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He's thinking the minute the ball is in the air, analyzing, planning, trying to predict its most likely path. As soon as he sees it, he moves. The ball's barely over the net, but he's already several steps ahead. The ball's heading towards Yaku now. It's going to come to him next, and he'll send it on to Lev, who will be set up for a perfect spike by then. He likes it when the plays are that easy, when all the pieces fit together into a single clear outcome.
He doesn't have to think about his move. It's an easy set, one he's practiced hundreds of times, so he lets his mind keep running ahead. By the time the ball finally connects with his fingertips, he's already onto the next play. It's Kuroo's serve. When his serves are returned, they come back aggressively and often erratically. He'll use the time between serves to gather as much data as he can. To predict where Kuroo's most likely to serve, and how the other team's likely to respond. He'll have to do more last-minute adjustments and modification than he's doing on this play, but that's okay too. Sometimes he likes a challenge.
He's already feeling the thrill of the puzzle as the ball leaves his hands. He'll gather all the threads of information around him and tie them together into a successful play.
At least, that's how it's supposed to happen. Instead, his hamstring seizes up as he lands, and his leg buckles under him. He hits the ground at the same time as Lev's spike. Some part of him appreciates the synchronization of the sounds.
The rest of him freezes as the sudden disconnect between his model and reality shatters his train of thought. That's okay though, he knows how to deal with that. Pause for a second, reorient, take everything in and reset. It happens all the time; he's learned to deal with it.
It's not working though. Every time he starts pulling the pieces back, his hamstring spasms and distracts him. The should-have-been is still broken in the back of his mind, and he can't span the chasm that's suddenly opened between that and reality.
His teammates are all crowding around and talking to him too, or at least he assumes they're talking; it's all just noise right now. Too much. Too bright, too loud, too much motion, and every time he tries to force it back into some rational model, his stupid leg spasms and send him right back to the beginning.
He feels suffocated with everything pressing in on him. He can't breathe, and his heart's pounding too loudly in his ears. He knows he's shaking too, which is just making his leg worse.
He's starting to see stars by the time his teammates finally back away. Then Kuroo is kneeling down next to him. He's saying something, but Kenma still can't hear the words. He making the face that means "worried" though, so Kenma assumes he's asking what happened.
"Cramp," Kenma whispers, or at least he hopes he does, it's all still just noise to him. It seems to satisfy Kuroo though, and he moves down to Kenma's leg, replacing Kenma's hands with his own. They're too hot and too rough. Kenma assumes Kuroo's being gentle, but it doesn't feel that way; it's scratching and burning and all he can think is that it feels wrong and too much. He tries to pull his leg away, but Kuroo doesn't let go.
He reminds himself that it's Kuroo. Kuroo is safe, grounding. He repeats that over and over in his head.
He's just remembering how to breathe when Kuroo's thumbs dig into the back of his leg, and everything splinters again. The sharp fragments of light and sound stab at him, threatening to tear him apart. He bites his own forearm hard before he screams. That's a rule: no making noise like that in public. He has a lot of rules.
He closes his eyes. Without all of the light and motion, he no longer feels about to lose himself completely. He focuses on the sharp sensation of his teeth in his arm and lets it anchor him, as tenuous an anchor as it may be.
Something pulls on his wrist, but he ignores it; he's not ready to process anything else. The tugging doesn't stop though, so eventually he risks opening his eyes. It's Kuroo tugging at his wrist; he belatedly remembers that "no biting" is another rule. He's not sure how other people keep track of all the rules so easily; he's always running through his mental catalog and trying to pick out the correct rule for a situation. Apparently that's not how it works for everyone.
Reluctantly, he releases his teeth from his arm and lets Kuroo take his hand, moving it down to wrap around Kuroo's wrist. When Kuroo presses his thumbs back into Kenma's leg, Kenma squeezes hard, his fingers leaving dents in Kuroo's wrists. Some small part of him notes he's probably squeezing too hard, but that part is drowned out by everything else.
