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I could hear them again.
Kuroo's dad and his girlfriend—voices slicing through the quiet of the evening, muffled but sharp even from across the street. The kind of shouting that made your stomach knot before your mind caught up.
Mom was halfway through folding laundry beside me, pretending not to listen, but her hands had gone still. Dad had turned the TV volume down without a word.
It wasn't the first time. Not even close. But tonight... something sounded different. The tension had an edge, something ugly and heavy.
Mom sighed, looking toward the window. "Kenma," she said softly. "Can you check on him? Please?"
I hesitated. My fingers twitched around the controller. The game's soft background music filled the silence for a second too long.
Then another crash echoed from next door—metal against tile, maybe a pot or pan—and I was already up before she finished saying, "Hurry."
Outside, the autumn air bit against my skin, but it wasn't cold enough to make me shiver. That was something else. The shouting was louder now, words tumbling over each other in anger.
Kuroo's place looked the same as always—except for the light spilling through the half-open curtains and the way the walls seemed to shake with noise. I didn't think; I just went up to the door and started knocking.
"—Tetsurou!" I called. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. "Open up, please."
Nothing. Then another yell, and something slammed into a wall. My pulse jumped. I hit the door harder. "Kuroo!"
The lock clicked. The door cracked open just enough for him to appear, leaning against the frame.
He looked terrible.
His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction but not the usual way—like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched so tight I could see it tremble. He didn't even try to smile.
"Hey," he muttered. His voice was flat, quiet, like he'd already used it up. "It's fine, Kenma. Go home."
"It doesn't sound fine," I said, stepping closer.
Behind him, his dad's voice boomed—something slurred, furious. Then a shriek from the girlfriend.
Kuroo flinched. I saw it in the twitch of his shoulders, the way his eyes darted toward the sound before he turned back to me, about to say something—
—and then it happened.
A blur of motion. A shattering sound.
The vase exploded against the doorframe. Shards rained across the floor, glittering, and Kuroo's eyes went wide for a split second before rolling back.
He fell into me.
For a moment I couldn't move. Couldn't even think. His weight hit my chest, and instinct kicked in—I caught him under the arms, staggering back until my knees hit the floor.
"Kuroo—hey, hey—" My voice cracked. His head lolled against my shoulder, blood trailing from a thin line across his temple.
His parents froze. I saw them through the open door, faces pale in the light—shock and guilt and fear flickering all at once.
Then they started shouting again.
Not at each other this time—at themselves, at me, at the situation, words tangled and meaningless.
I tuned them out. My hands were shaking. I tapped his cheek, pressed my fingers to his neck. His pulse was there, faint but steady. His breathing was shallow.
"Kuroo, wake up," I whispered. "Come on."
He didn't.
"Kenma!" My mom's voice cut through the chaos. She was running across the lawn, her slippers barely holding on. "Oh my god—Tetsurou—"
She dropped to her knees beside us, her hands trembling as she touched his face, her voice cracking as she yelled for my dad to call an ambulance.
Everything after that blurred together.
Sirens. Lights flashing red and blue against the house. Neighbors gathering in the dark. Kuroo's father pacing, shouting that he hadn't meant to—hadn't thrown it at him. The paramedics kneeling beside Kuroo, lifting him gently onto a stretcher.
When one of them asked who was riding along, his dad stepped forward. "I'm his father—"
And something inside me snapped.
"You're the reason he's there!" I shouted, the words burning before I could stop them. "You don't get to go!"
His face twisted—shock, guilt, something uglier—and he tried to argue, but the paramedics moved between us, pushing him back gently but firmly.
"Let the boy come," one of them said quietly.
I climbed into the ambulance before I could change my mind. The doors slammed shut behind me.
Kuroo's hand was cold when I held it. The kind of cold that made your stomach hurt.
Through the window, I saw my mom and dad standing by the curb. Mom's hands covered her mouth. Dad had an arm around her shoulders. They both looked smaller than I'd ever seen them.
As the ambulance pulled away, I caught one last glimpse of Kuroo's house—the porch light still on, the door still open, and shards of glass glinting like stars on the ground.
I didn't let go of his hand. Not once.
⸻
The sirens were too loud.
Even with the doors shut, the noise drilled straight through my chest. Every bump in the road made Kuroo's head jolt, and I had to fight the urge to reach out again even though one of the paramedics kept telling me not to touch him.
"He's aspirating!" someone shouted.
