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When Oikawa arrives at the station, he ignores the emptiness of the building and shoves his hands into his pockets instead as he hurries towards the ticket gates. He rifles through them, looking for spare change before slowing his steps in front of the teleprompter screens, squinting to scan the screens for the next available train.
He scoffs when he realises: the trains run slow in the later hours of the night, cutting off just before 1:00 a.m. hits.
An offhanded glance to his watch shows the hands sliding slowly toward 1:30 a.m. Cursing to himself, Oikawa calculates that the next train isn’t due to arrive for another three hours. He irritably kicks his shoe at the ground, but the rubber skids against the tiled floors of the station interior, with the friction sending a jolt to his knee and all he ends up doing is hissing at the pain.
Oikawa doesn't mind late night train rides, nor the cold wind that blows past him, pressing against his back as the humid air weighs him down. But he doesn't really have any choice at this point, so he settles himself for another sleepless night. He briefly weighs his options, and considers roaming about the city for anywhere that might still open, but he feels the pull of his muscles and the pulse of music from the last party is still echoing in his ears.
All he wants to do is lay down.
He’d left the last party early on his own terms. Left the games, the drinks and weed on the coffee table. Oikawa knows how to enjoy things; but he also knows where to draw the lines. He won’t compromise with things that will affect the game, and he values volleyball far too much to trade it off for mindless self-indulgence. After volleyball practice, Iwa-chan had given him a slight glare at the mention of the parties, which bore several warnings of don’t do anything stupid, and an unstated concern for Oikawa to be mindful of his injury. And of course, Oikawa had waved him off and promised to call him later.
Now, he grits his teeth and pulls his phone from his pocket, calling a friend from four parties ago — an acquaintance of sorts.
Oikawa doesn't make friends, he meets connections. A link to every avenue of life he can get, and he's wise enough to keep them close enough to use when he needs to.
"Hey," he says as friendly as possible when the line connects, pointedly ignoring the late hour. "The trains are out. Do you know a place I can crash?"
The friend rattles off an address, and says he'll give the guy a call with only one condition, "Just get there within the hour."
And the conversation ends like that.
Oikawa peers at the sky as he exits the station, the grim grey clouds drawing close and rain threatening to fall. He manages to get through two blocks before the rainfall starts and he tugs at the collar of his jacket, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
He ignores the flutter of raindrops hitting his skin.
By the time he’s made his way the outskirts of the city, his shirt is soaked to his skin and the hems of his jeans drag with every step.
He drifts past the city casino and the large landmarks that he’s familiar with until he hits a number of streets lined with small apartments, crammed together for convenience and cost-effective city building.
Oikawa isn’t fond of the city beyond what is has to offer; coming from Miyagi taught him comfort and simplicity with the world at his fingertips. But the city is glaring, moving fast-paced lives with little to show for it other than neon lights and high rise buildings. Oikawa doesn't hate it; he’s long grown used to the impersonality, but it does send of a sense of longing for home.
Oikawa glances at the unfamiliar street names for a few minutes, unsure of where to go, until he gives in and quickly pulls the address up on his phone. He shields the screen under the palm of his hand, trying to locate himself in the big city. From there he weaves through the streets, and internally thanks the photographic part of his brain as it leads him to his destination.
After ten minutes of searching, he arrives at a building of apartments. Nothing too fancy and nothing too shabby, though the same could be said for the rest of the buildings along the street, since they all looked identical. He presses the button for apartment number 101 and waits as the buzzer rings over to the other side.
"Yo?" the loudspeaker calls, crackly over the poor intercom.
Oikawa blinks out of his stupor, "Hey, I’m—“ he pauses, reconsidering, “A friend said I could crash here?" The inflection rolls off of his tongue, questioning but not entirely insistent.
A laugh comes from the other side, "Oh. Yeah, c'mon right up."
