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“Kenma! Oi, Kenma, are you here?”
The sound of Kuroo’s voice from outside his window yanked Kenma’s attention away from his game. His head swiveled towards the frosty glass; his heartbeat kicked up a few notches as he got to his feet. He set his controller down, breath hitching in anticipation.
It had been… well, Kenma really couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d seen Kuroo: probably when Kenma left for college, almost nine months ago. Kuroo had been busy with volleyball, two majors, and his tutoring gig; Kenma had been busy adjusting to college life and starting up his streaming empire. His roommate was less than accommodating, so he’d been forced to stream whenever he had free time and when his roommate wasn’t around.
Which… was limited.
Kenma really needed to look for his own place for next year.
Part of him wanted to ask Kuroo if they could live together (and had wanted to do so for a long time), but he hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to ask yet. He hoped Kuroo would say yes, but he didn’t want to presume anything. After all, while they maintained their regular texts, phone calls, and weekly video chat, Kuroo had a whole life now that didn’t include Kenma…
Not now. Not anymore.
To be honest, Kenma had been both anticipating and dreading Kuroo’s return for Shogatsu. He both longed to see his oldest friend, and dreaded how two years of college might have changed him. What if they weren’t compatible anymore, other than texts, calls, and video chats? What if Kuroo saw Kenma and noped out? What if Kuroo was even more handsome than Kenma remembered?
What if Kenma’s heart couldn’t survive any of it?
“Kenma!” Kuroo called again, and Kenma slapped his cheeks with his own hands, willing himself to answer.
“Come on, Kenma,” he muttered, “get yourself together. He’s waiting.”
Yes, yes. Kuroo was waiting. And Kenma couldn’t keep him waiting any longer.
So, slowly, Kenma made his way to the window. The glass was fogged and frosted; Kenma unlocked it before pushing up the sash. The cold nearly knocked the breath from his body, and he clutched at the windowsill, trying to steady himself.
It had been snowing fairly steadily since Kenma had returned home two days before. The world outside his window was a solid white: snowflakes dotted the air, sparkling in the streetlights. The sky was a light pink, darkness having long since fallen. The clouds cast a warm glow over the street. Kenma leaned forward, and looked down into the yard.
Standing there, up to his calves in snow, was Kuroo.
Kuroo.
His wild hair was stuffed into a beanie, his muscular body bundled into a warm puffer coat. He wore a bright red scarf around his neck, a perfect match for the color of his cheeks. Even from this distance, Kenma could see the twinkle in Kuroo’s hazel eyes. When he caught sight of Kenma, Kuroo’s entire face lit up, and he raised his gloved hands, waving them with vigor.
“Kenma!” he shouted. “Kenma! You’re home!”
Kenma’s stomach swooped, and despite his better sense of self, he smiled and gave a small wave of his own. The action only spurred Kuroo on more, and he started bouncing in the snow. “Kenma!” he called again. “Kenma, come down! It’s snowing!”
“I can see that it’s snowing, Kuro,” Kenma called back, surprised at the mirth in his own tone. “What makes you think I’d want to come down there?”
“Because I miss you!” Kuroo called back. “And I want to build a snowman!”
Kenma fought back the warmth threatening to take hold in his chest. “You can build a snowman yourself, Kuro,” Kenma grumbled, the cold pressing in on his cheeks. “It’s too cold out there.”
Kuroo’s grin only got bigger, settling into its familiar fondness that Kenma knew so well. “Of course I could build one myself, Ken,” he said, winking and sending Kenma into an existential crisis. “But I’d much rather do it with you.”
Well. That was definitely…
“I’ll be right down,” Kenma murmured, and slammed the window shut, partially so that he wouldn’t have to hear Kuroo’s yelp of glee at Kenma’s agreement, and partially to hide his own blushing face.
“Was that Tetsurō I heard?” his mother asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere at Kenma’s bedroom door. (Listening. She was listening, Kenma was sure.) “You haven’t seen him since you went away to school, right?”
