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The gods died thousands of years ago. They had been burned to ashes in the last war against the Titans, and from their remains, Gaia had made herself anew for humans. Humankind had recovered and progressed, into the modern society it was today.
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For a tale that had been passed down for so many centuries, it’s, surprisingly, not that inaccurate. Kenma had always disliked the fairytales and myths that mortals had distorted beyond recognition. Yet this last tale had remained almost whole, with just a few parts missing.
Such as the fact that Gaia had not made herself anew from the remains of the gods. Or even that the gods had been burned to ashes. Quite the opposite in fact. Kenma was alive and well enough, still going strong even after eons. Gaia was still slumbering away, and the mortals had better hope it remained that way.
While the story was inaccurate in implying that the gods themselves had died, it was right in saying that something had been burned to ashes. That is, the gods’ spirits.
The spirits of the gods were made of the very essence of what they represented, which in turn made them gods. However, their spirits had been burned into, well, something akin to ashes. The four Winds had blown them away. They were spread all over the world now, unknowingly picked up by mortals, and it was up to them to find and collect back the pieces of their spirit.
It was a slow, painful task. While they could sense who had their spirit, it was often fleeting, too small to place, or worse, in other creatures. Kenma had only come across a few people who’d held sizable pieces of his spirit. They had displayed it from a young age, and had gone down in history as great philosophers, scientists and authors.
So, he couldn’t understand how his spirit was in this boy. This young boy with messy black hair that looked like a rooster’s. And it wasn’t even a very small piece. It was around the size of a teenager’s fist. It was practically a flashing beacon of colourful lights, screaming hey! I’ve got a piece of your spirit!
Yet this child was, to put it bluntly, stupid. He bumped into things far too often, struggled to read picture books, and didn’t seem to understand even the most basic of instructions.
Kenma was good at patterns. Loved them, in fact. It was unexplainable as to how such a big piece of his spirit had ended up inside this idiotic boy. It irritated Kenma to no end.
It didn’t matter. He’ll collect his spirit back and be done with this oddity of a mortal.
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“Excuse me, mister!”
Kenma turned. Seeing no one, he was about to turn away again, assuming they’d meant to call someone else, when a tug on his shirt stopped him. Kenma looked down. He noticed the child this time. He’d grown into a confident eight-year-old, if a bit short. Although with that rooster nest he called hair, it was a wonder how Kenma hadn’t noticed him.
“Yes?” Kenma asked neutrally, tugging his shirt from the child’s grubby grip.
“You dropped this!” The child held up what looked like a credit card that definitely did not belong to Kenma. He said so to the child. The child frowned down at the card, turning it over in his hands. Kenma studied the glow emitting from the child, seen only by his eyes, and wondered if the child was any smarter than the last time he’d seen him.
The child looked up, glancing around the centre of the shopping mall they stood in. People milled around, paying no mind to them. Kenma considered making a dash for it. Maybe someone else could look after this child.
“There!” His plans were interrupted by the child pointing at an old lady. There was nothing off about the old lady, except…it took Kenma longer than it should have to realise that she was looking around. Checking odd places, like a bench and the soil of an indoor tree. Most likely looking for something.
How had the child noticed that so fast?
Kenma doesn’t get the chance to ask. The child was already running off to return the credit card to the old lady. From afar, Kenma watched the old lady thank the child profusely and offer him a few sweets. To his surprise, the child turned it down, giving the old lady a bright smile before skipping away.
As Kenma continued on his way, he had the distinct feeling that he was forgetting something very, very important.
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The next time he saw the child, he was thirteen. A volatile age, old enough to be held accountable for his own actions, yet young enough to still be exiled to the children's table during family gatherings. It was often at this age that children went through a rebellious phase.
That seemed to have skipped past this child entirely. He was simply his unapologetic self. Albeit mature for his age, Kenma observed, watching him playing volleyball with his friends. He was good at the sport, able to make quick decisions in a flash that aided their team in winning. They celebrated loudly, whooping and cheering.