The main door unlocks with a buzz. Oikawa pulls the door open and strides straight to the elevator, taking it up to level one. He pauses for a minute in the elevator, observing his reflection in the mirrored wall, frowning at his dampened appearance. It’s messy. Not a good look for first impressions, he decides, and runs his fingers through his hair in a small attempt to make himself look a bit more presentable. It takes a few moments to orient himself when the elevator opens, but Oikawa eventually makes his way to the apartment door 101, knocking when he arrives.
The door opens with a wide swing and he is faced with a silver haired boy, smiling wide with way too much enthusiasm.
“Quick question,” he says without preamble.
Oikawa falters at the abrupt request. “Uh—“
“Are you gonna throw up anytime soon?”
Oikawa scowls at the bluntness of it, immediately shaking his head in the negative.
The boy beams. “Great!”
Oikawa briefly considers leaving when the other boy gives him a curious and obviously indiscreet once over, before yelling back into the apartment, "Oi Kuroo! The couch sitter is here!"
Oikawa instinctively recoils at the volume, the headache at the base of his neck pulsing. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea—
"Come in, dude. Don't worry, I didn't mean it in a bad way,” the boy explains, ushering Oikawa inside. "I'm Bokuto," he says, holding out a hand.
"Oikawa." A brief touch to the outstretched hand, then Oikawa lets his grip fall away.
"Huh," Bokuto says, staring at him in question, before shrugging off his curiosity completely. "Take a seat— Oh wait, wait, wait.” Bokuto scrambles around the living area until he grabs a towel from one of the computer chairs, setting it on the couch haphazardly before letting Oikawa sit.
“There,” Bokuto says in relief, as if a minor crisis has been averted.
The apartment is small, nothing too spectacular but not entirely outdated. It's sparsely decorated, with the main attraction of the room being the vast computer set up in two corners. The TV is hooked up to the PS4 and there’s a coffee table in front of the couch that Oikawa tentatively sits down on. He spots a shelf lined with carbonated beverages ranging from the standard Coca Cola to a rainbow of Fanta varieties in lieu of some makeshift home decor.
Honestly, Oikawa is just relieved that the apartment is not a complete dump, and in comparison to the blandness of his own dorm room, he finds the idiosyncrasies of the interior mildly assuring. Besides, he’s fine as long as he has a place to crash before heading back to the dorms first thing in the morning.
His eyes do one last sweep of the room, his gaze pausing when he sees a pile of volleyballs tucked away into the furthest corner. He blinks at the sight curiously until another boy walks out from the kitchen, hands carrying a bowl of chips as he starts, "Oh hey."
Oikawa observes the tall, black haired boy who either had ridiculously styled hair or shameful bed head, giving him an interested once over. The boy smirks, placing the bowl on the coffee table and holding out a hand, "Kuroo."
"Oikawa," he repeats, taking the hand in a firm grip.
Kuroo's brows raise in mild surprise before settling back to normal as he breaks the handshake, the corner of his lips quirks upward. He turns back towards the kitchen. "Do you want a drink or something? We're living on Red Bull and orange juice at the moment, so your options are kinda limited."
"Red Bull is fine," Oikawa says, watching as Kuroo digs through the mini fridge until Bokuto bursts into his line of vision again. He looks as though he has a million questions to ask and an equally amassed level of eagerness to boot. Oikawa tries to hide his sigh.
"So how'd you end up here?" is the first that tumbles out as Bokuto flops himself down next to him.
Oikawa shrugs, not entirely eager to elaborate. “Some party. Didn’t feel like staying, but I forgot about the trains, so—“
Bokuto nods in understanding, hands reaching for the bowl of chips before shoving a fistful unceremoniously into his mouth. “Yeah, shitty train system we got running. Me and Kuroo spent a lot of time sleeping at the station before we moved here.”
“All cause you didn't wanna crash at my place,” Kuroo pipes in, tossing Oikawa a can of Red Bull and taking seat by one of the computers. Oikawa catches it deftly, gripping the cold can and pressing it to his injured knee out of habit. He feels Kuroo watch his movements from the corner of his eye, so he immediately opens the Red Bull and takes a sip.
Bokuto coughs a laugh through his mouthful of chips. “Your mum would kill us, and you couldn’t act sober if you tried.”
