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Kenma sits cross-legged at the foot of their bed, hunched over a little oval mirror, dusting a powder puff over the apples of their cheeks. The light isn’t the best, but they can’t switch on the lamp for fear of their parents coming knocking, so the pale moonlight will have to do. A little flick of black frames both of their gold dollar eyes, and a pop of cherry red graces their rosebud lips. Pulling their peroxide-blonde hair from the spongy curlers they had stolen from their mother’s bathroom, Kenma finger-combs the segregated curls into gentle waves of cornsilk. Their roots are showing, but they don’t mind. Shouyo says it makes them look scary; Kuro says it looks cool. Then again, Kuro thinks that sneaking out late at night and racing jacked-up cars far too fast down roads out near empty fields is cool too.
Folding up the mirror and tucking it in the old shoe box along with all their little compacts of powder and tubes of lipstick, Kenma slides it under their bed. Standing, they brush some lint off of the robin’s egg blue poodle skirt, hook two dainty fingers in the strap of a pair of itty-bitty little kitten heels, and glide over to the window. The carpet squishes in that way carpet that’s not-quite-shag-but-not-quite-flat-and-rough does under their dainty feet. Leaning their forehead against the cool glass, Kenma watches the pool of watery street-lamp light outside the front yard.
And they watch.
Five silent minutes pass, but Kenma doesn’t worry. Kuro’s always late. Always. He had said he’d show up at exactly 11:00.
“Not a minute later, dolly, I swear.”
Kuro doesn’t show up until 11:05, on the dot, his show boat purring like a kitten as it creeps along the street. Kenma’s mouth twitches up, and they push their window open. A cool, gentle breeze ruffles their hair, bringing the smell of nighttime and suburbia to their button nose. Kuro’s driver side is facing the house, and he’s got a cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling and dancing in the streetlamp light. Kenma wrinkles their nose and swings a leg over the windowsill, their skirt pulling up and chilling the baby-soft skin of their leg. The descent down the side of the house is as graceful as it ever is, and Kenma lands in the soft soil of their mother’s flower garden, treading carefully between neat rows of tulips and onto the trim front lawn. Kuro’s dirty penny eyes light up when he sees their trim figure picking its way across the yard, kitten heels still swaying in their hands.
“Hey there, babydoll, you come here often?”
Kenma rolls their eyes and tugs the hot-rod’s door open, climbing into the passenger side and smoothing their skirt over their lap before meeting Kuro’s eyes. The cigarette hangs precariously from his lips, and he’s got that look on his face. Kenma knows that looks well. It’s the look of a sharp alley cat, slinking through the night and stealing food and shiny things from dumpsters and fighting the other alley cats just because he can. Kenma knows that look better than they know the back of their hand.
“Where’re we going tonight?” Kenma asks, words measured and soft and precise. Only offering a sly smirk and an oaky chuckle in response, Kuro finally tears his eyes away from Kenma (rigidly, as if it pains him to look away. It does, and he usually takes every chance he gets to tell them that) and starts up the car again. The rumble is far too loud on the quiet street, and Kuro takes off far too fast, the momentum jerking the pair of passengers’ backs flush against the seats. Kenma grips at their skirt, bunching the fabric up in childishly small hands as their heart leaps into their throat. As a way of apology, Kuro draws his hand away from the wheel and rests it gently on Kenma’s knee. Kenma isn’t comforted in the slightest by the fact that there is now only one hand steering them down the ever-darkening road.
“Kuro,” Kenma says, turning to look at the driver. “Where are we going tonight?” They reiterate, lacing their words with fireless force. Kuro withdraws his hand and stares straight ahead, setting his mouth. He doesn’t answer.
“Kuro,”
“I-75,”
“Kuroo!”
“Look, babydoll, I’ll make it up to you! Don’t rattle your cage, kitten, I’ll take you to one of those all-night drive-ins after, promise—” Kuro tries, glancing over at Kenma with a pleading look. Kenma silences him with a glare. They’re having none of it—the last time Kuroo had tried to race on I-75, he and Bokuto had been arrested because they couldn’t hide from fuzz fast enough, and ended up with a broken arm apiece. Kenma remembers crouching in the bushes near the interstate, gripping onto Shouyo’s cardigan to make sure he didn’t bolt off and do something reckless. The others had all scattered, tearing off in their hotties and hooting out their windows. Akaashi had been the one to pay the bail, driving to pick them up with their un-modded, completely average second-hand Jaguar. Kenma hadn’t gone with them, and had ignored Kuro for a whole week afterwards (Akaashi had tried to ignore Bokuto, to stand in solidarity with Kenma, but failed when Bokuto climbed up the tree that grew near their window and wouldn’t go down until Akaashi accepted their apology. Kuro tried it too, but it worked out less fortunately when he fell from Kenma’s front yard oak tree and their father chased him off with a golf club).
