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The words are nothing, they fall flat in comparison to what something entailed for him and his Kuroo.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Seven new bruises Kuroo can see.
They’ll be gone by morning save maybe biggest one, already blooming dark purple with blue around the edges and taking up most of the visible skin on the outside of his thigh. It might leave a muddy yellow tinge behind well into the evening. Kuroo ghosts his fingers over it and finds the skin there warm again.
“Ice?” He asks, mostly so the cold doesn’t startle Kenma out of his focus. He grabs the gel pack again when Kenma nods and holds it to the bruise, wincing at the sharp inhale Kenma takes, muttering apologies under his breath and kissing his shoulder where the stretched out neckhole of his shirt doesn’t cover.
Really, considering his opponent Kenma did incredibly well. Darkseid is huge and hits hard, Kenma dodged the majority of his attacks and ended up winning in the end, but Kuroo heard that hit to his leg connect and to say he was surprised that nothing even fractured would be an understatement. He had to double check. Okay, triple.
But none of that matters right now. Right now, Kuroo’s got him safe in his arms where he can see him and his free hand against his ribs to feel his heart beat. Steady, if a bit quick.
He’s tapping away at some game, the sound of his fingers on the screen mixing in with quiet chimes when he gets some kind of item or experience, Kuroo guesses. Eventually he’ll start to pay attention, his chin will be hooked over Kenma’s shoulder so he can see the screen and make little comments, but for right now it’s just because he needs to hear him breathe to relax.
It’s ridiculous, he knows— most of the time he’s parked on some side street nearby with his voice in Kenma’s earpiece getting live updates, but that also means he hears every sickening pop, sizzle, or god forbid crunch crackling over his speakers for however long Kenma’s at it. He knows he heals faster than any regular person and he’s more than aware of how competent and agile and coordinated Kenma is but the knowledge that he’s well and truly risking his life as spiderman does terrible things for his anxiety, enough that at least a couple times a month at breakfast his dad looks at his leg bouncing and asks him if he remembered to take his meds that day.
It used to be that Kuroo was the one doing the protecting— not that they really encountered many physical threats, their particular little neighborhood was rarely the target of any villain attacks on Tokyo and they didn’t go out enough to encounter much crime at all, but as the more physically imposing one Kuroo always thought of himself as a deterrent to anyone who might have bad intentions. (Though Kenma always scoffed when anyone called him scary.) Not to mention being Kenma’s personal sunshade and umbrella-carrier ever since he hit his first growth spurt. Now, though, things are different. Kenma is out often, putting himself directly in harm’s way and Kuroo couldn’t protect him even if he wanted to— he does want to.
Kuroo wishes he could say he’s accepted it, but really he hasn’t. Thinking about it makes him feel sick to his stomach but there isn’t really anything he can do besides teeter on the edge of panic anytime he doesn’t have Kenma in his line of vision.
He’s lucky, though, he knows that for sure. He sees his dad plenty when Kenma’s busy and the Kozumes certainly don’t seem to mind his presence when he’s doing dishes and brushing the cats and keeping Kenma socialized, so he really does get to utilize every possible second of Kenma to himself he can get. He wishes that were enough to keep him satisfied.
“Kuro.” Soft enough that he wouldn’t have heard it if the sides of their heads weren’t touching. He realizes his grip on the fabric of Kenma’s— his, but really it’s Kenma’s shirt has gotten tight enough to leave wrinkles behind. He tries not to let go too quickly, just in case he hadn’t noticed.
“Mm?” Kuroo angles his face towards Kenma a bit, takes in his screen-lit profile and the way his hair is starting to slip from behind his ear. That’s something he’ll always treasure, getting to see Kenma’s entire face when they’re alone. His hair’s getting longer.
“Relax.” Kenma knocks his head against his gently like a cat. “I’m okay. I know today was rough but I’m fine.” He lets go of his phone with one hand to press Kuroo’s hand firmly against his ribs again.
Right. Today. Kuroo was trying not to think about today. He forces out a breath.
“Right, of course. Sorry Kyanma.” Faux-casual, almost perfect, good enough to fool anyone. Kuroo thanks every power he can think of that Kenma isn’t anyone.
He isn’t sure how he can always tell. Maybe there’s tension in his voice, in his jaw— or maybe Kenma really is all-knowing. God knows he’d be first in line to start that religion. Whatever it is, he hopes it never goes away.
“Want to stay over tonight?” Kenma asks, but what Kuroo knows he means is I can’t sleep without you next to me and I know you can’t either. Kuroo hasn’t spent a night without Kenma since the first time he got really hurt in a fight. Not that either of their parents know that. He’d set the bone himself and cried into Kenma’s shoulder after.
“Yeah.” Like he even has to ask. Like Kuroo could even come up with enough things he wouldn’t do for Kenma to make a list.
“I love you.” Comes out of Kenma’s mouth soft and unguarded.
“I love you too.” Kuroo says, and what he hopes Kenma hears is I would do anything to keep you here with me.
Kuroo only holds him like it’s the last time he’ll ever touch him because it might be.