“That was one time. And you just didn't want to be the drunk friend to the model son.”
“Model son, my ass. You spent all morning cleaning cheese ball stains from the ceiling cause you wanted to practice your tosses!”
“That was your idea!”
“No— Wait— Shut up!” Bokuto flusters, reaching out to throw a handful of chips in Kuroo’s direction.
Oikawa stifles a scoff at the argument, trying to brush the away the collateral chip remains of Bokuto’s attack from his jeans as Kuroo fires back another retort.
It’s not that Oikawa hasn’t had his own share of pointless tiffs. It’s just that most of the time they ended with Iwa-chan’s fist in his side and gruffly being told to stop being ridiculous. But between Kuroo and Bokuto, the volume and tenacity seems to be on a whole different level, and Oikawa finds the dynamic mystifyingly humorous to watch.
Then all of a sudden, Bokuto snatches up a stray ball from the floor near the couch and launches it at Kuroo —with mildly alarming strength and accuracy, considering the small space in the room— who blocks the force of the ball swiftly, smirking proudly as the ball drops harmlessly to the ground.
Oikawa glances between them, his own interest peaking. He’d seen throw around ball games between friends, but Kuroo and Bokuto’s exchange had a lot more skill than most. His eyes scan the pair as they continue to argue, the ball rolling away forgotten on the floor. It’s then that Oikawa recognises the grooved design; a volleyball.
He squints at the object. Maybe—?
Oikawa shakes off the thought, and after another look between the two arguing roommates, he coughs pointedly. The both of them go quiet, Kuroo just grinning, while Bokuto has the presence of mind to look at least slightly sheepish, murmuring a muted sorry before brightening up again for another round of questions.
But before he even has the chance to open his mouth, Oikawa hastily butts in with, “Actually, I’d like to sleep, if that’s okay with you?”
Bokuto visibly dampens at the apparent loss of a conversational partner. Kuroo just shrugs amiably, getting up from his seat with a stretch. “We’ll get the stuff ready then,” Kuroo says, tossing a glance over to Bokuto, who jumps to his feet eagerly.
"Where are you going to sleep?" Oikawa asks. Even though he doesn't tend to concern himself too much with it, he doesn't like the idea of pushing someone out of their own bed.
"We sleep in the bedroom, obviously,” Kuroo says, gaze flicking to him.
Oikawa raises a brow. "There's only one."
"And one bed too," Bokuto adds in gleefully, before tilting his head in apparent consideration. "But if you wanna take the bed, I'm happy to share with you."
"You’re aware you are inviting a stranger into your bed, right?” Oikawa says disbelievingly. Because honestly, there had to be a line of comfortability being crossed with that.
Bokuto starts laughing, eyes sparked with something that Oikawa can’t quite identify. "Who said that you're a stranger—“
"Bo’," Kuroo abruptly cuts in, and Bokuto shuts his mouth with a snap.
Oikawa watches the looks exchanged between the two of them in mild interest, trying to assess the conversation he is thankfully not a part of. Bokuto raises his hands dramatically in a sequence of vague gestures, compensating for his lack of vocalisation.
Kuroo’s silent argument seems to win Bokuto over because in the end he just shrugs and grins back at Oikawa, almost leering. “So you wanna share with me?”
Oikawa raises a brow, and politely says, “I think I’m good with the couch.”
Kuroo lets out a laugh, “Your loss.” He walks towards the direction of the bedroom before pausing. “Oh right,” he says, glancing back to Oikawa, looking oddly attentive. “I’ll get you a dry set of clothes.”
Oikawa shifts in his seat, feeling the discomfort of the dampened material against his skin. Despite whatever reservations he might have, he finds himself not wanting to refuse the offer; he’d much rather not sleep in wet clothes and catch a cold.
“The bathroom is over there.” Kuroo points to the door opposite from the entrance.
