way that is meant to seem blasé, but with the frequency in which he does it and scans the crowd behind him, you know there’s a deeper purpose.
For as much as he wanted to be rid of you, he was even more eager to be on the lookout for something.
The sharp tongue and offstand-ish personality belonging to Kenma wasn’t foreign to you; You’ve seen it before, in application to people who managed to grate his nerves more than others but t it was always unleashed upon reason. When something occurred beforehand to warrant a dignified malicious response, otherwise he wouldn’t even waste his time.
As his eyes continuously dart behind him, peeled for any sudden movement (or any specific movement), you wonder— in some vain attempt to salvage the fraying rope of your relationship, to rationalize the small part of you that still desperately wishes to rectify the problem— if his abrasiveness came not from a hatred towards you, but instead from whatever he was so keen on looking for in this party. If this worried, askance looks he was constantly sending over his shoulders were meant to be the brunt of the weight, or if they’re the catalyst behind his harshness.
If he truly didn’t care about you, hated you to absolution, he wouldn’t have even spared you a second glance. In the midst of this ever suspicious party that has even the most non-confrontational of individuals like Kenma looking over his shoulders, why wouldn’t he just leave you to fend for yourself?
Why would he care so much about seeing you out?
Your own gaze follows over his shoulder, not quite seeing what he was looking for but seeing the top of Kaito’s head float above the dancing crowd. Kenma sees it too, eyes trailing after him, lips pulled downward in a curl. Just as quickly as he looked, however, he turns his gaze expectantly back on you, awaiting your response.
Waiting when he could have very well left .
Your eyes narrow at the pause, only feeling further convinced in your previous convictions. He wants to know more, get as much information from you while simultaneously maintaining his uninterest in you. But you indulge, if only to see where it goes. You swirl your cup around, meeting his bite with some of your own. “Believe me, I would if it weren’t for my boyfriend.”
His eyebrows quirk upward, only briefly. Were you not watching you would have missed it entirely. Bingo. He schools his expression, keeping the monotonous yet simultaneously venomous tone in his voice as he asks, “Who’s your boyfriend?”
He says it in a way that’s meant to portray nonchalance; A lackadaisical authority over this new detail, but in the way his eyes train even harder upon you and drill into your soul and the sure eagerness in which the question tumbles out of his mouth, you know it’s not the truth. You’d even go far enough to say that he knows you know it too.
“Why does it matter?” You taunt, chin tilting outward in defiance of the insinuated sentiment of this conversation.
Why does it matter what I do? You don’t like me, right?
Right?
He rolls his eyes, catching onto the motive of your line of questioning. “Whatever.”
Kenma turns, shoving his phone into his pocket and shoulders resuming the signature slump as he grabs a cup off of the counter and fills it with a drink. He’s almost gone, tall body and dual-colored hair about to leave you without a second glance before he stops at the threshold of the kitchen, uncaring of the fact that he’s resolutely blocking anyone from entering.
Golden eyes bore into you once more, sending another chill down the entirety of your nervous system and it becomes incredibly clear in this moment that as much as he looks like the Kozume you once knew, you don’t know this version of Kenma at all. There’s something entirely different about him, something harder that settles in the depths of his iris and creaks in the timbre of his voice, that you can only imagine this atmosphere is to blame. He’s not your friend anymore—
“Easy on the drinks. I won’t help you if I find you passed out on the floor.”
—but he still cares about you. Much as he tries to act otherwise.
“Kaito,” your voice halts him in his place, preventing him from exiting the kitchen as he continues his heavy stare. As much defiance as you wished to expel onto him, in equal venom of the fear and anger that he put onto you, it dies down in your throat the longer he stares at you. Really stares. “I’m dating Otani Kaito.”
“Do yourself a favor.” He says with an air of finality, ending this conversation before it had a chance to really begin. Grief settles into your chest at the missed opportunity, recognizing the lost prospect of having your former best friend once more. But it’s in the way he says his next words that has the mourning of a lost friendship rescinding.
“Break up with him and then leave this party. Don’t come back.”
He turns and exits the kitchen quickly, blending into the mesh of bodies, and within a blink, he’s gone. Lost in the River of Styx and swept into the current of growing suspicion and uncertainty. But you know in the depths of doubt and confusion that clouds the entirety of your brain, this won’t be the last time you see him.
It’s hour three into this party when you finally decide to clock out. Your social battery has long since worn out, you’re hungry, and the music that blares around you is starting to form a headache at the base of your skull.
You wade into the crowd of partygoers in some meager effort to find Kaito and go home when it happens. There’s a strict parting of the throng of people, parted like the Red Sea as they circle around a number of individuals, and the music, almost perfectly, dies down enough for the conversation to be heard.
It’s a heated one, escalating in tone and intolerance— one that your body and mind strictly tells you to avoid. Reminds you desperately of what Kenma had warned you against. Yet, something grates against the logic of fleeing and tells you to step closer, to look at the confrontation as though there, you would find the answer to the number of questions that have been swirling in your head all night.
