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They lost.
They lost.
Kenma still couldn’t believe that they had lost.
They’d fought as hard as they could against Karasuno, but in the end, even though Kenma had been able to level up against Shōyō, Karasuno had been faster, tougher, stronger…
Better.
Karasuno had been better.
The bus ride home wasn’t far, but it was silent. Eerily silent. Normally, Tora would be harassing him, Yaku and Lev would be bickering, Fukunaga would be snoring.
And Kuroo.
Kuroo would be everywhere: chatting with Nekomata, teasing Shibayama, giving advice to Inuoka. Kuroo would slink down into the seat beside Kenma, flash those hazel eyes, offer him a smug smirk, and take Kenma’s handheld as he pestered him for a breakdown of specific plays during the match. Kuroo’s vibrancy always held the team together, whether it was after a win or a loss, because he was always able to see the silver lining, and he was always able to make everyone feel better about the future.
But today, Kuroo sat at the back of the bus, staring out the window, deadly silent.
Today, Kuroo didn’t speak to anyone: not Kenma, not Yaku, not Nobuyuki, not Nekomata-sensei.
Today, Kuroo had no words of advice, no words of comfort, or solace.
Because today, they had lost, and for Kuroo?
There was no future.
Kenma, though, was a whirlwind of thoughts, of words, of emotions: they were all bubbling up inside him and threatening to burst. For the first time, he was grateful that Kuroo had introduced him to volleyball, and he’d told Kuroo as much. And now, he wanted nothing more than to talk the game over with Kuroo, to learn more about how Kuroo had perceived particular plays, to learn from Kuroo how he might have done certain things differently or better.
But Kuroo was in the back of the bus, eerily stoic.
And it worried Kenma.
Kuroo was silent the entire bus ride back. He was silent during the final team meeting of nationals, where Nekomata-sensei thanked everyone for a good year, for an outstanding season, and to report to the gym on Monday, when they would say goodbye to the third-years officially and elect a new captain and vice-captain. After that, Kuroo got to his feet:
“We fought hard, and nearly pulled off the ultimate victory,” he said, his face composed and neutral. “You all played brilliantly, and I’m proud to have been able to serve as your captain this year.” He turned, and bowed to Nekomata-sensei. “I’m sorry we couldn’t win the Battle at the Garbage Heap for you, sensei,” he added, “but I hope you can be proud of the work we did to get there.”
And then, Nekomata replied to him, and Kuroo sat down, that same, sad look on his face. Nekomata said a few more words, and then dismissed the team. Kuroo got up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out.
Yaku and Nobuyuki looked at Kenma, but Kenma had no answers, save to grab his own bag and run to follow Kuroo out the door.
All the way home, they walked side-by-side, Kuroo silent, Kenma watching him closely. When they reached their houses, Kenma opened his mouth to say something, but Kuroo simply turned on his heel and strode into his house, slamming the door behind him.
Kenma sighed, and went to his own house. He said a few words to his parents, who expressed their remorse at their loss, and went to his room. He looked around at his game consoles, at his equipment, but, for the first time in nearly ten years, he didn’t feel much like playing.
Instead, he tossed his bag aside, save for his phone, and sank down onto his bed.
He ignored the messages from Shōyō, who was feeling better after his sudden illness, apologizing for beating Nekoma, for taking Kenma away from his team during the Karasuno/Kamomedai match, for a hundred other things that Kenma didn’t really have the time to think about.
Right now, all he could think about was Kuroo:
Kuroo, whose normally wicked eyes ached with the pain of loss: of the game, of the tournament, of his captainship, of his team, of his world.
Kuroo, whose normally smirking lips softened with the passage of time: from the promise of a bright future when he assumed leadership of the team, to the dimming of an era with their final loss.
Kuroo, whose normally tall and striking figure had stood before Nekomata and the team, hunched with sadness and defeat, the first time Kenma had seen him so.
