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On Kuroo's graduation day, Kenma wears his joints into restless aches from flexing them too much. He's scared.
It's ridiculous, and he knows it's ridiculous, but he can't help it. Kuroo is a life line, a rope from the main ship of society, and without it, Kenma'll be adrift, alone, and he wants to be alone but not lonely; what if he needs to swim ashore? Will he be able to?
He says nothing. Kuroo bops him lightly on the head with his certificate, all neatly rolled up and soon to be thrown in a corner and forgotten, and then chases down Yaku.
Fukunaga signs over the crowd. 'You alright?'
Kenma signs in reply to say that he's fine. They both know it's a lie. His toes hurt from scrunching them, uncomfortable in his shoes; his fingers feel weird from moving them too much in cyclic repetitions, the skin just shy of irritated, and Kenma watches Kuroo leave—Kai on one arm, Yaku on the other, and tears in his eyes.
Everyone changes at university. Everyone knows that.
Kenma won't change. He never does. But Kuroo? He's always changing.
What if Kenma can't keep up this time? What if the gap becomes just too great for Kuroo to come back to him at all?
They’ve made it this far, which should be reassuring. But Kenma can’t take too much satisfaction from that. Kuroo’s going to move out . He’ll have new roommates and new friends, take a different train route and sit in different halls.
Kenma went through this once before in middle school. But even then, Kuroo had swung by so often, it was almost like he’d never left—asking how practice was going and you did go, Kenma, you didn’t just skip did you , and regaling him with stories of high school volleyball and classes. He pestered Kenma to study—usually ending up with them both pretending to study and getting little done.
This time, Kuroo is leaving . Moving out completely.
The world’s never been more connected, with hundreds of social media sites and texts and phones and trains and cars, but Kenma knows that physical distance is a barrier. Kenma doesn’t call people. He barely texts. That’s not going to change, because he never changes. Their friendship relies on being physically together, and without that?
Well, Kenma’s going to have to find out. The minutes are counting down to when Kuroo’s dad puts all his stuff in the car and starts driving away, and Kenma will have to wave goodbye and navigate a world without Kuroo in reach. A world he hasn’t seen in years.
He doesn’t want to know what that looks like.
“You gotta study hard, Kenma.”
Kuroo has a car full of his stuff outside, and a university dorm awaiting him. New, exciting, terrifying, everyone says. Kenma is feeling the latter, though he’s not the one going.
Not even looking up, he hums. He hums because his throat is tight and he doesn’t want to speak, but he pretends he’s absorbed in the game. Kuroo huffs dramatically and puts his hands on his hips.
“You can’t just game all the time,” Kuroo adds, sighing.
I can , Kenma thinks to himself, and I will . It’s not like there’ll be much here to distract him anymore, after all. His parents have long since given up trying to stop him gaming. Kuroo’s always been the one dragging him out. Pulling him into things, out of his own world, and Kenma is going to retreat right back there again.
“I’m gonna check up on you, you know, make sure you study as well.”
Kenma pauses. Kuroo is going to Kyoto, and he won’t bother making the trip back. Kenma scowls at the screen. He certainly won’t bother returning with his new friends who aren’t total shut-ins. He’ll realise that he wasted all this time on Kenma when he could have been socialising with people who are… well, less Kenma .
Kuroo’s dad has put his stuff in his car, filled to the brim with volleyballs and textbooks and saucepans and hell knows what else. Kuroo had Kenma sit on the bed gaming the other day while he emptied the room. Not long after, Kenma made an excuse of his mother asking him back, unable to watch a room he’s known so well stripped bare of all that brought it to life. It’s dead now, deprived of anything to draw him to it.
“Don’t I even get a goodbye hug?”
Kenma doesn’t move, but his fingers still, the game running without command. He’s never been the type to cry, and he’s never been more glad of it now.
Kuroo hugs him anyway. Kuroo engulfs him in massive arms, a big hoodie on, and Kenma can’t help it if he presses his nose into Kuroo’s shoulder and inhales a bit. It’s probably the last time he’ll be able to, and no one is going to notice, anyway.
“I’m gonna miss you, Kenma. Answer my texts, okay? I’ll let you know when I’m gonna call, too. If you keep telling me you’re in a mission…”
Kenma nods, and leans his head on Kuroo’s, just a little. How long? How long until those calls peter out, good intentions of maintaining connections fraying under all the change? How long until Kuroo leaves him behind? How long until he forgets?
Kuroo doesn’t let go for a long while. When he does, Kenma doesn’t cry, but his eyes mist over as Kuroo drags him out to wave him off. He looks so happy, bounding off to his new life, ready to tilt the universe. Kuroo is the unstoppable force – which fits, because Kenma is the immovable object. The force has won a lot, moving that object, these last years, but the force is now blowing in different directions, and the object?
The immovable object will just stay still for all time.
Nothing except an unstoppable force even has a chance against an immovable object, after all.
Vice Captain, the Orange Court before him.
Kenma is stuck.