They sit in silence for a while, Kenma taking deep breaths and trying to calm their rage and fear. Anxiety claws at their chest like a dragon trying to climb their ribcage, each shuddering breath sending it closer and closer to their heart. Kenma closes their eyes, and when they open again, the car’s pulled over, and Kuro’s moved across the bench seat so that he’s kneeling right beside them. Kenma takes a deep breath, and lets Kuro put his hand on their shoulder.
“Will Shouyo be there?” Kenma asks, staring straight ahead at the darkened roadside. They swallow their anxiety like they’re dry swallowing a fish oil pill.
“I know his darker half’ll be there, so probably, yeah,”
“And you’ll take me to the drive-in after,” Kenma says. It’s not a question. The anxiety-pill burns at the base of their throat.
“We’ll see anything you want,” Kuro promises, nodding vigorously.
“Just this once, Kuro. I mean it,”
“Have I told you lately that I love ya’, puddin’?”
“Don’t call me that,”
“Fire up, boys!” Shouyo calls, waving his scarf in the air. His mop of sunset hair stands up at odd angles. (Kenma remembers when he had shown up to school with it chopped off. “I did it myself!” He’d said, practically beaming. “I can tell,” Kenma had said, looking up from where they skritched away at their heavy drawing paper. Shouyo had pouted and whined, and did his best to ignore the taunts of “lookin’ good, fuzzy duck!” thrown his way. Kageyama had trailed Shouyo around the school that day, growling and glaring at anyone who dared to say it when he was around.) Raising the scarf up high over his head, Shouyo waits for three beats, and then rips it down through the air. The hot-rods tear down the stretch of empty interstate, the smell of burning rubber filling Kenma’s nose. They’re leaning on Kuro’s open window, the smooth glass digging into their elbows, and a tiny frown pulls at their apple-red lips.
“Bo’s really cookin’ it tonight, huh?” Kuro asks, snuffing his cigarette out in the ashtray perched on the dashboard. Kenma nods absently, eyes following Shouyo’s mop of orange hair as he dashes away from the road, trotting to perch himself on the hood of Kageyama’s cruiser. Kenma lets their eyes wander over the starry interstate, following the taillights of Bokuto and Nishinoya’s rides as they rip down the asphalt. Their laser focus is so intense that they don’t even notice the slick, shiny, powder-blue Thunderbird driving up beside them until Kuro mutters under his breath, “Shit, fuck,”
Kenma turns around just in time to come face to face with a scowling face that always reminds them of a bulldog. Iwaizumi. But they know that’s not what’s ruffling Kuro’s feathers. Kenma knows it’s because where Iwaizumi goes, Oikawa’s soon to be. Oikawa’s always been bad news, as long as Kenma can remember. He and Kuro would get into scraps when they were younger, brawling it out (Oikawa doesn’t look it, but he can hold his own pretty well. Kenma’s seen it. But usually, Iwaizumi takes over or breaks up the fight before it even begins) over some petty thing or another. They’d grown past that by now, though—now they only brawl when it’s necessary, and never in front of Kenma.
“Hello, cherry!” Oikawa calls, leaning over Iwaizumi so he can make sure he’s in the maximum amount of moonlight possible. Kenma leans back against Kuro’s car, casting their gaze elsewhere. “Hello, Tetsu! How’s your hunk of junk doing?”
Kuro growls, at both the nickname and the insult to his hot-rod, but swallows it down with a mirthless smile. “Better than your circus wagon,” he spits, popping open the car door. Kenma, still looking anywhere but Oikawa and Iwaizumi, climbs in, perching themselves on Kuro’s knee. It’s bony and uncomfortable, but they stay there because they remember what Kuro told them when they were younger about admitting weakness in front of Oikawa.
“He’ll store it away like he’s a filing cabinet and use it against you sometime so far off that you’ve already forgot it.”
Kenma doesn’t know how Oikawa will use them moving over to the passenger seat against them, but they really don’t want to find out, so they stay there as Kuro skids away to line up for his turn to race.