Kenma frowned. Kuroo was hurting. Kuroo was in pain.
But what should Kenma do?
When Kenma was hurting, Kuroo was always there. When Kenma was sick, Kuroo was always there. When Kenma was lost in the spiral of his thoughts, Kuroo was always there.
Kuroo was always there.
And now, Kenma needed to be there, too.
But how, exactly?
As Kenma turned these thoughts over in his head, his phone buzzed. He rolled onto his back, sat up against the pillows, and looked at his phone.
Artwork Commission by nartista
Incoming were a series of texts from Kuroo:
From: Kuro
I’m sorry we lost our last game together, Kenma.
From: Kuro
I think I could have done more as captain.
You always did say I needed to be whipped into shape, and maybe this game was the time for that to happen.
From Kuro:
We should have tried that back attack more often. They weren’t expecting it, since they’d never seen it before.
From: Kuro
We should have changed up our starting lineup to throw them off a little.
Inuoka probably should have played more.
Oh my god, Lev should have played more!
Kenma sighed. Now that Kuroo was home and alone, Kenma could see his thoughts beginning to spiral.
To: Kuro
We did the best that we could, Kuro. You led the team excellently. Karasuno was just better today.
From Kuro:
Thanks for trying, Ken. But I definitely could have done more to help ensure our victory.
Like maybe I should have let Inuoka play for me more? He’s the future of the team.
To: Kuro
Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to be playing at the college level. The team needed you.
I needed you… no.
I need you.
Those were the words that Kenma couldn’t say.
They were the words that had been on the tip of Kenma’s tongue for the better part of seven years. The words that, more often than not, Kenma had to swallow down, because to admit that he needed Kuroo, as more than a friend, as more than a captain…
But to see Kuroo like this—broken down, despondent, unsure of himself and his choices?
It was nearly too much for Kenma to take.
He, Kenma. He could be like this. He could be petulant and insecure and tiresome and needy.
But Kuroo? Kuroo was the strong one, the confident one, the one who always picked Kenma up when he was down.
Now, though, Kuroo was the one in pain, the one in need.
And, now, maybe it was Kenma’s turn to do the same for Kuroo.
He just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
From: Kuro
The team doesn’t need me. Not anymore.
You don’t need me. You can stand on your own two feet now. You’re the best setter in the prefecture. And you’ll be an amazing vice-captain.
I just wish that I could have done my part. That I could have performed up to the expectations of the team, of Nekomata, of the college scouts, of you.
Do you think I was too cheesy as a captain? That I didn’t take it seriously enough?
Do you think that I should have put more faith in the first-years?
Do you think that I was too cocky? Not cocky enough?
Whatever. I definitely would have been able to block Hoshiumi. And you definitely would have been able to set up Tora to blow through their blockers.
But we’ll never know, will we?
Because I lost the game for us. I know I did.
Kenma? Are you there?
Kenma?
Artwork Commission by nartista
A knock at his bedroom door had Kuroo looking up from his phone. He frowned. He didn’t know who could possibly be there to see him. He had told his parents he didn’t want to be bothered, that he needed some alone time after the loss, after the end of his high school volleyball career. And even though he had college to look forward to, it wasn’t going to be the same as high school.
No team he ever played on again would be the same.
Because no team would have Kenma.
Kenma.
Kuroo sighed, and got to his feet. He’d just been texting Kenma, trying to work out his thoughts from the game. It had taken him awhile to collect them afterwards; they’d sat through the Karasuno/Kamomedai game, and Kenma had left to help Hinata when he got sick. And with Kenma gone, Kuroo’s thoughts had begun to spiral.
What they could have done differently.
What he could have done differently.
How they would have tackled Kamomedai.
How he would have had an answer for Hoshiumi.
He was hoping that texting Kenma would help him sort through those thoughts, but instead, all that happened was Kuroo sank deeper and deeper into those thoughts.