It didn’t make sense, Kenma decided. Aside from an affinity for science, the rest of his grades were just okay. It was nothing special. It didn’t explain that blinding flashlight inside of him. Even as he continued observing the child through his daily life, it wasn’t any clearer to Kenma.
He browsed through the selection at the nearby konbini, eavesdropping on the child’s conversation with the cashier. It was nothing interesting, until the clinking of coins on the counter sounded out.
“Hiro-san, you gave me 5000 yen extra.”
“Did I? Ah, I must be getting old.”
“No, you’re still plenty young! If you don’t run this konbini, who will?”
“Silly kid, you want me to be working till my back breaks eh?”
Laughter filled the air.
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At eighteen, the child was now nearly an adult. Captain of the volleyball team, he was popular in school. Many girls fawned over him. Kenma didn’t particularly understand. He didn’t care all that much either. He wasn’t Oikawa, romance and love was not high on his list of priorities.
He was walking near the school gym, planning to grab a drink from the vending machines, when raised voices drew his attention enough to make him lift his head from the screen of his game console. Behind the school gym, he recognised the child, being backed against the wall by two angry-looking girls. They each held letters in their fists, and were shouting at each other.
“I confessed first!”
“I wrote the letter a year ago!”
“Kuroo-san, who do you choose?” The simultaneous questions from both girls startled the child. He scratched the back of his neck, a slightly strained smile on his face.
“I’m flattered that you ladies are interested in me, but I don’t feel the same way for either of you two,” the child said apologetically. “Sorry. I’m just not, ah, into girls, if you know what I mean.”
There’s a long moment of silence. The two girls glance at each other, then back at the child. Finally, one spoke up. “I see. Thank you, Kuroo-san. Will you take my letter anyway?”
The second girl nodded, offering her letter up as well. Despite the rejection, they both had their heads held high. The child nodded, taking their letters, and the girls left, brushing past Kenma without a second glance backwards.
Kenma inserted the coins into the vending machine, pressed the button, and listened to the thunk as the drink dropped down. He bent down to take it, when he heard a voice. “Ah, sorry you had to see that,” the child muttered.
Kenma jerked back up, his drink in one hand. He stared up at the child. Was he talking to him? He cast a glance around. There was no one else. So he was talking to him, then. But he wasn’t supposed to. The child wasn’t even supposed to notice him. Yet how was he looking at Kenma now, speaking to him?
Realising he hasn’t answered the captain yet, Kenma ducked his head. “It’s fine,” he muttered. He disliked human interaction and being social in general. More often than not, mortals were far too stupid to understand him. They were only good as talking companions if Kenma wanted high blood pressure.
“Hey, I know you. You live near my neighbourhood, right?” The child asked suddenly.
Was something wrong with his glamour? Kenma tugged on it, just to check. It was there, making him unnoticeable, drawing little attention. He didn’t ever remember it having the complete opposite effect on mortals holding a piece of his spirit. Then again, he doesn’t think he’d ever seen a piece of this size in a mortal. “…Yes,” Kenma said, because really, what else was he supposed to say?
“I don’t think we’ve officially met yet. I’m Kuroo Tetsuro,” the child said, smiling as he inserted his own coins into the vending machine.
“Kozume Kenma.”
“What year are you?”
“Second.”
“I’m third. What’s your club?”
“…I don’t have one.”
“Really?” That seemed to surprise the child. “Hey, are you interested in volleyball?”
Which was how Kenma found himself playing volleyball on a Monday morning. He did know how to play volleyball. After being around Oikawa, Ushijima and Kageyama for so long, it would be more surprising if he didn’t know how to play. Apparently, he was highly skilled, and was accepted into the team right away. Since Kenma didn’t like moving around too much, he was assigned to the setter role.
A part of Kenma, a small, small part, maybe didn’t mind being surrounded by people.
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“Ken-chan, you’ve been hanging around that mortal for quite a long time.”
