Chapter Text
The night before Kim’s first race in Europe, Kenta wakes up in the middle of the night to find Kim sitting on the edge of the bed in their apartment in Madrid, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. It’s unlike him; of the two of them, Kenta is usually the one who’s more prone to insomnia.
“Anxious?” Kenta asks, sliding a slightly tentative hand up Kim’s back. Kim hums, nods.
“It’s not usually this bad,” he mumbles before huffing out a sharp breath, “Sorry if I woke you.”
Kenta quietly stifles a yawn and sits up a little further so he can tuck his chin against Kim’s shoulder, smooths a hand over his bicep and down his forearm to his wrist.
“What can I do to help?” he asks.
Kim hums again, leaning into the contact.
“I don’t know,” he says, “I never had anyone to help me before.”
Kenta tucks that little bit of information away for later; the idea that Kim has never had, or at least never trusted, anyone before him to quiet his internal doubts, to soothe his internal worries is something he wants to come back to, just not at this exact moment.
He trails his fingertips up and down Kim’s forearm for a few seconds, breathing gently against the bare skin of Kim’s shoulder.
“Remember that trip we took to Busan, your second year back in Korea?” Kenta asks eventually.
“Mm, to see the cherry blossoms,” Kim replies.
“They were amazing,” Kenta says.
“As I recall you were pretty amazing on that trip too,” Kim says after a moment, a smile more than evident in his voice. Kenta scoffs even as his cheeks heat at the memory and he digs a knuckle lightly into Kim’s ribs. Kim chuckles a little.
“Still bashful after all these years?” he asks.
“’All these years’?” Kenta echoes, shoving his knuckle into Kim’s ribs a little harder, “You make it sound like we’re old men.”
“I’m closer to 40 than 30,” Kim grumbles, “Doesn’t that qualify?”
Kenta smiles a little, wraps his arm around Kim’s waist.
“Lie back down with me,” he suggests. Kim obliges, rolling over onto his side so he can face Kenta while Kenta tugs and pulls on the sheets and blankets until they’re both comfortably covered again.
“Is this helping?” Kenta asks, nudging his knees against Kim’s under the covers. Kim smiles, nods.
“Tell me more about what you remember from Busan,” he says.
So Kenta does. He recalls the absolute downpour that caught them completely off-guard in the middle of the day with only one umbrella and the squelching sounds their shoes made when they finally made it to shelter. He recalls how Kim struggled at times with the Busan dialect, how it led to some silly misunderstandings with street vendors but ultimately still ended in discounts because the older aunties found Kim endearing and sweet. He recalls how a small orange and white cat hopped into his lap and curled up for a quick snooze when they sat down on a bench for a rest during a hike along one of the coastal trails.
Somewhere between the story about the street vendors and the stray cat, Kim falls asleep.
The next day, he takes first place, and sets a track record in the process.