Archive of Our Own

Oikawa tugs the strap of his bag, pulling it over his shoulder. He gives a wave to the rest of his classmates, before walking out of the library to head back home.

His joint study session had run late, and now an itch of tiredness flows through him. He rubs at his eyes. Exam period was coming up in the next week, and he had been spending the majority of his time holed up in the library trying to cram in the last bits of information he could. His notes are immaculate and up to date, but between his single classes and volleyball practice, he feels himself wearing a little thin.

Oikawa passes by a convenience store, stopping in front of the glowing sign to consider buying some milk bread in lieu of dinner. He gives a longing glance at the snack display inside before deciding against it, and proceeds to walk towards his apartment building. He has a whole bunch of snacks at home that need to be finished before he starts throwing around money on his uni budget.

He makes it to the front of his apartment block, dragging his feet as he climbs the stairs with the sole goal of falling face first onto his bed for a good night’s sleep. As he walks through the gates, he spots a familiar figure in front on the main entrance way.

He frowns as he approaches the figure. “What are you doing here?”

And true to his expectations, Kuroo turns to face him, leaning against the doorframe, far too relaxed to be waiting in front of Oikawa’s doorstep on a mere whim.

“I came for a visit. Captain to captain,” he says, smirk rising to his face. It’s a stupid reason, Oikawa thinks, because they both know that their previous high school captaincy is almost a year behind them, and their university volleyball careers are just starting.

Oikawa scoffs, pushing past the taller boy to unlock his door. “We’ve graduated already. Remind me how we’re still captains.”

Kuroo waves a disinterested hand. “Semantics.”

Oikawa turns around, meeting Kuroo’s eyes, completely serious and says, “I don’t have anything to offer you, just so you know.”

It’s true. Oikawa’s pantry couldn't be any less understocked. All in all, they're both still growing boys, regardless of whether their uni student budget can accommodate it. And giving Kuroo any kind of leeway would just encourage him.

“But I think you do,” Kuroo replies vaguely, eyes smiling and far too bright against the evening sky.

“I should have never told you where I live,” Oikawa mutters, pushing the door open and reaching a hand inside blindly to switch on the lights.

“Actually, I don’t think you ever did,” Kuroo supplements. “It took me a month of breaking your Iwa-chan down to get it.”

Oikawa snorts at that because he remembers receiving numerous angry text messages from his best friend detailing the strange phone calls from foreign woman named Katarina who was most likely a dude and how did he get my number Shittykawa you have to fix this–

Kuroo walks straight into Oikawa’s apartment without any preamble, not bothering to ask him for permission to come inside. Instead, he mumbles an appropriate ‘excuse me for intruding’ that is most likely a result of his mother’s insistence on manners rather than actually feeling the need to excuse his presence in Oikawa’s apartment. This has happened enough times for Oikawa to ignore the intrusion altogether. Oikawa had long given up trying to stop Kuroo after the he had kept up his spontaneous appearances week after week, assured annoyance included. So instead, Oikawa just prays that Kuroo won’t break anything this time because he doesn't want to call up the maintenance guy for the fourth time this month.

Oikawa toes off his shoes by the door, drops his book bag on the couch, and walks straight to the kitchen where Kuroo has switched on the lights. The sounds of clattering pans already echo throughout the room.

“What are you—“ Oikawa starts, walking into the kitchen, pausing when he spots Kuroo reaching unrepentantly into the above kitchen cupboards.

Kuroo peers into his pantry, eyes searching for something. Oikawa knows that there won’t be anything inside because he hasn’t done the grocery shopping for the past week, and as a result had been slovenly living on packets of instant ramen and copious amounts of milk bread, despite knowing better.

A minute later, Kuroo pulls a bottle off the shelf, a small ‘A-ha’ escaping his lips as he places it on the counter like a prize.

Oikawa gives Kuroo an unimpressed look, before identifying the mysterious bottle as cooking mirin that Iwa-chan must have left the last time he had been over. Truth be told Oikawa didn’t even know he had that, let alone how to use it to create something edible.

It’s then Oikawa notices the bag of groceries sitting precariously on the tabletop, fresh vegetables peeking out from the plastic. He briefly wonders how Kuroo was able to sneak that past him when he walked inside, before chalking it up to Kuroo’s general sneakiness.

