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1.
Kenma is seven years old, and he is no stranger to the prickly feeling he gets whenever someone looks at him for too long. It’s uncomfortable, crawling up his spine and making him curl into himself, shoulders tense. He’s staring at the ground, and then at his bed, and the window, and, and, and—
The source of it is Kuroo Tetsurou. Kenma does not stare back at him.
There are very few things that Kenma knows about him so far.
Number one is that he moved in three days ago. The house had been empty for a while, and Kenma had taken to imagining its dusty corridors and haunted attic— and, by extension, himself running around with a weapon to banish the monsters that lurked inside. He had seen someone hauling boxes inside, peeking through the gap in his curtains at the man that he now knows is Kuroo’s dad, and briefly mourned his latest imaginary playground before turning his attention back to the game he’d been playing.
Number two is that he’s around Kenma’s age, which explains why he was here in the first place. It’s an attempt by his parents to get him to make new friends, since he’s already established that he doesn’t want to play with any of the other kids in their neighborhood. He’s older than Kenma by a year, though, which— in Kenma’s opinion, defeats the purpose of making him get along with someone his age so that he isn’t completely alone at school, but he doesn’t want to risk arguing with his mom about it.
Number three is that he doesn’t talk much.
Kuroo had introduced himself, and then promptly fallen silent again. He’d stayed silent as Kenma led him upstairs, and now they’re standing by his bedroom door, unmoving and quiet. It’s awkward enough that Kenma almost winces at the silence, but— he can’t, because Kuroo will see, and Kenma doesn’t want Kuroo to think that he’s the reason for Kenma’s discomfort, even if he kind of is . It would be rude, especially since Kuroo hasn’t done anything to warrant Kenma’s blatant discomfort. Kuroo hasn’t done much of anything, really. Except for staring at Kenma.
He doesn’t know if Kuroo even realizes he’s staring.
There’s no ulterior motive to it, as far as he can tell— Kuroo isn’t staring because he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with Kenma, or because he’s weirded out by him. Those stares, familiar enough now that Kenma has been in elementary school for a few years, make him feel like crawling out of his own skin, or running away until the itch fades. (He never does, but he has certainly considered it. He would probably be more inclined to go through with it if running away wouldn’t just draw even more attention to him.)
Kuroo’s stare, on the other hand, just makes him mildly uncomfortable— he’s too aware of himself whenever someone looks at him for too long, and that is always uncomfortable. There’s nothing malicious in it, though. If anything, Kuroo seems more intimidated than he is. Kenma has always tried to blend into the shadows, so he isn’t used to having someone’s attention on him so completely, but it’s considerably better than the stares he gets from the other neighborhood kids and his classmates.
Still, he can only stand it for so long.
He drags his foot along the ground, scuffing his sock against the rug. He doesn’t know what Kuroo likes, but there aren’t many things to do in Kenma’s room other than play video games.
He pauses, eyes lingering on his cabinet of games and the nearly-unused second controller.
“Do… you want to play Virtua Fighter?” He hazards a glance up at Kuroo, who pulls his eyes away before Kenma can make eye contact. He’s almost worried that he’s made a wrong move— maybe Kuroo doesn’t like Virtua Fighter, or video games, or Kenma— but then Kuroo is nodding.
It’s still almost uncomfortably quiet, but Kenma takes refuge in the familiar motions of setting up the game. He can feel Kuroo’s gaze following him, curious and nervous.
Kenma holds out his second controller, and Kuroo’s gaze flicks down to it for a moment before he reaches out to take it. It’s a nerve-wracking couple of seconds, but then it’s safely in Kuroo’s grasp and Kenma can take up his usual perch, seated on the edge of his mattress. He waits for Kuroo to sit down, their eyes meeting before Kenma ducks his head and starts the game.
Thankfully, it seems to give Kuroo something else to look at, even if Kenma does feel weirdly guilty about the way that he wins every single round. He can tell that it’s Kuroo's first time playing and wonders briefly if he should take pity on him. He doesn’t particularly like the idea of just letting Kuroo win for no other reason than to be friendly, but he entertains the thought a few times. Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind how much he’s losing, though, and they spend the rest of the afternoon like that— Kenma on his bed, Kuroo kneeling next to it, playing round after round. By their fourteenth game, Kuroo is actually putting up a bit of a fight.
