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Kuroo’s sitting still for what feels like hours, lost in his thoughts and his efforts to escape his thoughts, when a ball gently rolls to tap on his back. He looks down at it, expecting to see the black and white pattern of a football, but finds himself looking at the familiar dirty worn-out Mikasa ball, apparently having rolled itself all the way to the park from under his bed.
He smiles because he knows, no matter how wonderful volleyball might be, it’s not that magical. What’s magical is this, a scrawny eight-year-old boy with eyes behind soft black hair, who says a few words that mean so many things.
Today, now, he says, “Wanna play?” as he appears, following the path of the ball to Kuroo’s side.
Kuroo nods, dusting the leaves that are stuck onto his pant legs, wiping away the disappointment and dread that is seeing his mother for the first time today after a year, and joins his friend. He tosses the ball to Kenma, who sets it for him. His hand makes contact with a deafening thump and his heart aches with the fact that he will likely never see her again after this.
As he jumps, Kuroo feels the wind brushes through his hair, pulling and drying the tears from behind his eyes.
Kenma glances at him, his wide gold eyes unblinking, and tells him, “I think you can jump higher.”
So he does. Again and again, until his legs feel like jelly, until the sweat soaks his forehead and sticks his black hair against it, until the words that swim in his mind become nothing more than whooshing wind.
Later, when it’s too dark to see the ball in front of them, they both lay down on the grass, staring at the light-polluted sky. No stars. Though Kuroo thinks there are two bright ones right next to him. They listen to the distant sounds of Tokyo traffic as their breaths slow.
“So it was terrible?” Kenma speaks first.
“I should’ve gone home with you.” Kuroo remembers seeing her outside their school gate, waiting. He remembers Kenma walking into his back because his own legs have ceased to work. He’s imagined this moment many times late at night when he can’t sleep. What he would do. What he would say. How he would feel. Still, when she’s standing in front of him again, he finds himself unable to move, unable to speak, unable to feel anything more than the space she’s left behind.
“You wanted to see her.” It’s not a question, just a fact. How Kenma knows so many things about him already even though they’ve only known each other for a year amazes Kuroo. Really a lot of things about his best friend amazes him.
But here’s the terrible thing—he did want to see her. Kuroo’s missed his mom in a way he probably shouldn't, given how swiftly and easily she’s left him. But his first memory of her was of her soft lullabies and gentle hands, so no matter how many other versions of her he sees, he will always remember that. Her tender, “Tetsu,” as he drifts off to sleep, nails scratching at the base of his neck.
He feels his eyes burning as he says, “She’s moving to America.”
Kenma doesn’t say anything for the longest time, but when he does it’s this, “I’m not moving to America.”
They’re not touching, but he feels warm. Turning over to see Kenma’s face, he smiles at him and asks the unnecessary question, “Even if I become really annoying?”
Kenma snorts. “You’re already kind of annoying.” Kuroo gasps, clutching his chest. Only because Kenma smiles back at him, that small, barely recognizable curve of his lips that Kuroo’s eyes don’t miss. “But even then.”
“You just want me around so you can beat me in Virtual Combat.”
“It’s not hard to do. You’re terrible.”
“Hey!” He protests, even though it’s the truth. It doesn't matter though if he loses every time. As long as he gets to play with Kenma, he’s winning at something. He hears Kenma chuckle and feels that he’s winning now too.
Kuroo gets up first from the ground. It’s getting cold as the night falls, so he imagines that Kenma’s dying to get inside, his skin littered with goosebumps even under the layer of sweatshirt. He holds out a hand to help him up, feeling his sweaty palm against his own. He sees Kenma’s flushed face and a slight wobble of his knees as he stands.
He turns his back to him, gesturing with his head as he bends his knees. “Get on. I know you’re tired.”
