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Kuroo cracks his wrapped up knuckles before lazily dropping into his seat in the school’s excuse for a cafeteria and asking, “Okay, what’s the deal with that new guy?”
Sugawara shoots him an unreadable look; his eye is visibly bruising after yesterday. Leave it to Sugawara to look both pretty and dangerous – pretty dangerous combination, if someone asked Kuroo – with a black eye and a straw from a box of orange juice between his teeth.
“That’s what you get for playing truant for a week,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “How do you intend on taking over this place, then?” he teases, amused.
“Don’t belittle me and my ambitions, Suga,” Kuroo replies, humoring him with an exaggerated hurt in his voice. He spins one of Iwaizumi’s chopsticks between his fingers absentmindedly, wishing it was a cigarette instead, before the other scowls at him, muttering, “The fuck you doing,” and taking it back to eat his sushi. “So, anyway, who the hell is he?”
Sugawara’s eyes follow Kuroo’s line of sight, to the tables by the windows. By one of them sits a guy their age, eating his lunch like a normal student around this time and place should (not many do, actually, not here). Of medium height, standard short black hair, neutral expression, pretty messed up but, nevertheless, present uniform – everything about the guy screams average, and yet, Kuroo knows better than that.
“Hogged a table all for himself already. Quick on marking his place,” Futakuchi hums, rocking back and forth in his chair as he taps something on his phone. Kuroo considers kicking the chair and making him fall flat on his ass, and hopefully breaking his phone; he probably could afford a new one anyway, rich asshole.
“At the beginning few tried to kick him out of there, but. Didn’t really end well for them,” Konoha adds, flicking his wrist. It looks funny, since Kuroo knows he has sprained or broken it enough times for it to be angled in a slightly different way than it should be. “It was fun to watch, I admit.”
“Oho?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow. Seems he had missed out on some interesting things last week. “So, a third year?”
“No, second, just like us,” Sugawara says. “Your class even, I think. Sawamura? Just changed schools for some reason.”
“For this shithole? Not the best of decisions,” Futakuchi snickers.
Kuroo glares at him. “Shut up, don’t think I forgot about that fucking stunt you pulled two weeks ago at the station. You owe me a new baseball bat.” At that, Futakuchi pouts, but falls silent. “Anyway, I don’t particularly like new faces in the middle of the year here. Most of them don’t know what to do with themselves.”
“Aw, that’s what you thought about me when I came here a few months ago?” Sugawara pursues his lips. “Not nice, Kuroo.”
“I said most of them, Suga, it’s hard to group you in with everybody,” Kuroo remarks simply. “Did he join someone?”
“I think Terushima and later Yaku invited him, but he just said he wasn’t interested in being a part of any group,” Konoha states.
“Just like that,” Kuroo comments flatly.
“Just like that,” Suga echoes, crunching his empty juice box. “Seems like a lone wolf type.”
“It’s been a long time since someone like that showed up here,” Kuroo wonders out loud, lost in thought.
They sit in silence, save for the sounds of some game coming from Futakuchi’s phone, and after finishing his lunch, Iwaizumi speaks up. “So?”
Kuroo turns to look at him, tilting his head in question.
“What do you plan to do with him?” Iwaizumi elaborates, irritated. He sucks on his bottom lip, probably annoyed with a fresh cut there. “Do you plan on doing anything, actually?” he prompts further, and not for the first time Kuroo wonders whether Iwaizumi was actually born cheeky or it’s just the years he has spent with Oikawa that rubbed off on him.
Humming, Kuroo lets his eyes drift back to the guy by the window. Sawamura finished his lunch and his eyes seem to scan people in the canteen. Their gazes meets and Kuroo smiles his Cheshire Cat smile, as Bokuto once called it. (Yaku and Iwaizumi call it a shit-eating grin, but honestly, while it may sound more affectionate, it’s not nearly as endearing as the first one.)
Predictably so, Sawamura is unfazed and his eyes just sweep over Kuroo like he’s no one special. Well, Sawamura isn’t entirely wrong about that. After all, no one in this hellhole is special; they are all grinding the dirt, trying to make something out of it. (Kenma is something, though, but he isn’t at school today, so Kuroo doesn’t feel bad about generalizing.)
“I think we will let the things flow their way for now,” Kuroo states finally, looking back to his friends by the table. “Who knows, maybe Mister Lone Wolf will prove to be fun later.”