Kuroo leans against the counter, hip jutting out. Oikawa blinks at the sight.

“Dinner,” is what Kuroo says, as if he’s stating the obvious, but the words still make little sense to Oikawa’s ears.

“You can’t even cook,” Oikawa mutters, after a delayed moment of realisation. He leans against the doorframe of his kitchen. “I don’t recall inviting you for dinner.”

“You didn’t. I invited myself, which is good enough,” Kuroo says in return, obviously ignoring any kind of opposition that Oikawa might have on the topic.

Oikawa stares at him, unimpressed, but Kuroo seems to take his silence as some kind of consent and proceeds to shuffle about the kitchen, pulling vegetables and ingredients out from the plastic bag and setting them near the sink before moving around to grab whatever utensils Oikawa has lying around.

Oikawa decides to leave Kuroo to his own devices in the silent hope that the other boy will somehow leave on his own, and instead, sets his eyes on finding the stray packet of milk bread that he had left around the previous night. Scanning the kitchen —minus the mess already accumulating thanks to Kuroo— Oikawa spots the packet pushed in the corner of the bench top. He swipes the packet off the table, tears it open and happily takes a bite.

“Do you know that your fridge has basically nothing in it?” Kuroo asks, suddenly. Oikawa drags his eyes to where he spots Kuroo with his face buried in the refrigerator.

Oikawa knows, of course. He also knows that he has no intention on filling up said fridge with anything requiring any more than microwave power because despite his excellence in many things, cooking is not one of them. And that was a secret that he was taking to his cold, cold grave, lest Kuroo catch wind of it and decide to make his presence in Oikawa’s apartment justified.

Kuroo pulls himself away from the fridge, turning to look at Oikawa with a falsified stern glance. “You should be watching your diet,” he says, like he doesn't constantly indulge himself on his own share of snacks and candy.

Oikawa scoffs, holding up his milk bread pointedly. “I am being nutritious. Calcium,” he emphasizes.

Kuroo gives him a flat look as he shuts the fridge door.

“I don’t call you out on your daily packet of chips, so leave my bread alone,” Oikawa snips, taking a petulant bite of his bread.

“You’ve been eating those for three days straight,” Kuroo points out as he walks back to the bench top, setting down a knife and chopping board. It’s true, but Oikawa doesn't see what’s so bad about it. He doubts that Kuroo has been eating any better.

“It’s exam period, sue me,” Oikawa mutters, continuing to eat until he realises what Kuroo just said. He narrows his eyes. “How did you— Have you been stalking me?”

Kuroo lets out a snort, pulling his attention away from his cooking to raise a brow at Oikawa. “Lucky guess. Besides, not everyone has the time to follow you around, your Majesty,” Kuroo says half serious, corner of his mouth pulled upward.

Oikawa rolls his eyes at the reference of his high school nickname. It’s not one that he minds, and a small part of him regards it with a slight sense of nostalgia for his high school volleyball experience. But Kuroo’s motives in bringing up the nickname are probably only to suit his own poor sense of humour.

“You’re irritating,” Oikawa says, finishing off the last of his bread, before throwing the wrapper into the bin. He glances around blindly at the kitchen once more, trying to decide what to do in the meantime to avoid Kuroo’s potential kitchen havoc before settling on watching some match recordings for the next practice game with Waseda.

He’s about to escape to the living room when he notices Kuroo watching him with a small smile, eyes sparked with something a lot like amusement and a tinge of something else that Oikawa doesn’t recognise.

Oikawa stares back at him. “What?”

“Here,” Kuroo says, as he stands by the bench top. He throws a small item towards Oikawa.

When Oikawa catches the object, he rolls it in his hands briefly before reading the label for muscle pain cream.

“Use that,” Kuroo instructs vaguely, already turning back to slice up the rest of the vegetables.

“I don’t—“

“Your movements were slow during practice yesterday,” Kuroo says in ways of explanation, shrugging off the topic away with a wave of his hand.

Oikawa fingers the packaging in his hands, tracing over the label. “Thanks,” he mutters, just loud enough so he knows that Kuroo can hear it. There isn’t much else he can say.

Kuroo’s random acts of kindness have always had the tendency to throw Oikawa off, and make him second-guess that there might be more to it all.