For a second, I didn't understand. Then I saw it—his body lurching forward, blood and vomit spilling past his lips. The paramedics moved in fast, rolling him onto his side while keeping his neck straight.
I couldn't breathe.
One of them was holding an oxygen mask near his mouth, another checking his pulse, calling for suction. I pressed myself back against the cold wall of the ambulance, hands shaking so hard my nails scratched my palms.
"Is he—" My voice cracked. "Is he gonna—"
"We're doing everything we can," the woman nearest me said. Her tone was calm, but her eyes weren't. "Head injuries can be unpredictable, okay? Stay back, sweetheart."
Kuroo made a faint choking sound. His body twitched, and I wanted to grab his hand, to do something, but all I could do was sit there, my heart pounding so fast it felt like it was bruising my ribs.
The drive blurred into sirens, flashing lights, and the smell of antiseptic. Every minute felt like ten. When we finally stopped, the doors burst open, and cold night air rushed in.
They wheeled him out so fast I almost tripped trying to keep up.
"Head trauma with possible intracranial bleed," one of the medics shouted as they pushed him toward the ER doors. "Unresponsive, vomiting, pupils reactive but unequal."
They didn't even look at me as the automatic doors swallowed them whole. The last thing I saw was the back of Kuroo's head—blood matted in his hair, the faint rise and fall of his chest under the oxygen mask.
And then he was gone.
I stumbled into the waiting area, collapsing into one of the hard plastic chairs. My legs wouldn't stop shaking. My hands were ice. I felt like if I moved, if I even breathed too loud, the world would collapse right there.
The bright hospital lights buzzed overhead. A vending machine hummed somewhere behind me. Everything smelled too clean, too sharp.
Five minutes—or maybe an hour—passed before I saw them.
Mom ran in first, her hair half undone, eyes wide and wet. Dad was right behind her.
"Kenma," she whispered, kneeling in front of me. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"
I nodded, but it wasn't true. My throat hurt too much to speak, so I just stared at the floor until the words tumbled out anyway.
"He—he was throwing up," I whispered. "In the ambulance. They said—head injury—emergency surgery..." My voice broke.
Mom pulled me against her chest before I could finish. Her sweater smelled like laundry detergent and rain. I pressed my face into her shoulder, shaking so hard I could barely get air in.
Dad sat beside us, his hand steady on my back. "He's strong," he said quietly. "You know he is."
I nodded again, but it didn't stop the tears. I didn't even realize I was crying until Mom brushed a thumb over my cheek.
Thirty minutes crawled by. Every time the automatic doors opened, my heart leapt and then dropped when it wasn't one of the doctors.
Then I heard the voices.
Loud. Harsh.
Kuroo's dad and his girlfriend stormed in, faces twisted—angry, not scared. It made something in me snap all over again.
I felt the shift in the air before they even saw me. His father's eyes landed on me across the room, bloodshot and wild. He marched straight toward me, his voice booming through the waiting area.
"This is your fault!" he barked. "You shouldn't have dragged him into it—!"
I was on my feet before I could think. "My fault? You're the one who threw it!"
"I didn't throw it at him!" he shouted, getting closer. "You don't know what—"
"You almost killed him!" My voice rose, shaky but fierce. "You did this! He's in surgery because of you!"
His girlfriend hissed something at him, trying to pull him back, but he shoved her arm away.
"Watch your mouth, kid!"
I didn't. I couldn't. Every horrible sound from that house, every time Kuroo brushed it off with a fake smile—it all came boiling out.
"You treat him like garbage and call it parenting!" I yelled. My voice cracked halfway through, but I didn't care. "He still defended you! He still tried to protect you, and this is how you repay him?!"
The nurse at the desk called for security. Someone tried to get between us, but before they could, Kuroo's dad's face twisted with rage, and he shoved me—hard.
The world tilted. I stumbled back, slamming into one of the chairs. My shoulder screamed in protest.
"Hey!" My dad's voice thundered, louder than I'd ever heard it. He was up in an instant, stepping between us. "You touch my son again, and I'll—"
"Sir!" the nurse shouted. "Security's coming—step back!"
The next few seconds were chaos. Security guards appeared, moving fast. They grabbed Kuroo's dad's arms, trying to calm him down. He struggled, yelling something about misunderstandings, about accidents, about his son.
But I couldn't hear it anymore.
My heartbeat roared in my ears. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright drained all at once, leaving nothing but a dizzy, hollow ache. My legs felt weak. The room swayed.