“Y—yeah,” Kenma mumbled, shuffling over to his closet. He opened the door and started to rummage around, looking for his winter boots.
“It’ll be nice to see him, then,” his mother remarked, following him to the closet.
“Y—yeah,” Kenma grunted, tossing the boots outside the closet and starting to look for his hat and gloves.
“You’re going outside?” his mother asked, surprise clear in her tone.
Kenma found one glove, then another, then his scarf. He tossed them all out, then backed out of the closet. “Kuro asked me.”
His mother’s eyebrows nearly shot off her forehead. “Tetsurō asked you?” she repeated. “And you’re going?”
Kenma suppressed a huff. Why was his mother so surprised? Kuroo had asked him, after all. “It’s not that cold out, Okaasan,” he grumbled.
His mother looked like she wanted to reply, but instead she took a deep breath. “I’ll have some hot chocolate ready for you and Tetsurō when you want to come in,” she said. “Have fun, okay?”
Kenma nodded, grabbed his stuff, and followed her down the stairs to the genkan. He saw his father in the yoshitsu, watching his favorite nature documentary, a book balanced on his knee. His father glanced up at their footsteps, confusion on his face when he saw Kenma. “You’re going outside?”
“Mm.” Kenma pulled on his boots, then took his warmest puffer coat down from its hook.
“Tetsurō must be home,” his father commented, turning back to the television. “He’s the only one who can lure you outside in this weather.”
“Even that’s debatable,” Kenma grumbled, but his father was already engrossed in the documentary again, and Kenma finished getting dressed in silence.
“Have fun,” his father called as Kenma opened the door to go out.
“Don’t stay out too long,” his mother seconded. “You don’t need to get a fever and end up sick for Shōgatsu.”
“I know,” Kenma said, “and I won’t.”
“You won’t have fun?” his father teased.
Kenma could feel his cheeks heating up, despite the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped to the threshold. “Kuro’ll probably bully me into that,” he mumbled, and before his parents could say anything else, he headed out into the winter evening, where he came face-to-face with Kuroo for the first time in too many months to count.
Kuroo looked delighted: his hazel eyes were aglow with mischief, and when he saw Kenma, his face broke into another enormous grin. Now that they were closer, Kenma could see how Kuroo’s shoulders filled out his jacket, how thick his arms were, and how muscular his legs were in his too-tight jeans. And was it Kenma’s imagination, or had Kuroo grown another few centimeters since they’d seen each other last?
“Kenma!” he shouted, rushing forward to greet Kenma on the stoop. “You’re actually here! You actually made it outside!”
Kenma felt his body heat up as Kuroo’s gloved hand touched Kenma’s coat-covered arm. He looked up; he nearly burst into flames as Kuroo’s expression became besotted with the same fondness Kenma had seen on Kuroo’s face from his window. But now, up close, it was even gentler than Kenma had originally thought.
“‘Course I made it outside,” Kenma mumbled. “I’m not going to melt, Kuro.”
“You sure about that?” Kuroo teased. “You look like you could just become one with the snow.”
Kenma stepped off the front stoop and lightly hit Kuroo in the chest. “You know that could never happen,” he huffed. “But you got me outside, Kuro, so you want to build this snowman or not?”
Kuroo shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. The snow continued to fall, more gently now, and Kenma followed Kuroo’s gaze upwards. “Do you remember when we were kids?” Kuroo said softly. “We used to come outside and play for hours. We made snow angels, igloos, forts, snowmen…”
“I thought I was going to get frostbite, you kept me outside for so long,” Kenma remembered, flashes of himself and Kuroo as children playing together in the snow running through his mind. He’d been cold and miserable, but never able to deny Kuroo anything, even when they were seven and eight years old, even when Kuroo made him lay down in the snow so they could try and create perfectly symmetrical snow angels, even when Kuroo insisted on them building a giant snow fort and then huddling up inside for what felt like hours and Kenma’s little hands got so numb, Kuroo had to rub them to keep them warm.