“Or trouble,” Iwaizumi says.
“Isn’t it the same, basically?” Sugawara asks and Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. Everyone knows Suga himself is a synonym for trouble.
“I know you are bonding with him over your plain looks,” Kuroo starts, putting his hands behind his head after lifting them from the table, what is a good call because one second later and they would come into a close contact with Iwaizumi’s chopsticks – Kuroo realizes he probably knows how to kill a man with chopsticks, or at least severely injure him, so that’s not a laughing matter, “but don’t worry about him. He doesn’t seem keen on teamwork and I sure as hell ain’t gonna invite him to us. Loners can stir things up, but nothing more than that. It’s fine the way it is.”
Then Kuroo moves to talking about their plans for the evening and the subject of one Sawamura is closed.
…
The next day, it turns out Sawamura really is in his class, as Sugawara thought. Kuroo learns this when he comes in by the morning for algebra, late, disheveled, jamming a pack of cigarettes into the pocket of his jacket, and finds his spot taken by Mister Average.
He ponders the situation for a moment. The thing is that Kuroo doesn’t really care about stuff like that – just a habit, he guesses – but sadly, not giving a fuck is for people who don’t have a reputation to maintain, or whose reputation allows them not to give a fuck. He aspires to be one of these people, one day.
So he simply walks to the desk and announces, “That’s my seat.”
Kuroo realizes the teacher – he doesn’t know him; a substitute one, most likely, so he really doesn’t care – falls silent for a second and starts talking noticeably quicker afterwards. Sawamura finishes writing something down in his notebook and looks up at Kuroo – his face is all sharp angles and soft, fading bruises, dark brown eyes sparking with something almost akin to challenge as he responds without heat, “Really? Didn’t know. No label, hasn’t been occupied lately. Figured no one was making use of it, as someone kind enough stated.”
Slowly breaking eye contact with Sawamura, Kuroo glances to the side to find Bokuto watching the exchange with amused interest. Surprising he was even in class, considering Kuroo must have bruised one or two of his ribs during their clash last night – maybe it was Akaashi’s influence; Kuroo didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing – and if he felt a little bad about it, it evaporates in this very moment.
Bokuto just grins wider, smile sharp like a switchblade, and Kuroo makes a note not to go easy on him the next time.
He turns his gaze back to Sawamura, says, “Can’t blame you if no one clued you in about how it actually works. Anyway, that’s where I sit when I’m in class, hope you will remember that for now.” He ends the sentence with a first smile this morning and thinks it doesn’t feel nearly as threatening as it should as Sawamura just furrows his brows.
The silence stretches out and the teacher coughs, starting nervously, “Please do not disrupt the class and take a seat–” and honestly, as Kuroo glares, he knows he looks menacing enough in the morning even after only one cigarette and without coffee or energy drink. Or maybe, especially without them.
“That’s okay, I don’t really care.” Sawamura shrugs, grabbing his stuff and standing up to take a desk in the front row.
“Oh, so tiny.” A teasing giggle escapes Kuroo’s mouth as he looks down on the other boy, taking in their height difference.
A vein throbs in Sawamura’s forehead, but he seems to collect himself quickly. He brushes past Kuroo, saying quietly to him, “By the way, I took your stack of joints since I ran out of mine the other day. Just so you know.” And this time, challenge is both in the flicker of Sawamura’s eyes and the twitch of his lips upside.
Kuroo sits down in his chair and leans it to the side just so he can bore holes into the back of Sawamura’s skull from a perfect angle.
He thinks that perhaps, Sawamura may stir up some fun and trouble. For him, particularly.
…
They don’t clash at school, and that makes Kuroo happy, because it would be simply too boring – sure, there are places and opportunities to do something, but he can never go all out there, since he’s not a fucking idiot. They have a few run-ins, but these are limited to sassy remarks, glaring and pushing each other a little too hard.
The truth is, Kuroo sometimes finds it hard to hold back when he doesn’t want to, and God knows something about Sawamura makes Kuroo want to inflict pain on that serious face and see blossoming bruises there, ugly blues and violets marking places where his fists or kicks connected with it; he wants to see blood trailing from the corner of the other’s mouth as Sawamura smiles in the way that boiled Kuroo’s blood once or twice; and maybe, he also wants to be the one to lick off the red from his lips and teeth.