Mom's hands were suddenly on my face. "Kenma? Kenma, look at me—breathe, sweetheart—"
But everything was slipping away—the lights too bright, voices too far, my body too heavy.
"Mom..." I whispered. It was barely sound. "I can't..."
My knees gave out.
Someone caught me—Mom, I think. The last thing I felt was her hand in my hair and Dad's voice shouting for help.
Then everything went dark.
When consciousness started to fade, the only thing left in my mind was Kuroo—his head on my shoulder, the blood on his temple, the way his hand had felt in mine in the ambulance.
I'd promised myself I wouldn't let go.
But right now, I couldn't even hold on.
⸻
I woke up with a jolt, my heart racing like I'd been falling.
For a second, I didn't know where I was. The world was too bright, too white. The steady hum of air conditioning filled the silence, and the faint smell of antiseptic burned in my nose. My body felt heavy, my head foggy—like I'd slept through an earthquake.
Then I saw my mom's face.
"Oh, thank God," she breathed, reaching out to brush my hair from my forehead. "You're awake."
I blinked, the room slowly coming into focus—the hard leather couch beneath me, the thin hospital blanket tucked around my legs. My dad was sitting nearby, rubbing a hand over his tired face.
"You passed out, Kenma," he said quietly, voice rough. "Scared us half to death."
"Sorry," I mumbled. My throat felt dry, and when I tried to sit up, the room tilted sideways. Mom caught my shoulder gently, steadying me.
"Easy, sweetheart. Just stay still for a bit. The nurse said it was an adrenaline crash—you've had a shock."
Kuroo.
The thought hit me like a punch. I pushed the blanket aside, trying to stand before my legs remembered how weak they were. "Kuroo—where—?"
Dad stood and put a hand on my back, firm but careful. "He's out of surgery," he said. "They said he made it through fine."
I froze. "He's—he's okay?"
"They can't let anyone see him yet," Mom added quickly. "He's still under observation. But he's stable."
Stable. The word spun around in my head, both a relief and an anchor. My chest felt tight all over again, but this time it wasn't panic—it was release.
I sank back into the couch, my hands trembling against my knees. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
Mom frowned softly. "For what?"
"For yelling. For fainting. For—" My voice broke before I could finish. "For not being able to do anything."
She shook her head and took my hand. "You did everything you could, Kenma. You got help. You stayed with him. That's what mattered."
Dad nodded from his chair. "He's lucky to have you."
The words made something ache deep in my chest. I looked down, tracing the lines on my palms. My fingers still smelled faintly like antiseptic wipes from earlier.
We stayed like that for a while. The hours bled together under the fluorescent lights—nurses walking past, announcements over the intercom, the occasional doctor's voice in the distance. I must've drifted in and out, because when someone finally said my name again, it was a nurse smiling at me gently.
"You can see him now," she said.
My parents followed me down the long hallway, footsteps echoing on the linoleum. The walls were lined with patient boards and half-drawn curtains, the air too still.
When we reached his room, I hesitated in the doorway.
Kuroo was lying in the hospital bed, pale against the sheets. His hair had been brushed back clumsily, a clean bandage wrapped around his head. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I let it out.
Mom whispered, "Go on."
I crossed the room quietly and sat in the chair beside him. His hand was resting on the blanket—cold, but solid—and I took it carefully between mine.
For a moment, I just stared at him. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The way his eyelashes fluttered slightly with each breath.
Then his fingers twitched.
"Kuroo?" I whispered.
He blinked, eyes heavy and unfocused, pupils still glassy from the medication.
"Kenma?" he mumbled, voice hoarse but bright, a little too bright. "Hey, you—you came—wow, I had this crazy dream, and—wait, are we—are we in the same room or am I floating?"
He tried to sit up, mumbling faster and faster, his words spilling out in a tumble of nonsense.
"—I think I saw a nurse with pink hair, or maybe that was you, and—wait, did I die? Because if I did, this is a weird afterlife—"
I leaned forward, pressing my hand gently over his. "Kuroo," I said softly. "You're okay. You just had surgery."
He blinked again, eyes darting toward me like he was trying to focus. "Surgery? No way. I—I hate hospitals. You stayed, didn't you? You always stay—"
"Shh." I squeezed his hand. "Don't talk. Just rest, okay?"
He smiled faintly—dazed, crooked—and mumbled something I couldn't quite make out before his eyes fluttered closed again.
I stayed there until his breathing evened out.
