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Kuroo tries and fails to check his hair in the frosted glass panel of Kenma’s front door as he waits. He’d run through a list of volleyball drills on the walk over, weighed the pros and cons of trying to get Kenma to learn a new combo attack with him. There’s exactly a week left of summer break, which means a week left to perfect their spring tournament training regime.
He runs a hand through his hair to try and get it to lie flat. It’s practically second nature at this point, despite the fact that the attempt never works. Fortunately, Kenma has known him long enough to accept him regardless of the state of his hair. Hopefully. Come to think of it, Kenma has seen the worst of his hair days, but Kuroo’s never given that particular thought much consideration before.
“Hey, Kenma,” he starts as the door is pulled open. “If I had dandruff, would you still—”
The roots of Kenma’s hair are showing again, much faster than the last time he’d dyed it. At least Kenma appears to be dandruff-free.
If Kuroo had finished his sentence, Kenma might have responded with a patronising, “Yes, Kuro, I would still like you,” to which the traitorous part of Kuroo’s mind would supply a not in the same way that I like you, though. But Kenma looks up, and Kuroo’s breath catches.
Kenma is wearing glasses.
“You,” Kuroo manages, and finds he isn’t capable of completing that sentence.
Kenma stares blankly at him. It seems to takes him a few seconds to remember he’s wearing glasses at all; when he does, his hands come up to adjust them self-consciously. The black frames slip down his nose a fraction as he tilts his head.
“Kuro,” Kenma says. “You’re staring.”
It isn’t easy to hide a crush on your best friend. No, not a crush— a crush implies infatuation, Kuroo has loved Kenma for as long as he can remember. It’s hard to hide something as big as that from your best friend. It’s even harder when they spring stuff like this on you. Kuroo used to tease Kenma about playing games till he’d turn into a real life megane boy, but he hadn’t expected that particular fantasy to come true.
“You look nice,” Kuroo manages, voice strained. “Since when do you wear glasses?”
Kenma ducks his head and doesn’t answer. The glasses must be new, since they hadn’t once made an appearance in the past week. Kuroo had attended training with him every day, taken the train back with Kenma in the evenings after practice ended.
“They suit you,” he tells Kenma. An understatement.
Kenma fidgets. “You think so?”
Kuroo opens his mouth to reply with a simple, “Yes.” But just for a second, Kenma looks at him so expectantly that he falters.
He does it without thinking. Takes a step forward and kisses his best friend.
Kenma’s lips are soft against his. Kuroo lets instinct guide him— his eyes fall shut, hand coming up to cup Kenma’s face, tilting his chin for a better angle. In actuality, Kuroo has no idea what he’s doing. But it feels right, and Kenma doesn’t resist, just sort of leans into him.
Then Kuroo remembers where they are, who they are, and pulls away.
Kenma has a strange look on his face. Kuroo is hit with a sudden wave of self-doubt.
He knows a lot of things about Kenma. He knows Kenma doesn’t usually like people touching him, but he also knows he’s the exception to that rule. He knows exactly how far he can lean in before Kenma will angle his face to put some distance between them. Having crossed that line, Kuroo finds that he’s at a complete loss.
“Kenma,” he says weakly. “Do you— are we—”
This is the deciding moment for him, the yes or no. Kuroo isn’t good with rejection— he’d refused to eat for a week in third grade when his parents said he couldn’t get save the whales tattooed across his back. But Kenma is more than a whale tattoo.
Kenma is smiling in that way he does, just the faintest quick of his lip, but Kuroo can’t help thinking he looks a little sad. Kenma opens his mouth. Kuroo holds his breath.
“Yes,” Kenma says.
Kuroo’s alarm goes off at half past eight in the morning.
He stumbles groggily to the bathroom to wash his face, opens his eyes and finds himself looking not at his reflection but at a post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror. Something is written on it in dark blue ink.
Always believe what Kenma says.