Kenma had always been there for him, a quiet pillar of strength, even when he was being petulant and bossy. Because Kuroo didn’t care if Kenma was whining or in a war with gravity.
Kenma was Kenma, and Kuroo always, always, needed Kenma.
The knock was louder, longer, harder this time. “I don’t want dinner!” Kuroo called.
“Good,” said a familiar, albeit muffled voice, “I don’t have any for you.”
“Kenma?” Kuroo looked down at the phone in his hand, then at the door. “Is that you?”
“It’s definitely not Lev,” Kenma deadpanned. “Open up, Kuro.”
Kuroo was at the door in an instant. “Kenma?” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m so sorry if I bothered you with all the texts. I just—I didn’t have anyone else to talk to, and I knew that you’d understand. I’m sorry for not being a good captain, for not being a good friend, for not—”
Kuroo didn’t get to finish that sentence, because as soon as he opened the door, he was attacked by a tiny, angry Kenma, who leapt up into his arms, and when Kuroo caught him, Kenma caught him right back:
Caught his lips, in a heated, desperate kiss that took Kuroo completely by surprise. His hands went under Kenma’s ass, supporting him as Kenma’s legs wrapped around Kuroo’s waist, as his arms went around Kuroo’s shoulders, as the force of the kiss, of Kenma’s body lurching into Kuroo’s, sent them flying backwards into Kuroo’s room, and toppling back onto Kuroo’s bed.
“K—Ken—” Kuroo tried to gasp out, but Kenma’s mouth was still against his, hot and insistent and so fucking greedy. Kuroo burned from the inside out; he’d needed Kenma, most of his life, but to have Kenma, here, and now, and like this, crawling over him and kissing him, so fierce and possessive that it made Kuroo see stars.
Kenma kissed him, so hard their teeth clanged together. Kenma kissed him, with all the love, all the adoration, that Kuroo suddenly realized had been burning in Kenma’s heart for what felt like an eternity.
And, Kenma kissed him…
“There.” Kenma sat back on Kuroo’s midsection, golden eyes glaring down at Kuroo, and wiped his mouth. “That ought to shut you up for a minute.”
Kuroo’s mouth dropped open. “Ken—what are you—just what—”
Kenma scowled. “You did all that you could to help us win, Kuro,” he said, his voice shaky, but clearer than Kuroo had ever heard it. “You’re the best captain, the best leader, that any of us could have ever asked for. And I’ll be damned—” he took a finger and poked it at Kuroo’s chest, “if I’m gonna sit there and let you text me all these negative things about yourself!”
“Kenma.” Kuroo was grinning; even though he felt like shit, even though they’d just lost everything…somehow, Kuroo felt like he’d gained the world back, and then some, with one, simple kiss. “I didn’t know you cared.”
Kenma’s scowl got deeper, and he swatted at Kuroo. “You know that I care, Kuro,” he pouted.
Kuroo’s grin got wider. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess I do.”
“Will you stop saying bad things about yourself now?” Kenma snapped. He dropped low over Kuroo again, laid his forearms on either side of Kuroo’s face. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” he said quietly. “And I won’t have you saying that’s not true.”
Kuroo’s heart thudded, wildly, in his chest. He’d just experienced the lowest of the low—the loss at nationals, the humiliation of returning to campus without the championship secured—but now, with Kenma in his arms, with Kenma kissing him, with Kenma…
Kenma, Kenma, Kenma.
“I think you’re the best, Ken,” Kuroo said, running his hands through Kenma’s hair as he drew Kenma close. “You knew just how to quiet my mouth.”
“By kissing you?” Kenma frowned. “Really, Kuro,” he groused, “I would have expected more from you.”
Kuroo dropped his hands to the nape of Kenma’s neck. “And you will,” he promised. “All that you could ever expect from me? I’ll give it to you.”
Kenma leaned down low. “Just promise me you’ll stop talking,” he murmured.
Kuroo grinned. “Gladly,” he said, and kissed Kenma again.