You hate that you’re right.
In the middle are two men, identical in appearance aside from the different coloring of hair staring murder at the man across from them. Their arms and hands are littered with tattoos, emphatically pointing and prodding against the chest of the victim of their ire, and it’s only then that you direct your attention to the center of their focus.
Kaito.
Because of course, it is.
Your feet move before you have half a mind to question your intentions, stepping even closer to the circle of conflict and finding yourself pushing through the bodies to stand at the front of the circling crowd behind Kaito. Close enough to be a beacon of support should he turn around, but far enough to be considered an onlooker to anyone glancing in passing. Because you’re not dumb. This is a problem Kaito is involved in, you’d be a fool to even think about stepping in— especially after Kenma’s very pointed warning.
“You got a lot of nerve showing up around here, Otani,” the blond man says, a poisonous smile pulled across the expanse of his face. The other man with grey hair stands flanked to his left, arms crossed and face portraying the polar opposite of his brother. A dichotomy of a threat, each equally dangerous in appearance alone. How stupid is Kaito to even think about crossing these two?
“Please, Atsumu—” Kaito begins, voice wavering and cracking in the middle of his plea— a sharp contrast to his overt confidence that plagued him at the beginning of the night.
“Ah, ah.” The man, Atsumu, wags his finger in Kaito’s face, the smile never ceasing. If anything, it grows direr, more frightening as he takes a step forward into Kaito’s space. Kaito takes a step back, only then bumping into your body and sparing you a double glance. His eyes grow comedically wider at realizing you’re witnessing this, witnessing his massive error in judgment and action, but truthfully and unsurprisingly, his focus returns to the bigger problem at hand— not at all concerned with the fact that his blatant lies and omission of facts have just been exposed in real-time to you.
Atsumu chuckles darkly, “ You don’t get to call me that. Only friends call me that. And right now, I wouldn’t consider us friends, would you?”
There’s a ripple in the crowd, as people push forward and move around making room for one another. You see one person run from the crowd from the corner of your eye, running towards the stairs as he takes two at a time up the column, and while it’s strange to see someone fleeing so frantically from the commotion, you feel envious. Wishing desperately you could just grab your things and leave, but Kaito’s got one hand on the fabric of your skirt, bunching it tightly in his fist and you know, you can’t leave even if you tried.
You would never be able to sleep at night.
It should be somewhat comforting to know that with over a hundred people watching attentively, there’s a very little chance that this Atsumu would actually do something incriminating in front of all these witnesses. And yet, Atsumu’s eyes blaze brightly as he stares at Kaito and his brother’s fists clench repeatedly, quickly overshadowing any doubt any partygoer may have had about the sincerity of their convictions.
There is a very real, very solid chance that you and everyone attending this event, are about to witness a murder.
“M-Miya-san, please. I can explain—” Kaito is frantic. Sweat beads at the top of his forehead and he holds his hands out in a plea, one that Atsumu clearly derives a sick satisfaction from as he laughs once more.
“I’m sure you can.” Atsumu roughly grabs the front of Kaito’s shirt, yanking him forward with a cowardly yelp escaping from the latter, and it thrusts you forward as well. Kaito’s own grip on your clothes releasing too late in the process. “Why don’t tell me all about it? Hm?”
“Please! This is all a huge misunderstanding! I can—”
Your heart beats quickly in your chest. Yes, Kaito’s a fucking idiot— that much made abundandtly clear throughout the night— but that doesn’t mean he has to get hurt. Someone has to step in, you have to step in, have to do something— even if you get caught in the crossfire. Because— because—
There’s a scream about to escape your throat when you see Atsumu raise his fist upward.
“Woah, woah, hey! Come on you guys, let’s take a step back for a second.”
A voice, distinguishable in cadence and almost angelic in tone has your heart beating even faster than before. A tall figure parts through the bodies and approaches the two confronting men, hands held outward in a pacifying nature and a calm, amused smile on his face. Lean in stature, muscular in build, there he stands in all his profound glory.
Kuroo Tetsurou.
(He’s still as handsome as you remember him to be.)
The crowd gasps alongside you, murmurs spreading throughout the bodies as they mention how stunned they are to find the host of this party has exited his office to actually involve himself in a conflict, but considering the way he seems to almost dance into the center of the attention, you have no doubt this isn’t his first time doing something like this. Kenma follows in behind him, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket and entirely unperturbed with the unfurling events, mirroring the composure of his counterpart.
As though this was something that happened regularly and the two were called to handle often. They walk in perfect balance, their dynamic discernable from the looks on their face. Even if it weren’t for their reputation as Sendai’s most profitable duo, even if you hadn’t known them personally once upon a time, the bond between the two is recognizable from their synchronous walk alone.
