Chapter Text
The morning light filtering through the half-closed blinds of my room is too bright, too insistent, and I burrow deeper under the covers, pulling my Switch closer to my chest like it’s a lifeline. The game on the screen is paused mid-boss fight, and I’m this close to finally beating the stupid dragon that’s been wiping my party for the last three nights. My fingers twitch toward the buttons, but then there’s the knock.
Three sharp raps against the door. I know exactly who it is before he even speaks.
“Kenmaaaa,” Kuroo’s voice drawls from the hallway, muffled but still annoyingly cheerful. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. The court awaits its setter.”
I groan, loud enough that he definitely hears it. “Go away. I’m sick.”
“You’re not sick. You’re allergic to mornings. There’s a difference.”
I hear the doorknob jiggle. He has a key. Of course he has a key. My mom gave it to him years ago because “that nice Kuroo boy is such a good influence on you, Kenma.” I hate that she’s right.
The door creaks open, and there he is, leaning against the frame with that stupid bed-head that somehow looks intentional, wearing the Nekoma tracksuit like he was born in it. His grin is all teeth and mischief.
“Five more minutes,” I mumble into my pillow.
“We don’t have five more minutes. Coach’ll make us run laps if we’re late again, and you know Yaku-senpai will personally drag you out of bed next time. He’s still mad about the tournament last month when you ‘forgot’ to set your alarm.”
I peek one eye out from under the blanket. Kuroo’s already crossing the room, and before I can roll away, he yanks the covers off entirely. Cold air hits my skin and I hiss like a cat.
“Kuroo, I swear—”
“Nekoma isn’t Nekoma without you, Kenma.” He says it casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, but his eyes are soft in that way that always makes my stomach do weird flips. “Who else is gonna read the blockers like they’re open books? Who else is gonna make Kai look like a genius with those perfect tosses? Not me, that’s for sure.”
I feel my face heat up and I turn away, pretending to be very interested in the pattern on my bedsheets.
Stupid Kuroo and his stupid cheesy speeches. He’s been doing this since we were kids, back when he first shoved a volleyball into my hands and told me I had “good fingers.” I hated it then and I hate it now, except I don’t. Not really.
I sit up slowly, hair falling into my eyes. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah, but you love me.”
I throw a pillow at his head. He catches it one-handed and tosses it back.
“I’ll buy you ice cream after practice,” he says, like he’s offering me the world. “That new place near the station. The one with the weird flavors. You like the weird ones.”
I do like the weird ones. Last time he got me black sesame and red bean swirl and I ate the entire thing without looking up from my phone once. I sigh, long and dramatic, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“Fine. But you’re carrying my bag.”
He beams like he’s won the lottery.
By the time we make it to Nekoma’s gym, practice has already started. The familiar squeak of shoes on polished wood, the rhythmic thuds of balls hitting arms, Lev’s voice echoing way too loud as he begs Yaku for one more toss. The third-years are running drills near the net, Kai’s spikes cracking like thunder. Inuoka is bouncing on his toes like he’s got springs in his shoes.
Yamamoto spots us first—of course he does—and cups his hands around his mouth.
“Hey! Sleeping Beauty finally graces us with his presence!”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts and drop my bag by the bench. “Shut up, Yamamoto.”
Kuroo laughs, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. “Be nice, he missed you.”
“I didn’t miss anyone,” I mutter, but I’m already pulling my knee pads on, fingers moving on autopilot. The routine is muscle memory at this point: shoes, ankle braces, tape on my fingers. I catch Lev staring at me from across the court, eyes wide and hopeful like a puppy. He still thinks I’m cool for some reason. It’s exhausting.
Coach Yasufumi blows the whistle and waves me over. “Kozume! You’re with the first-years today. They need to work on receive formations, and you’re the only one patient enough not to murder Lev when he flails.”
I glance at Lev, who’s currently tangled in the net trying to retrieve a ball. Yeah. Patient. Sure.
Kuroo bumps my shoulder as he jogs past. “Try not to fall asleep standing up, okay?”
“No promises.”
The first hour is hell. My legs feel like lead, lungs burning every time I dive for a receive. Lev keeps overshooting his approaches and nearly takes my head off with a wild swing. Yaku yells at him, then yells at me for not yelling at him, then yells at everyone just because. Shibuyama keeps apologizing every time he shanks a serve into the ceiling. I want to die. Or go home. Or both.
But then something shifts.
It’s subtle at first. The way Inuoka starts reading my signals without me having to say anything. The way Fukunaga’s silent feints start syncing with my sets like we’ve been playing together for years instead of months. Even Lev—idiot, clumsy Lev—manages to tool the block on a quick set I didn’t even mean to give him. The ball hits the floor on the other side and he whips around to stare at me, mouth open like he can’t believe it happened.
I feel it then. That thing Kuroo’s always going on about. The rhythm. The flow. Like the court shrinks down to just the six of us, moving like one organism.
My fingers know where to be before my brain does. I see the blockers shift half a second before they commit, and I’m already dumping the ball right into the hole they left behind.
I hate that I love it.
During water break, Kuroo flops down next to me on the bench, sweat dripping off his chin. He’s breathing hard, hair sticking up in every direction, and he looks… happy. Ridiculously, stupidly happy.
“You’re smiling,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.
“I am not.”
“You totally are. I saw it when Lev finally got that cross-court shot.”
I hide my face behind my water bottle. “Shut up.”
He leans in closer, voice dropping. “Told you. Nekoma isn’t Nekoma without you.”
My heart does that stupid thing again. I blame the dehydration.
The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and scrimmages. My arms ache, my calves are screaming, and I’m pretty sure I pulled something diving for a bad receive from Teshiro, but when Coach finally calls time, I’m not ready for it to end. Not entirely.
Kuroo finds me by the lockers, towel slung around his neck. “Ice cream?” he asks, like there was ever any doubt.
I pretend to think about it. “Only if you’re still paying.”
“Always.”
We walk to the station in comfortable silence, the late afternoon sun turning everything gold. My legs hurt with every step, but it’s a good hurt. The kind that means I did something. That I was part of something.
Kuroo bumps my shoulder again. “Hey, Kenma?”
“What?”
“Thanks for coming today.”
I look down at my shoes. “You bribed me.”
“Yeah, but you still came.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.
At the ice cream shop, I get the limited-time yuzu-honeycomb flavor, two scoops, in a waffle cone. Kuroo gets plain chocolate like a psychopath. We sit on the curb outside, legs stretched into the street, watching people pass by.
He licks his cone and grins at me, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth. “You had fun today.”
I take a bite of my ice cream to avoid answering right away. The yuzu is tart and bright on my tongue.
“Maybe,” I say finally.
He laughs, loud and obnoxious, and leans over to ruffle my hair. I swat at him half-heartedly.
Stupid Kuroo.
Stupid volleyball.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I take another bite of ice cream and pretend I don’t feel his eyes on me, warm and fond and proud.
Tomorrow morning, he’ll show up at my door again. I’ll groan and complain and threaten to lock him out. He’ll make some dumb speech about how the team needs me, how I’m irreplaceable, how Nekoma isn’t Nekoma without its brain.
And I’ll go.
Because he’s right.
Because somewhere along the line, between the early mornings I hate and the practices that leave me bruised and exhausted, between the cheesy lines and the ice cream bribes.
This became home.
And I can’t imagine it without him.
I finish my cone and wipe my hands on my shorts.
“Hey, Kuroo?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, bring me apple pie too.”
He grins so wide I’m scared his face will split in half.
“Anything for you, Kenma.”