“I promise not to keep you out all night,” Kuroo replied, holding his hand to his heart and giving Kenma a half-bow. He stood up and held out his hand to Kenma. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go build a snowman.”
Kenma rolled his eyes, but at the sight of Kuroo’s earnest face, his heart skipped a beat.
He reached out and took Kuroo’s hand, and followed him into the backyard.
The light was dimmer there, away from the street lamps and the brightness of the city. Soft light glowed through the yukimi shoji inside, and the sliding glass doors outside. Kenma could see his mother at the kitchen sink through the window; she looked up when they came into the yard, gave them both a smile and a wave, then wandered away—perhaps to join Kenma’s father in the yoshitsu, or maybe to go read her latest romantasy.
Kenma sighed. He loved his parents, but they could be nosy on the best of days, and he didn’t feel like having his mother watch his snowman reunion with Kuroo.
Especially when Kuroo was taller and handsomer than ever, and was staring at Kenma with that soft smile that made Kenma’s mind go gooey.
If he was being honest, he had dreamed of this moment for a long time—since he’d left home last March, to be precise. He hadn’t quite expected the first time they’d see each other to be in the snow, but his fantasy of having Kuroo come up to his room, beating him in GTA, and then kissing him furiously had also been a bit of a stretch, too.
Unfortunately, Kuroo’s lips looked a lot less kissable when they were chapped with cold.
“Here.” Kuroo led him over to a corner of the yard where the snow had drifted into piles. “This is the perfect spot, right?”
Kenma nodded. Kuroo smiled. “Then let’s get started,” he said.
They worked together in a comfortable silence. Kenma dutifully built a snowball, in his hands at first, then on the ground, rolling it around to gather more snow. Kuroo started one of his own, but when he saw Kenma struggling to get his own snowball bigger, Kuroo abandoned his and went over to help.
“May I?” he asked, bending over beside Kenma. Kenma looked up; Kuroo’s eyes caught his, and Kenma’s hands stopped where they were, pressed into the snowball.
In the crisp, snowy night air, Kuroo’s hazel eyes reflected the soft pink of the sky. It caught with the color of his eyes, making them more like prisms than irises. Kenma’s breath froze, literally and figuratively, the droplets turning to ice and crusting over his lips.
Kuroo smiled. “Can’t stop in this cold for too long, Ken,” he whispered. Then, to Kenma’s utter shock, Kuroo took off one of his gloves, licked his thumb, and ran it over Kenma’s mouth. His finger was warm, and Kenma’s lips trembled under his touch. Kuroo’s eyes stayed fixed on Kenma, watching his response to Kuroo’s finger. He tugged lightly at Kenma’s lower lip, and Kenma felt his body go slack, acquiescing to Kuroo’s touch.
Commissioned Artwork by RhapeSeuhans
“There,” Kuroo murmured. He ran his thumb over Kenma’s lower lip one more time, then withdrew it and placed his glove back on. “Hopefully that warmed you up?”
Kenma’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Kuroo chuckled, then turned his attention back to the snowball. But as they went to roll on more snow, their hands brushed, Kuroo’s soft glove against Kenma’s mitten. Kenma froze; Kuroo reacted, though, moving his hand so it rested fully on Kenma’s. The weight of Kuroo’s hand calmed Kenma, and he relaxed with a sigh. He felt Kuroo’s warm smile, and it heated Kenma through.
“How…how’s volleyball?” Kenma asked quietly. “And Bokuto?”
Kuroo launched into an animated depiction of their last game, from the block he made on Sakusa, to Bokuto’s latest insane cut shot. He showed Kenma a clumsy version of Bokuto’s cartwheel he did onto the court last game, and gave a scarily perfect impression of Keiji lecturing Bokuto about risking his career for a silly fanservice move.