Oikawa nods in thanks, ducking into the bathroom. He peels his jacket off and rolls his shoulders, happy to be free of its constraints. The t-shirt he’d been wearing underneath was thoroughly soaked however, and Oikawa frowns as his fingers pull at the fabric lightly. It must’ve really been pouring down as he was walking through the city before-
He’s startled from his train of thought when Kuroo reappears with a set of sweats and a t-shirt in hand. He pauses by the door, eyes blinking in surprise and a hint of something Oikawa can’t identify.
Oikawa feels himself flush, hands immediately dropping the hem of his shirt. It’s not that he’s shy; years of volleyball change rooms have made him immune to such things, but he’d much rather not take to flashing people he’s only known for an hour.
Kuroo smirks, clearly over his initial surprise. The glimmer of his eyes making him look remarkably more sly as he hands Oikawa the clothes. “They’re mine, so they might be a bit loose.”
“You’re not that much taller than me.”
“Who said I was talking about height?” Kuroo grins in amusement, giving Oikawa a pointed stare.
Oikawa’s mouth opens in mild surprise, finding himself unable to reply when nothing comes to mind.
“Feel free to use the shower,” Kuroo continues, seemingly ignoring Oikawa’s silent bewilderment. Instead, he reaches down into the bathroom cupboards to pull out a fresh towel. The movement hikes up Kuroo’s t-shirt slightly, giving sight to the bare curve of his hips. Oikawa finds his eyes drawn to the small expanse of skin until Kuroo stands back up, turning to hand him the new towel.
Oikawa quickly turns his eyes away, letting his hand reach absently for the towel. “Right, thanks.”
A peculiar silence settles between them, until Bokuto runs past the door with an obnoxious wolf-whistle and bursts into a loud guffaw before disappearing down the hall, effectively breaking the tension.
Kuroo blinks before letting out a burst of laughter. He nods to Oikawa. “I’ll let you get to it then,” he says as he leaves.
Oikawa shuts the door numbly after him, turning the lock and letting out a heavy breath.
After a solid length of bantering and repeated arguments of yes, he was okay with the couch, and no, it was nothing personal, with Bokuto and a less than helpful Kuroo; Oikawa finally settles down for the night. He tugs at the blanket that Kuroo had left at the edge of the couch while he had been distracted by Bokuto, who had hung around to trying to coax him into more conversation by offering to let Oikawa borrow his toothbrush.
He was starting to wonder whether Bokuto was fooling around or was just simply over-enthusiastic. He’s not entirely sure which is worse.
Now Oikawa stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the murmured sounds drifting in from the room where Kuroo and Bokuto are laughing about god knows what. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief because as much as he appreciates the geniality, there is only so much friendly energy he can deal with when it’s not on his terms.
He’s about to let his eyes slide shut about to sleep when the door to the bedroom opens again, revealing a burst of light. Kuroo steps out of the room carefully.
“You okay?” he asks.
In the dark, Oikawa can see the glimmer of Kuroo’s eyes staring at him. He feels like he’s being observed, and the feeling of it makes an awful warmth run through him.
He nods numbly, unsure what to say. Kuroo studies him a minute longer before disappearing into the bedroom, coming out a few seconds later with a cushion in hand. He gestures for a confused Oikawa to shift his legs, and props it onto the couch, setting it near the middle, just underneath where Oikawa’s right knee should be.
“There,” Kuroo says, seemingly proud of his arrangement. “Fit for a king.”
Oikawa’s attention turns sharply at the word. It’s not a name he hears often anymore since high school, a brief legacy of his captaincy at Aoba Jousai, and one that he doesn't think anyone would really refer to him by anymore.
He meets Kuroo’s eyes, but they betray nothing, and Kuroo just fiddles more with the couch’s other cushion arrangements. Oikawa lets his leg rest on the cushion, appreciating the feel of support at the joint.
“How did you know?” Oikawa asks eventually, unable to ignore the spontaneity of the deed. It’s a doubly loaded question and he briefly wonders which one he’ll get an answer for.
“You touch your knee every now and then,” Kuroo answers, but doesn't say anymore. He moves towards the kitchen, and comes out with two glasses of water, placing one on the coffee table, within Oikawa’s reach.
