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There’s only the crunch of autumn-dry leaves beneath the worn tires of Kuroo’s old Chevrolet Bel-Air. The bright red of it cuts through setting-sun streets of a more residential area of the city, orange leaves chasing behind as though trying to keep up. The world is a riot of warm colours, setting sun and fallen leaves and the cherry red paint of the car.
Oikawa slaps Kuroo on the wrist with one hand while the other stays permanently atop his head, trying desperately to smooth down the carefully maintained swoop of his bangs while the winds whip at every exposed hair through the lowered top of the convertible.
“Speed,” He says, a wobbling kind of worry that only comes with being driven by Kuroo slips into his tone.
Kuroo slows the car, bringing them from a near-criminal velocity to a slower, steadier speed. The world passes in less of a blur, more of a constant pace. He watches the world from his periphery, sees Oikawa staring at the whole stir of the city with wonder in the gentle chestnut of his eyes.
The young kids are just starting their descent on the houses, dressed as every celebrity, character, and creature Kuroo could possibly imagine—and quite a few he can’t place. They carry jack o’ lantern baskets and stark white pillowcases, even some plain plastic bags, anything they can manage to greedily stuff candy into. Decorations flicker and flash, lights that will only be amplified as soon as the sun finally sets, skeletons draped from trees and house fronts, pumpkin-faced bags full of fallen leaves.
It really is Halloween.
“I swear you almost killed one of those kids,” Oikawa mumbles. He makes a real attempt to perfect the mess of his wind-whipped hair, staring intently at his reflection in the side mirrors.
“Ghosts, zombies, skeletons, half of them are dead anyway,” Kuroo says. He makes a right turn and narrowly avoids a group of younger teens who’d crossed the street without looking.
“I can’t believe you actually have your license,” Oikawa mutters. He drags a finger along the top of his eyebrow, smoothing out imperfections that seem invisible to Kuroo—but he might also be biased, seeing as he doesn’t think he could ever pinpoint a physical anomaly on Oikawa (though Kuroo has no shortage of issues with his personality).
Kuroo’s about to respond, indignation on the tip of his tongue, but he very suddenly slams on the brakes, further proving Oikawa’s point and also nearly banging his face into the dashboard.
“What was tha—?!” Oikawa’s about to splutter, glaring intently at Kuroo.
“Bokuto’s place.” Is the only response Kuroo gives as he hops over the driver’s side door and jogs up the sidewalk to the nearby apartment complex.
Oikawa follows along, mumbling something colourful about Kuroo’s possibly crooked parking job.
They cross the short grassy patch of front property and come to see Bokuto. He stands on the balcony of his second-floor apartment, waving down at Kuroo and Oikawa with a wide smile set into his features. His shoulders are pushed back, chest puffed out, hands on his hips with something clenched in each one. With the way the sun shines on the glass of his balcony, reflecting up onto him the last colours of the evening, he looks—
Promptly, he jumps from the balcony, landing on the grass with a roll and whatever spell that had Kuroo thinking how stunning he looked is broken. Bokuto stands, hands in the air as though he’s expecting applause. He doesn’t receive it, only raised-eyebrowed surprise from Oikawa and a look of amazement and a little fear from Kuroo.
Oikawa goes to make a comment, but it turns into an aborted uh as he decides it isn’t worth it. Instead, he asks, “Daichi’s place next?”
And Kuroo knows it’s bait to pick Ushijima up last—who would Oikawa be if he wasn’t actively trying to make Ushijima’s life just a little more difficult—but he agrees with a nod of his head.
Bokuto gawks at being ignored, mouth wide as his honey-gold eyes. “Did you guys not see that?” He demands, gesturing with one hand to his balcony.
Kuroo quickly notes that he’s holding a carton of eggs—he hopes they weren’t damaged by the fall. “Sure, Bo,” He says as he retreats to the car, “It was a nice trick.”
“Uh-huh,” Oikawa hums along, “Very impressive, dear.”
Bokuto preens at that, as forced as it sounds. He smiles, his face rounding so perfectly. Kuroo watches over his shoulder as Oikawa goes to pinch one of Bokuto’s cheeks, a little close-mouthed smile lighting up his own face.
Oikawa hops into the passenger side with only a few complaints from Bokuto, who tends to take shotgun whenever possible. He leaps over the side of the car into the backseat and leans forward to stick his face right in between the two front seats.
“I’m excited,” He says in that straightforward way of his. Sometimes Kuroo thinks Bokuto’s simplicity is a blessing, oftentimes though, he finds it to be more of a curse.
“We know,” Kuroo chuckles, and pushes Bokuto gently back before starting the car.
Oikawa punches Kuroo’s shoulder lightly— lovingly. “We are too,” He says with a pointed glare at Kuroo.