Kuroo’s voice was velvet, wrapping Kenma up and immersing him in nostalgia. He remembered again snowmen of the past: first, when they were children, and couldn’t stack the snowball so they had to get Kuroo’s father to help
Then, in middle school, when Kuroo had been more interested in throwing snowballs than making them, and Kenma had stormed into the house and refused to come out until Kuroo promised not to hit him anymore…only for Kenma to pelt him with the secret stash he’d been hoarding just for that moment.
And finally, high school, when Kuroo watched Kenma so closely, following his lead, agreeing so easily to go in if Kenma got cold, chatting up Kenma’s mother over hot chocolate and cream yaki, eyes always focused on Kenma.
So many times they’d been here, doing this exact same thing. So many times they had been cold and snowy and built whole families in Kenma’s backyard.
But tonight, even though the actions were the same, they felt… different. The press of Kuroo’s hand, his steady presence beside Kenma, the gentleness of his gaze. There was a weight to it all that had never been there before; even just a few years ago, when Kuroo started watching him, he did so with the protests that someone had to make sure Kenma didn’t get frostbite, that someone had to make sure his hot chocolate was the perfect temperature.
But now, Kuroo’s eyes on him, Kuroo’s hand brushing against his, Kuroo’s presence at his side…
Kenma’s stomach swooped and rolled in on itself, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good feeling or a bad one.
And the fact that he couldn’t tell pissed him off.
Would it be so bad? The good feeling? Would it be so bad to catch Kuroo’s gloved hand with his own and gaze into those flickering hazel eyes that always saw more than their owner let on? Would it be so bad to part his lips again, to feel the press of Kuroo’s thumb, to…
“Kenma?”
Kenma blinked; he realized that he’d been standing in the middle of the yard with a medium-sized snowball in his hands; it was collecting snowflakes, making it slightly lopsided. Kuroo was on the engawa, a carrot, two mismatched buttons, a pipe, and one of Kenma’s father’s old hats in his hands; he must have gone to get accessories and what was Kenma doing that entire time?
Standing there like an idiot, that’s what.
“You okay?” Kuroo stepped off the engawa and into the yard, eyes narrowed as he tried to suss out Kenma’s actions. For his part, Kenma stood his ground; he didn’t want to seem silly or flaky, but in all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure how exactly to spin this one.
“You’ve been standing there since I left,” Kuroo added, “and when I said I was going to ask Oba-san for things for our snowman, you just kind of grunted and stared down at the snowman’s head. I figured you were trying to decide how much bigger to make it, but you haven’t moved since…”
“Does this feel—different—to you?” Kenma blurted out, startling Kuroo so much he dropped everything he was holding, which startled Kenma so much he dropped the fucking snowman’s head. That didn’t matter, though; all the things Kuroo had carried outside were rapidly becoming covered with fresh snow, and Kenma dove to his knees, trying to find the buttons before they vanished until spring.
“Shit, shit!” he swore, running his gloves over the snow’s surface. “I can’t believe I—what did I—”
“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands covered his own, and when Kenma looked up, Kuroo was kneeling beside him, snowflakes collecting on his nose and eyelashes and on the bits of hair sticking out from beneath his beanie. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Ken.”
“I made you drop our snowman’s things!” Kenma protested. “And now we have to find them before they melt!”
Kuroo laughed, that great, annoying, hyena laugh that Kenma both loved and hated with all his heart. “Since you just dropped the head,” he countered, pointing to the misshapen lump in the snow beside them, “I don’t think we have to be in too much of a hurry.”
Kenma groaned and covered his face with his hands. Could this get any worse?
Kuroo let out a gentle sound of reassurance, moving Kenma’s hands away from his face with more care than Kenma felt like he deserved. “What did you mean?” Kuroo asked, changing the subject. “When you asked me if this feels different?”