“Don’t I get a mirror-warmer, dollface?” Kuro asks, leaning an arm out of the open window. He seems to have recovered from his run in with Oikawa, but Kenma knows better. They know from the drumming of his long, nimble fingers on the wheel and the slight shift of his eyes. They know from the forced easygoing tone of his voice. They say nothing, but glance around, then tugs their scarf—it’s a nice one, silky and yellow, that Shouyo had given them for their birthday last year—and presses a kiss to it. The fabric comes away stained with two red crescents, and Kuro presses it to his nose and breathes in. He hands it back and Kenma knots it around the rear-view mirror, pursing their lips.
“Be careful,” they say, the image of the last time Kuro had raced here still fresh in their mind.
“I always am,”
Kenma scoffs and spins on their heel, picking their way from asphalt to oily road-side grass to where Akaashi sits on a blanket, spidery hands wrapped around a metal thermos. Kenma eases themself down, folding their legs underneath them beside Akaashi, and sighs in greeting. Akaashi hums back, forest eyes staring intently at the two cars lined up to race—Kuro on the left, Sugawara on the right. Akaashi will never admit it, but they love watching the races. They love the second-hand thrill and the careful calculating of winners. They’re always betting on them, too (Bokuto is grievously wounded whenever Akaashi bets against him). Kenma knows this, but says nothing.
“Kenma!” comes a boisterous shout from behind. Kenma doesn’t turn around. They know it’ll only inflate Bokuto’s ego even further if they give him the attention he wants. The racer trots over, flopping himself on the blanket right between Akaashi and Kenma, but mainly on Akaashi, and flings an arm over his eyes. “I’m so exhausted. I think I need that magic touch of yours, Kenma, to boost my spirits!”
Akaashi tsks and rolls their eyes, sipping from their thermos. Kenma glances down at Bokuto, at the way he peeks out from behind his leather-clad arm, and resigns themself to their fate. They take three fingers, press them gently to their lips, and press them to Bokuto’s paper-thin cheek. He howls in delight, bolting up and planting a wet one right on Kenma’s cheek, causing them to recoil and scrub furiously at the spot of insult. “Hey, Akashi, can I get one from you, too? Double magic!”
Akaashi, without hesitation, kisses the palm of their hand and in one quick, graceful motion, sends it through Bokuto’s heavily greased hair. Squealing and drawing back, Bokuto attempts to fix his ruined hair, whining and complaining about how Akaashi was so mean, and at least Kenma was nice about it, geez! Akaashi only shrugs, shushing him so they can hear the race.
“—Go!” Shouyo shouts, as the cars tear off on either side of him. He makes his way to Kageyama’s idling ride, but stops dead in his track in that way that Mickey Mouse does on the cartoons Kenma likes to catch on Saturdays, where his feet are in front of his body and his eyebrows shoot up above his head. His mouth hangs open and he breaks into a dead run, untucked t-shirt fluttering in the night air. “Keeeeeeenmaaaaa!”
Kenma braces themself, and the impact is exactly as they expect—a freight train bowling them over with enough enthusiasm and warmth to melt steel. Shouyo laughs and squeezes Kenma, clamoring off his friend and helping them up. Akaashi looks on with mild amusement.
“Kenma, you didn’t tell me you were gonna be here tonight!” Shouyo says, eyes lit from behind with a fire that always makes Kenma shrink. Kenma shrugs, and looks at Shouyo’s nose (noses are easier to focus on than eyes).
“Kuro didn’t tell me ‘till I got in the car,”
“What?!” Shouyo looks truly offended, and Kenma is touched and warmed by their best friend’s boundless loyalty. “Do you want me to take him on? I’ll fight him for you, Kenma, I swear!”
“He would win,” Kenma says, honing in on a freckle on the tip of Shouyo’s nose. Shouyo pouts and sticks out his tongue.
“You don’t know that,”
“I do,”
“No you don’t!”
“Okay. Sh, watch the race,”
Shouyo turns his attention to the track, where Kuro’s crossing the spray-painted finish line, Sugawara hot on his tail. A tiny, proud smile flickers over Kenma’s face as they bring their hands together lightly. From a few feet away, Daichi begrudgingly passes Bokuto a few crumpled dollar bills (Daichi, thinking it would be rude and extremely anti-chivalrous of him, always bets on Sugawara, even when he knows he’ll lose. Akaashi has a chart in the garage their father owns that keeps track of how much money Daichi’s lost betting on his boyfriend: $40.09, as of tonight). Fukanaga, silent as ever, slides over and passes three dollars in quarters to Akaashi, who accepts just as silently.
