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Kunimi is scared of thunderstorms.
This is old news to Kindaichi. He has known his best friend for years, with the side effect of spending many, many nights together after staying at each other’s houses playing video games for too long. He has (although he would never tell anyone) seen Kunimi wake up in the middle of the night and reach desperately for headphones, shaking like a leaf as the windows rattle with the rage of the skies. Kindaichi has seen Kunimi lose all the composure he usually carries, watched his best friend driven to the point of tears, and he has been Kunimi’s anchor, the smaller boy clinging to him with the desperation of fear and the absolute trust of years of friendship.
Kindaichi knows his best friend is terrified of thunderstorms, but it still comes as a surprise when he is shaken awake by Kunimi during one of their impromptu sleepovers.
He wakes up to Kunimi’s face watching him, a pale hand resting on his shoulder where he had been shaking it earlier. Lightning flashes outside the window, cutting through the sheets of rain assaulting the window, and Kunimi flinches, unshed tears illuminated by the unwelcome light. Something in Kindaichi’s chest twists at the sight of his usually apathetic friend showing so much emotion. He knows not to bother with words; instead, he kicks off his blanket and reaches over, pulling Kunimi into his chest.
Kindaichi suddenly realizes just how long it’s been since they’d done this; high school and volleyball and an ever-increasing workload were merciless and while stress did not sway their friendship, Kindaichi doesn’t remember the last time they’d spent a night together.
He certainly doesn’t remember how it feels to have his best friend pressed against him like this, Kunimi’s head on his chest, arms wrapped around him, legs curled up like an overgrown cat pressed against Kindaichi and taking up space in the most welcome way. It would be peaceful, right even, if Kindaichi didn’t feel Kunimi’s rapid, shallow breathing and stuttering heartbeat as if they were his.
It is really terrible, Kindaichi thinks, to see someone normally so composed reduced to this state.
Kunimi’s hand fists in his shirt, and he looks down at his smaller friend. His face is buried in Kindaichi’s shirt, and Kindaichi is certain he’s pressed even closer than before. Another blinding flash illuminates the room, followed by a clap of thunder that seems to rattle the very foundation of the house. It elicits a whimper out of Kunimi, and Kindachi wraps his arms around him even tighter.
“Sorry,” his friend murmurs, almost inaudibly over the pounding of the rain on the roof.
“It’s fine, really,” Kindaichi whispers into his hair, which is exactly as soft as he imagined it. “Don’t worry about it.”
Kunimi lets out a long, shuddering sigh, sounding remarkably like he is desperately trying to stop himself from crying. Kindaichi’s heart twists again at the sound. Kunimi crying is the last thing he wants to see. He hadn’t cried after the last match with Karasuno, had only comforted Kindaichi while he sobbed in the bathroom like a child. Kunimi had faced Kageyama, shoulders set and defiance in his usually sleepy eyes, told him that Seijoh would win next time while Kindaichi was fighting back tears.
He runs his hand down Kunimi’s back, a comforting motion, the kind that one would do with a cat. And Kunimi does look remarkably like an oversized cat, Kindaichi thinks, curled up against him, taking up space and radiating warmth.
Kindaichi brings his hand up to his friend’s hair and combs it through once, lightly. Kunimi seems to like this, as he somehow, impossibly, curls closer to Kindaichi. Now emboldened, Kindaichi finds his hand wandering back through Kunimi’s hair, brushing bangs away from his face, playing with the short, rough parts in the back.
The repetitive motions finally seem to make Kunimi relax, and he lets out a sigh. Kindaichi feels his friend’s breathing slow, like he’s drifting off to sleep. He looks down at Kunimi’s face, and he feels his mouth pull into a smile. His friend just looks so peaceful, completely worry-free despite the sheets of rain still pelting down.
He later tells himself that was why he did it, that he would have done the same with a sleeping child or a cat or a dog, anything else that looked as vulnerable. He refuses to let himself admit anything else to justify why he tilts his head down and brushes his lips against his best friend’s head.
The instant he makes contact, Kunimi freezes, eyes shooting open. Kindaichi freezes too, the magnitude of what he’s done hitting him like a bullet train. Kunimi raises his eyes to look up at him, and he opens his mouth. “Kunimi, I-I’m sorry,” he manages to stutter out.
No more words come- he can’t excuse this- and they hang there in the silence, awkwardness and hesitation rushing in to fill the chasm left by Kindaichi’s kiss.
Before Kindaichi can think of anything to say, Kunimi closes his eyes again, shattering the moment. He can’t tell whether or not Kunimi is actually asleep (knowing his friend, he probably is) or faking it to avoid a conversation, but either way he is left alone in the dark to consider what he’s done and what he’s thrown away.
When morning comes, it comes bright and early and cruel, the dawn light flashing in his eyes. For a blissful second, Kindaichi forgets the unfortunate events of the previous night. Then he processes the warm weight still pressed against him, looks down to see Kunimi still curled up against him, and remembers.
He carefully attempts to extract himself from his friend’s grasp. He finds it impossible. For a sleeping teenager, Kunimi’s grip is incredibly strong. Kindaichi feels a fond smile creep onto his face again, then wipes it off as quickly as he can. Fondness is the absolute wrong thing to be feeling now, especially after…
He doesn’t want to think about it. He does not want to think about how he might have just irreparably shattered his relationship with his best friend.
Kindaichi flops back into position and sighs. He can’t believe it. Waking up in each other’s arms was one thing, and they’d done it plenty of times before. But this time it was different; he had kissed Kunimi, and now they were wrapped around each other like lovers, and Kunimi was going to wake up and hate him.
He fidgets again, nervous energy coursing through his system. The waiting was making the inevitable so much worse.
Eventually, Kindaichi looks over to see one familiar brown eye open, watching him. He chokes, splutters, “H-hey, Kunimi, good morning. I, um, about last night…”
He doesn’t even process his friend leaning in. Kunimi shuts him up by pressing warm lips to his, and Kindaichi responds immediately, instinctively.
Kissing Kunimi is like coming home, he thinks. It isn’t at all like what people say it is, sparks flying and tension and crackling wildfire. No, kissing his best friend is a slow-acting warmth, curling through his body and around his heart.
When they finally break apart, Kindaichi can only stammer out, “Why?”
Kunimi raises an eyebrow. “You started it. Anyways, you weren’t going to make another move, so I thought I would.”
“But...you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t, dummy. Why else would I have kissed you?”
Kindaichi can think of no verbal response to this. Instead, he pulls Kunimi even closer than before, into a smothering hug.
“Stop it, Vegetable-kun, I’m going to suffocate,” Kunimi protests into Kindaichi’s shoulder, but he can feel his friend’s smile.
Kindaichi releases Kunimi, finally, and looks at the lazy smile playing over his usually apathetic face. It lights up his expression even better than the soft light trickling through the curtains. Kindaichi resolves to make Kunimi smile like that as much as possible.
“Oh really? How sweet of you,” Kunimi teases.
He said that out loud? Kindaichi startles, tries to deny it- he had a reputation to keep up- but Kunimi laughs instead. “I don’t have a problem with that,” he whispers, leaning in, breath ghosting over Kindaichi’s face.
When their lips meet again, Kindaichi thinks that he really doesn’t either.