Despite the cold, Kenma felt his whole body heat up. He dipped his head. “Just—just that I—” He shut his mouth, trying to sort his thoughts and find the right words. Kuroo—faithful, steadfast, wonderful Kuroo—sat patiently in the snow, still holding Kenma’s hands, waiting.
The quiet—the lack of the need to rush—was exactly what Kenma needed. (Because Kuroo always knew what he needed.)
“You and I,” Kenma began quietly, “have built so many snowmen together over the years.”
“That we have,” Kuroo agreed, encouraging him to continue.
“And it’s just that…” Kenma paused again. “Since you left for school, things… changed.”
Kuroo’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t mean for them to change, Ken; I just wanted to…”
“And then when I left for college, things changed even more. And…” Kenma sighed. “I knew that they would, and I was prepared for that. But even though we talk all the time, I still miss you… I miss… this.” He tried to gesture around them at the yard, the half-built snowman, but Kuroo held his hands fast.
“I know.” Kuroo’s eyes softened into a mix of forest green and gold. “I’ve missed this, missed you, too.”
“And now that we’re back together again it just feels… I don’t know.” Kenma’s stomach was doing that swoopy thing again, and this time he couldn’t decide if he liked it because… Kuroo admitted he missed Kenma, and Kenma liked that, but didn’t know if he could go back to not seeing Kuroo for another nine months now that he knew how much they missed each other.
“Different?” Kuroo interjected, quieter than Kenma had ever heard him. “It feels… different?”
“It does,” Kenma admitted. “Because you’re taller and more annoying and more muscular and I just—”
“You think I’m taller?” Kuroo smirked. “And more muscular?”
Kenma scowled and batted at Kuroo. “I also said more annoying.”
“I’ll take it,” Kuroo grinned, “if it also means you think I’m buff.”
“In the head, maybe,” Kenma muttered, and Kuroo laughed again: this time, only for a moment, before his face grew serious.
“I’ll admit,” Kuroo said, pink tinging his cheeks—Kenma couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from—something else— “When you opened your window and looked down at me, the way the light caught your hair and your face, I could have sworn I was looking at an angel on earth.”
Kenma grimaced. “Now I know you’re making fun.”
“I’m not!” Kuroo protested, tugging on Kenma’s hands. “I swear I’m not! I think the time apart got to me too, Ken. It made me realize…”
He drew Kenma’s hands—and, by extension, Kenma—into his chest. “It made me realize,” he said again, “that it’s not good for us to be separated. Not that long, and maybe not ever.”
Kenma sucked in a breath. “It—it did?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Kuroo whispered back, his voice tender. “I don’t think we’re meant to be apart, Kenma. And being here with you, building a snowman, like we’ve done so many times before? You’re right that it feels different—no.” He shook his head. “That’s—that’s not it. It feels the same, only…”
“Only what?” Kenma breathed, not even daring to wonder what Kuroo might say.
“Only so much better than I could have ever dreamed,” Kuroo murmured.
Kenma’s eyes went wide; his breath heaved, and his hands trembled against Kuroo’s chest. “Kuro,” Kenma uttered, “what are you—”
“I’m saying,” Kuroo insisted, voice rising, “that nothing is the same without you. And that everything is so, so much better with you.”
Kenma’s mind reeled; he tried desperately to wrap his head around Kuroo’s words. “Every—thing?” he repeated. “Even building a snowman where I drop the head and you drop all the pieces?”
Kuroo chuckled, but it was gentle, affectionate, even. “Especially when you drop the head and you make me drop all the pieces,” he assured Kenma. “Shit, Ken, my whole world is better because you’re here. I don’t care if we’re just sitting in your room while you stream, or if we’re out here in the freezing cold building snowmen, or if you’re giving me shit because I got the wrong kind of apple pie—”
“That was one time,” Kenma huffed, “and you got apple crumb cake, not apple pie.”
“I know.” Kuroo lifted Kenma’s gloved hands to his lips. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life buying you apple pies and only apple pies, if that’s what you want.”