Kuroo keeps his eyes trained on Kaito and Atsumu, his cool gaze fleeting between the two men while Kenma’s flits over the other variables. Representative respectively of ‘captain’ and ‘brain’ of the operations.
Kenma looks over the other Miya brother, the entourage that arrived with them, the partygoers, Kuroo, and finally, on you.
His shoulders sink with an exhaling breath when you meet his gaze— fear no doubt perceptible in the way that you stare desperately. Running a hand through his hair, he returns his attention back to his lifelong friend, his scowl deepening even more than usual.
“Gentlemen, I’m sure this is all incredibly important, but I think it’s best if we take this outside. Dontcha’ think?” Kuroo claps a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, barely bristling when said man shoves his hand to the side.
“What happened to staying out of business, Kuroo?” Atsumu retorts, the smile wiped from his face and his glare entirely too grave for comfort. Kuroo takes it in stride, meeting it with a grin of his own as he slowly takes the authority of the situation.
“It becomes my business when you’re doing it on my turf, Miya.”
Kuroo isn’t much taller than Atsumu, but the gap in demeanor is enough to make it seem wide enough. As though there was a level of comfort, certainty, and coolness that Kuroo stood on that couldn’t be reached. He was entirely in control, despite not knowing anything about what was going on.
It’s admirable and has the entire body of attendees staring in awe of the man—you included. There, stood in this formidable pillar of man, were the remnants of a boy you once knew. A boy with a melodic laugh and a smile so persuasive.
A boy who made your heart beat erratically out of your chest when he so much as looked at you. The same boy that took every ounce of your bleeding love and affection, and left you without so much as a goodbye.
You’ve never cried over anyone as much as you’ve cried over Tetsurou. You should hate him, hate how he made you feel and hate how he discarded you without a second thought, but you can only stare at him in awe.
“I’m sure whatever business you need to address, can be handled outside, hm?” Kuroo’s tone, placated with levity yet magnanimous in authority, echoes throughout the watching living room. He places his hands on the shoulder of each respective man, one on Kaito who stands shivering in fear of Atsumu and awe of Kuroo and another on Atsumu, lightly guiding them towards the entrance of the house, “Let’s not ruin a party so early. Whatever this is can be solved away from my place, alright? So let’s—”
Atsumu once again shakes Kuroo’s hands off him, gritting out as his eyes melt into Kaito’s, “He lost a shipment worth one million yen, Kuroo. I’m not leaving here without my money.”
Atsumu points a finger deftly at Kaito, all force and fate emphasized in the single action alone, “He owes me a shit ton of money. And I’ll fuck up whoever stands in my way of getting it.” He steps forward once more, hardly caring that Kuroo places his own hand on Atsumu’s chest as he gets frighteningly close to Kaito.
The two are almost touching noses, Atsumu striking fear into Kaito’s heart at the closeness of it all as he states rather resolutely, “I’ll kill you, if I don’t get it. I’ll kill you, and that pretty girl behind you too.”
Like the stilling of water, the atmosphere of the conflict freezes instantly, all attention turning towards you in a slow, torturous shift. The pumping of your blood roars in your ears as Kaito subtly shifts in his position to glance behind you, regret and fear flooding his eyes as he meagerly attempts a silent apology, that of which earns a demonic, sly, grin from the blond man who bores himself into you.
“What?” Atsumu teases once more, voice falling to dangerous pitches of threatening, “You think I didn’t see how you looked at her? You think I don’t know everything about you Kaito? You think I won’t make you regret fucking me over?”
Their stares are heavy, falling upon you and stealing every ounce of your breath as you no longer can seek refuge in the anonymity of a crowd; Kaito’s mistake of looking at you before, Kaito’s mistake of even bringing you to this party stealing any ounce of protection you may have otherwise had. But none of them, none of their fated stares, weigh heavier than his.
Amber irises fall onto you and with them comes the crashing of any control either of you may have had in this whirlwind of a commotion. Kuroo’s eyes widen, in recognition or sheer desperation, neither is entirely discernable, but his response is quick. In the brief moment it took to even understand that you were there, he simultaneously knew the answer to the problem entirely.
It’s the best you’ve felt all night; Sheer comfort and safety acquired in half a second, and all because of him.
The man of the past.
Kuroo’s hand steadies on Atsumu’s chest, pushing him with enough force to have the blond man stumbling backward in awe. His eyes dart from the pressure on his chest to the man in question, an eyebrow quirking upward at the act of provocation. Amusement filters through the shock and he’s got his mouth open, ready to comment on it when Kuroo interrupts him.
“I’ll cover it.”
Silence covers the three men. Disbelief shrouding the air as Kuroo stares deathly still at Atsumu—all effort to diffuse the situation and ‘take this outside’ out the window.
“What?” Atsumu asks, “Are you fucking stupid or something?”
“I said I’ll cover it. However much he owes you. I’ll take care of it.”