In a split second, Kuroo slips away from the bench top and moves towards Oikawa, placing his hands on Oikawa’s shoulders, spinning him around and pushing. Oikawa’s back stiffens slightly at the warmth of Kuroo’s palms burning through his T-shirt.

“Go shower, or whatever other pampering the Grand King needs. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” Kuroo orders lightly.

“Don’t tell me what to do—“ Oikawa complains, almost tripping over his own feet at the momentum of Kuroo’s push. “You can’t just hijack someone’s kitchen!”

“Yes, I can,” Kuroo states, tone indicating his obvious enjoyment.

“If you set my apartment on fire, I swear to god Kuroo—“

“Please. I’m not you.”

“You—“

Kuroo just smirks, giving him one last shove into his bedroom and shuts the door in his face.

Oikawa gives himself a few seconds of mild fury to stare at the closed door, before ultimately deciding that barging out of his room would only result in a lot more effort trying to dissuade Kuroo to forget what kind of ingenious plan the other boy had come up with.

So Oikawa just sighs, pulling his shirt off and throwing it to fall wherever it may, resolving to pick it up again later when the inevitable day to do his laundry comes.

He grabs his towel off of the back hook of his bedroom door, before pulling it open as quietly as possible not to alert Kuroo. He’s about two steps out, moving towards the bathroom —briefly considering the pros and cons of making a run for the front door— when Kuroo’s voice sounds from the kitchen.

“You better be heading into the bathroom,” his voice carries, already several kinds of smug.

Oikawa casts a sharp glare in the vague direction of the kitchen, despite knowing that Kuroo can’t possibly see him before sticking out his tongue in a childish fit.

“Go back to your own apartment!” he yells afterward, trudging into the bathroom and slamming the door like some juvenile in his own damn home.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Oikawa feels a flood of faint disbelief that he has to sneak around in his own freaking apartment because Kuroo Tetsurou is a menace who won’t leave. He casts his towel onto the rack, slowly taking off his clothes, trying to ignore the tired strain of his muscles from the last sequence of volleyball practices.

Irritatingly enough, he hears Kuroo’s voice call again through the door. “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” followed by a stream of laughter.

Oikawa pointedly ignores the sound, instead choosing to turn on the shower taps in silent protest.

————

After his shower, Oikawa slips on his sweatpants and walks out towards the kitchen whilst still towelling his hair meticulously. When he gets there, he spots Kuroo, who is either in the process of setting Oikawa’s apartment on fire or expressing his passion to be the next Iron Chef.

Oikawa leans against the doorway to the kitchen, observing as Kuroo decidedly traipses by the stove without his shirt.

“You know, I don’t think that cooking shirtless is a hygienic practice,” he says after a moment.

Kuroo looks up from the chopping board, brows still knotted in concentration. He smiles wide, not even bothering to look the slightest bit ashamed, and a small part of it goes straight through to Oikawa’s chest. A small part that Oikawa willingly chooses to ignore.

It’s not as if Oikawa hasn’t seen Kuroo shirtless before; countless times spent washing up after practice in the locker rooms has removed any sense of body shame that either them may have had. Though, Oikawa is sure that Kuroo never had that much shame in the first place.

And if Oikawa is going to be honest, Kuroo is not a bad sight, really. Because somewhere along the line Kuroo had actually started to look quite attractive, and Oikawa can only give himself a small moment to appreciate it.

But being half-naked in Oikawa’s kitchen is another matter altogether.

“Put on a shirt, you glorified exhibitionist,” Oikawa complains, as he stalks into the kitchen with the intention of grabbing a drink and hopefully ignoring Kuroo for the rest of the evening.

“I didn’t want to get my shirt dirty,” Kuroo says in ways of explanation. And Oikawa thinks it’s a really poor one at that.

“I’m sure there’s such thing as an apron.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have an excuse to walk around half-naked,” Kuroo says, his smirk lopsided and doing too many things to Oikawa’s brain.

It’s a normal exchange by their standards. A few words in-between, teasing words here and there that stray along the border of awful pick-up lines and half-assed attempts at flirting. Oikawa doesn’t put much stock in either, because he’s willing to admit that he’s said his fair share of flirtatious phrases out of reflex and self-possessed charm. Iwa-chan finds it less amusing, and thinks Oikawa’s blatant need to charm everything is pointless, but Oikawa won’t let himself lose to someone like Kuroo otherwise.