And they’re off, driving around the city with caution only known one night a year, weaving through costumed kids and the light flow of traffic as the sun finally dips below the horizon. By the time they arrive at the Sawamura family’s condo, the world has fogged with the grey of twilight. Kuroo feels the buzz of the hour, when the mind is cloudy and the eyes don’t quite catch everything—when ghostly things start to dance in darkened periphery.
He leaves Oikawa and Bokuto in the car and walks up the paved pathway to Daichi’s front door. Kuroo rings the bell, hears it jingle through the open front window, and waits with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his red and black letterman. His breath fogs the air when he huffs a surprised exhale at the abruptness of the opening door.
Daichi’s mom stands in the doorway, a bowl of candy clenched in her hands. She’s dressed as a witch, a tangled wig atop her head and a black dress cascading down her frame.
“Ah,” She says, a smile lighting up her face, “It’s only you.” She peaks around Kuroo to his car parked on the street and waves kindly at Oikawa and Bokuto. They both wave back with vigour.
“I’ll get Daichi for you.” And she’s gone without another word, leaving the door open for Kuroo to bask in the tendrils of heat that slip outside.
Soon Daichi’s rounding the corner to the genkan, slipping his shoes on and pulling a jacket matching Kuroo’s over his torso—though his is Halloween-typical black and orange (which makes Kuroo chuckle).
“What’s so funny?” Daichi asks, a minimal smile tipping at the corners of his lips.
“Oh, nothing,” Kuroo says with a smirk, “You just look like a human jack o’ lantern in those colours.”
Daichi doesn’t seem to find this all that funny. He gives Kuroo a gentle slap on the shoulder—between Daichi and Oikawa, he’s been steadily getting used to those.
As soon as they get to the car Oikawa’s leaning towards the two of them. “Did your mom make any of her spooky boo brownies this year?” He asks Daichi.
“No ‘ hey, how are you doing’? ” Daichi teases as he manages his way into the backseat. Kuroo starts the car and again, they’re off.
“Hey, how’re you doing,” Oikawa amends, saying more than asking, “Did your mom make brownies?”
“I’m great, thanks,” Daichi, sarcastically, “And yes, she has a whole container set aside just for you.”
“Could you tell her that I love her?” Oikawa bats his eyelashes.
Daichi only shakes his head in disbelief, but even he can’t hide his small amused smile.
It only takes them a few minutes to get to Ushijima’s house, a grand place hidden deep within the residential area of the city. Kuroo pulls to a gentle halt, staring at the house for a few moments before getting out. The lights are off, and while it’s probably meant to discourage trick or treaters, Kuroo feels intimidated by the sheer darkness of everything.
When he rings the doorbell he waits nearly a full minute, counting the entire thing in his head before he rings it again. Eventually, the front curtains shift a little, revealing Ushijima’s possibly-confused-but-mostly-neutral face. It takes only seconds before he opens the door.
“Kuroo,” He says as way of greeting.
“Ushijima,” Kuroo replies with a warm smile, “You forget we’re going out tonight?”
Ushijima shakes his head slightly. “I’ve been quite excited.”
It’s a wonderful thing that he states everything just as it is, with not a lie daring to roll off his tongue. It just makes his vulnerability shine bright in the dimness of the night, the glimmering orange of lantern light that Kuroo’s cold fingers ache for.
He gives Ushijima a light shove with his shoulder. “Me too,” He whispers with an honesty so fragile he would only entrust it to Ushijima.
And then Ushijima is stuffing himself into the backseat while Kuroo starts the car once again and carries them off for the night’s adventure.
By this time the whipping winds are too cold, even at the slow velocity, and Kuroo puts the top back up while stopped at a painfully long red light. It feels safe this way, just the five of them in a controlled environment, closed in, like the world is theirs to explore and they are some detached thing.
Kuroo cranks the radio, gives Oikawa a little look from the corner of his eye as permission to play around with it. There’s the flicker going between stations, little glimpses of everything before Oikawa settles on one playing tinny and crackled oldies. Surely it’s not his kind of music, but he knows Kuroo and Daichi will appreciate it. Ushijima never minds—Kuroo’s convinced he’ll listen to anything without complaint—and Bokuto likes any song as long as he can tap his feet to it.
They drive around for a while, aimless and silent. Just the slow circles of the city and the honey-sweet guitar from the radio. Somewhere in the back of Kuroo’s mind, a voice is whispering that they had plans for tonight, but he can’t bring himself to care. His mind is wrapped in a foggy blanket and all he knows is his car and these streets and the five of them together.
Eventually, when Bokuto’s ability to keep silent has run its course, he speaks up. “So? Who are we gonna get first?”
“Rich kids or underclassmen,” Oikawa says, hands fumbling with the buttons on his own letterman—a bright teal and the same whitish silver as the vinyl interior of the car.