There’s a quiet shuffling and suddenly Kenma appears to the left of Kuroo, his stare as impassive as before but there’s a different edge to it. The kind only someone intimately familiar with him could recognize. He’s unhappy, has made that abundantly clear with the way his jaw clenches. He scantly glances towards Kuroo returning only when he sees no movement in the man’s stance—physically or metaphorically.
Kenma isn’t pleased with the way this is turning out, but he’s smart enough to know not to voice it here. Not in front of neighboring factions and a crowd of a hundred people. Smart enough to know not to yell at Kuroo for not understanding that they don’t have one million yen to just throw around like that; Smart enough to know that regardless of whether or not Kenma tried earlier to diffuse the situation, it would have all ended the same way once Kuroo saw you.
Because wherever you’re concerned, logic and reason go out the window for the likes of Kuroo Tetsurou.
He can only sigh and stand resolutely behind his best friend, backing him up on his endeavor into stupidity; Can only spare you a pointed glance that voices everything you need to know— that this is exactly why he told you to leave.
Kaito, finally broken from his stupor of earth-shattering fear and cowardly retraction, ambles himself to say something, “K-Kuroo-san, I—You—Thank you. I-I don’t know—”
“Why?” Atsumu barks out, unconvinced at the idea of Kuroo suddenly deciding to become a good samaritan, when the man is infamous for his deceptive business practices and talent for conning.
You don’t become the greatest mechanic in the underground racing scene of Sendai without becoming a little shady yourself.
“I’m not taking your fucking money if you’re putting strings on it, Rooster Head. I know how your kind work, I’m not falling for it.”
“No strings,” Kuroo asserts, the familiar smile slowly spreading across his face once more, if only to implicate a sincerity behind his words. He places a palm flat against his chest and another in the air. Scout’s honor. “Honest. I’ll pay for it. The whole debt. You get your money, you leave him alone. No one gets hurt. We call it even.”
Atsumu trains his gaze on the taller man, eyes darting around the sharp features of his face before he turns back to his brother in silent conferment. Only when he receives the answer he was looking for, in the way that all twins seem to telepathically communicate, does he turn back to Kuroo.
“ Why ?”
You can feel it coming before you see it; Kuroo’s attention turning to appear as though he were focused on Kaito when in actuality, he peers behind him, amber eyes casting onto you.
Falling onto the answer.
You owe him, you owe him so much even if you were dumping Kaito’s sorry-ass and running for the hills after this .
As fast as his head turned, Kuroo is back to Atsumu, teasing grin and a shrug in his shoulders as he almost laughs, “I take care of my kind .”
The scowl that erupts on Atsumu’s face is short-lived, dissipating as soon as his twin places his hand on his shoulder and tilts his head towards the door. Leaving before the blond, the grey one moves towards the exit of the house, the crowd parting quickly to make room for his motion, taking all the attention with him, but not until Atsumu finalizes the conversation and follows him out.
“Two weeks, Kuroo. And then I’m coming for it.”
“I’ll have it wrapped nice and pretty for you, my friend.”
**
The house is much different in the day than it is at night.
It’s less daunting, smaller than it felt the night before with the daylight shining on its suburban features and grey exterior. It’s normal, unassuming, incredibly plain; Not at all the natural assumption of where illegal activity was conducted.
The powerlines mesh against the framing of walls, serving as a natural high pathway that leads to the building adjacent to the home, the one where all attention in this area is usually paid. The garage isn’t incredibly large— can hardly fit more than five cars at most in the small shed-like building— but where it looks modest on the outside, it trumps on the inside. With all of the overhead doors open, the pristine walls are exposed to the passing eye. Lined with tools upon tools, ranging in size and purpose, it grants the garage the professional feel the infamous Nekoma Shop was known for.
The one everyone and their mother in this godforsaken city has heard about and probably gone to at some point.
It’s name was spoken like a prayer, always hushed and laced with wonder. If you needed a miracle performed on a car, you went to Nekoma where only the best in the city are employed. If you needed true and honest advice, an entrance into the racing scene, you went to Nekoma, the unspoken gates of the community. Anything you needed done, anything you needed taken care of, you went to Nekoma and spoke to its founder, the pinnacle of excellence himself.
You’ve heard about the shop’s praise in passing, always imagining something more grandiose in appearance with the way endless reverence was paid to the establishment. Yet, as you stand on the gravel pavement outside of the clean, sleek, modern, and incredibly small garage, gazing inward at it’s impressive contents, you can’t imagine there being anything more fitting. Simple, yet effective.
You’d go far enough to call it cute. Kuroo would have a field day if he heard that.
You snort out a breath, glancing sideways at the empty street that surrounds the shop this morning. It’s better that it’s empty. You can do what you came here for without an audience, without a crowd of pervasive eyes and judging opinions.