“Good night,” he says, giving a slight nod to Oikawa, and walks back to his room.
The door shuts with a soft click, drowning the living room in dim shadows, with the small glow of light beaming from the gaps in the curtains. Oikawa stares at the glass of water, letting his back slide down against the couch. He lets out a deep exhale.
He’s always prided himself on his ability to read those around him. Breaking down the minute dissonances in their actions and slips of tongue; it’s a simple thing. An ability emphasised when he’s on the volleyball court, tossing to maximise the potential of his team mates around him.
But with Kuroo, his mind draws a startling blank with a promise of a challenge.
His mind wanders and he can’t help but let his eyes roam around the room, tracing the shapes of the computers and television. His gaze meets the hidden stack of volleyballs in the corner and he frowns at the sight, scrutinising them until his eyelids feel heavy, so he pushes the thought away and lets himself fall asleep.
————
The sunlight is bright in the room when Oikawa wakes to the sound of bustling in the kitchen. A clang of a pan and the hiss of something cooking rings in the air, causing him to groan, “—the fuck.“
A blurry figure of what Oikawa supposes is Kuroo’s head pops up from behind the kitchen counter. “Sorry. Cooking breakfast, want some?”
Oikawa checks his phone sluggishly, blearily reading the time 7:10 a.m. on the screen, noting that he’s slept in longer than he intended. He drags a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes in efforts of waking up. He should go, really. But his body protests and he’d much rather lie down for another hour.
“Yeah thanks,” he manages instead, forcing himself upright. He takes time to stretch out his back, feeling the creaks in his spine. Unconsciously, his hand drifts towards his right knee, massaging it lightly when he feels a slight strain in the muscle.
Oikawa is familiar with the occasional pangs of pain. It’s a repeated injury, and despite his care for it through the years, it still hurts. He dully berates himself for opting to not wear his knee support, but well, it’s not as though he had anticipated having to walk across half the city late last night. So, he just lets it rest on the cushion that Kuroo gave him, settling it into a more comfortable position.
He flicks back to his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he lands on the right one. The line rings twice before it connects, then—
“Where the hell are you?” the voice grunts from the other side.
“Iwa-chan, were you worried about me?” Oikawa teases lightly.
“You said you’d call when you were coming home, dumbass.”
Oikawa lets out a quiet laugh, because its always like Iwa-chan to get worked up over things. He hums, “What do you think I’m doing now?”
“I swear to god, shitty-kawa, if you’re in jail or some ditch, I’m gonna—“
“Iwa-chan, relax, relax. I’m fine,” Oikawa coaxes slowly, despite the fact that he knows that his friend hates it. He peers over into the kitchen, watching as Kuroo bustles about, clearly focused on whatever he’s cooking up.
“I’m staying with some—,” Oikawa pauses. His back straightens when Kuroo’s eyes meet his, giving him a slight nod in acknowledgement. Oikawa barely restrains a smile when he focuses back on the phone call.
“—some guys. They’re nice,” he finishes lamely, and he can tell that Iwa-chan isn’t impressed.
“‘Nice’,” Iwa-chan repeats with a snort. “Just get home, and leave the ‘nice’ guy behind, geez.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll bring lunch to make it up to you.”
“If you bring home bread from the convenience store and call it lunch one more fucking time—“
“Bread it is then! Bye bye, Iwa-chan!”
“Oi! Listen to m—“
Oikawa laughs to himself, feeling a little bit of relief that Iwa-chan won’t kill him on sight once he gets back. Not that that means that he’ll get away with it scot free. There’s still team practice in the afternoon and he’s sure that Iwa-chan will find a way to aim some spikes to his head.
Kuroo peers over the kitchenette, and Oikawa can see the spatula in his hand. It looks somewhat out of place in contrast with Kuroo’s sweatpants.
“Friend of yours?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Oikawa says vaguely, not wanting to overshare. “He just wanted to know when I’m coming back.”
“Cool.” Kuroo nods, turning back to the stove.