When the doctor came in a few minutes later, I stood, but he waved me down kindly. "He'll be fine," he said. "We removed a small clot from the right side of his skull and relieved the pressure. It was touch and go at first, but he's responding well. He'll need monitoring for a few days and plenty of rest."
Mom's hand found mine again. "Thank you," she said softly. Dad echoed it, shaking the doctor's hand firmly.
The doctor smiled, tired but genuine. "He's a tough one."
When he left, I turned back to Kuroo. The monitor beeped steadily beside him, calm and rhythmic.
I brushed my thumb over his knuckles and whispered, "Told you you'd make it, idiot."
He didn't stir, but I thought—just maybe—I saw the faintest hint of a smile.
And for the first time since the night began, I finally let myself breathe.
⸻
The next morning, the world still smelled like antiseptic and rain. I'd barely slept in the hospital chair—my back ached, my eyes burned—but every time I closed them, I saw the vase shattering, the flash of blood in Kuroo's hair. So I stayed awake, watching the soft rhythm of his breathing.
He looked better now—less pale, the bandage clean, the lines on the monitor steadier. The doctors said the surgery had gone well. He's going to be fine, they kept saying, like if they repeated it enough it would turn into something solid I could hold.
Mom brought me breakfast I didn't eat. Dad went home to grab clean clothes. I stayed, fingers resting on Kuroo's blanket, afraid that if I stopped touching him he'd disappear again.
By the second day, the machines around him started to disappear. No more IV bags dripping morphine, no more constant beeping—just a heart monitor and an oxygen clip on his finger. When he finally woke properly, blinking against the morning light, I thought my own heart might stop.
He squinted at me. "You look terrible," he croaked.
I almost laughed—a sound halfway between a sob and relief. "You're one to talk."
"Head hurts," he murmured, closing his eyes again. "Did we... lose the game?"
I blinked. "What game?"
"Practice match. Yesterday." He frowned slightly, still dazed. "We were supposed to—"
"Kuroo, that was four days ago."
He opened his eyes again, confusion flickering into shock. "Four—what?"
"Yeah." I managed a small smile. "You've been unconscious, idiot."
He groaned softly, one hand drifting toward his bandaged head. "Guess that explains the headache."
The nurse came in then, smiling gently at him. "Welcome back, sleeping beauty. Try not to move too much."
When she left, the silence returned, fragile and heavy. Kuroo turned his head toward me again, and his voice came out smaller. "You stayed?"
"Of course I did."
His eyes softened. "Thanks, Kenma."
I shrugged, staring down at my hands. "Someone had to keep you from getting into more trouble."
He huffed a quiet laugh, then winced at the movement. I reached out automatically, steadying his shoulder, and for a second neither of us moved. His skin was warm under my palm, and I realized how long I'd been waiting just to feel him alive again.
⸻
The next few days blurred into a routine. Doctors came and went, checking his pupils, asking questions, reminding him not to strain himself. Kuroo hated sitting still; every time he tried to crack a joke or pull at his IV line, I glared until he stopped.
He started eating again—slowly, complaining about hospital food until Mom smuggled in rice balls and miso soup. When I visited after school, he'd already have the blanket pulled up to his chin, pretending to be asleep until I sat down.
One evening, I found him staring at the window, the sunset painting his face in gold. He looked tired, but his eyes were clear.
"Kenma," he said quietly, "I don't want to go back home."
I froze. "To your dad's?"
He nodded, jaw tight. "They said he's not allowed near me right now. But I don't—" He broke off, voice shaking slightly. "I can't go back there."
I didn't think. "Then don't."
He turned to look at me. "What?"
"Stay with us. My parents already talked about it. You can have the spare room."
He blinked, as if the idea hadn't even crossed his mind. "You'd... want me there?"
"Yeah." I met his eyes, steady. "You're family."
Something in him cracked at that. His throat worked like he was swallowing words he couldn't say. "Thanks," he whispered. "Really."
I wanted to say you don't have to thank me, but instead I just squeezed his hand and let the silence fill in the rest.
⸻
He was discharged a week later with a long list of rules: no heavy activity, no screens for more than thirty minutes, no sudden movements, no stress. Which, for Kuroo, meant no fun at all.
Moving him into our house was strange at first. His duffel bag looked small against the guest-room bed, and the sight of him in one of my dad's old hoodies made something twist in my chest. Mom fussed over him, Dad helped set up extra pillows, and I just hovered, making sure he didn't collapse halfway up the stairs.