“He has a large piece of my spirit.”
“Why do you look so bitter?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense,” Kenma finally voiced it out. “He’s average. There’s nothing special about him. It doesn’t make sense that he has such a large part of my spirit in him, and he just—”
Kenma broke off, too frustrated to continue. Everything had a reason. It was how they made sense. Even because I wanted to was a reason that made something make sense. But this had no rhyme or reason. It made no sense, and that was what Kenma hated above all else.
Oikawa blinked at the sudden outburst, which Kenma knew was completely out of character for him. “Does that matter?” Oikawa asked, stirring his sugary abomination of a coffee. “Just collect your spirit and be done with it.”
Somehow, those words were an echo of what Kenma had thought to himself fourteen years ago, when he’d first learned of the child’s existence. Logically, Kenma knew that was the best course of action. There was no point worrying over the why and the how, it would be a waste of time and effort.
But that was how he operated. He asked why and how and thousands of other questions so mortals could think for themselves, to look around and find the answer themselves for a change. It was simply how he worked.
“How much have you collected?” Kenma changed the topic.
Oikawa didn’t push it. “About fifty eight percent. It’s not too bad, I pretty much know where to find all my pieces,” Oikawa said. Kenma suppressed a scoff. He had it pretty easy. All he had to do was go outside and he would easily be able to find hundreds of pieces of his spirit, no matter how small.
Kenma nodded instead. The percentage was about the same as his. If he remembered right, all the gods were around this percentage by now. Collecting a piece of their spirit took forever, mainly because they could only collect it past a certain age, when they were mature enough to survive without that piece of spirit inside of them. For mortals, that was around twenty one years old. The bigger the piece was, the older they’d have to be before collection.
For one of Kuroo’s size, Kenma estimated that he’d have to wait about fifteen more years than that. It was strangely big after all.
Eventually, the topic switched to other things.
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Somehow or another, Kenma had become a close friend of the child’s. And for some inexplicable reason, he sometimes enjoyed the child’s company. He picked up on all of Kenma’s habits abnormally quickly, and adjusted to them. He was quieter around Kenma; softer, somehow. He spoke for Kenma when he didn’t want to and rarely disturbed his gaming sessions. He knew Kenma disliked the cold and liked carbonated drinks. It was…odd, to have someone know him so well, so fast.
They often walked to school together in the mornings. The child would seek him out when they had shared breaks. Sometimes, he’d stop by Kenma’s classroom between classes to give him something he’d forgotten.
A third year in the second years’ block drew much attention. For a reason unbeknownst to himself, Kenma was annoyed whenever it happened. Perhaps it was because of the attention it drew to himself (yet it didn’t explain the itch under his skin when he saw girls staring at the child and whispering among themselves). After practice, they’d walk home together.
Even Suga had noticed the so-called effort Kenma put into this child. Kenma often collected his spirit by just living near the holder, barely interacting with them. When they were of age, he’d simply collect it by walking past them, absorbing it back through the brush of fingers, or some other mundane, unnoticeable thing. He never bothered to get to know the holder.
So why was he doing just that with this child?
In truth, Kenma didn’t know. And not knowing ranked just underneath things that make no sense in his list of Things He Hated Most.
Yet he didn’t feel his usual need to know. No, he was content with not knowing this one particular thing. He had a strange feeling that if he did find out, he wouldn’t like the answer.
For now, he’ll enjoy the time he had with the child.
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“Excuse me, Kozume-kun?”
Kenma startled at being addressed by a mortal, looking up from his game. It happened so rarely, he wasn’t used to it. He made sure his glamour was in place, before answering, “yes?”
The girl extended a letter to him. “You’re close friends with Kuroo-san! Can you please give this to him?”
Kenma stared down at the letter, then at the hopeful expression on the girl’s face. Would it be weird if he declined? He didn’t know how humans acted in such a situation. Mainly because before now, he’d never been in such a situation. If the girl was asking, maybe it wasn’t a weird thing. Which meant it’d probably make more sense if Kenma agreed.