Kuroo stares at the unfamiliar scrawl and tries to remember who he’d invited over recently. Kenma is always around, but this doesn't seem like something he’d pull. Bokuto wouldn’t have the discretion to disguise his handwriting, nor the patience to wait for Kuroo to find a note on his own. The post-it hadn’t been here yesterday.
Kuroo reaches for the flimsy paper, then decides against it. The unsettled feeling remains at the pit of his stomach as he gets washed up and changed, but eventually, somewhere between his house and Kenma’s, he decides the note must have been the work of aliens and casts the matter aside.
“Tetsurou,” Kenma’s mom breaks into a smile when she answers the door. Her expression immediately turns apologetic. “Sorry, Kenma’s not home right now.”
Kuroo frowns. Kenma rarely leaves the house alone when there isn’t practice. “That’s okay,” Kuroo says. “I’ll just—” He stops, realising that Kenma’s mom is still standing at the door, that she hasn’t stepped aside to invite him into the house to wait.
“Uh,” Kuroo says, disconcerted. “Where did Kenma go?”
If he hadn’t been watching Kenma’s mom, he might have missed the way her grip tightens almost imperceptibly on the doorknob. From this angle, her smile looks brittle. “Maybe give him a call?” she suggests.
“Sure,” Kuroo agrees, nodding stiffly. “I’ll do that. Of course.”
It’s a little surreal. As she closes the door, Kuroo wonders if he’d made her mad somehow. Maybe she thinks he’s a bad son-in-law. No— not son-in-law. Best friend. Maybe she thinks he’s a bad best friend for not knowing Kenma’s whereabouts. But that makes no sense, since Kuroo has come over countless times in the past and waited in Kenma’s room for him to return from extra weekend classes or surprise dental visits. So it can’t be that.
Kuroo dials Kenma’s number as he walks. He half expects Kenma not to pick up. Maybe he’s been abducted by aliens, and it will be up to Kuroo to save him.
Kenma picks up after two rings.
“Kenma,” Kuroo breathes, relief washing over him. “Where are you?”
“In school,” Kenma answers.
Kuroo pauses. He hears some background noise through the line, but nothing distinct enough to be made out. He’s distantly aware that his steps have slowed to a stop. “It’s summer break, Kenma. What are you doing there?”
Kenma’s voice is quiet. “Go home, Kuro. I’ll come over later.”
Something about the way he says it sets off alarm bells in Kuroo’s head. Kenma doesn’t sound panicked or anxious, but Kuroo gets the distinct feeling he’s trying to hide something.
“Kenma,” Kuroo tries. “What’s going on?”
It doesn’t seem like anything is terribly wrong, at least. But Kenma hesitates before he speaks, and that’s enough to make Kuroo nervous.
“Nothing, Kuro. Look—” Kenma sighs. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
A minute ago, Kuroo had been psyching himself up for an intergalactic rescue mission. He thinks back to the cryptic note he’d found tacked to his mirror half an hour ago. Always believe what Kenma says.
“I’ll believe you,” Kuroo promises. “Try me.”
There’s something on Kenma’s mind as they walk to the neighbourhood park to practice some tosses— Kuroo can tell from the way he strays from their path every so often, as if preoccupied with with one of his games. In reality, the only thing in Kenma’s hands is a volleyball, and Kuroo maintains a one-step distance behind to steer him in the right direction.
“You okay?” Kuroo asks. He’s not worried about what goes through Kenma’s head, but it’s an unusually cold day out for summer. Kuroo feels a slight chill dressed in just t-shirt and shorts. “Want my jacket?”
Kenma shakes his head, finally turning to glance at him. “We’ll warm up when we—” He stops, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not wearing a jacket.”
Kuroo laughs. They’ve arrived at the park, which is relatively empty for a Sunday. Kuroo swipes the ball from Kenma’s hands, balancing it on one finger like a basketball. “You got me. Want a warm hug instead?”
Kenma ignores him and goes to set up.
The first ball he tosses is a little low. Kuroo compensates by adjusting his angle, spiking with a hard swing that’s just short of satisfying. The second ball is a little too fast. Kuroo thinks Kenma’s doing it intentionally at first, just to spite him. But ten minutes and dozens of balls later, they still haven’t found their rhythm.