(When Kuroo’s dad swings by to pick him up at dinnertime and Kuroo’s gaze lingers on Kenma for a few extra seconds as their parents talk, Kenma’s skin doesn’t crawl and he doesn’t feel like running away. It isn’t even that uncomfortable anymore, and he manages to give Kuroo a small wave goodbye at the door, peeking out from where he’s standing half-hidden by his mother’s legs.)
2.
“Please!”
Kuroo is looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. Kenma huffs, a sharp exhale that hopefully conveys his growing irritation. “Kuro, I’m trying to pay attention.” He keeps his eyes trained on the TV screen, muscle memory and spite keeping him focused on his game. The past few years, however, have taught him that Kuroo is nothing if not stubborn, so he braces himself for another bout of nagging.
The older boy is suspiciously silent, though. Kenma keeps his eyes on the screen and hears the quiet shuffle of Kuroo leaning against the side of his bed, but that’s it— there’s no insistent nagging, or whining, or attempts to get Kenma to put down his game so Kuroo doesn’t have to compete for his attention while he tries to convince Kenma to join the volleyball team.
He’s been trying for weeks now. Kenma’s first year at junior high is coming up, and according to Kuroo, the volleyball team needs to have him as a setter. Part of him wonders if Kuroo is just trying to get him to join because they need more players to be able to play in tournaments, but then Kuroo starts talking about how smart Kenma is and how useful a strategist like him would be, even going so far as to compliment his sets, and Kenma thinks that maybe Kuroo genuinely wants him , specifically.
It isn’t like his sets are anything special, though. He’s had a lot of practice with Kuroo specifically, so of course he’s gotten good at sending up the exact sort of toss that Kuroo can hit, but the idea of joining a proper team— even one as small as the middle school team— is daunting. It sounds exhausting, too, and it would take away from the time he could be spending playing games, but— well. His ‘practices’ with Kuroo at the riverbank had taken up a similar amount of time, and Kuroo sounded so eager whenever he asked.
He can’t tell if the silence now means that Kuroo has given up, or if he’s plotting something.
It feels like giving in, if Kenma pauses now and looks at him.
The thing is— Kenma won’t admit it out loud, but he doesn’t actually mind giving in to Kuroo every once in a while. So he hits pause on his game, grumbling a little as he turns to look at his best friend.
Kuroo is looking up at him, confused. “Why’d you stop?” He asked. He almost sounds worried. “You were doing fine, you know.”
“You’re being quiet,” Kenma says. “It’s… weird.” Weird isn’t quite the right word for it, but he thinks Kuroo knows what he means, judging by the slow smile that spreads across his face. “Don’t laugh!”
That seems to just set Kuroo off even more, but to his credit, he does seem to be trying to stifle his laughter. “Wait, wait— don’t get mad,” he snickers. Kenma gives him a weak shove. “Sorry! Sorry. I thought you wanted to focus!”
He seems serious, but Kenma still isn’t entirely convinced. He was focusing just fine with Kuroo nagging him, and despite his complaining, he’d thought that Kuroo had known that. Kuroo, as usual, picks up on his skepticism with ease. “Fine,” he relents. “I’m not going to force you to join the team,” he says, looking away from Kenma. “You’d be really good— you are really good, but if you don’t want to, then I’ll stop asking.” He pauses, and then barrels on with “I’m still going to make you toss to me on the weekends, though! I can’t let those amazing sets go completely to waste, and you need the sunlight!”
He’s trying to hide his disappointment. It doesn’t work, despite his cheery tone, since the mere fact that he’s averting his gaze tells Kenma everything he needs to know. He’s not prepared for the uncomfortable feeling that wells up in his chest at the idea of disappointing Kuroo. It’s not guilt , per se, because he knows that Kuroo is serious about not forcing him to join, and if Kenma really hated it, he could leave and Kuroo wouldn’t stop him.
It’s reassuring, at least.
Plus, Kuroo is familiar, and he knows Kenma’s habits— and his limits, which is arguably more important when Kenma thinks about possibly playing a sport. (It’s strange, but Kuroo seems to know Kenma’s habits and limits better than Kenma himself knows them.)
It all comes down to the fact that Kenma trusts him, completely and wholeheartedly.
Kuroo knows him, and he’s been on the team for a year now. If he thought for even a moment that Kenma would truly hate it, he wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.