Gingerly, he took the letter from the girl. She lit up, thanking him, then ran off. Kenma glanced down at the letter, sealed with a heart sticker. Disgusting. What sort of person confessed to their crush through their friend anyway? He continued on his way to the cafeteria, where the child had told him to meet him.
There, the child was being talked to by a few girls. A familiar irritation bubbled underneath Kenma’s skin. He walked up, ignoring the glare one of them shot him. Tugging on the child’s sleeve, he looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I’m cold,” he said. “I want to go home.”
As expected, the child visibly softened. He made quick work of taking off his jacket and placing it around Kenma’s shoulders, yapping about something as he did so. Kenma half-listened, far too smug in the face of the glares he was now receiving from all the girls. Stay away.
“Come on, kitten, let’s go,” the child said. Kitten. It was new, but it filled Kenma with some unfamiliar kind of warm fuzziness. Kenma hasn’t said anything about the pet name, which basically proved how much he liked it. He ignored the gasps of the girls, following the child out. Slightly, he turned his head, allowing a small smirk to take over his features. The girls’ looks of anger and shock satisfied him.
The next day, Kenma was leaning against the wall next to the vending machine, waiting for the child to finish getting drinks. From the corner of his eye, he caught the girl from the previous day, the one who’d asked him to give the letters to Kuroo, coming up to them. “Kuro,” Kenma said, instantly drawing the child’s attention. The child hummed, unable to speak due to the straw in his mouth. “I want to try.”
The child offered his drink to Kenma, straw positioned at his mouth. All Kenma had to do was open his mouth and drink from the same straw. For added measure, he leaned in close to Kuroo, curling around the other’s arm.
The girl had come to a stop some ways from them at the scene. Kenma made direct eye contact. Behind his back, he dropped the love letter to the ground, and stepped on it.
He watched the girl run off, crying, and found that he was quite happy. The child was oblivious to it all, letting Kenma have his drink as he got another one.
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The child was in university, at the age of twenty-one. By all means, Kenma should’ve been able to collect the piece of his spirit back. He tried it once, an innocent brush of shoulders. It got stuck halfway, refusing to budge. Another fifteen years it was.
Kenma had graduated high school a year after the child, and now attended the same university. Though they were in different years and majors, they shared a dorm. This meant that they knew each other far more intimately than before. Kenma learned of all the child’s habits. He rather liked that the child knew the same of his habits. More often than not, he didn’t have to do any chores or cooking, well taken care of by the child.
It happened when they were drinking in their dorm one day after finals. Of course, Kenma had a far higher tolerance to alcohol than mortals, which meant the child got drunk much faster than he had, even though Kenma had more alcohol.
He was just missing the sweet taste of nectar, that he hasn’t had in centuries aside from a few drops here and there, when the child spoke up from where he lay on the carpeted ground, staring up at Kenma.
“Hey, kitten? What are you?”
Kenma’s blood went cold. He looked down at the child, meeting his hazy brown eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Like,” the child flapped a hand. “Sometimes you don’t seem human.” When Kenma didn’t answer, the child went on. “Your eyes are brown, right? But they look golden sometimes. There’s a certain…ah, depth to them. Like you can see into my soul. Especially on court, you were almost inhuman. It was kinda scary. And, um. Hm. You say weird stuff sometimes. Like when you said, ‘Humans are such dastardly creatures, they should've died with the flood.’ Things like that.”
Kenma tried to recall when he said that. It had been years ago, maybe five or so. He’s surprised that the child could remember it word for word even years later. Had he really been getting careless with his glamour? How did the child even notice?
“And,” the child continued, clumsily climbing to his feet. Kenma watched, letting him stand over him, one knee beside him, an arm resting next to his head, basically trapping him against the sofa. Brown eyes bore into him. Kenma shifted, almost uncomfortably. The other hand came up, underneath his chin, to tilt his head this way and that. “…You haven’t aged a day since the first time I saw you. Thirteen years ago.”