“You’re playing like you’re out of practice,” Kuroo calls. It’s not a jab, just an observation. Kuroo might be concerned if it were anyone else fumbling, but Kenma has never given him reason to worry. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”
Kenma looks the same as usual, if a little winded. “I’m fine.”
Kuroo walks over, pulls the ball Kenma is holding gently from his grasp. “Let’s try a new move,” Kuroo suggests. Maybe a change in pace will help speed up the process. “I’ve wanted to do this one for a while. See if you could send me a toss sort of like this—”
He demonstrates the move as best as he can, multiple times and with a commentary in his best imitation of Coach Nekomata’s voice, one that coaxes an unwilling smile out of Kenma. The spike is steep and requires a high toss, something they can probably pick up with some practice. When he’s done explaining, Kuroo hands the ball back to Kenma.
Instead of tossing it, Kenma looks apprehensively back at him. “Hey, Kuro,” he says quietly. “What if I don’t want to continue playing volleyball?”
It takes Kuroo a moment to comprehend that. “What, you mean next year?”
Kenma hesitates before nodding. His expression settles into something neutral, but the way he’s blinking just a bit faster than usual tells Kuroo that his reply will matter.
Kuroo answers honestly. “You’re good at volleyball,” he says. “Everyone will miss you if you stop playing. Lev, Yamamoto, Inuoka… the whole team.” He pauses, thinks for a moment about their positions— him, fully intending to continue playing through college, and Kenma, who had picked the sport up and stuck it through just because almost a decade ago, Kuroo thought it looked like something fun to try. “I think you’ll do great if you continue. But at the end of the day, it’s not up to me, is it?”
Kenma scrunches his brow. Kuroo’s not sure if it was what he wanted to hear.
“You won’t be there, though,” Kenma says with a sigh. Kuroo isn’t sure whether to feel flattered or disappointed. It doesn’t matter, though, because the next second Kenma announces, “I’m going to toss the ball.”
That’s all the warning Kuroo gets before it comes at him, high in the air, blotting out the sun.
In theory, Kuroo knows how the spike is supposed to work. In practice, he’s far from prepared to execute it. Nonetheless, he lets his mind take a backseat and leaps as high as he can. His palm connects with the ball on the downward swing, slamming the ball to the ground in an almost vertical path.
A perfect spike.
Kuroo lands, stunned. “Holy— how did you know where to toss the ball? Did you just do a pinpoint toss? Like Karasuno’s setter?”
Kenma frowns. There’s a strange expression on his face, one that Kuroo can’t quite place. “No, I… it just felt right. Familiar.” He looks over at Kuroo, eyes searching.
Kuroo shakes his head in disbelief. “Amazing. Do you think we’d be able to do that if we tried again?” His eyes search the grass until he locates the ball, several meters from the net.
“Kuro,” Kenma grabs his arm, and Kuroo starts; he hadn’t heard Kenma walk up to him, hadn’t realised he was so close. It’s weird, because there’s plenty of breathing space between them even if it doesn’t feel like it, and Kenma reduces that distance by tugging Kuroo closer, like he’s about to whisper a secret in his ear.
Except the angle is off, and there’s a meaningful look in Kenma’s eyes. Kuroo doesn’t know if he breathes in those few seconds, but before he knows it Kenma is drawing back and Kuroo is shaken from his trance.
He sucks in an audible breath. Kenma lets go of his arm.
“Sorry,” Kenma says, turning away quickly. Kuroo swallows and restores the rightful distance between them, tries to shake the weird feeling off.
They go back to practicing the new spike, even though they don’t get it nearly as good as the first time again. Maybe that first try had been a fluke. Or maybe during subsequent spikes Kuroo is distracted, busy trying to ignore the fact that for a fleeting moment back there, he’d thought Kenma was going to kiss him.
Kuroo wakes up and it’s snowing.