He makes up his mind right then and there, honestly, but he doesn’t want to make Kuroo feel like he’s guilt-tripping Kenma into that particular decision, so he just hums and starts up his game again. Kuroo drops the subject and settles down once again to watch, and the topic doesn’t come up again.
Kenma isn’t quite sure why he decides not to tell Kuroo about it, even after several days have come and gone with no nagging. He’s decided already, with absolute certainty, that it’s worth trying for Kuroo’s sake, and he knows Kuroo would be ecstatic about it.
Maybe that’s why— Kuroo would be excited, of course, but he’s also a sap, and Kenma knows that he would probably get emotional if he knew why Kenma had made his decision, so he’s trying to postpone that particular conversation to save himself some embarrassment.
He can’t postpone it forever, though.
His first day of junior high rolls around much sooner that Kenma would have liked, and it brings with it all the usual stress of starting a new school year. He has to meet new people and figure out which of his classmates are tolerable versus which ones he should avoid. He’s glad he has Kuroo by his side on the walk to school and as they make their way through the first-day clumps of students catching up and checking class lists— it’s like having a human shield, sticking close to Kenma’s side even though he’s got friends from last year waving hello at him.
It makes Kenma’s chest feel warm, and he’s too relieved to feel guilty about monopolizing Kuroo’s attention.
By the time Kuroo has dropped him off at the right classroom, Kenma is feeling slightly better. It’s like some of the tension has melted away with Kuroo’s presence and quiet comfort. It still isn’t completely okay— Kenma doesn’t think he’ll ever truly stop hating the first day of school, but it’s a hell of a lot more manageable when he can still see the lingering image of Kuroo’s reassuring grin when he closes his eyes.
He’s grateful for it. It helps, too, to strengthen his resolve— he will join the volleyball club, because Kuroo asked, and with everything that Kuroo does for him, Kenma thinks that playing volleyball for a few extra hours a week is a pretty small price to pay.
It also makes it worth it to catch Kuroo’s eyes as he walks into the gym on the first day of practice, a club application slip clutched in his hands.
For a couple of seconds, Kuroo just stares, like he can’t quite believe Kenma is there.
(It makes sense, of course. Kuroo had told him about practice that morning, sounding a little resigned as he told Kenma to just head home without him because first practices and introductions always take a little longer, and Kenma had simply hummed in response, filled-in form tucked into the bottom of his bag.)
Kenma looks back at him, blinking slowly before holding out his slip, a little crinkled but filled out nonetheless.
Kuroo is still staring, though, so Kenma waves a hand in front of his face, shifting uncomfortably. “Kuro?”
It had been funny at first, watching Kuroo gaping at him like that, but now the other second-years are noticing, and Kenma doesn’t want them thinking that Kuroo’s shock has anything to do with his skill. He doesn’t want anyone getting their hopes up about him, when he knows that the reaction is just because Kuroo is surprised to see him.
Thankfully, the taller boy seems to shake himself out of his trance once Kenma says his name, reaching out to take the club application from him and reading it over with a grin. “I thought you weren’t gonna join,” he says, and there’s something uncertain in his voice, like he’s afraid that Kenma will take it back.
“I never said no,” Kenma reminds him, curling his fingers around the strap of his bag as soon as Kuroo has taken the sheet of paper from him. “I just told you to stop nagging me. I don’t dislike volleyball— you know that— and like you said, I can quit if I really hate being in the club.” He doesn’t know why he’s explaining so much. He doesn’t need to, but hearing the uncertainty in Kuroo’s voice makes Kenma want to reassure him that he’s there because he wants to be.
He’s there because Kuroo wants him to be, and he wants to be with Kuroo.
That’s… it’s a lot, though, and they’re still in the gym— there’s a few more second years and a third year that are making their way over, curious.
“I like playing with you,” he admits, ducking his head before he can see Kuroo’s reaction and stepping around him so he can go change his shoes.
Even with his gaze trained on the gym floor, he can feel Kuroo’s stare.
Just like the first time, it isn’t exactly uncomfortable— he knows why Kuroo is staring, and he knows that Kuroo never stares with the intention of making Kenma feel self-conscious, but it still isn’t exactly great.
He keeps his eyes down until he’s finished tying and retying his laces, and he can no longer actually tell if the prickle under his skin is from Kuroo’s stare or his own nervousness.