Minutes later, the smell of eggs and toast wafts through the air, and Kuroo appears in the living room, setting the food down onto the coffee table. It’s simple, and Oikawa can’t really remember when he last had anything remotely appropriate for breakfast; so he appreciates the change of pace.
“We don’t have a dining area, so we make do here,” Kuroo says in explanation as he wanders back to the kitchen.
When Kuroo comes back, he sets down miso soup, and Oikawa blinks down at the bowl. “A bit incongruous, isn't it?”
Kuroo lets out a laugh, reaching for the juice and pouring into the two glasses. “Yeah, well I like a bit of traditional flavour.”
Fair enough, Oikawa concedes. Mostly because he isn’t any better when it comes to cooking. Between him and Iwa-chan neither of them are particularly decent cooks. Most of the time they eat out or find themselves on an unhealthy dependence of instant ramen.
Oikawa glances at the two setting breakfast, raising a curious brow. “What about Bokuto?”
“He won’t be up for another three hours, at least. He’s more of a night person.” Kuroo shrugs, seemingly unconcerned with his roommate’s absence.
“I figured.”
They eat in relative silence. Kuroo had turned on the TV for background noise and the news buzzes about the latest political conflicts and the changes in weather. It’s strangely comfortable, Oikawa realises. He barely knows Kuroo as it is; he’s a friend of a friend and nothing more than that but— it feels easy between them.
Oikawa is halfway through his scrambled eggs, when Kuroo’s voice cuts into his spacing out.
“It’s bedhead.”
“What?”
“My hair. You were staring,” Kuroo points out as he takes a sip of his orange juice, looking incredibly amused.
“I wasn’t—“ Oikawa stammers. He wasn’t staring. Not really.
“It’s a bit of a complex for me,” Kuroo admits offhandedly, finishing up the last of his eggs. “So I just leave it as is.” He shrugs, causing a part of hair falling across his face and he frowns distractedly before pushing it away artfully with his hand.
Oikawa stares at the sight before catching himself and turning back to his own plate. “Maybe you should consider a hair transplant,” he says glibly, steadily avoiding Kuroo’s eyes.
Kuroo snorts, but doesn't say anything more. And Oikawa tries not to feel the least bit victorious when a brief look of offence passes on Kuroo’s face.
“I should get going,” Oikawa says, after they’ve finished breakfast. He carries the dishes towards the kitchen, placing them in the sink.
He’s overstayed, immensely so. From the beginning, he’d only planned to have a decent nap and leave on the earliest train back home in hopes of grabbing a shower and lugging himself to practice. But somehow he’s managed to hang around longer in an apartment with complete strangers, and he’s not quite sure why.
Kuroo follows, placing his dishes in the sink and giving them a light rinse with water. “I’ll show you out,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
Kuroo leans against the edge of the sink, folding his arms against his chest. “I wouldn’t be doing a good job of being a host otherwise.”
Oikawa rolls his eyes dismissively. “And you really take the job of being a good host that seriously? Are you practicing your night job?”
Kuroo tilts his head in question, voice dropping into a serious tone. “Why? Did I impress you that much?”
“Not at all,” Oikawa mutters, but his expression must betray him because Kuroo face turns into something that looks almost—
Strangely pleased.
Oikawa walks over the couch, grabbing his jacket and tugging it on. He gathers the blanket he used last night, folding it neatly before placing it on the edge of the couch. Kuroo is standing with the apartment door open, apparently content to leave the house just wearing a singlet and sweats despite the fact that they’re only just edging out of winter.
“You don’t have to walk me out. I found my way in just fine.”
Kuroo says nothing and just waits by the door, swinging his set of keys around his finger, grandly gesturing outside. “This way, your majesty.”
Oikawa snorts as he walks out the door. But he’s sure to elbow Kuroo in the gut as he breezes past.
They make their way towards the exit, and Oikawa notes that it looks remarkably less dim and much like the average apartments around the city. Kuroo doesn't say a word, walking just one step ahead of him. Again, he holds the main door open, letting Oikawa step out first.