“I can walk.” Kenma mumbles, though he moves closer and lays a small hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not going to be responsible if you get a fever.” It’s starting to feel like it’s Kuroo who’s going to be sick. He feels hot all over as Kenma climbs onto his back, his breath tickling the shell of his ear. Kuroo holds on to his dangling legs as Kenma wraps his arms around his neck.
They’ve done this before, and Kuroo can’t help but think he will do this every day if Kenma asks. Warmth grows in the pit of his stomach, and it spreads over his entire body.
He feels Kenma’s grip tightens around him, sending his heart racing. Kenma’s hair tickles his neck and his soft, breathy voice murmurs into his ear incoherencies.
Kuroo’s only nine now, and he doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows enough. He sees a glimpse of his future, flashing briefly in front of his eyes.
He shifts Kenma up in his arms and says, “I know something you don’t know.”
“You’re older than me. Of course that’s going to happen.” He scoffs. Then, because he can’t help it, he asks. “What is it?”
“Not telling you,” he sings, his voice raising at the end.
Kenma huffs in his ear. “Then why did you say that?”
“So we have proof of this conversation.”
He can’t see it, but he can hear Kenma rolling his eyes. “You’re so weird, Kuro.” A pause and, “You’re not telling me?”
“Nope.”
Kenma does the unthinkable. He bites down on the crook of his neck, almost making Kuroo drop him in the middle of the streets.
“Kenma!” It doesn’t really sting but it’s not entirely pleasant either. He forgets how much Kenma hates to lose.
“You deserve it. This is what I get for being nice.” He can hear the pout in his voice.
Kuroo laughs. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, Kyanma. You wouldn’t understand.” He can hardly understand it himself. There aren’t many words he can find to properly describe his feelings. He suspects it’ll take him years and a thousand languages.
He doesn’t tease his friend anymore after that though. He just carries him home, Kenma pressing his face close to his skin.
~
Kuroo sways as he waves to his friends at the door. He’s not drunk, not really, but he feels the disorientation of the liquid in the bottom of his stomach. His boyfriend, however, is a healthy amount of tipsy, smiling his dazed smile as his cheeks are painted blush.
Kenma has always been pretty, and tonight is no exception. His cute little bun sitting at the back of his neck, slowly becoming undone as the night goes on. His fluttering eyelashes as he looks up at him. His soft, pink lips, so kissable that Kuroo has to sneak them into the bathroom just to taste them underneath his.
His heart squeezes as he studies his face. How many times has he seen him change in front of his eyes, each version more perfect than the last? How many times has he thought to himself, I can’t believe you exist? Too many. Not enough.
Kuroo smiles. He turns his back to him, gesturing with his head as he bends his knees. “Get on. I know you’re tired.”
Kenma laughs, the sound echoes in the empty street. He presses his front to him, giving him his weight. “I can walk, Tetsu.”
“Wasn’t my question.”
Kenma climbs onto his back, his arms going around his neck as his breath brushes hotly against his ear. The alcohol in his breath makes its way to his nostrils, and Kuroo’s head spins.
They’re not far from their apartment, but Kuroo thinks he would’ve carried him anywhere. Even America, if he wishes.
“Tetsu,” Kenma whispers into his ear, his fingernails slightly bunching up Kuroo’s shirt as he grips him close.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when we were young, you knew something I didn’t know?”
As if he could ever forget the moment he sees their future laid out in front of him like a prophecy. He’s surprised Kenma remembers it too. A decade more and still, he amazes him every day.
He nods. “What about it?”
Kenma chuckles. He rubs his head further into Kuroo’s neck, as if he wants the words to be imprinted there onto his skin.
“I knew it then, too.” Kuroo’s heart skips a beat. “I knew we would always be together.”
And because Kenma seems to always read his mind, he doesn’t bother to say this out loud anymore, but it’s written in the stars, woven into the fabric of their hearts, carved into every stone they’ve ever walked past—I love you.
Kenma clings tightly around his shoulders, his now longer legs supported by Kuroo’s strong arms.
Kuroo carries them both home.