“This is such a bad idea,” Daichi says as a last warning, as if none of them know.
Bokuto produces the carton of eggs from the bag that rests in his lap. He places them gently on the console between Kuroo and Oikawa. Already, a twisted grin is lighting up his face.
Another hand reaches out, placing two rolls of toilet paper atop the egg carton. Kuroo does a double-take, nearly hitting a curb in the process. Ushijima stares back at him, looking unbothered by the confusion everyone else in the car is experiencing.
Daichi is the first to speak. “I would expect this from anyone but you.” He shakes his head, disappointment light-heartedly evident.
“I wanted to contribute,” Ushijima says. There’s something so slightly sweet in his tone, something Kuroo, with all of his human intuition, can’t manage to pinpoint.
Oikawa’s upper lip curls. “Ugh,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “Your company is enough, you bastard.”
Ushijima looks conflicted, confused by how he should answer a phrase with such duality.
“Thank you,” He says questioningly, “But I felt like I should bring something more.”
Oikawa only huffs at that, crosses his arms over his chest and pushes his feet up onto the dash.
Kuroo gazes through the rearview mirror. He sees Daichi roll his eyes at Oikawa’s irritability. He places a comforting hand just above Ushijima’s knee, pets at the fabric of his joggers. And Kuroo smiles, because Daichi’s always been so versatile, adaptable. Kuroo’s seen him carefully talk Bokuto out of lows and scold Oikawa when he’s been too reckless. Daichi’s even gotten Kuroo to open up about the littlest things, always knowing what to ask and when to back away.
And now, as he offers silent reassurance in a moment that really isn’t all that bad—teasing between friends, is all. And still Daichi will jump to help out.
Kuroo wants to slam his head into the steering wheel at how sweet the gesture is.
He refrains, through miraculous self control, and instead brings them to a neighbourhood he knows houses several of their more wealthy underclassmen.
Oikawa jolts up in his seat, planting his feet on the floor and poking a finger out the window. “One of ‘em lives there.”
Kuroo trails the line of Oikawa’s finger, to a tall and wide house lit up golden and lively.
Bokuto wolf whistles.
“Rich and an underclassman,” Kuroo hums, recognizing the place, “Perfect.”
“Park a little further down,” Oikawa says, “This car is...Noticeable.”
“To say the least,” Daichi chuckles under his breath.
Kuroo scoffs, “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
Daichi shakes his head as if he has no clue what Kuroo’s talking about, as if the two of them hadn’t searched every corner of the internet for someone selling this exact model nearby solely because Daichi had said it looked like something you should own, when Kuroo had first come across it.
Kuroo pulls up just a little further and stops the car. They all file out, Bokuto with his carton of eggs and Ushijima with his rolls of toilet paper.
“This may be the worst idea any of you have ever had,” Daichi says as the real final warning. He does nothing to stop it, however, only grabs a roll of toilet paper from Ushijima and ducks low as he creeps closer to the household.
Oikawa stifles a chuckle, following behind Daichi, crouched just as low. Kuroo follows. Bokuto after him and finally Ushijima bringing up the rear. The five of them nearly crawl across the front yard, finally finding themselves pressed to a row of bushes a few feet before the house front.
“Okay,” Kuroo whispers, “Now what?”
“Now we just—” Oikawa grabs the roll of toilet paper from Ushijima, throwing it high onto the roof. One end of it dangles down while the rest of it catches on the shingles. Oikawa smiles, one hand outstretched as the roll falls off the roof. He catches it without looking, and the first streak of white hangs from the house, fluttering in the slight breeze.
“Alright,” Kuroo drawls.
“Alright!” Bokuto, ecstatic as ever.
Daichi hushes him, offering a gentle hand on his shoulder before he, too, tosses a roll of toilet paper at the roof. It manages to hook around the chimney, rolling around and falling into the bushes a metre or so away.
“Nice throw,” Oikawa says. He takes another go at it. This time the roll goes only half as far and tumbles to the ground a few centimetres from Kuroo’s feet.
He picks it up, and feels it in his hand for a moment before he finally throws it. Soon the night is streaked through with white, lines of it cascading as rippling in the wind. When one of the rolls is depleted and the other is half finished, Bokuto brings out the eggs. A grand total of one was crushed during his fall, and he scoops it up like he doesn’t even mind as he flings it at the front window. It lands with the low noise of glass impact and he smiles at his handiwork.
An egg is passed to each of them.
“Should we bet on who can throw farther?” Kuroo asks, smirking.
“What’s on the line?” Daichi asks. He moves his shoulder in circles, warming up.
“Money?” Oikawa offers.
“Bragging rights?” Bokuto.
“The large bag of candy underneath the seats of Kuroo’s car?” Ushijima.
“I like that last one.” Daichi nods.
There’s some form of short verbal agreement as the bet is fully placed.