He takes a step backwards and lets the curtain fall back over the window, mouth hanging open. It’s summer, how can it be snowing in summer, all their plans for training will have to change if the first week of school post-break is cancelled because of snow in summer—
Kuroo turns and darts back towards his bed, feeling around his sheets until he finds his phone. Surprisingly, his inbox isn’t full of panicked text messages. There are exactly zero panicked messages about the snow. In fact, there aren’t any new messages at all.
“Okay,” Kuroo says aloud. There has to be a good explanation for this. Maybe the team booted him out of their group chat again, just like they did as a prank when he was first elected captain. He goes to his inbox, selects the first name (“kenma my love”, thanks Bokuto) with the intention of composing a text to Kenma. He also needs to check the news to see whether school has been cancelled. That should be his top priority right now.
Hand on the door handle, Kuroo looks up from his phone and freezes. Tacked to his door is a post-it note with the words scrawled on it:
Don’t go outside. Call Kenma.
Kuroo lets his arm fall back to his side. “That’s… not weird at all,” he mutters, staring at the unfamiliar handwriting. But there’s no harm in complying, so he selects Kenma from his call list and raises his phone to his ear.
“Kuro?” Kenma’s voice is familiar, normal. Kuroo releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Kenma, what the hell’s going on? Why does it look like the middle of winter and why is there a note on my door— I don’t even know where it came from— telling me to—”
“I’ll call you back,” Kenma interrupts, voice hushed, and Kuroo has to be quiet to hear what he’s saying. “Sorry, I just have to… I’ll come over later, we can talk then.”
“No way,” Kuroo finds himself saying. “It’ll be fucking freezing outside, don’t leave the house—”
But Kenma isn’t at home, he realises. He can hear the telltale sound of chatter over the line, people’s voices and other typical outdoor sounds filtering through. More importantly, the inflection in Kenma’s voice is strange, almost as if he’s trying to hide something.
“Please,” Kenma begs. “Just wait for me.”
Kuroo can’t think of any reason Kenma would hide anything from him. “Kenma, wait—”
With a click, the line goes dead.
Yaku and Kai don’t answer their phones, even after several tries, and neither does Lev. Kuroo runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. It’s like one of those sci-fi movies where the protagonist wakes up in a strange world with no memory of anything leading up to it, and no one will tell him anything. Well, that’s fine. At least Kuroo has the lead role. But what now?
Kuroo looks back down at his phone, about to start up a game to kill some time, when the preview of the last text he’d sent Kenma catches his eye. It’s dated ‘yesterday’, and Kuroo clicks on it, eyes scanning the unfamiliar words. His heart sinks.
You look cute in glasses.
Kuroo glances once more towards the window. The sky is a light grey, small specks of snow drifting gently towards the ground.
Kenma doesn’t wear glasses.
Lev is hovering outside Kenma’s front door when Kuroo approaches the house. His long limbs are recognisable from a mile away, as is his excited expression when Kuroo calls out to him. But then Lev seems to remember something, and it morphs into one of mild panic.
“What?” Kuroo asks suspiciously, joining him on Kenma’s doorstep. The smile on Lev’s face looks like it’s been plastered there by force. “Have you been working on your receives?”
“Um…” There’s a long, drawn out pause. Kuroo notes the way Lev’s hands come up to clutch protectively at the bag slung over his shoulder. “Yes,” Lev lies.
Kuroo frowns. “What do you have in that bag?”
“Nothing,” Lev lies again. Lev is a terrible liar. His nose literally looks a fraction longer than it did a few seconds ago, that’s how bad a liar he is. Kuroo isn’t in the mood to deal with his antics today.
“Whatever,” he sighs. “As long as it doesn’t have to do with club activities.”
Lev tenses.
Kuroo turns to him. “Give me the bag,” he demands, holding out his hand.
Lev shakes his head, eyes round. “No, I can’t, Kenma will kill me—”
“You can outrun Kenma,” Kuroo snaps. “But you can’t outrun me. Give me the bag.”