When he looks up, Kuroo is halfway across the gym and definitely not staring at him anymore— he’s helping another second-year wheel the ball bins out of the equipment room. Kenma should feel relieved now that he’s no longer pinned under Kuroo’s wide-eyed gaze, and he is , but there’s a pang of something else there too— disappointment, maybe, even though it isn’t like Kenma wants to be stared at.
(The disappointment fades, thankfully.
Kenma doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that it only fades when Kuroo looks up and meets his gaze, smiling and tilting his head to beckon Kenma over.)
3.
Kenma has never known why people find sunrises so fascinating, but as the rising sunlight hits his newly-blond hair, he thinks he might be starting to understand.
It’s pretty.
The sun, not his hair. His hair isn’t bad , considering how impulsive he’d been in bleaching it— he’s heard the horror stories of box-bleach attempts going horribly wrong— but it certainly isn’t pretty either.
He’s got his mom to thank for the fact that it even looks half decent— and for not getting mad when he had come home with a box of bleach and demanded that she help him dye it— but it’s kind of brassy, and he still isn’t sure if the blond actually suits him. The bleach smell hasn’t faded, either, and it makes his nose itch.
It does look nice like this, though, glowing gold in his peripheral vision as the morning sun filters through the strands.
What isn’t as nice is morning practice, which is the reason that he’s up to see the sunrise in the first place, and the fact that Kuroo is late . He’s been waiting at their front gate for five minutes now and Kuroo still hasn’t shown up. It’s strange, because Kuroo hasn't been late since they were both still in junior high.
“Kenma— holy shit.”
Despite being late, Kuroo still manages to sneak up on him, and Kenma jumps when he hears the other’s voice. When he turns around, he comes face to face with Kuroo’s wide-eyed stare.
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He hadn’t given Kuroo any hints about his plans— mostly because they hadn’t really been plans — and he hadn’t really felt like flaunting it, after everything was done.
Honestly, Kenma hadn’t even really wanted to look at it himself. He’d stared at himself for a few minutes in the mirror, hair damp and blond and hanging limp around his face, and promptly left the bathroom in favor of grabbing his console and burying himself under the covers. So, no matter how nice the blond looked with the sun peeking through it, he can’t say for sure if it actually looks good on him.
Not that it needs to look good , he reminds himself. It had been an attempt to try and get people to stop mistaking him for a ghost, so it doesn’t necessarily need to look good as long as he doesn’t look like Sadako from The Ring.
Still, with Kuroo’s gaze on him like that, he can’t help but worry. Maybe it looks terrible. He knows that Kuroo is much too kind to say something like that to his face, especially since he knows that this is out of character for someone like Kenma, but he can’t help the rush of worry at the idea that Kuroo might not like it.
He averts his eyes, staring down at his shoes and letting his bangs shield his face. He knows that it means Kuroo gets a better view of his hair, but he needs the curtain right now— this way, Kuroo can examine him without Kenma having to see his face.
“It looks good,” Kuroo eventually says, and Kenma’s head snaps up, eyes wide. There’s something in his voice that Kenma can’t place, but Kuroo isn’t lying— he’s not rubbing the back of his neck, and he’s still staring at Kenma, eyes lingering on his face. “Did those rumors really bother you that much, though?”
Kenma shifts awkwardly, nodding. “I don’t want to be some school mystery.”
Kuroo’s gaze hasn’t wavered. It isn’t intense or uncomfortable, and now that Kenma knows he doesn’t hate it, he almost doesn’t mind it. He still doesn’t know where to direct his own gaze, though— whether he should stare back at Kuroo ( too awkward , his brain supplies) or at the pavement ( too shy , he thinks).
He’s finally spared from the decision by Kuroo clearing his throat, looking up to see the older boy checking his phone. “We should go. Sorry I was late this morning, by the way— if Coach gives us laps, I’ll try and get you out of it.”
Kenma makes a face at the thought of running penalty laps, and Kuroo laughs, knocking a shoulder against Kenma’s. “On second thought,” he says, “you probably need the exercise.”
Kenma shoves him and starts walking, but he can’t help the smile that settles onto his face when he hears Kuroo fall into step next to him.
It’s only when they get onto the train that Kuroo starts bombarding him with questions about his hair— how did Kozume-san react, and when did Kenma have time to go buy bleach, and is he going to dye it a different color or just keep the blond?