“Don’t blame me if you burn yourself,” he scoffs instead.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to speak,” Kuroo says with a pointed glance.

Oikawa shrugs, moving to rest his elbows against the tabletop, snooping around to try and figure out what Kuroo is attempting to conjure up.

“Can I help you?” Kuroo asks after a minute of Oikawa’s hovering.

“What are you making?” Oikawa asks, curiosity bursting through despite his better judgement.

Kuroo grins, obviously pleased. “Why? Are you anticipating something?”

Oikawa rolls his eyes dramatically. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he responds, before making a show of moving towards the overhead kitchen cupboards hunting for whatever remaining snacks he undoubtedly has lying around.

He makes it halfway before Kuroo manages to trap him between the counter while reaching into the overhead cupboard, and Oikawa is sure that he’s just doing it for his own amusement. Kuroo liked to flaunt his extra three centimetres whenever he pleased, including now.

“Excuse me,” Kuroo mutters under his breath as if to explain his movement, but it sounds so insincere that Oikawa almost laughs. Instead, he drags his hand against Kuroo’s waist as he pulls away, fingers lingering in the way that they probably shouldn’t.

Kuroo tuts, walking away with a hideously playful wink. “Dinner first, dessert later.”

It’s a simple thing between them, something like a push and pull of flirtations here and there based upon the fact that they’re both the kind of people who just live to flatter. They haven’t put a name to it, and Oikawa isn’t quite sure if they will.

“Pervert,” Oikawa mutters, forcefully dragging his eyes away from Kuroo to focus on the box of snacks in his hands and opening the packaging. He throws the rubbish purposefully at Kuroo’s head. He isn't surprised when Kuroo’s arm reaches out to block it easily.

“Really?” Kuroo says, “Is that what you think of my talent? You wound me.”

“Your chances of blocking my serves is pure luck,” Oikawa chides.

Kuroo smirks, “Then it’s a good thing we’re on the same team, isn't it?”

And Oikawa supposes that it is. Kuroo isn't a bad player by any means, and Oikawa laments slightly at the fact that their respective high school teams never ended up playing against each other in the volleyball circuit. But he’s not that nostalgic for any kind of rematch because university level has taught them well enough that they still have a lot to learn.

Even still, volleyball practice is one of the few times that their schedules overlap. Though the both of them run in different social circles, Kuroo somehow managed to somehow invite himself into a number of Oikawa’s faculty retreats, or somehow forcing Oikawa to come over to his friend’s gaming nights despite knowing that Oikawa was practically useless at them.

Oikawa likes to think that he’s not so much of a pushover as Kuroo is just incredibly sneaky. Not that he hasn’t had his share of dragging Kuroo to events that he was sure that the other boy hated, including the U.F.O exhibition that Kuroo spent half the time snickering at and the other prodding Oikawa with useless questions to distract him.

“You’re ruining your appetite,” Kuroo calls from the stovetop.

Oikawa makes a face, sticking his tongue out childishly. “Whatever,” he replies, tearing through his cookies as he makes his way to the table in the middle of the kitchen

It’s a tiny table, functional but yet hardly big enough to cause an intrusion in the already minimal space of Oikawa’s apartment. Oikawa had bought it a couple months back when Kuroo had first managed to worm his way into spending more time in Oikawa’s apartment, spending every spare moment to point out that Oikawa’s seating habits were bad for his back.

Weeks later, Oikawa had finally conceded —with great reluctance— to buying a simple two seater dining table, using it mostly as a work table rather than an actual dining area. The next time Kuroo came over, the boy had simply smiled in success, and sat down at the new set of furniture before jokingly questioning Oikawa on his lack of taste in interior design.

Now, Oikawa drags his book bag onto the aforementioned dining table, deftly setting up his usual studying position while Kuroo moves around the kitchen busily, whisking around some ingredients in a bowl. Kuroo has only ever hijacked Oikawa’s kitchen on a whim of making tea or scrounging up the last cup ramen lying around; hardly anything to be considered a challenging culinary venture.