“Ah,” Kuroo breaths out. “It happened again.”
“What?” Kenma asks from where he is sitting on Kuroo’s shoulders, his voice muffled through the scarf around his face. He shakes a bottle containing spray paint and continues to colour the upper part of the wall with neon-like orange.
He huffs a laugh. “I met someone with whom I want to make out almost as much as I wants to beat up and break them.”
“Is that so,” Kenma responds, unmoved. “It’s starting to become a pattern.”
Kuroo opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks better of it, and closes it. Well, Kenma could name a person or two who would make for a valid point in this argument.
“You missed a spot on the left,” he says instead, gesturing to blank space.
“Give me black spray.” After Kuroo does that, he states, “I heard Hajime is not going to be in the park tonight.”
The statement, coming from Kenma, surprises Kuroo. “Yeah, I know. I wonder what’s keeping him busy.”
“Ask Tooru about that,” Kenma offers and seems to be slightly amused by Kuroo’s long-suffering sigh.
“You know, actually, I don’t care.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you bring that up, anyway?”
He yelps, surprised, when Kenma hits his head with the bottle, though there is not much force behind it. “Just don’t do anything more stupid than you usually do,” he says.
“Aw, Kenma, I knew you would miss me if I were gone,” Kuroo chippers, smiling. “Who would be nice enough to freeze his ass off in the winter as you sit on his shoulders and paint abstract cats on the walls of closed game stores?”
“I could ask Lev,” he deadpans. “He’s taller than you.”
“You wouldn’t do that. Weigh out pros and cons. Think about the consequences.”
Kenma just sighs in response.
…
The night is cold and there is smoke everywhere, making it hard to breathe even with the cloth over his face, and that, along with many other things, sets Kuroo on the edge. It’s not entirely unpleasant, though, if the rapid beating of his heart and wild grin he wouldn’t shake off even if he could are something to go by. He knows why Kenma was – well, worried, from the lack of better word, about Iwaizumi not coming; Kuroo usually feels better with someone who can keep up with him and watch his back when there are unknown parties involved – at this point he doesn’t even know who’s in the park and who fled – but now, it doesn’t really matter. His senses are on high alert and that’s how amidst smoke and flares he spots Sawamura. He didn’t even bother dressing up and Kuroo doesn’t know if it’s a lack of self-preservation or fear.
Either way.
He swings his fist, but at the last moment Sawamura seems to sense something and he steps back, the punch missing him marginally.
“Evening, Sawamura. Didn’t know you like these kinds of gatherings,” Kuroo greets, cracking his gloved fingers and lifting down the cloth from his face.
“Kuroo.” The way his name comes out of Sawamura’s mouth reminds him of a shaky breath escaping punctured lungs. Lights from flares dance around shadows on his face. “I was bored and thought something fun may happen, but didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“Nether did I. Not complaining, though. I wanted to do that for a while.”
“You are on.” Sawamura smiles and goes in for a nice, strong kick. Kuroo blocks it with his hand and matching grin.
“Haven’t I been for a while now?”
Kenma once told him that, contrary to popular belief, he is a masochist, and Kuroo realizes how true that statement actually is, especially as his eyes sting from the smoke that also causes his throat to itch, and his body should be numb from being in the open for so long – it’s snowless, but winter, nevertheless – but instead, it feels like it’s radiating, hot and tensed on the ground, under Sawamura pinning him there.
“We so could make steam, you know?” Kuroo struggles out, inhaling more smoke and Sawamura into his lungs. As expected, his invitation goes by ignored.
“I really wanted to wipe that annoying, shit-eating grin off your face, but seems it’s rather permanent,” Sawamura breaths out, somewhat amused, and wipes the blood dripping from his broken nose with the back of his hand. Kuroo watches the movements, fascinated; uneven rise and fall of his chest and shoulders, the way his Adam’s apple visibly bobs as he speaks, and how blood trails down his calloused hand, and thinks, What a mess I got myself into.
“Sorry to break it to you, but It’s gonna take a lot more to do that,” Kuroo comments. He tries to push the other off him, but to no avail. “God, Sawamura, your thighs are majestic.”
“And your ass is crusty. And you had it handed to you.”
“This time.”
“There is gonna be another?” Sawamura quirks an eyebrow, but it’s playful, teasing, and Kuroo just groans internally.
He doesn’t like to be the outplayed one.