Oikawa scans the streets as he exits. The path is still wet and the air hangs damp as the breeze flutters around them. There are a few cars lined up along the road, and over the stretch of buildings he can see the sun easing into the sky.
A silent minute runs between them, and then Kuroo speaks.
“The station is closer if you walk that way,” he says abruptly, gesturing to an alleyway that filters towards the city. “It should take you about ten minutes.”
Oikawa nods, muttering a small thanks. He’s not sure what to say now. On protocol, he should probably say a proper thank you for the hospitality, but that seems too polite to be said between them now. So, he just raises a hand in parting and starts to walk in the direction of the station. He’s only a few metres away when his steps falter and he turns, levelling his gaze in Kuroo’s direction.
“Do you normally take in strangers with nowhere to sleep?” he asks finally, because it’s been a question nagging at the corner of his mind.
Kuroo looks like he’s about to laugh but he doesn’t, offering Oikawa a small smile instead.
“Not really. Friends of friends mostly. There are exceptions here and there though,” he explains vaguely but Oikawa feels inclined to believe him. He leans a tiny bit forward, smiling. “Why? Are you questioning my hospitality? Because I thought I gave pretty good service.”
Oikawa scoffs. “B-grade at best.”
“And you know from experience?”
“You could call it a difference of class.”
Kuroo laughs at that, shoulders shaking before he meets Oikawa’s gaze halfway. His eyes burn as if they have a secret to tell.
“I guess that’s where the nickname comes from then.”
Oikawa stills. His brows narrow, not comprehending. “Wha—“
"You can't have possibly thought that we hadn't heard of you, Grand King," Kuroo croons, smile enveloping the whole of his face as if he’s told the greatest joke in the world.
Oikawa allows himself a few seconds to understand. Because really. Kuroo would have had to find out somehow. And out of all Oikawa’s friend-of-a-friend’s there was bound to have been one to overlap between them. But strangely enough, Oikawa starts to feel like Tokyo might not be that big after all.
"Of course you did," Oikawa mutters eventually, resigned but not entirely surprised. He casts a skeptical glare at Kuroo. “Is this the way you size up your competition? By letting them stay over and cook them breakfast?”
Kuroo smiles, this time it looks softer. “I told you. Exceptions.”
“Am I supposed to feel special?” Oikawa asks warily.
“Only if you want to.” Kuroo shrugs. And it sounds so much like an invitation that Oikawa finds himself staring, eyes unfaltering as his lips try to string together the right words.
And then he feels himself walking back up to Kuroo, meeting him at the steps in front of the apartment building. He pauses, eyes flickering before his hands reach out to grab Kuroo by the collar of his shirt. He pulls him close and presses their lips together, the warmth radiating between them slow and easy.
Oikawa feels Kuroo grin grow against his lips before he pulls away, suddenly nervous. But sure enough, when he sneaks a glance, Kuroo is smiling.
“Consider that your tip,” Oikawa breathes, unravelling his fingers from Kuroo’s shirt.
“Feel free to come back,” Kuroo returns with a knowing gleam in his eye. It sounds so confident that Oikawa almost lets out a laugh. “So, do I get to have your number, Grand King?” Kuroo asks, more serious this time.
Oikawa considers him for a moment before letting out a quiet chuckle. “I think you might already have it.”
Kuroo shrugs nonchalantly but doesn't deny it. “No harm in asking for permission.”
Oikawa steps back, letting himself smile a little more sincerely. "I suppose I'll be seeing you on the court then?"
"You could say that that's a distinct possibility.” Kuroo grins. “Sooner would be nicer though.”
“We’ll see,” Oikawa says, deliberately vague as he walks up the steps. Because there’s something much more comforting in keeping Kuroo on his toes.
From behind him Kuroo laughs one more time, and Oikawa lets that sound ring in his ears as he walks towards the station.
————
Oikawa is about to get on the train when his phone trills with an arriving message. He pulls the device out of his pocket, swiping open across the screen to read,
get home safe, tooru-kun.
“Idiot,” he scoffs in amusement, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he finds a seat by the window and watches the sun rise slow and bright over the city skyline.