But the longer Oikawa finds himself watching, the more he notices a certain dexterity to Kuroo’s movements; a strangely graceful cadence that Oikawa can’t imagine himself having. It’s somewhere between being a well practiced habit and second nature, and Oikawa finds himself appreciating the slight flex of muscles of Kuroo’s back as he turns around momentarily to fiddle with the stove.

Kuroo’s eyes flicker to Oikawa’s as he turns back round, brows raised in question. “What?”

“Nothing,” Oikawa replies immediately, shaking off the thought, and instead turns back to his workbooks, scanning the pages in hopes of cramming more information into his head. It’s another few minutes before Kuroo’s voice cuts through Oikawa’s concentration once more.

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” Kuroo asks suddenly, voice slightly muffled as he rummages through the plastic bag of groceries.

Oikawa peers up from his textbook to stare at the other boy. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Cats,” he says, only half serious.

Kuroo looks up then, his facial expression less than impressed but the corner of his eyes are tweaked up in amusement. “Funny. No, but really.”

Oikawa’s eyes flicker upward in thought. “Not that I can think of.”

“Great,” Kuroo mutters, attention already drawn towards the pieces of meat he has laid out.

———— 

The sound of rattling seasoning bottles fill the air, and Oikawa lets his mind flow with the motions, because if he lets himself admit it, it’s a little comforting to have someone moving around in the background after months of living on his own.

Oikawa takes a sip of his milk coffee, watching as Kuroo bustles around the kitchen.

He isn’t sure what Kuroo is cooking but it smells a thousand times more decent than what he’s been letting himself eat over the past two weeks. There’s the sound of sizzling that erupts as Kuroo drops onions and garlic artfully into the fry pan, simmering them long enough to add various chopped vegetables with well timed ease.

Seeing Kuroo comfortably in his own element, Oikawa turns back to his books and forces himself into focus. Studying isn’t necessarily his greatest strength, and if he were being honest, he’d much rather put his mind towards more important things like volleyball. But seeing how his grades need to be up to scratch for him to play for the team— Oikawa is willing to make the compromise.

He’s halfway through the notes for his calculus lecture when something hard hits the back of his hand. He glances up, noticing Kuroo standing with a ladle in hand. Oikawa didn’t even know that he owned a ladle.

Kuroo stares at him in slight reproach. “Don’t take up the whole table with your books. Where am I going to eat?”

“Eat at home,” Oikawa snips, idly pulling his books closer to his occupied side of the table to make the slightest bit of room.

“Can’t. Bokuto called an empty casket.”

Oikawa frowns. “A what?”

“It’s code.” Kuroo shrugs, moving back towards the stovetop to attend to whatever he was cooking. “Once every month we have a right to call for roommates to get out of the apartment for one night.”

“That’s ridiculous.” A beat, then. “Have you ever called one?”

Kuroo smirks, his face completely smug, “Yeah.”

Oikawa’s insides give a minor twist at the thought. Trust Kuroo and his friends to come up with something like that. Oikawa inwardly thanks his parents for affording him the luxury of not having a roommate. He mulls over the thought silently, hoping that Kuroo will elaborate the details on his own so that he won’t have to ask himself.

“Akaashi wanted to plan Bokuto’s birthday party without him knowing. So I pulled an empty casket and asked Kenma to come along to distract him,” Kuroo explains offhandedly, gaze trained on the contents of the pot.

“Oh,” Oikawa manages, turning back to his textbooks. “That’s nice.” And as flippant as it sounds, he means it.

Kuroo shuffles around near the stove a bit longer, spooning around whatever dishes he has whipped up to his own perfection. Judging from the random hums of approval that Kuroo lets out, Oikawa can guess that dinner is almost done.

“Alright,” Kuroo says finally, carrying two separate plates over to the dining table, setting them down meticulously; one in front of Oikawa and one for himself at the opposite end of the table. Somewhere in the interim of Oikawa studying, Kuroo must have put his shirt back on, because when Kuroo reappears he is back to his clothed self, much to Oikawa’s slight dismay.

Oikawa’s eyes widen in mild surprise as he stares at the dishes laid out before him. He hadn’t really been expecting much from Kuroo, but looking at the arrangement of katsu pork cutlets sliced evenly over a colourful bed of fried rice, Oikawa almost feels his mouth water in anticipation of the flavour.