He knows Lev isn’t afraid of him. But he’s Lev’s upperclassman and captain, and he knows Lev respects that. Lev’s eyes dart nervously to Kenma’s front door as he hands the bag over. At the top of its interior is a crumpled sheet of paper, one which Kuroo extracts and smoothes the edges of to take a look at.
It’s a diagram for the spring tournament match-up, which in itself is odd. Kuroo scrutinises the names of the competing schools, scans the page for Nekoma. “Wait a minute,” he says, flipping it over. “This says we’re playing in the preliminaries. We’re supposed to be seeded, there must be some sort of mistake.”
Lev is definitely avoiding his eye now.
“Lev,” Kuroo thrusts the paper in front of Lev’s face. “Explain.”
“I’m not allowed,” Lev whines, wringing his hands. “I’m not even supposed to talk to you—”
Coach Nekomata is going to throw a fit— Nekoma had made the best eight of the interhigh tournament several months ago. Plus, there’s no reason Lev should have a copy of the match-ups before Kuroo. It’s unusual for the match-ups to even be out this early, with at least a month to go until the spring tournament is scheduled to start.
“If you don’t explain exactly where you got hold of this, Lev, I swear to god, I’ll make you run ten extra laps at practice—”
“You can’t,” Lev blurts. “You’re not captain anymore.”
Kuroo narrows his eyes. He’s never heard that comeback before. “Excuse me?”
A soft click sounds from behind them. “Kuro? Lev?”
Kuroo whips around. Kenma is standing in his doorway, head peeking out from behind the front door, gaming console held loosely in one hand. He glances between them, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“Kenma,” Lev calls, flouncing over to him. “I didn’t know Kuro was coming over, I swear! I just wanted to show you the match-ups, I thought maybe you’d change your mind about playing in the tournament—”
“Change your mind?” Kuroo echoes. Kenma has never once mentioned not wanting to play in the sprint tournament. Kenma has never backed out of playing in an official match since they started playing volleyball together.
Kenma looks quickly at Lev. “What did you tell Kuro?”
Now Kuroo is worried. “Kenma?” he asks. “What’s going on?”
Lev is wearing his school uniform, Kuroo realises. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, too distracted by his peculiar behaviour. He must have come from school. But Kuroo has a copy of every player’s summer break schedule, and no one is supposed to have extra lessons this week. There shouldn’t even be extra lessons this week.
Kenma looks apprehensive. Lev is staring at the ground.
“Kenma,” Kuroo says slowly. “What day is it today?”
Kenma tells him.
Kuroo goes to bed on the night of August 1, 2015, and wakes up almost a year later.
No, that’s not it. Strictly speaking, Kuroo doesn’t remember going to bed. He remembers standing in the school gym, watching Kenma frown as Lev mishits ball after ball, trying to perfect his cross spike. He remembers sitting next to to Kenma on the train home, their shoulders brushing. He remembers glancing down at his best friend, quiet and clueless and who means the world to him, and thinking, I should tell him.
He doesn’t remember what happens after that.
“A derailed train crashed into ours,” Kenma explains. It seems to be taking an effort for him to maintain his composure— eyes closed, hands under his legs. He’d told Lev to go home earlier, promised he would look at whatever Lev had brought for him. It’s just the two of them now, sitting on Kenma’s bed with their backs to the wall. “I don’t remember… I don’t know exactly what happened. You hit your head.”
Kuroo is struggling to keep up. An accident he doesn’t remember, on a day that wasn’t actually yesterday. That means every day—
“Every day you wake up and think it’s the second of August last summer,” Kenma confirms.
“Impossible,” Kuroo hears himself say. He can’t prove it, has nothing to back up his claim other than it can’t be true, it’s completely crazy. “Kenma, this is—”
“Completely crazy,” Kenma finishes for him. “I know. We’ve had this conversation before, Kuro. You can check the newspaper, check the news. I promise I’m not lying to you.”
Kuroo has never wanted to check the news less. He doesn’t know what he believes— only what he wants to believe. Or doesn’t want to believe. But all it takes is one look at the way Kenma’s face is set, eyes sincere and forehead pinched and teeth worrying his lower lip, to tell him that Kenma is telling the truth.