Thirteen? Kenma’s head spun. He couldn’t think properly, not with the way the child was looking at him so intently, not with the heat of his fingers burning into his skin. Thirteen years. The child would be eight. What happened when…?
Oh.
“So, tell me, what are you, kitten? Because you’re, at the very least, not human.”
The child seemed to be sobering up. Or maybe he wasn’t as drunk as Kenma had thought he was. Will he remember this tomorrow? For some reason, Kenma had a feeling he would. There was a sharp intensity in the child’s eyes. It was oddly reminiscent of a certain scientist that he’d met so many years ago. It was the look she’d had in her eyes right before she’d discovered polonium. Kenma had allowed her to keep her piece of his spirit up until her death.
Looking at the child now, he wondered when he’d missed all these moments. These moments of sharpness, of connection, of wisdom. And, in a moment of pure impulse, he dropped his glamour.
The child snapped his hand back, eyes widening. Kenma knew how he must’ve looked to the child now — otherworldly, eyes glowing a sharp golden, presence so much bigger than he was. Yet the child didn’t withdraw, not fully. He studied Kenma, eyes searching him. For what, Kenma couldn’t tell.
“I am a god.”
The words were breathed out into the space between them, a quiet secret. The child slowly reached out again, taking Kenma’s face in a hand. It had to burn, it had to hurt. Mortals couldn’t just touch a god like this, skin-to-skin, with no repercussions, even if Kenma was only using a mere fraction of his power. But Kuroo showed no signs of pain, at least not on his face. The subtle clenching of the hand next to Kenma’s head gave him away.
Kenma turned his face away, so the child couldn’t touch him. The child’s hand came away an angry, blistering red. He drew his glamour around himself again. Standing, he dragged the child to the kitchen, shoving his hand under running water.
Inside, his heart was pounding. The child’s reaction hadn’t told him anything. It wasn't every day you learned your best friend was a god after all. Would he scorn him? Be terrified and run and never look at him again? Spread rumours that would force Kenma to move from the familiar comfort of Tokyo to a foreign country? He didn't know which was worse.
He wasn't wholly sure what the situation was like on revealing the existence of gods to mortals either, not since the Burning. They couldn't just throw Kenma into Tartarus. For one, none of them had enough power to do so, what with their spirits all scattered throughout the world. Besides, the god of the Underworld was sealed away there. There was no knowing if he'd allow a god to be locked up in Tartarus.
“What kind of god are you?” The child asked suddenly.
Kenma paused, turning to glance at him. The child looked steadily back. There was no fear in his eyes; just curiousity shining back at him. Once more, Kenma found himself wondering how he'd miss all these little moments where the child had proven he carried Kenma's spirit in him. He looked back down, picking at his fingernails.
“The equivalent of Athena,” he said quietly after a moment.
The child seemed to consider this. “Suits you,” he said, turning off the water. “You’ve always been a lot wiser and smarter.”
“You're not scared?”
“Why would I be?”
“Because I'm–”
“If you were going to kill me, you'd have done so already. Why have you been hanging around me anyway? Don't you have better things to do?”
Kenma vaguely thought that he was probably breaking a few divine rules as he explained the whole thing to the child.
“What– So I'm like, naturally super smart?”
Kenma tried not to scoff. Based on the look the child shot him, he probably failed. “You haven’t really shown it.”
The child hummed. “Hey, it's kind of hard to believe I'm on like Einstein or Newton's level.”
“You're not,” Kenma said flatly. “They were highly intelligent individuals.”
“Ouch. Then if I'm not smart, what's with the spirit?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out.”
They fall into silence once more. Back in the living room, they resume their original positions. Kenma stared off into space, while the child lay on the floor. After a while, the child spoke again. “So like, how old are you?”
“Mentally or physically?”
“I– both?”