“Oh, I’ll get the–” Oikawa starts as he notices the absence of chopsticks, rising from his chair to retrieve them.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Kuroo says as he turns to the correct drawers to grab them. Oikawa blinks, sinking back down onto his seat, vaguely wondering how Kuroo managed to be so well acquainted with his kitchen to know where everything is.

A minute later, Kuroo returns, chopsticks in hand, along with some additional side dishes of salad and miso soup. He sets them on the table carefully before sliding into the free seat at the table.

Kuroo gives Oikawa a slight grin, nodding over at his plate. ”Go on.”

Oikawa stares at him a little incredulously, not really knowing what the protocol is for teammates who can barely call themselves friends to be cooking and eating together. But then again, Oikawa realises, Kuroo isn’t the type to play by expectations.

Oikawa reaches for his chopsticks, muttering the appropriate thanks before digging into the fried rice, taking small bites of the pork cutlet whilst trying to avoid Kuroo’s careful gaze.

The food is good. Probably beyond good, and most likely a thousand times better than whatever Oikawa could probably try to whip up on his own. And knowing that Kuroo pulled it off entirely by himself, Oikawa finds it difficult to not be impressed by it.

By then, Kuroo has already started eating, taking confident bites, content to eat in silence. But Oikawa can’t help wanting to fill the space.

“Do you cook like this all the time?” Oikawa finds himself asking in between bites.

Kuroo shrugs flippantly, swallowing. “Only when I feel like it,” he says, meeting Oikawa’s eyes. “Why? Are you impressed?”

Oikawa tries to school his expression into something indifferent because he knows that Kuroo will seize any sign of approval and take it to the next level. “It’s—“ he pauses, “surprisingly decent.”

“I think that phrase you were going for was ‘Really nice, thank you’,” Kuroo fills in, clearly amused as he rests his elbows relaxedly against the table.

“Decent,” Oikawa repeats, a little more firmly but there must be something on his face that betrays him because Kuroo’s grin just widens.

Kuroo lets out a dramatic breath. “Ahh, the Grand King is so stingy with the praise.”

“Like your ego needs any more of an excuse to grow,” Oikawa scoffs, flicking a grain of rice in Kuroo’s direction childishly before turning back to focus on finishing his meal.

After his final bite, Oikawa sets his chopsticks down and leans back in his chair in satisfaction, unable to hide his appreciation for a home cooked meal. He tries to avoid looking at Kuroo because he’s sure he’ll only see amusement. Oikawa waits a few minutes longer, to be sure that Kuroo has finished his own share of dinner before attempting to collect the empty dishes.

“Hey, I’ll get that,” Kuroo says, standing up from his seat and taking their empty plates before Oikawa can move.

Oikawa frowns. “Let me do something at least.”

“Like what?” Kuroo asks with one brow raised. “I couldn’t bear to let your majesty get your hands dirty.”

“Those jokes are getting old,” Oikawa states as he rises from his seat to bring the rest of the dirty dishes to the sink.

“Really? Because I was under the impression that you enjoyed the royal treatment,” Kuroo jests, taking the plates from Oikawa’s hands, and starting to clean them.

Oikawa makes a face. He’s not about to deny it completely, but he’ll be damned in he lets Kuroo have the last word. He’s about to open his mouth to respond when Kuroo’s voice cuts him off.

“—Well, since you’re so willing, could you gather up the pots and pans?” He nods over to the stove.

“Right,” Oikawa hums, getting to work. Good cook or not, judging by the slight mess, Kuroo isn’t much of a cleaner.

When Oikawa’s done, Kuroo seems to notice and feels the leisure to make use of his willingness to work. “And can you clear up the table?” he adds, in a voice that indicates that he’s enjoying the opportunity to boss Oikawa around.

Occasionally lazy as he may be, Oikawa isn’t a shabby cleaner. So he does the job efficiently as he wipes the table clear and places the utensils back in their correct places. He’s midway through grabbing another plastic bag to dispose the extra bits of rubbish when Kuroo speaks once more.

“You know, I still don’t get why you insist of putting the plastic bags down there,” he says, moving to soap the plates. “They’re completely out of reach—“

“God, you’re like my mother,” Oikawa mutters, holding a dismissive hand in front of Kuroo’s face as he walks past.