Kenma opens a game on his phone, some low-effort platformer that doesn’t take much focus, so that he can answer as many of Kuroo’s questions as he can handle. He only startles and loses twice— once when Kuroo reaches out to touch his hair, and once when he’s trying to hide the way that his face goes red when Kuroo tells him, again, with more sincerity than Kenma expects, that it looks good.
4.
“Kenma! I’m really sorry, I don’t think I can make it back in time—”
The words are still echoing in his brain halfway through the ceremony, listening to speeches and the names of his other classmates.
He knows that he has the right to be disappointed. No one is going to fault him for being upset that Kuroo couldn’t make it back for his graduation— least of all Kuroo himself, considering how many times he had apologized and told Kenma he’d make it up to him during their video call a few nights ago.
Kenma had tried to assure him that it was okay. Group projects and study sessions took up most of Kuroo’s time these days, but Kenma knew it would only be a matter of weeks before they could spend their summer together, so it shouldn’t have been that big of a deal.
“I know you’re busy,” he’d told Kuroo, eyes on the screen of his handheld instead of looking at his phone. It was a dead giveaway of how he felt, especially when Kuroo could read him like a book. “It’s the end of your semester too, right? Just bring me an apple pie when you can visit and we’ll call it even.”
He knows that Kuroo hadn’t been convinced, but they had both dropped the issue, and now Kenma is graduating while Kuroo is an entire train ride away, in some last-minute meeting for a group project that’s due later that evening.
So yes, he knows he’s allowed but disappointed, but this feels like a bit much.
Kenma hasn’t been able to focus all day, and the ceremony has been mostly a blur. He knows that it isn’t going to get any better, either— Tora’s sister had waved to him before the ceremony, brandishing a brand new camera that she had just bought, and Kenma knows he’s going to be subjected to at least twenty minutes of photos with his teammates. He just has to hope that Akane will take pity on him and not drag it out any longer than necessary.
As expected, he doesn’t feel present for the remainder of the ceremony— mostly, he’s just glad that he didn’t miss his name being called. Being dismissed and unleashed to take photos isn’t the break that he had wanted it to be since he isn’t quick enough to avoid being surrounded by his teammates and their families, but he supposed that it’s a step up from being stuck in a stuffy room waiting for every single third-year’s name to be called.
He does his best to be polite, conceding to Akane’s requests for photos of him with Tora and Shouhei and letting his own parents fuss over him, huddling behind Akane to take photos on their phones, but his social battery is running low. He’d promised to call Kuroo when he got home, and that’s all he really wants to do at this point. Tora seems antsy and incredibly insistent on keeping him there, though— he comes up with increasingly ridiculous poses for Akane’s photos and ropes their younger teammates into joining them, and Shouhei just gives him a grin and a shrug before putting his fingers up in a peace sign behind Kenma’s head, just in time for Kenma’s mom to snap a photo.
He lasts for another ten minutes before he’s truly had enough— keeping his expression neutral is becoming a challenge, and trying to look pleasant in photos is nearly impossible.
He manages to slip away from the group without drawing too much attention. Shibayama catches his eye and looks like he’s about to say something, but Kenma shoots him a pleading look and breathes a sigh of relief when the libero lets him go.
He doesn’t leave, even though he wants to— he knows his parents would give him grief for it if he just went home now, and Tora had made him promise not to bail on their final team dinner later. Instead, he finds a spot on the edge of the crowd, far enough away that no one will bother him, and pulls out his phone.
He isn’t sure how long he’s there, playing a game on his phone while he waits for the crowds to clear out, but as he finishes clearing the fourth— fifth?-- level, he feels an all-too-familiar prickling under his skin. There’s only one thing that makes him feel like that, now— other people’s gazes still make him uncomfortable, the feeling lingering heavy on his skin long after they’ve looked away, but Kuroo’s stare never does. It’s dumb to think that he’s actually there, because Kuroo had told him already that he wouldn’t be, and Kenma knows that he sometimes thinks he can feel people staring when they aren’t, but he can’t stop himself from looking up anyway.
He comes face-to-face with Kuroo, staring at him with such a gentle smile that Kenma simultaneously wants to punch him and bury himself against Kuroo’s chest forever. He looks a little haphazard, like he had dropped everything just to come back— he’s just in a university hoodie that definitely isn’t warm enough for March, messenger bag slung over his shoulder like he had just walked out of the library, as if his school library wasn’t over an hour away by train.