Kenma watches the exchange with muted interest, while Kuro jogs over to ease himself on the blanket in the space left between them and Akaashi. Shouyo scrambles up, scooting as far away from Kuro as he can without fully abandoning Kenma. Shouyo’s never been fond of Kuro, ever since Kenma’s known him. "Something about him just sets me off in a bad way, y’know?” He used to say, when he first found out that Kenma and Kuro were going steady.
Draping an arm around Kenma’s slender frame, Kuro tugs gently on a cornsilk curl, and Kenma bats him away in the way they always do, in the way their old routine says they will. They’re a creature of habit, and Kuro knows this.
The movie doesn’t hold Kenma’s attention for very long. It’s cheesy and the acting is bad, but Kuroo had kept his promise, so Kenma would enjoy what they were given. Kuroo would enjoy what he was given as well, his arm slipped over Kenma’s slender shoulders, their head tucked under his chin. Usually, he only gets light, fleeting touches. A brush of the back of the hands, intertwined fingers if he’s lucky. A tug on the sleeve, just above the elbow. A gripped wrist with the strength of a newborn holding him in place (he’d die before he broke that grip). Doll hands sliding down his chest, into his pants, gentle and filled with purpose.
But now he’s got Kenma pressed up against him, warm and small and fragile, completely relaxed. Kuroo’s got his hand in their hair, stroking it gently, the light from the movie dancing across their face. Kuroo can’t bring himself to actually pay attention to the flick on the screen, transfixed by the milky glow of the creature lounging on him.
“You’re beautiful,” Kuroo whispers, pressing his lips against Kenma’s hair. It smells like lavender and clean sheets. Kenma hums underneath him, eyes drooping low, and snuggles closer. “So, so beautiful,” Kuroo continues, moving down Kenma’s head, pulling their hair aside to get at the backside of their ear. They suck in a breath between their teeth; Kuroo smirks against the shell of their ear, tugging on the skin with his lips. Kenma’s eyes flutter closed, a whine building in their throat. “Like a movie star,”
Kenma jerks away, dislodging from Kuroo’s grasp. Kuroo pulls back, startled, wondering if he had set Kenma off, oh god, he’s really done it now— Kenma’s on his lap in a second, their skirt pillowing on either side of them. Kuroo’s eyes blow wide and his hands settle on their hips and they’re kissing, and Kuroo’s melting underneath them and—
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.
Kenma yanks away, nearly cracking their head on the car’s roof. Kuroo follows them for an inch or two, not really processing that they’re not being a tease until he sees Kenma cranking the window down, eyebrows crinkling together.
“What’s wrong? Who’s there?” Kuroo asks, squinting out the window and trying to make out the face on the other side. Kenma doesn’t answer until the window’s halfway down and they can see out, and words and explanations spill from Akaashi’s mouth in the most display of emotion Kuroo’s ever seen from them.
“It’s Bokuto—he and Kageyama wrecked, and Shouyo was—Bokuto told me to come get you, said you’d know what to do—” Akaashi tries to explain, but their hands and shoulders are shaking and they choke on their words. Kenma sends a glance to Kuro, their face darkening.
“Did you call the cops?” Kuroo asks, straightening up. Akaashi shakes their head no.
“He told me not to. He said to come find you, as fast as I could—” Akaashi can’t finish.
“Aw, fuck,” Kuroo says, patting Kenma’s thigh. They climb off of him, but Kuroo can’t really bring himself to be embarrassed about the tent in his pants with the growing panic in the car. Popping the door open, Kuroo steps out, putting a hand on Akaashi’s shoulder. “You know where the track is, ‘Kaashi?” Akaashi nods a quick yes. “Good. Okay, good. Go to the projector house over there, tell the operator that it’s an emergency. Call the fuzz, tell them where they need to go. Do they need an ambulance?” Another nod. “Call for one too. Hurry, go!”
Akaashi takes off, stumbling like a baby deer, and bangs on the projector house’s door. Kenma’s rooting around in the glovebox for something. They pull out a cat’s cradle and frantically knot their fingers through it. Kuroo Climbs back into the car and slams the gas before the door’s even fully closed. His jaw clenches tighter than a drum, his knuckles white on the wheel. Kenma’s hands shake on their cat’s cradle.