Kuroo would never have believed it otherwise.
It’s a lot to take in. Kuroo exhales, trying to process the information. It suddenly makes sense that Lev had been so nervous to talk to him. You’re not captain anymore.
“The spring tournament,” Kuroo realises with a pang. “Is it over? How did we do?”
“We lost,” Kenma answers. “We didn’t have our captain, of course we lost.”
Kuroo expects to feel disappointed. In reality, he doesn’t feel very much of anything at all. “You gave up volleyball,” he accuses. “Lev said you stopped playing.”
Kenma shrugs. “So did you.”
“That’s different,” Kuroo protests. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Something in Kenma’s expression flickers. His knees are drawn up to his chest, chin rested atop them, and he looks so unhappy that Kuroo instantly feels bad. He might not remember any of what happened in the last year, but Kenma does.
“Sorry,” Kuroo says, after a silence.
“Don’t be stupid,” Kenma says immediately. “Don’t be sorry.”
Kuroo swallows, scoots a little closer to Kenma so that their knees are touching. “How’ve you been?” he asks as lightly as he can manage, nudging Kenma’s shoulder with his own. “Since I’ve been out for a year, tell me what I’ve missed.”
Kenma blinks at him, seems to consider the question. “Nothing much…” His eyes scan his room, coming to rest on his desk. “I got glasses?” And Kuroo watches as Kenma hops off the bed and pads over to retrieve a pair of black frames. After putting them on, he returns, mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “What do you think?”
Kuroo’s chest constricts.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, against all better judgment.
Kenma’s expression is unreadable. He has on that look of his that people find disconcerting, that unwavering stare that makes it feel like you’re being sized up and analysed for your weaknesses. Kuroo is used to it by now, but today he feels unusually bare.
“I wanted to, yesterday,” Kuroo confesses. “Not your yesterday— my yesterday. I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
Something about knowing you’ve lost time, lost opportunities, will continue to lose them, makes him feel reckless. He wonders if they’ve had this conversation before, too.
“No, you can’t kiss me,” Kenma says, and Kuroo struggles to keep his heart from plummeting, holds it in place as Kenma crawls to where he’s sitting and swings a leg over his. Kuroo stiffens, not daring to breathe as Kenma straddles him. “Can I kiss you, though?”
Kenma’s expression is playful. Kuroo makes an embarrassing noise, one that bubbles up in his throat and comes out sounding half like a laugh, half like he’s in pain. “Are you… flirting?”
“Shut up,” Kenma flushes, but he leans forward, arms going around Kuroo’s neck to pull him in for a kiss. His lips are soft against Kuroo’s, and Kuroo’s hands immediately go to his waist, anchoring him there.
It’s Kenma who eventually pulls away from the kiss. His expression is as neutral as ever, though he blinks several times, as if dazed.
“How many times have we done this?” Kuroo asks, trying to sound calm and in control, even though his heart is beating a mile a minute.
Kenma leans forward until his nose is buried in Kuroo’s neck. “I don’t know. A few.”
“You’re taking advantage of me,” Kuroo accuses, and he can practically feel Kenma roll his eyes against him. “That was my first kiss, as far as I know. How many more of my first kisses are you planning to steal?”
That gets a small laugh out of Kenma. “Fifty,” he says. “Fifty first kisses.”
For the rest of the day, it’s like they’re in middle school again. Kenma’s bed has gotten considerably smaller since their sleepovers in the past, but there’s still enough space for Kuroo to drape himself over Kenma and watch him play on his handheld console, asking questions until Kenma gets frustrated by his lack of video game know-how.
He must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes up to a dark room and the sound of Kenma clicking buttons on his console. Kuroo rolls over to look at him; the light from the game reflects off the lenses of Kenma’s glasses, giving his face an ethereal blue glow. His expression sharp and focused. Something in Kuroo’s chest tightens.
“Don’t get tired of me,” Kuroo mumbles into the sheets.