You can repay your debt in peace and be done with this whole thing. Forget that any of this even happened.
Music blasts from every open entrance of the shop, blaring louder than is socially appropriate for a Sunday morning and it makes you roll your eyes. He’s never been much for standards anyways, considering you’ve been standing outside his shop for the past five minutes awaiting his recognition while his feet poke out from underneath a car, the rest of his body hidden from view as he lies on a creeper seat working on the vehicle.
He shouts an occasional lyric with enthusiasm, humming the rest of the tune when he doesn’t know it as his arms work methodically on his craft.
You have half a mind to turn around and leave, already been standing there for more than enough time without saying anything for fear of disturbing his peace and adding more to the burden you have already inadvertently placed upon him. It’s rude to interrupt someone while they’re working, you’ve always been told.
Drilled in the rigid lessons of social etiquette and proper interaction, you almost leave the vicinity entirely. You can just send him a call, schedule a day for you to come in and discuss the matter more in depth then. It would be more efficient, more appropriate. You almost do it.
Almost.
He’s rolling out from underneath the car before you have a chance. Hair tousled in its usual mess and veiny forearms coated in grease, he’s got the lyrics to the song on his lips when his eyes land on you and grow a fractional size wider. The words halt altogether despite the music continuing on in the background.
He stares. Earnestly. Drinking in your presence in ways that your brief reunion last night didn’t allow him to. Your breath catches in your chest and even though you’re dressed incredibly formally for just visiting a garage , the way his eyes press into you make you feel obscenely exposed.
Heat pricks against your skin when he trails his amber irises down the length of your body, pausing for a second on the bag in your hand before looking upwards to meet you once more. Like clockwork, a familiar tide that resumes is routinely pull, you feel every repressed and restrained part of you being drawn completely and veritably towards him and that lazy gaze of his.
For the first time in a long time, you feel… whole. In this unfamiliar garage that is leagues below the kind of establishments you usually associate with, and music you find absolutely ear numbing care being blasted throughout it, you feel comfortable.
Like you were meant to be standing right there in this moment.
His eyebrow raises upward in silent question, addressing all confusion he may have felt with one action. His hand reaches into the waist of his pants to pull out a rag and clean the grease from his arms..
“Kuroo-san,” You bow in greeting, standing upward and holding the bag out. Giving a slight noncommittal shrug, you commend yourself when your voice doesn’t waver, “Breakfast?”
He’s not really surprised you remember his favorite meal. He’s much more surprised at the fact that you brought so much of it, having to strategically lay out the various side dishes across the tiled floors of his shop. He doesn’t hold back, scarfing his food down with little reserve as he sits rather haphazardly on the creeper seat, only sparing you the occasional glance as you sit on the only other stool in the shop.
(An oversight on his part that he’s been meaning to fix, but it’s only when your presence makes it so notable that he puts the action to the picture and makes a note to solve it immediately. It’s a problem, a huge one, he knows. But with how resolutely and contently you sit on the chair, he can’t find many issues with it.)
With a particularly hearty shoveling of food in his mouth, you scoff. Kuroo turns, chopsticks stilling in his closed mouth and he furrows his brows. He mumbles out in between chews, “I didn’t eat this morning.”
You only hum, nodding in agreement, “I can tell.”
He rolls his eyes, “Ah, shut up.”
Continuing his unhinged engorging of the food, a content silence befalls the two of you. Each of you consuming the meals before you and sneakily stealing glances at one another, feeling all the more like the teenagers you once were, skirting around blurry boundaries with nothing less than shy smiles and an unspoken desire for more.
His features are the same, still sharp on his jaw yet soft around his eyes; Neck long and strong as it flexes with each chew. It’s a dangerous lull into familiarity, the kind that whispers sweetly against the thoughts of logic and reason. The kind that insists that maybe, things can be different this time around, conveniently forgetting just how broken you once were.
You tear your eyes away, before you can be entranced by the intoxicating song of his presence, reminding yourself of why you came. Reminding yourself to stay away from Kuroo Tetsurou and all of the trouble that he can bring.
(And yet here you are, in his shop after you brought trouble to him .)
After a particularly loud swallow, he speaks up, “You’re not going to make me guess why you’re here, right? You know I’m not good at that.”
You shake your head, suppressing the hint of laughter that so desperately wants to be pulled from your lips, instead replacing it with a scoop of rice into your mouth. Refusing to be swayed into a false sense of security, you keep yourself on the defense. Adamant to keep this as formal and business-like as possible.
He watches you eat the scoop, a much smaller bite in comparison to his gaudy one, something incredibly representative of the social etiquette and status that has always pervaded the two of you. Who was he kidding? Every part of you was representative of the gap in social classes, that much hasn’t changed since your parting.
But even as you sit there, leagues away from him in every way that matters, from the clean, pressed manner of your blouse to your delicate posture in the seat in sharp contrast to his splayed long legs and dirty hands, he can’t help but be humbled by the simple fact: You’re sitting with him, in his shop, on your own volition.