“Shouyo. do you think—” they start, voice wavering.
“No. He’s fine,” Kuroo says tersely, eyes on the road.
“Bokuto?”
“He has to be fine,”
“What if—”
“Kenma, please,”
They arrive a few minutes after the cops and the ambulance do. Kenma can see the wreckage from a mile away. Kageyama’s car burns, the paint on the side scratched to hell. A few yards away, Bokuto’s car is on its back, the roof crushed. Kenma recognizes a few of the other racer’s cars in the pileup—Sugawara’s, Nishinoya’s, Tanaka’s, Taketora’s. There's no sign of Oikawa. Gasoline and something else pools on the ground, and Kenma’s vision tunnels. They see a head of orange hair being loaded onto a stretcher. They see police lights flashing. They see Kuroo running to one of the cops, asking what happened. They see a head of orange hair disappearing into the back of an ambulance.
“Shouyo,” They whisper, taking a step forward. They start to run for the ambulance. “Shouyo,” they repeat, to no one but themself. The paramedic stops them with a hand on their shoulder.
“Woah, slow down, missy!”
“Is he okay? Shouyo!” Kenma calls, their panic overflowing. There’s no response from inside the ambulance.
“Your friend’s gonna be okay, girlie, we’ve just gotta take her to a hospital,”
“We’re not girls, and let me through! Shouyo!” Kenma shoves the paramedic’s hand away and shoulders past him. The paramedic grabs their shoulder again, harder. Kenma struggles, clawing at the man’s hand.
“Get back! Get—back!” the paramedic slaps Kenma across the face. They stumble back, stunned, and the paramedic closes the ambulance doors. They watch him get into the vehicle. They watch it tear off. They watch the glimpse of orange hair in the back disappear.
“Kenma!” Kuro calls, jogging over to where they stand in the wake of the ambulance. “Bokuto’s gonna be okay, I think—where’s shrimpy?”
Kenma doesn’t answer.
“Kenma?”
They sprint to Kuroo’s car, wrenching the driver’s side door open and sliding in.
“Kenma!”
Kenma peels off into the night, the pedal glued to the floor.
Kuroo catches a ride to the hospital with one of the ambulances, the one carrying Bokuto.
“Kuroo…?” He asks, head lolling. One of the paramedics monitors his pulse.
“Hey, hey, I’m here. I’m here, buddy,” Kuroo takes Bokuto’s hand, clasps it in two of his. Bokuto grins, then winces, then laughs, then grimaces. “Man, I leave you alone for what, forty-five minutes? And this is what you get up to?”
“Did ‘Kaashi see me? Did they see me?” Bokuto asks, eyes drooping. The paramedic’s eyes widen a bit. He bustles about with some equipment on the wall.
“No, stupid, they went to come get help,” Kuroo cracks a smile. Bokuto’s eyes close, then he opens them again.
“Ain’t that a bite? They woulda been ‘mpressed…” Bokuto laughs again, and his paper-thin lips redden. Kuroo cracks a smile, but it wavers.
“No, they wouldn’t. They would’ve told you that you’re stupid and ignored you for a week again,” Bokuto laughs harder at that. Their lips get redder. The paramedic stands up and pushes Kuroo out of the way. He starts to do CPR, and Kuroo presses himself against the side of the ambulance, biting into his fist as he watches his best friend’s eyes close and open and his chin stain with blood.
Kenma parks the car across two spaces and forgets to turn it off when they jump out. The hospital is a tall building, lit brightly from inside. Kenma barrels through the doors, stumbling over the threshold. A nurse stops them, her hair pinned up under a paper hat. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I’m not a—never mind. I need to find my friend, he’s just been rushed in from a car accident,” Kenma doesn’t like how their voice shakes. The nurse glances behind her, and worries at her painted lip.
“I just saw them rushin’ some kids into the ER, they looked in pretty bad shape. I’m not supposed to let anyone but family back there, or I might lose this gig… Oh, sweetie, don’t cry—I’ll tell you what: I’ll let you back there as soon as they’re done operating. Which one’s your friend?”
“Hinata. Shouyo Hinata,” Kenma says, moving their hands with an invisible cat’s cradle. The nurse nods sympathetically.