“You are though,” Oikawa starts, as he finds himself thinking through Kuroo’s consistent attempts at badgering him in his own home. Because it’s just in Kuroo’s nature to appear with several kinds of input for anything at any given time. Oikawa has long tried to ignore the him but Kuroo has never been the type to leave things alone unless he really wants to. And from the first day of volleyball practice, Kuroo has consistently been around to give his insights into whatever Oikawa has gotten himself into.

Kuroo spent a good part of his time nagging Oikawa about many things really.

Oikawa stops in his steps, standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes going wide as his thoughts slot into place. “What the hell,” he hears himself say.

Kuroo cuts off the taps, hands automatically moving to scrub the individual dishes. “You okay?”

“You’re nesting me, aren't you?” Oikawa manages to say, eyes wide as he tries to process the thought.

And Kuroo just laughs, loud and obnoxious like he’s been in on some huge ploy. He almost drops a set of chopsticks back into the sink.

Oikawa sputters, “Oh my god. You piece of shi—“

Oikawa’s eyes drag around the contents of his apartment, noting each piece. The vase that Kuroo brought under the guise of a self-invited housewarming. The ridiculous set of cat mugs that Kuroo pestered Oikawa into buying. And the damn dining table that has only two chairs because it’s only Kuroo who complains about never having a proper place to sit.

“Y’know,” Kuroo says, mildly sobered up from his bout of laughter, “A normal person would be appreciative when their boyfriend cooks for them.”

Oikawa’s head turns up sharply at the words, not really sure whether to express annoyance at his own obliviousness or Kuroo’s craftiness. But it’s all so ridiculous, because of course Kuroo managed to worm his way into Oikawa’s life with no warning and no permission. Oikawa finds himself at a loss for words.

“You think I take my shirt off for anyone?” Kuroo asks, eyes questioning.

“Actually, yeah—“ Oikawa starts, ready to keep as many excuses between them as possible because this entire situation feels surreal enough as it is.

“Yeah, no,” Kuroo cuts in, cleaning his hands before moving closer to meet Oikawa across the room.

“Why did you bother making dinner?” Oikawa needs to ask, and he needs to know.

“I’m doing my duty in saving the last remaining species of the U. Effu. Oo?” Kuroo spells out, brow creasing at the unfamiliar words.

“U. F. O, you idiot. Hasn’t university taught you anything?” Oikawa corrects reflexively.

“I do PoliSci, not fantasy science.” Kuroo shrugs.

But the movement is tight around the shoulders and Oikawa can sense that Kuroo might be as tense as he feels right now.

“It’s not—“ Oikawa pauses, trying to regather the words. “If you think this is funny—“

“Hey,” Kuroo says, voice dropped low in a tone of seriousness that Oikawa isn’t used to. “I’m being honest here. If you’re in, I’m in.”

It’s Kuroo’s baseless confidence that always gets him, Oikawa realises. And in retrospect it all makes sense in the same way that it doesn’t. Besides the two of them have spent way too much time together without actually being friends —but maybe, just maybe— Oikawa can work with this.

“Wait, wait. Just so you know— Overall, I think you’re annoying and—“ Oikawa starts, words cluttering together.

“—but you like it,” Kuroo finishes, the corner of his lips rising a little.

Oikawa lets out a slightly annoyed huff before he pulls the collar of Kuroo’s shirt, bringing them closer together.

“Just a bit,” he utters before pressing his lips to Kuroo’s.

When he pulls back, Kuroo is grinning, too much too happy but Oikawa can only try and bite back the smile he feels on his own face.

Kuroo takes Oikawa’s hand tentatively, slowly weaving their fingers together. “So, ‘boyfriends’,” he says with a lilt of implication.

“How long were you planning on trying to get me to notice?” Oikawa asks, tracing Kuroo’s skin with his thumb, marvelling at the ease of the touch.

“Well, you know,” Kuroo shrugs, expression somewhat fond. “My mother always tried to instil perseverance.”

Oikawa lets out a light laugh. “Since you’re all about perseverance, maybe you should come over and cook more often.”

“Is that an invitation?” Kuroo asks, brows raised.

Oikawa leans closer once more, close enough to press a small kiss to the corner of Kuroo’s mouth, and it feels so warm and simple.

“Yes, it is.”