He frees one of his hands and yanks Sawamura down by the collar of his jacket, whispering into his ear, “There’s so gonna be the next time.” And, just to emphasize, he pushes against the other’s hips, cooing, Oh, what do we–
Sawamura elbows him in the stomach. Hard. Kuroo is fairly sure he will have a Sawamura’s elbow-imprinted bruise there for at least a month.
And then he gets up and leaves, just like that. Although Kuroo thinks he can make out quite a furious red flushing his neck, especially with the way Sawamura rubs at it as he walks away.
“That’s adorable,” Kuroo says, to no one in particular, and is grateful when Konoha and Futakuchi show up eventually and help him up to his feet.
“I don’t know if you look more beaten up or smitten,” Suga comments as they are leaving the park. Kuroo blinks at him and his all-knowing smile, and wonders if he should be wary of potential blackmail in the future
“Both, probably,” he mutters out belatedly.
…
Of course, Kuroo was right and there is a next time, but not quite like he expected it to happen.
He is walking back from Sugawara’s place through the very same park – his favourite now, probably; so many fond memories – when three guys block his way. One look tells Kuroo three things: he doesn’t know them but they menacing looks are telling him he should, they probably don’t want to hand him in some extra cash and the three of them may be a little too much for him as he only has his switchblade at this moment.
“Come with us,” one of them says and Kuroo just shrugs and follows, deciding to see what’s that about and play along for awhile.
Not so surprisingly, he finds himself among a small crowd of menacing personas, most of them are even equipped with weapons of some kind. What makes Kuroo raise his eyebrows, though, is someone who stands out, looking vaguely irritated and out of place.
“Fancy meeting you here, Sawamura,” he calls out lightly. “Again.”
Sawamura regards him with a flat look, crossing his arms across his chest as Kuroo walks over.
“Know what’s up? I was coming back home to do my homework and all, but here I am now…” He tilts his head, pensive. “Oh, that’s your clique, perhaps? Thought you had better taste.”
“You know I don’t have clique or anything of the sorts.” Sawamura frowns at him.
“It’s about what happened almost two weeks ago,” some guy explains, circling around them and swinging his crowbar a little too eagerly as for Kuroo’s tastes. “We know you two – or more like, you,” he points at Sawamura, “and you and your group,” now he gestures to Kuroo, “put down quite a lot of us. And it isn’t very smart of you to mess with us on our own turf.” He spits. “Fucking high schoolers.”
Ah, so that’s why those guys look vaguely familiar. Kuroo probably should have seen it coming; there is always a risk coming with butting in somewhere they don’t want you, but usually, the fun is worth it in the end.
“What do you expect us to do?” Sawamura sneers. “Surely not apologize?”
“Oh, of course not.”
When he swings his crowbar, Kuroo expects it. He just doesn’t expect it coming his way.
He hears Sawamura calls his name although it sounds somewhat distant as he crashes on the ground, pain radiating from his stomach all over his body, and see, that’s why Kuroo doesn’t like crowbars; it’s all fun and games when you’re the one handling it, but getting hit with one actually hurts as hell. He scowls, and is meet with a kick to the face.
Kuroo looks up at the sky, and both feels and sees red. He gets to his knees and spits.
“Man, you pissed me off,” he says and flicks a switchblade open, and dives in to cut.
Quick enough, Kuroo gets hold of the crowbar and takes out two other guys. He is somewhat hyper-aware of Sawamura swinging a baseball bat behind him like it’s a second nature to him, and yet Kuroo can’t help but think he could make just a little better use of it.
When their backs hit, they regard each other with a quick look; there is something particular about the way their gazes lock, Kuroo realizes after who knows which time. It would be so interesting, so exciting, to swing the crowbar and watch Sawamura fend him off with the bat, the two of them dancing around each other between enemies, wearing themselves out and eventually getting inevitably crushed by them. Kuroo knows Sawamura considers it, too, and ever since that night two weeks ago, Kuroo has been all sore and aching for something more, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he lost, or they didn’t make out, or both. The thing is, he wants to clash against Sawamura again, weapons or not, in a fist fight or something completely different.
That, too, is mutual, he realizes. It makes things easier.
Kuroo’s eyes slide down to the bat in Sawamura’s hands. He holds up the crowbar.
“Switch?’
Sawamura smiles and it makes his split lip evident, with the blood slowly dripping from it. Kuroo has to remind himself it’s not one of his fantasies, so he actually can’t lean down to suck it off.