Bokuto goes first, leaning his body back and slinging his egg up to the rooftop. It lands at the pointed top of it, splatting loud in the silence of the night. Kuroo goes next. He pulls his arm all the way back and throws it so hard it stings the muscles in his bicep. It lands a few centimetres in front of Bokuto’s.
He groans, “Rigged.”
“It’s an egg,” Oikawa teases. He throws next. He’s elegant as he does it, striking with all the power of something lethal and managing to make it only slightly further than Bokuto.
“My wrist hasn’t been great recently,” Bokuto mumbles as an excuse.
Daichi’s next, his own egg landing a centimetre or two ahead of Kuroo’s but not quite as far as Bokuto’s. He presses his lips into a tight frown.
Ushijima goes last. He seems to throw without an ounce of effort, simply tossing it as though he’s only aiming for the window a metre in front of them. But, oh, does it fly. it launches fast and high, a cannon shot of a throw that disappears up over the roof and splats heavily somewhere in the backyard.
Kuroo’s heart stops as a shout pierces through the night, “Hey! Who threw that?!” Someone behind the house demands.
There’s a quick chorus of colourful profanity from the five of them, still squatting in the bushes. Then there’s the rustle of steps rapidly approaching and as quick as they can go, they’re off. Five sets of steps echo through the night, sprinting in the direction of the car without a second’s hesitation.
Adrenaline burns in Kuroo’s veins, lighting him up, all gunpowder and elation. He pulls the door open and doesn’t even bother with a seat belt as he’s jamming the keys in the ignition. His foot is on the pedal before Daichi even manages to pull the door fully shut. But they still manage their getaway as a figure runs into the front yard they’d occupied mere seconds before, shouting at them to come back.
Light panting echoes through the car as they all catch up with what just happened.
“I told you that was a bad idea,” Daichi says.
“And yet you still did it,” Kuroo notes.
“I take it that wasn’t your proudest moment, Daichi?” Oikawa, his voice sugar-sweet.
Daichi only glares at him and refuses to answer.
“I think it was fun!” Bokuto exclaims, his hands still twitching with excitement in his lap as he bounces a leg steadily up and down.
“I agree,” Ushijima adds.
“Well, then Halloween was a success,” Kuroo says with a smile.
An idea strikes like lightning in his mind. He jolts, back straightening as he makes a quick turn down a street with houses on either side. Right as Daichi’s about to ask about the sudden detour, Kuroo pulls to a tight stop. He hops out of the car, motioning for everyone else to follow.
It’s fully dark out now, with only the streetlights to show the way. The area is quiet, not a sign of life but the five of them as they trail along a grassy patch and through an opening in the fence. They come to a park, a children’s play structure in the centre surrounded by field on all sides. Kuroo sits down in the grass, wraps his fingers between the blades and breathes in the night. It smells like chill and pumpkins.
And a little like the eggs Bokuto still carries.
Everyone sits in a circle next to Kuroo, possibly confused—but not enough to ask questions. Spontaneity is something they’re all pretty good with, having five of them as close as they are. Oikawa’s hand makes itself a home atop Kuroo’s. Oikawa himself looks away, refusing to acknowledge the contact. Daichi’s foot kicks lightly at Kuroo’s converse and when Kuroo looks over at him, he’s rewarded with a little smile. Across from them, Bokuto’s making himself at home halfway across Ushijima’s lap while talking his ear off about old memories at this very park.
Something pokes Kuroo in the sensitive skin of his flank. He reaches to the inside of his jacket to see what it is and comes across a goblin mask, a simple pull-over one with a string in the back. He flips it around in his hands, the nostalgia from past years of wearing the same costume creeping over him like a thick blanket, all warm and safe. There’s a little prickle of sadness at the base of his stomach, the thought that he broke a years old tradition by not wearing it tonight.
But Oikawa’s tapping him on the hand, long slender finger playing across the tendons on the back of Kuroo’s hand like a string instrument. When Kuroo looks up at him, he sees a near identical mask slung over Oikawa’s face. There’s a tap at Kuroo’s shoe again and when he looks to the rest of the group, they all have similar masks, only small details changed between each.
It seems they haven’t forgotten the tradition either.
Maybe there’s still time to go wreak childish havok. After all, the night is still young and the house lights are still casting warm yellow on the paved streets.
“Let’s go,” Kuroo says, standing up and walking off to the car.
“Where to?” Daichi asks, quick to follow.
Kuroo only shrugs. “It’s Halloween.” And while it definitely isn’t an explanation, Daichi lets it go. Rapid paced footfalls follow at Kuroo’s heels, and a heavier set find their way next to Daichi.
The five of them walk off into the night, masks on their faces and the Halloween spirit filling their lungs with a crazed sense of invulnerability. Tonight is theirs for the taking.