“I never get tired of you,” Kenma answers, without missing a beat. He powers off his game, placing the device carefully on his bedside table. Kuroo reaches over on the bed, half-blind in the dark, to find Kenma’s hand.
“I can never play volleyball again,” Kuroo says, the uncomfortable hollowness growing in his chest. Admitting it out loud hurts more than he’d thought it would. “Not properly. I’ll never play in an official tournament again.”
“Don’t think too much about it,” Kenma says quietly. “Tomorrow, you’ll forget any of this ever happened.”
Somehow, the thought isn’t a comforting one. Kuroo has already spent too long running away. Tomorrow, he won’t remember this conversation. Tomorrow, he won’t remember kissing Kenma, either. How many times had he lied in this very spot, telling Kenma things that he no longer remembers?
He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “If I don’t want to forget,” he says. “Will you help me remember again tomorrow?”
Kenma says nothing.
“I wanted to tell you,” Kuroo says, a sudden desperation welling up in him, like he knows he doesn’t have much longer before his time resets. “On the train yesterday— no, that night. August the first. I wanted to tell you everything, but I didn’t. Kenma, I really—”
Kenma isn’t looking at him, but Kuroo can hear the smile in his voice. It calms him down, if only a little. “It’s okay,” Kenma says, giving his hand a squeeze. “I know.”
There’s a small stack of unused post-it notes on Kuroo’s desk, nestled between his history textbook and the Tokyo Mew Mew figurine the team had given him as a joke on his seventeenth birthday. Kuroo grabs one from the stack, along with a pen from the holder.
His hand is trembling badly enough that he doesn’t have to try to disguise his handwriting. He scribbles a single word on the post-it in dark blue ink.
Remember.
Kuroo taps out the rhythm to Uptown Funk on Kenma’s front door as he waits. He’d gone over potential spring tournament match-ups in his head while walking over, weighed the pros and cons of calling Lev ‘future ace’ as a sort of roundabout way of motivating the team. It’s likely to end in disaster, but maybe Lev will start working harder on his receives.
Kuroo bounces on the balls of his feet, tries unsuccessfully to smoothen down the part of his hair that sticks up in the middle. Bokuto calls his hair ‘charming’, but Bokuto also thinks owl puns and his setter’s eyes are ‘charming’. Which, to be fair, Akaashi’s eyes might be charming. Kuroo hasn’t gazed longingly at them enough to know. But he does know another setter whose eyes are charming.
Said setter finally answers the door, giving Kuroo a good view of his trademark dyed hair, roots just beginning to grow out.
“Kenma,” Kuroo starts, leaning in casually. “It’s a nice day out. How about we—” The rest of his sentence is lost when Kenma looks up at him.
Kuroo blinks. Kenma is wearing glasses.
The black frames suit him. They transform his face, making him look older, somehow. Kuroo feels winded, like someone just delivered a hard punch to his gut. He used to tease Kenma about playing games till he’d turn into a real life megane boy, but he hadn’t expected that particular fantasy to come true .
Kenma looks uncertainly up at him, glasses slipping down a fraction.
Kenma is his best friend, Kuroo reminds himself. Best friend. Really cute best friend who looks really cute in glasses, but some lines are too dangerous to ever cross.
“You look nice,” Kuroo manages. “Since when do you wear glasses?”
For some reason, Kenma looks disappointed. “Kuro” he says quietly. “Don’t you remember?”
That throws Kuroo off. He stares at Kenma, uncomprehending. He’s definitely never seen Kenma in glasses before. He would know if he had.
“You really don’t remember?” Kenma presses, an edge of desperation in his voice.
“Remember?” Kuroo asks. “What am I supposed to—”
If not the glasses, there must be something else he’s forgetting. Had he promised to do something with Kenma today? But no, Kuroo had simply come over to convince Kenma to spend some time practicing with him. There’s exactly a week left of summer break, which means only a week left to perfect their spring tournament training regime.
Kenma is looking at him with wide, imploring eyes. Kuroo thinks harder.