They’ve gotten this far, with Tora’s power and Lev’s blocking and Shibayama’s receives and Fukunaga’s quiet strength. The first day of Nationals.
And Kenma is stuck.
How does he do this, without Kuroo there? He’s never done this without Kuroo. Volleyball was always Kuroo’s thing, not his. Shouyo is here somewhere, a small comfort, but the first step onto the court is always the worst, everyone watching, judging. The grappling fear that he doesn’t belong, has no place here, not on his own, he’s not even alone, but-
“Yo,” a too familiar voice murmurs behind him. He spins, and has to look up. Those eyes are the same as last time he saw them, only fleetingly because there was an exam Kuroo had to get back to. The hair that could never be tamed, not different from before, but just because he looks the same doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed.
Kuroo’s spoken about friends, going out, studying. University challenges. It may not seem like he’s changed, but he has.
Kenma tried to keep up, he really did.
“Kenma? You all good there?” His hands are scrunching into themselves, over and over. Kuroo should be the one in the Nekoma shirt, not him. Kenma should be on court with him, not watched by him. Kenma is an observer, not a participant, this is Kuroo’s domain, all Kuroo’s, and there’s no space for him here without that context.
“It should be you.” The words break from his mouth, hard and barely there in the hubbub of the stadium. “On court. I- don’t belong. Never.”
Getting here in itself is glory, a thing never worn well on his shoulders. Constance is the cloak he wears, and glory seeks to change, while the immovable object is simply incapable.
Kuroo frowns at him for a long moment.
“Why are you here?” Nerves have always been a jagged thing on Kenma, and time eases nothing. Kuroo snorts.
“Why wouldn’t I be here, Kenma? I can support my alma mater, and my best friend-”
“Hasn’t that changed?”
“Why would it have?”
“Because you change. I don’t.”
Kuroo fully halts, staring down at him with a puzzled expression, which slowly morphs to something Kenma thinks might be understanding. He sighs.
“You have a place in the world—and the court—just as much as I do, Kenma,” he murmurs. “Even if you change. Even if you never change.”
Kenma scowls at him—what doesn’t he understand? Kenma just doesn’t change.
“ You should try it again, I think you’ll like it! ”, Kuroo had sent at some point. Kenma doesn’t change.
“ If you could just –”, his parents say sometimes. Kenma doesn’t change.
“ You should try and be more– ”, his teachers say. Kenma doesn’t change.
This stems from a laurel leaf.
“ Ken-chan, you like those leaves, don’t you? Shall Granny teach you something about them?” Kenma had nodded hesitantly, still rubbing the leaf between his small fingers. He’ll rub it until his fingers all go green and Kuroo comes and laughs about chlorophyll, but for now, he pads up to his granny, rocking gently on the porch as she beckons him closer. “In flower language, do you know what they mean?” Kenma shakes his head. She smiles. “’I’ll never change until I die’. That might just suit us both, little one,” she remarks, wistfully.
Kenma doesn’t change.
He sent a picture of a laurel bush to Kuroo after a comment about him changing, but refused to explain.
“But you’ve never changed before, and I didn’t leave you. Why would I now?” Kuroo continues. He spies Kenma’s expression, doubtful, and reaches one hand out, flicking his forehead lightly. “You know, laurel leaves, sure, their meaning is that you won’t change until you die. But the flowers mean victory, and glory. Maybe together, that means you can win despite not changing. ‘Cause I think it does, and I think you can.”
Kenma’s never thought of them as together. But are they not inextricably linked? The leaves bring nutrients to grow the flowers, and the flowers help grow new leaves on new bushes.
Maybe… Maybe victory doesn’t have to be so far from the immovable object.
“Before you go out there and kick some asses though. Did you think you were that easily rid of me?” Kuroo demands, leaning in closer, raising an eyebrow and grinning ominously. “Were you worried about little ol’ me changing at uni and ignoring you?”
“What about you is little. And no.” Kenma snaps, although he pulls his head forwards to let his hair flop in front of his face. Kuroo leans down even more.
“I think you weeeeere!” Kuroo taunts.
“Nope.”
“Kenma’s missing me!” Kuroo sings jauntily, and Kenma, well-
“… Maybe a little,” he mutters. Kuroo screeches to a halt in a very odd position; under his arm, Fukunaga signs at him to hurry up. Tora just yells it, Inuoka and Lev flapping excitedly at one side. “Gotta go,” he adds, as he ducks under Kuroo’s still arm, scuttling towards his team.
It won’t feel the same, Kuroo not being there, but maybe… maybe it doesn’t have to.
“We’re gonna have words later, young man!”
Kenma grimaces. He’s not even a full year younger than Kuroo. Behind him, he hears Yaku smack Kuroo and say something to that effect, and snorts. As he walks away, Kuroo’s comment about winning without changing rings in his head.
Perhaps… Perhaps there could be some truth to that. Sometimes, it’s not the teams that always change that win. Maybe that means Kenma doesn’t have to change to win, either.
Putting his head down, he smiles faintly. That sounds alright to him.