Social statuses be damned. Here in the sanctity of his shop that has seen its fair share of blood, sweat, tears, and grease, you’re on equal footing. Even if you’re totally out of your element in his sphere and he’s largely informal in collation to your appearance.
You belong here with him. It’s a dangerous thing to think, one that Kenma would surely kill him for even conceptualizing, but he can’t deny how righteously he feels about it. He looks down at the food below him, hunger less imperative as it was before.
“I just wanted to thank you and offer my services in any way that I can regarding… the issue.” You clear your throat, straightening your posture in your seat and looking at him head on. It’s said so matter of factly that Kuroo has no choice but to snort. Entirely too amused at the fact that you’re treating this as a bureaucratic proposal, requiring all kinds of legalese and pristine formality instead of what it actually was: underground business. The kind that doesn’t concern the likes of you nor does it care for any unspoken rules of decorum.
His eyebrows flick upwards in time with his laugh, “Offer your services, huh?”
“ Legally , of course,” You rush to add, hand held out in clarification.
He rolls his eyes, chopsticks scooping the last bit of rice in the container, “You think I’m going to pimp you out or something?”
“No!” You shout, disgust filtering the words at the mere idea. Work is work, fine and dandy, you don’t judge. But the prospect of you… doing that, at his will is less than appealing. “I mean, I hope not. Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you.”
He scoffs, collecting his surrounding trash of napkins and containers, holding his hand in silent asking of any of yours. You hand him a napkin and a single container, quietly voicing a ‘thanks’ as he stands up.
“Nice to know you think so highly of me.”
“Hey!” You call out to his retreating figure, long legs propelling him quickly to the opposite side of the shop where the trash was located, “You said it, not me.”
“Yeah, but for a second, you believed it.” He retorts, glancing at you over his shoulder in a look that begs you to prove him wrong. As much as you’d like to try and pretend that he’s wrong, that at the end of the day, regardless of time, you still know Kuroo and to some extent trust him, you can’t say the same for his occupation.
You’ve only just been exposed to this new world of shady dealings for a total of ten hours. How can you be expected to not assume the worst of everything and it’s occupants?
He can see the hesitation on your face, the guilt that clouds your eyes as you silently confirm your unconscious opinion of him. And while he tries to shrug it off as though it wasn’t a problem but instead a fact of life that comes with his kind of work, it’s a sharp sting when it comes from you. Painful to know that there’s even the slightest hesitation from you in regard to his character. He can’t blame you, tries not to, because he gets it. He understands it.
This is the life he chose. He has to deal with it and all of its implications.
Kuroo clears his throat, turning back to face you once he disposes of the trash, the usual wry smile on his face that covers any pain or insult he might have felt as he holds his palms upward in surrender, “I don’t roll like that Princess, don’t worry.”
The smile you give him is small, but it’s enough to heal the sting of before. A marvelous feat that has him clearing his throat and looking to the side. He needs to be more careful.
“Forgive me for doubting, Kuroo-san.” You say softly, a twinge of exasperation coating the depths of the words that has his eyes forcefully being pulled back to you, “I don’t know anything about anyone anymore.”
The sigh that escapes your words weighs heavy in the room, inadvertently dragging him down with it. The struggle in trying to reconcile the world you lived in so concretely with the one you’ve been unintentionally implicated in is taxing, Kuroo has no doubt about that. He hardly had the smoothest of transitions in trying to stomach all of the things he’s seen, so reasonably, he can’t expect you to have the greatest of times either.
This world wasn’t meant for you; It’s one he broke himself into multiple pieces in order to keep you away from. And yet, there was Prince Charming, the star of the night, to bring you back to Kuroo in the most unceremonious of ways. In all of the ways he’s worked so hard to avoid.
If only he had known you were dating Otani Kaito of all people. If only he hadn’t subscribed himself to the harshest of vows to never involve himself with you again, never hear anything about you or your family, maybe he could’ve avoided this whole thing. He could’ve prevented you from dating the lowest of the low that floats through the underground scene; The kind that enjoys weaving the labyrinth of lies and excuses rather than face the music of their mess.
He doesn’t even try to hide the anger in his voice—most definitely directed at your piece of shit boyfriend, but also at himself. Crossing the expanse of the garage once more, he leans against the car he was working on, tilting his head downward and crossing his arms across the expanse of his chest, “Not surprised your boyfriend didn’t say anything.”
You chuckle darkly, adjusting your neat clothes as you shift on the uncomfortable stool, “I don’t know how I didn’t notice. I just always believed what he told me. He didn’t give me a reason to question it. And he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”
He hopes he doesn’t look as pleased with the statement as he feels, trying to keep his stare even as he watches you fiddle with the fabric of your pants and stare rather contemplatively at the floor.
Well, at least one good thing came from this.