“Kuro?” He’s still staring, still silent, and Kenma isn’t sure if he’s just somehow imagined a very realistic Kuroo to cope with the fact that his best friend was missing his graduation. Hearing Kenma’s voice seems to break Kuroo out of his trance, and he steps forward with arms open for Kenma to all but fall into. “I thought you couldn’t make it,” he says, muffled against Kuroo’s shoulder.
It’s far more affectionate than he would usually allow outside of their own homes, but sue him— Kuroo is here, and Kenma had felt so emotionally and socially drained that all he wants to do is tuck himself under his best friend’s arm and recharge while Kuroo catches up with everyone else.
“I thought I couldn’t either,” Kuroo admits, “and I missed the ceremony, but I left my group project early. This was more important. They're nearly done anyway.”
Kenma lightly swats at his chest, frowning. “You didn’t have to,” he starts, but Kuroo just holds him tighter.
“I wanted to,” he says. “I need to get at least one more sappy graduation picture with you, to match last year's. Besides, there wasn't a lot left to do. I'll check in with my groupmates later and make sure it's handed in, and then I'll come over, yeah?”
Just like old times.
Kenma can’t complain about that, so he just soaks in as much of Kuroo’s company as he can get before their teammates inevitably spot them.
He can still feel Kuroo’s gaze on him, lingering as Kenma talks to Shouhei and Akane or allows Tora and Inuoka to drag him into a group hug, but he doesn’t mind— he would take Kuroo staring at him in person over Kuroo being a train ride away any day.
5.
As far as Kenma is concerned, nothing will ever make an early morning class worthwhile, but this one had been unavoidable.
He needs this class, and the 9 o’clock lecture had been the only one that didn’t cause some sort of conflict with his other classes or his streaming schedule, which he had just finalized. (He wonders, sometimes, if he could have just bit the bullet and changed his schedule again. A 9 AM is hellish given his late nights.)
The one thing that does make it bearable, though, comes from living with Kuroo.
Kuroo, who wakes up even earlier because he’s the kind of person that thrives in an 8:30 AM lecture and somehow also manages to find time to go for a run beforehand.
Kenma doesn’t know how he does it, but he appreciates that Kuroo is quiet when he leaves their tiny little off-campus apartment for his morning runs, and that he’s just loud enough when he comes back to make breakfast that Kenma can wake up without being grouchy at all the noise.
He always makes breakfast for both of them, and Kenma’s gotten into the habit of getting out of bed with just enough time to eat with Kuroo before his best friend leaves for the day.
Most of the time, at least.
He’d been up later than usual last night, debugging a programming project that just hadn’t wanted to run properly. It had left him exhausted enough that he’s just dragging himself out of bed as Kuroo grabs his keys.
“There’s coffee for you,” he says as he passes Kenma, “and I left your food by the microwave— it might be cold now, so heat it up before you eat. Your bento’s in the fridge, too— don’t think I don’t know you’ve been having konbini lunches for the past week!” It’s far too much information for Kenma’s sleep-addled brain to comprehend— stuff Kuroo would have said over breakfast if Kenma had gotten up earlier, he knows. He also knows that he doesn’t need to remember all of this. Kuroo will text it to him once he’s in less of a rush.
Kuroo’s talking fast and still moving around, making sure he has everything and then swinging closer to ruffle Kenma’s hair. “Oh, I’m not working tonight and I know you aren’t either, so I’m making you help me with dinner.”
“Okay,” Kenma says, unsure which statement he’s actually replying to. Kuroo seems to accept it as an answer, though. He moves, and Kenma makes a beeline for the crudely-painted cat mug that Kuroo had gifted him years ago, full of coffee and creamer and sugar— just the way he likes it.
“I’m heading out now!” Kuroo calls from somewhere near the door, before he pokes his head into the kitchen again. “See you later.”
“Okay,” Kenma says again, quieter and far more sleepy as he mechanically puts his plate into the microwave. “Love you. Bye.”
He stands at the counter with his coffee and waits for the flurry of sounds that usually accompany mornings like this— the jingle of Kuroo’s keys, the sound of the door slamming shut, and the quiet beep of the microwave when it’s done. Mornings like this may not happen often, but they’re frequent enough that Kenma knows the routine for this, too.