The first night, I heard him wake from a nightmare. The sound of his breathing—fast, uneven—cut through the dark like static. I knocked once before slipping inside.
He was sitting up, hand pressed against his temple, sweat plastering his hair down. The bandage was off now, but the scar beneath was still red.
"Hey," I whispered. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said automatically. Then quieter, "No. I—I saw it again."
"The vase?"
He nodded, eyes distant. "Every time I close my eyes."
I sat on the edge of his bed, unsure what to say. Words felt useless. So I just stayed there, close enough that he could feel I wasn't leaving.
After a moment, he leaned toward me, his forehead resting against my shoulder. My breath caught, but I didn't move. His hair smelled faintly like shampoo and antiseptic. He was trembling.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I just—can't get it out of my head."
"You don't have to apologize," I said quietly. "Just breathe."
We stayed like that until his shaking eased and his breathing evened out. When he finally drifted back to sleep, I tucked the blanket around him and sat in the chair by his bed until sunrise.
⸻
The weeks passed slowly after that. Kuroo got stronger, though he still tired easily. He'd joke about feeling like an old man, but sometimes I'd catch him staring at his reflection, touching the thin scar near his hairline, and the laughter would fade.
He wasn't cleared for volleyball yet, which frustrated him more than he let on. The doctor said maybe another month, depending on progress. In the meantime, he filled the hours helping my parents with small chores, reading, or watching me play handheld games when he was bored.
We fell into a rhythm. Breakfasts together. Walks around the neighborhood when the weather was nice. Quiet evenings in the living room, the TV low and the cat asleep between us.
It was comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe. Because the longer it went on, the harder it became to ignore the way my pulse jumped whenever he smiled, or how my chest felt lighter when he teased me, or how much I missed him on the rare nights he went to physical therapy and came home late.
One afternoon, the doctor finally cleared him for light activity. We went to the park with a volleyball—nothing serious, just passing it back and forth on the grass. The first few tosses were clumsy; he misjudged the distance and laughed at himself. But his grin was the same as always—bright, mischievous, alive.
"See?" he said, spinning the ball on his finger. "Still got it."
I smirked. "Barely."
He threw it again, too far this time, and I chased it down. When I turned back, he was watching me with that same look he used to give before a match—focused, fond, like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he said quickly, looking away. But his ears were pink.
⸻
That night, the air was cool and soft through the open window. We were sitting side by side on the couch—he was reading, I was playing on my console. The only light came from the screen and the dim lamp in the corner.
"Kenma," he said suddenly.
"Mm?"
He hesitated, setting the book down. "I've been thinking about that night. About everything."
My hands paused on the controller. "You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to." He looked down, twisting the hem of his hoodie. "When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I saw was you. I thought—" He swallowed. "I thought I was dreaming. You were the only thing that felt real."
My throat tightened. "You scared me," I admitted softly. "I thought—" The words caught. "I thought you were gone."
He reached over then, his fingers brushing mine. "I'm not," he said. "Because of you."
I looked at him. The low lamplight caught the curve of his scar, the faint exhaustion in his eyes—but there was warmth there, too. Something steady.
"Kuroo—"
He smiled, small and nervous. "I keep wanting to tell you things, but they all sound stupid in my head. So maybe I should just say it."
"Say what?"
"That I love you."
The words hit like the softest possible collision—unexpected but inevitable. My heart stumbled, and the room went silent except for the hum of the lamp.
He gave a shaky laugh. "See? I told you it'd sound stupid."
"It doesn't," I said quickly. "It's just—" I searched for the right words, my mind blank. "You always talk too much."
He grinned. "And you don't talk enough."
I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tugged upward. "Maybe that's why we work."
His hand was still on mine, warm and careful. I turned my palm up, letting our fingers intertwine. It felt natural, like something that had been waiting for a long time.
"I love you too," I said quietly. "So stop almost dying, okay? It's annoying."
He laughed then—a real laugh, rough around the edges but bright. "No promises."
We sat there for a while, fingers linked, the night pressing soft and calm around us. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and somewhere down the hall, my parents' voices murmured faintly. Everything felt suspended, balanced perfectly between peace and possibility.
Kuroo leaned his head against my shoulder, and I rested mine against his.
For once, there was no noise—no sirens, no shouting, no fear. Just the quiet heartbeat of someone who'd come back from the edge, and the steady rhythm of the one who'd been waiting all along.