It’s childish, he knows, but he can’t help himself from asking, “Who broke up with who?”
The glare you send him only confirms that it's incredibly juvenile, “Does it matter?”
He squints, tilting his head from side to side as if weighing the options, “If you want me to respect you, yes.”
You roll your eyes this time, scoffing at the unrestrained joy that spreads across his face. No doubt he was getting a kick out of your misfortune because there was nothing funnier than the spoiled, rich daddy’s girl getting kicked deep into the mud.
(He usually finds it funny, but not when the spoiled, rich daddy’s girl in question is you.
Besides, he doesn’t think you’re that spoiled.)
“Cause if he broke up with you after he almost got his ass kicked, then really, I can’t help you here—”
You interrupt his jest with a raised hand, words dripping in a sardonic tone, “I broke up with him, okay? I don’t like liars, and I certainly don’t like it when they try and stick to their lie of ‘only being an auto parts supplier’.”
Kuroo leans down, shaking the last bits of unwarranted excitement from the corners of his brain and picks up the stray tools that littered his work area surrounding his creeper seat.
“Ooh! That’s what he told you he did? God, that guy’s a work of art.” He laughs, throwing a wrench in the air and catching it in his hand. It lands in his palm with a dulled thud, and whether Kuroo is amused at the action or your boyfriend is yet to be determined, but the glint reaches his eyes, and he shakes his head with a whistle, “He surprises me more and more every day.”
You give him a deadpan stare, not at all sharing the amusement that pervades him, “He still hasn’t told me what he does. Even after what happened last night.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t pieced it together yet?”
You shake your head deftly, all answers and possibilities going blank at the question. No matter how many times you ran it through your head, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what Kaito could have even done to get two men like the Miya brothers on his case. Well, there’s one, but you’ve desperately been holding that as a last resort.
“Oh, Princess. And I thought you were smart.” Kuroo coos, his amusement growing tenfold at the solemn look on your face that grows more annoyed as he continues his teasing. But he confirms what you already knew to be true with just a smile. “Your boy is a drug mule.”
At your loud groan, he chuckles once more, ruffling the top of your head as he passes by you to place his wrench back in his toolbox that sits against the wall behind you. You trail after him, spinning your stool to face him as he organizes his equipment in the large casing.
“He’s ran a couple of jobs for me before, but that was before he got the drug gig with Inarizaki. Heard it was going well until he tried to double time them by selling their shipment to Itachiyama and taking the profits for himself. Word on the street says he had a whole master escape plan and everything.” He places his tools neatly in their respective places, opening a new drawer and reorganizing them in their natural order. He continues.
“Itachiyama finds out, takes the load, leaves lover boy with nothing but the clothes on his back and the rest is history. Now you’re up to speed.” He shrugs, the mirthful smile still playing rather resolutely on the pinks of his lips. As if this whole thing were one long game that he was playing, the pieces moving carefully on the board of his own volition and not at all the high stakes threat that it in fact was.
“You’re awfully upbeat for someone who has to pay one million yen out of pocket, Kuroo-san.”
“Better this than the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?”
The drawer closes with a loud snap, settling the shop in an eerie quiet that answers the question more than any words ever could.
“Kuroo—”
He turns, head shaking vehemently as he looks at you and for the first time since you’ve arrived, that wry, playful smile doesn’t make an appearance. “I hate it when you call me that. You know my name, use it.”
The authority that he so subtly commanded last night infiltrates his words. It borders on threatening, frightening as the red alarms in your head go off, reminding you of the lines that always seem to blur whenever you’re around him. Maybe you should have had this conversation in public, with others around you to remind you of all the things that you can’t do that seem to magically disappear whenever you’re alone with the messy haired man.
You need to end this conversation here, you can’t let it go on any longer. But then you remember how quick he was to offer a solution last night. You remember that desperation that seeped so freely into his eyes because you’re looking at it once again. His words were commanding, yes, but not out of a need to control.
But to plead.
“Tetsu.” You beg, throwing caution, logic, and all social obligations to the wind, “Let me help, please .”
He huffs, and you can finally hear the twinge of exhaustion in his voice. “Hey, if you got one million yen sitting pretty in your bank account, I’m all ears.”
“I can’t let you handle this all by yourself. You wouldn’t have gotten involved if it wasn’t for me. You shouldn’t have gotten involved because of me.”
“And do what?” He scoffs, voice escalating with disbelief and echoing around the empty shop, “Let Inarizaki put a target on you? You don’t know them (Y/N), they’re ruthless.”
“All you’ve done is taken the heat off of Kaito and put it on you! How are you going to get one million yen in two weeks?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
You're sure all of his stubbornness is hiding in that large set of unorganized strands of hair. You groan, fingers rubbing your temples, “Tetsu, let me help, please. I’m sure I can convince Daddy to—”
He turns quickly, the forcefulness behind his activity having you suck your words back in your mouth, “We are not asking your father. I don’t need him having another reason to hate me. Besides, I did this exactly so you wouldn’t get caught up in this.”