“Don’t worry, sugar. The doctors’ll do their best,” She says, before pointing Kenma to a waiting area and turning away to scurry off about her hospital duties. Kenma sits in a hard plastic chair and bends so their head’s between their knees. They take deep breaths, in, out, in, out, in, out. Just like Akaashi had taught them.
Kenma can hear people milling about around them. Someone shouts.
“Get off me! I’m fine! Go look after the ones who need help!”
It’s Kageyama. Kenma recognizes the sharp bark. Looking up between curtains of hair, Kenma meets eyes with him across the reception area. Kageyama shakes off a nurse and makes a beeline for the chair next to Kenma. They’ve never been close—they didn’t have any classes together, and they only really talked when Kenma hung out with Shouyo and Kageyama tagged along. But now, in the hospital, the boy they both cared for so much in so many different ways being rushed to a sterile operating room, they shared something.
Kenma straightens up, leaning onto Kageyama’s solid shoulder. Without thinking, he puts his arm around them. The hard plastic arm rests tug into both their ribs, but they stay there, Kageyama’s hand digging into Kenma’s arm. Before either of them know it, they’re crying, gripping each other like a lifeline, ugly sobs shaking their bodies.
They’re joined steadily by more friends. Daichi comes in, franticly asking for Suga. He never sits, just paces, scrubbing his face with his hands. Lev shows up with Yaku, who rushes to Kenma’s side and digs in his pockets for a string. Kenma takes it with shaking hands, trying to form another cat’s cradle. Kageyama’s still got his arm around them, his eyes red and puffy, tapping his foot up and down. He hasn’t looked away from the swinging doors where the stretchers disappeared.
Akaashi’s the last to show up, shaking with fear and cold. They see Kageyama, stiffen, and sit on the other side of the waiting room. They don’t speak.
“Yaku,” Kenma asks, voice hoarse. Yaku’s running his fingers through Kenma’s hair soothingly. They’ve shifted from leaning on Kageyama to resting their head on Yaku’s lap. “Where’s Kuro?”
“Who knows,” Yaku replies, petting Kenma’s head like they’re a cat.
“You, nurse! Go tell them to prep the OR, stat!”
Kuroo starts, gestures to himself. The doctor nods, impatient, and Kuroo scurries off, because he doesn’t know what else to do. On the way, he passes a mirror, and catches a glimpse of himself. The nurse’s uniform he nicked from the laundry after the paramedics sent him away looks really nice on him. He doesn’t stop to goggle, though he would definitely were the situation not so dire.
“Hey, nurse!” Kuroo catches a nurse’s attention. “The doc says to prep the OR for those car wreck kids!” The nurse nods and takes off, powerwalking away down the hall. Kuroo takes off, tucking his hair into his hat. He’s gotta find Bokuto, and Kenma. He peers into every room he passes—he sees Nishinoya and Tanaka in the same room, a doctor plastering their broken limbs. Yamamoto is in the next one, his head wrapped in gauze, hooked up to all sorts of machines. No sign of Oikawa or Sugawara. Or Bokuto. Panic begins to build in his chest, growing and frothing until he’s damn near choking on it. The paramedic had gotten Bokuto stable, but he was unconscious when they wheeled him into the hospital.
“’scuse me, sir?” Kuroo stops a doctor outside one of the wards, batting his eyelashes. (Kenma had rubbed enough lipstick off on him to make it look intentional, and Kuroo had always had a pretty face). “It’s my first day, and the head nurse’ll go ape if I mess this up—can you show me where a, uh, Koutaro Bokuto is? Came in in an auto accident,”
The doctor seemed to buy it. He laughed, smiling gently and eyeing Kuroo up and down. “Sure, sure. He new? He’ll probably be in the OR or the ER, depending on what happened,”
Kuroo gave a fake little laugh and smiled, hanging his head in flirtatious gratitude. “Thanks so much, sir!”
Kuroo can feel the doctor’s eyes follow him as he walks away. He sways his hips a little, to add to the illusion. He wants to gag, but swallows it until he rounds the corner and sees the blinking OR sign. There’s a window, curtained off from the inside. Kuroo hustles over, pressing his face against the glass, where the curtain parts in the middle. Through the crack, he can see the back of a surgeon, lit by sterile spotlights. The surgeon moves, and Kuroo catches Bokuto’s ridiculous hair and paper-thin face hidden under an oxygen mask.