For a few seconds, there’s just silence.
He’s used to navigating these mornings half-asleep and relying mostly on the predictability of it, and the lack of noise is strange. He turns to look at the door, because there’s no way Kuroo would have managed to slip out so quietly, and is faced with Kuroo still standing in the doorway, staring at Kenma with wide eyes.
He sighs.
He’s still not entirely used to having Kuroo’s stare on him like this, but at least it’s bearable now. Still, it’s much too early to be trying to figure out what he’d done to warrant such a reaction.
Kuroo, for once, looks embarrassed to have been caught staring. Kenma wishes it was a little later in the morning, just because he wants to fully appreciate how endearing Kuroo looks when he seems to notice Kenma looking back at him, sputtering and flushing red.
"You're going to be late," Kenma reminds him, turning back to the microwave as it beeps. As amusing as it is to see Kuroo like this, Kenma doesn't want him to miss his class.
That seems to do the trick. "Ah— right. Right! Shit, okay, I'm going. Love you too!" Kuroo calls out.
The door does slam shut this time, and only then does Kenma register what Kuroo said ("Love you too "?) and what he had said, moments before that.
Oh .
+1
Two and a half years into living together, Kenma successfully bullies Kuroo into letting him buy them a kotatsu.
It benefits both of them— Kenma no longer has to bury himself underneath a mountain of their thickest blankets when he's up late doing homework, and Kuroo can study without a Kenma-sized lump draped against his back. (That had never really been a problem , but it had been impractical when Kuroo was poring over textbooks and Kenma's assignments were all on his laptop.)
It has its other benefits, too.
Kenma is already done with homework for the night— which is to say that between streaming earlier and coding for the rest of the day, he's starting to get a headache and his vision is beginning to blur whenever he tries to read anything on his laptop. It's been a long week, and all the late nights are starting to weigh down on him. Every time Kuroo had looked up from his textbook and caught Kenma rubbing his temples he'd shot him a look that had slowly gone from disapproving to downright worried over the course of the evening, so now he turns down the brightness on his laptop and barely even spares it a glance, opting to watch Kuroo study instead.
He only keeps it flipped open to give himself something to hide behind, not wanting to interrupt his now-boyfriend's studying. He tilts his head to peek around the edge, watching Kuroo and cataloguing the ways his expression shifts as he reads.
He's focused, going through his assigned readings and taking notes, and Kenma smiles at the way his brow furrows as he tries to figure out how to reword something into shorthand, scribbling in the margins of his notebook. He's always been diligent about stuff like this, and Kenma has always liked watching him study, although he seldom did it before they lived together, always choosing to focus on a game instead because he never knew how he would explain it if he was caught looking. It's comforting now, though, the familiar way that Kuroo will sometimes mouth along to what he's reading.
Kenma doesn't have time to react before Kuroo is looking up at him, meeting his gaze head-on.
He wouldn't have looked away anyway— that would mean missing the flash of surprise that crossed Kuroo's face, followed immediately by his grin and the light flush on his cheeks. Kenma reaches out and shuts his laptop, now that he doesn't need to pretend he isn't looking.
"What're you looking at?" Kuroo's voice is soft, and so unbelievably fond.
"You," he answers honestly. Somehow, that makes Kuroo flush darker. Kenma grins, equal parts amused and affectionate. "I like watching you study."
This sort of blatant fondness is rare from Kenma, but it's late and he's kind of tired from a long week, and staring at Kuroo instead of at his laptop screen has made the worst of his headache begin to fade.
Kuroo doesn't question it— he just checks the time, flips his textbook shut and scoots out from under the kotatsu, offering Kenma a hand. "You can watch me study again tomorrow. You've got an early class in the morning, don't you?"
Kenma hums and allows himself to be led to bed— it's a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't protest even once as Kuroo pushes him into the bathroom to brush his teeth, or makes Kenma check that he's got everything he needs already packed because he won't be up early enough to double-check tomorrow.
He's exhausted when the two of them finally fall into bed, lights off and covers pulled up to Kenma's chin. Still, he has to admit, as he lays in bed with Kuroo's gentle, sleepy smile less than a foot away from his own, that he really doesn't mind Kuroo's gaze on him now that he can stare back.