He's trying not to make noise, but he thinks some might be escaping anyway, and he can't let go of Kuroo's wrist. Kuroo is looking at him with the face that Kenma's learned means "sad," but that's not stopping him from doing whatever he's doing. It seems to be helping though; his leg doesn't hurt as badly now, and he can almost think again.
By the time Kuroo moves on to stretching his leg the way they do before practice, he's finally starting to feel back in control. Everything is still too bright and too sharp, and sounds are still echoing strangely, but he's fit everything back into his models, and he can start to process again, albeit slowly.
He's secretly relieved when Kuroo helps him to the bench and gives him his game and his headphones. He's not sure he's ready to go back into the game yet, not when that means he'll have to be paying attention to everything, but he'd never say that himself. He's not supposed to let the team down.
He curls himself into a ball on the corner of the bench and tries to ignore anyone who may be looking at him. He hates people looking at him; a lot of his rules are specifically to prevent him from drawing attention to himself. If he loses himself in his game though, then he can forget about them in favor of its familiar, repetitive motions.
When he's ready, he turns off his game. Kuroo notices the minute he moves, and as soon as he finishes putting his game back in his bag, Kuroo's signalling to have him swapped back into the game.
He cautiously lets his mind uncurl as he uncurls himself from the bench. It's still a bit tender and oversensitive around the edges, just like his leg, but he thinks it will hold. They're halfway through the third set now, and down by three points with the other team serving.
He takes a deep breath, takes in everything around him: the squeak of someone's shoe on the floor, the slight flicker in one of the lights overhead, the sound of the ceiling fan echoing off of the walls. He takes it all in, filters out what's relevant and what's not, and plans.
He can do this. It's just data after all. He can deal with data.
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In the end, they win easily. The other team is strong, but predictable, and Kenma's good with patterns. There are no more practices scheduled for the day, so they clean the gym before they head back to the dorms where everyone is staying. There are still a few hours until dinner, so they congregate in one of the large common areas.
He lets Kuroo wrap a bag of ice around his leg. He hates ice; it's too cold, sometimes overwhelming almost to the point of pain, and he doesn't like the feel of the plastic bag or the plastic wrapping it to his leg either. He'd feel better if he could put a thick towel between it and him, but Kuroo says it's not cold enough that way, and he trusts Kuroo's judgement on these things.
He has his heavy blanket on top of his legs though, and Kuroo's sitting behind him. The two together are grounding enough that he can ignore the clammy, cold, wrong feeling on his leg enough to play his game.
He gets absorbed in his game, and it feels like it's only been a couple of minutes before Kuroo is poking him on the shoulder and telling him it's time for dinner.
He lets Kuroo unwrap the ice from his leg, then stands cautiously. His leg is stiff, and it's going to be sore, but it's not as bad as it could have been.
He doesn't want to leave his heavy blanket out where anyone could use it, so he drags it and his game back to the room he's sharing with Kuroo. By the time he returns, almost everyone has left; it's just Kuroo standing by the door to the main hall. He's glad Kuroo waited; the cafeteria's going to be crowded with all the teams there.
He grabs hold of the back of Kuroo's sleeve as they walk down the hall. Lots of people had told him that was childish behavior and he wasn't a child anymore, so he used to have a rule against it. Kuroo said that rule was stupid, and he didn't mind. Kuroo still says that, so Kenma doesn't let go.
Kuroo seems to think a lot of the rules other people taught Kenma are stupid. Kenma thinks Kuroo may be the only one to think that, but he's not going to complain. Not when Kuroo gives him the tingly warm feeling that makes him want to make his happy noises.
Even just thinking about it is enough to make his hands start to curl reflexively, but he stops himself. Curling his hands like that is another thing his rules tell him not to do. Then Kuroo looks back at him, and he has to remind himself that he's allowed to do those things around Kuroo. It's why he likes Kuroo so much.