“Well, I’m involved either way!” You stand, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “So you can either do this the easy way and just accept it or you can keep fighting me the whole time. Regardless, I’m here. And I’m doing this with you.”
Your hands are placed tightly on your hips in the way, a sign of your seriousness that he’s seen a number of times before. He knows you mean business, convinced in the truth of your words. And it's so fucking cute to him, it softens his resolve entirely. Weakens his fortitude and he tries so hard to maintain his stability, tries one last futile attempt to assert the boundaries that never really seem clear with you as he weakly says, “I don’t want you here.”
He stares at you lowly, one hand braced on the toolbox as he tries to find footing in this uncontrollable argument. He hopes that where his words may die in any authority, his stance will assert his own seriousness in the matter of your safety. Hopes he doesn’t compromise himself on any aspect of this non-negotiable topic.
But then your lips pull upward and you’re slowly shaking your head at him and he knows he’s lost the battle. Lost the war for all he cares because you’ve hardly made much of an offense against him and he’s already yielding his defenses for you.
And he knows you know if the way the knowing glint that swims in the pools of your eyes is anything to go by.
Dammit , he thought he was better than this. He didn’t listen to Kenma lecture him for an hour last night just for it all to disappear the moment the pinks of your lips spread beautifully across your face and push gracefully against the roundness of your cheeks.
“I don’t believe you.” You smile and slowly shake your head, residual tension deescalating with a single motion alone.
He can’t fight the way that he instinctively mirrors your own. “Why’s that?”
You tilt your head to the side, gesturing to the remaining containers on the floor with a look that he knows means you’ve got him all figured out, “You wouldn’t have eaten the food if you didn’t want me here.”
“Who am I to deny free food?”
You cross your arms behind your back, taking a swaying step forward in your heels that’s entirely too enticing, “You wouldn’t have told me about what happened.”
Kuroo sniffs, rubbing at his nose in distraction, “I’m just making sure you know your taste in men sucks.”
“You realize that includes you as well, right?”
“I don’t count.” Kuroo steps forward, hardly missing the way you follow his lead, taking another step closer as well. Drawn to each other like a magnet, drawn to his focus almost as certainly as he was compelled to yours, “We never officially dated.”
“I wasted three years on you. I think it counts.” You jab at him, steps accumulating enough to meet him in the middle of your simultaneous trek towards one another.
“Ouch, easy on the venom, Princess. I’m still sensitive from when you broke my heart.”
“You left me first, asshole! You left me and you didn’t even say goodbye!” You jab a finger into his chest, offense pouring into your tone and blending almost artfully with the laughter that bubbles in your throat. Only he could address this in this way, only he could take the pain of the past and make it seem like nothing more than a humorous moment.
The breath that he exhales from his chuckles fans over your face, his stare stripping you in every single way and fluttering you in ways you thought dead. His fingers, rough and coarse from years of hard labor and dirty from the grease of effort, gently trace along with the framing of your face. Angelic fingertips dancing lightly across the crown of your forehead down to the swell of your cheeks and the dip of your chin, holding the surface in between his index and thumb.
He’s so close. Close enough that you’re sure he can hear your heart pounding out of your chest, can feel the way you sway enchantingly in his gentle grasp. Drugged entirely in his presence and suspended in bliss at his touch as the boundaries and walls you once foolishly put up, fall altogether.
His voice lowers to a whisper, amber orbs never leaving yours as he says, “You deserved so much more than me.”
Tetsu’s hand spreads across the expanse of your cheek and you lean enthusiastically into it, wrapping your own hand around the wrist that braces against your face.
“Yeah and look where that got me.” You breathe out, and truthfully, he knows you’re right. The honesty of it, the irony of his intense rejection of you for your own betterment and your own eventual involvement in the exact matters he was so keen to protect you from, settling thickly in the minimal space offered between your touching chests and precious touches.
He smells just like you remember, the added scent of grease and sweat only serving to make him more intoxicating and you wonder how you ever survived without him. How you ever managed to live without the rough pads of his fingers and the sweet nature of their caresses, of the intensity behind his stares and the levity in his smiles.
And as you look up at him, no doubt starry-eyed in appearance and overtly content in his long-withheld presence, he finds himself working overtime to rationalize why it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to let you into this problem, this space, this life of his. Not when you look at him like that and smile so sweetly underneath the palm of his hand.
Even if Kenma rips him a new one, your love—the love that he’s carried with him incessantly every day since he was forced to let you go—will be more than enough to heal the pain. Will be more than enough to get him through this day and every day after that as he wades through this River of Styx.
“Alright then, Einstein.” He breathes out, taking note of the way you smile even wider and seemingly shine underneath his acceptance.
“What’s your plan?”