What… what Kenma wanted…
And then, just like that, everything clicked into place:
Kuroo’s presence at his window. Kuroo’s smile at seeing him at the door. Kuroo’s hands brushing against his. Kuroo’s annoying laugh.
Kuroo, Kuroo, Kuroo.
It was different, but the difference was how Kenma’s heart pounded in his chest, how he never wanted Kuroo to let go of his hands…
How, suddenly, nothing mattered but the way Kuroo’s lips glistened in the snow light.
“Kuro,” Kenma murmured, his body leaning into Kuroo’s as if by instinct. His eyes fluttered closed, his lips parted, and his entire being ached to feel Kuroo against him.
Because, even though they’d hugged, they’d held hands—hell, Kuroo had even slept in Kenma’s bed!—
Kenma knew that this would be different, too.
“You—you sure?” Kuroo asked, his own voice now halting, hesitant.
Kenma wrenched his eyes open. He glared at Kuroo; how could he be so chivalrous at a time like this? (Only Kuroo could be, he supposed.)
“I want you to kiss me, Kuro,” Kenma demanded, “and I can assure you that I have never wanted anyone to kiss me at any other point in my life.”
Kuroo’s lips curled into a smirk. “Not even me?” he teased.
“I want you now,” Kenma retorted, “and that better count for something.”
“It does,” Kuroo murmured, “it counts for everything.”
“Kuro,” Kenma sighed, but Kuroo folded both of Kenma’s hands into one of his own. He used the other to tip Kenma’s chin up. Their eyes met, and Kenma parted his lips, leaning up just as Kuroo leaned down, meeting him across the distance as their mouths met for the first time.
Kuroo’s lips were moist, slightly chapped, and warm, but he pulled Kenma to him and kissed him sincerely, deeply, full of all the years they’d already known each other, and all the years they’d known each other still.
But those years—like the snowman, like Kuroo’s hands, like Kuroo’s lips—were different, would be different.
Kenma gave a choked cry and hurled himself against Kuroo, who was so caught off-guard that they toppled over in the snow, lips still pressed together, Kenma straddling Kuroo’s narrow waist. Feeling the cold of the snow beneath them, and the heat of Kuroo’s body against him, Kenma was seized by a sudden, desperate urge to kiss Kuroo harder.
So he did.
Kuroo’s responding groan was low and guttural; his hands roamed Kenma’s back, pressing through the puffy fabric to hold him closer, closer. Kenma felt wild: his skin tingled, his breath seared, and when Kuroo’s tongue pressed at the seam of his lips, Kenma opened up willingly, Kuroo’s warmth heating him up from the inside out.
They made out in the snow, their bodies covered with flakes, their coats and clothes soaking through, becoming chilly and damp and snowy. When Kenma’s teeth chattered against Kuroo’s mouth, Kuroo laughed and broke the kiss, pulling them both up to a seated position.
Kenma looked down; their clothes were completely covered in snow. Kuroo’s cheeks were snow dusted, but his eyes reflected the fire of the moment. When he reached up, he brushed snow out of Kenma’s hair.
“Well,” Kuroo said, his mouth now a teasing smile, “looks like we’re the snowmen tonight, doesn’t it?”
That something low and pleasant curled in Kenma’s stomach once again, but this time, he reveled in it, let it coil and spring forth through his limbs, his head…
His heart.
Kenma looked up at Kuroo, his own eyes bright and unbridled. He offered Kuroo a slow, teasing grin, and with a gentle shove, he pushed Kuroo right back down into the snow, laughing quietly at Kuroo’s cry of shock.
“Kenma!” Kuroo exclaimed. “What are you—”
Kenma leaned down and kissed Kuroo again, their lips still warm despite the cold. It felt just as good as the first kiss—the heat and cold mixing, creating a new sensation, one that filled Kenma with desperate longing for more.
“See?” he murmured, planting another kiss against Kuroo’s lips. “Looks like we’re doing the same thing, just differently, and better, after all.”