Hours pass. Daichi sits himself down in a seat next to Kageyama, places his head in his calloused hands. Kageyama’s fidgeting spreads, his hands tapping on his knee, leg bouncing. Kenma fell asleep two hours in, Yaku’s hand in their hair. Someone had called Asahi, who worked late at the pool hall. He showed up less than five minutes later, sweating, panting, and on the verge of tears.
“Is—Noya—okay?” he asked, through gasps of breath.
“We don’t know yet. Sit down, Asahi,” Daichi pulled a chair out for the tall bartender. He sat, nibbling on his fingernails. It was quiet after that.
Lev had situated himself in the seat to Yaku’s other side, and fell asleep on his shoulder shortly after. Akaashi never took their eyes off Kageyama. An hour into their waiting, he had noticed, and begun to sweat. He rubbed his hands over his face and spoke, in a choked voice, “I did it,”
“What was that, Kageyama?” Daichi had asked, leaning against the wall at this point, his arms crossed. Kageyama looked up at Daichi with puffy red eyes.
“I did it,” he repeated. Akaashi was the only one who didn’t start as grim realization set over them. “I did this. I—I swerved. I took my eyes off the road for a minute, and then Hinata was there, and I swerved and—and everything—it all just—”
Daichi was first to react. He had raised a hand, and Kageyama flinched as if he was about to be hit, but Daichi just placed it firmly on Kageyama’s shoulder. Kenma, watching, felt their mouth go dry. “It’s alright, Kags,”
That’s all that was said out loud about it. Akaashi kept staring straight through Kageyama, though.
Nearly four hours in, Kuro emerges from the swinging, double doors wearing a nurse’s uniform, his hair all tucked up in a paper hat. Kageyama blinked, slowly, and Daichi snorted. Yaku closed his eyes, as if praying. Akaashi didn’t seem to notice. He sat down on the floor at Kenma’s feet, resting his head on their knees. No one spoke.
Now, after four hours and fifteen minutes, a nurse walks in. She’s got a clipboard in her hand and a gentle smile. Kenma, gently roused from their sleep by Yaku, can’t tell if it’s sympathetic, sarcastic, or genuine (they’ve never been able to tell). Kageyama jerks up, looking eagerly, expectantly, fearfully at the nurse in all her tall, ivory-skinned, ebony-haired, beauty-marked glory.
“I’ve got good news, and bad news. Which do you want first?” she asks, nibbling on her lip.
“Good news,” Daichi says, automatically. The nurse nods, and begins to read from her chart.
“Nishinoya and Tanaka both have a broken arm and leg apiece, except Nishinoya’s back is fractured as well. Yamamoto’s got a few fractured ribs and his legs are pretty messed up—it’s uncertain at this point if he or Nishinoya will ever walk again. Sugawara seems fine, a few bruised ribs, concussion at the worst. They’ll all live,” the nurse says, peering through her specs at the assembled.
“What about Bokuto?” Akaashi croaks.
“What about Shouyo?” Kenma adds. Kuro reaches up and offers his hand. Kenma takes it, shaking. He’s got rough hands; driver hands. Kenma’s are soft, delicate, completely enveloped.
“Bokuto… We don’t know. He’s stable for now, but… we’ll do all we can,” the nurse skillfully avoids speaking of Shouyo.
“What about Shouyo?” It’s Kageyama who asks this time, through gritted teeth. The nurse avoids his gaze.
“I’m very sorry. Hinata… She didn’t make it through surgery,”
“He,” Kenma whispers. Kuro squeezes their hand. Now isn’t the time—the adults won’t ever listen.
“He,” Kageyama echoes, quieter.
Kenma looks out the front windows of the hospital, all sparkling glass and swinging doors. The sun’s beginning to rise over the horizon, but the only way they can tell if from the pinkish hue streaming from behind the clouds. Their cheeks feel warm and wet.
“Kenma! Look, the sun’s coming up! Gosh, isn’t it something?”
“Mhm. Makes everything look like honey,”
“That’s cute. Hey, Kenma?”
“Hm?”
“What if the sun forgets to rise?”
“That’s not how to sun works, Shouyo,”
“But what if?”
“The earth would freeze, and we’d all be dead,”
“Oh. Huh,”
“… Don’t worry. The sun’ll always rise,”
“I hope so,”
This is a frozen earth, Kenma thinks, wiping their eyes with the back of their hand. It comes away smudged with those little flicks of blacks they put on all that time ago.