“Yeah.”
Kuroo weighs the bat in his hand and the way it swings is music to his ears; he can’t help but grin as it swiftly connects with someone’s jaw, and bones and teeth snap.
“I need to kick Futakuchi and make him buy me a new one like this, he still owes me!” he shouts over his shoulder, knowing well Sawamura is also having by his side.
“Poor leadership skills if you need to remind them to pay you back,” Sawamura remarks, “don’t you think?”
“I don’t need to hear that from you,” Kuroo repels, but he’s still smiling.
The fight is soon over as most of their enemies were either knocked out or fled, so Kuroo allows himself to prop up on the bat and take a deep breath; it hurts since he got kicked in the ribs, but he had it worse. He looks over at Sawamura.
“You are bleeding.”
Sawamura touches a gash on his temple and chuckles. “No shit,” he replies and assures Kuroo, “so are you.”
“You wouldn’t know it was fun any other way.”
That earns him a shake of head from Sawamura, who simply motions for Kuroo to follow him. He considers his possibilities for a short moment and eventually catches up to the other, knowing there is probably a little too much bounce in his step, but he can’t bring himself to care.
They end up in an old apartment building. Sawamura guides him to the door on the left on the ground floor and opens it with a key. It makes Kuroo wonder.
“Your place?” he asks.
“Sorta.” Sawamura kicks off his shoes. “Well, my friend’s actually, but she allowed me to crash here when I’m in a pinch or something,” he explains. “Go to the bathroom, I will come in a moment.”
Kuroo enters the small bathroom and perches at the edge of the bath. Soon enough, Sawamura flicks on the lights and says, “Take off your jacket and shirt.”
“Oh, Sawamura, so forward,” Kuroo teases, but does as told, wincing slightly. His torso is mapped with irregular bruises, a colour palette consisting of blues and yellows for the most part. He hisses when Sawamura unceremoniously shoves a huge ice pack up to his ribs and tells him to hold it there.
“I usually just wrap an elastic bandage around them,” Kuroo whines.
“Yeah, I can guess.” Sawamura stares at him. “You know you shouldn’t, right?”
“I know, but the relief is worth it.”
“Later, then.”
Sawamura is surprisingly gentle while cleaning his face, though, and the number of band-aids he sticks on his forehead and cheeks makes it hard for Kuroo to even frown at him in question.
“Your face is annoying, but I feel like the only one obligated to ruin it,” Sawamura explains, like reading Kuroo’s thoughts.
“Aw, that’s so cute. Didn’t take you for a romantic,” Kuroo cooes as they switch places. He takes his sweet time with patching Sawamura up and doesn’t spare him band-aids, too. Gauzes, bandages and an empty bottle of peroxide grace cold tiles under their feet as Kuroo orders, “Now, don’t make my hard work go to waste, would you?”
“I was the one to ask of you that.” Sawamura flexes his arm, checking up the patch over his shoulder. “For a moment there, I really wanted to ignore them and kick your ass instead,” he admits after a moment.
“Me too. Would be more fun than trashing these amateurs.”
“To you, it’s all about what’s fun, isn’t it?” Sawamura doesn’t wait for an answer, goes on, “Guess we will have to postpone it a little.”
“Now, now, who said we have to?”
Kuroo leans in, sliding his tongue over Sawamura’s deliberately not-tended-to lips, sucking off dried up blood from the cut. They both shudder and their breaths mingle with each other.
“Why do I have a feeling it’s your kink,” Sawamura deadpans against his mouth. Kuroo makes sure to grin mischievously.
“There is so much more to my kinks than just that.”
…
(“Congratulations, you ended up dating a pervert,” Kenma tells Daichi flatly as the three of them are hanging out at Kuroo’s place.
“Kenma, you hurt me,” Kuroo wails from where he’s got a head in Daichi’s lap on the floor.
His friend ignores him. “He probably sexualizied your thighs and butt, didn’t he?” Kenma continues, not looking up from where he’s playing his game on the couch. When Sawamura makes a funny, affirmative sound, he adds, “Well, that’s it. Kuroo is also a hopeless romantic–”
“Ow, don’t sell me out that easily.”
“–but he’s mostly a pervert. And a juvenile delinquent. Good luck with that.”
Kuroo pouts. Daichi just laughs.)