“Physically, I'm twenty. Mentally…I don't remember. Many eons.”
“How're you physically twenty? You look the same as you did thirteen years ago.”
“Every hundred or so years, gods go into something akin to hibernation. It resets our physical age. But we grow very fast, so I appear to be fifteen after just two years. We stop aging after a while.”
The child considered. “Can you stop calling me a child then? I'm physically older than you.”
Kenma glanced down at the child again. Softly, he said, “okay, Kuro.”
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Something changed between them.
Kuroo was somehow touchier. When he came home, he would curl up next to Kenma on the couch, and tell him all about his day. Kenma would hum occasionally, and even if he didn't look up from his game, he would listen.
There was a new tension in the air as well. Kenma wasn't the best with feelings, but he could still sense it. The way Kuroo would sometimes just look at him, the way he’d draw back, the way he always folded to Kenma's golden eyes. Kenma wasn't stupid, he knew what this was.
He just didn't know what to do about it.
Oikawa thought he was being ridiculous. Suga gave him a kind smile and told him to just bat his eyes and pull Kuroo into bed. Yahaba just shrugged and offered him luck. Kageyama did the same. Semi laughed and told Kenma to seduce him. Akaashi told him to just go for it.
Kenma still didn't know what to do.
He didn't really want to do anything, to be honest. He wasn't the kind to face his problems head on. He preferred to wait until it got to the point he could no longer ignore them, or they sorted themselves out. But it looked like Kuroo wasn't going to do anything either. He seemed to prefer to let Kenma figure it out.
It rather annoyed Kenma. He said as much one night. Kuroo looked at him in surprise. “Um,” he said eloquently.
Kenma just stared at him with his golden eyes. Kuroo averted his own gaze. “I don't know how you feel,” Kuroo muttered, setting the steaming bowl of oyakodon down in front of Kenma. “I don't want to force you into anything, kitten.”
Kenma levelled a very unimpressed look at Kuroo. “I highly doubt you could force me into anything, Kuro,” Kenma deadpanned.
Kuroo shrugged. “Technicalities. I'm not whoever's the equivalent of Zeus there.”
Kenma had to suppress a laugh at that one. Over the last few days, he'd been slowly telling Kuroo about the godly world. “That's Daichi. He's not anything like that. He loves Suga far too much.”
“Really? Then how'd all those stories come about?”
“Humans back then didn't have glasses, and mental illnesses went untreated,” Kenma said around a spoonful of rice. “And many were twisted through oral retelling.”
Kuroo considered this. “Fair enough,” he said. “Tell me more.”
Over the course of dinner, Kenma regaled Kuroo with more stories of the gods. He corrected famous tales that had been warped beyond recognition – “You didn't turn Arachne into a spider?” “No. I had better things to do. She secretly fled out of shame and people found a spider in her house, so they just assumed I did it.” – and either affirmed or got rid of any stereotypes - “Wait, so, were you born from Daichi-san’s head?” “…Yes.”.
By the end of dinner, Kuroo looked like his worldview had been turned 180 degrees, as he always did after something like this. Kenma sat on the sofa, listening to Kuroo wash the dishes. The sound of running water lulled him. When he opened his eyes again, Kuroo was standing just in front of him, just looking.
The air became charged. Kenma tilted his head, letting his eyes glow a soft, subtle golden. Waiting. Watching those brown eyes trail over him.
It never happened. Kuroo bid Kenma goodnight, reminding him to go to sleep early as well, and “just because you're a god doesn't mean you don't need sleep!” “That’s exactly what it means, Kuro.” “You may be a god, but you still have a mortal body. Go to bed, kitten.”
Kenma went to bed, feeling strangely out of sorts.
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“Hey, Kenma, do you think I’m smart?”
“…Why?”
“Uh, cuz you’re like, a living IQ measurement thing.”
“You’re not smart.”
“Wait, kitten, I’m sorry I take it back-!”
“You’re wise, Kuro. Just not in the conventional sense.”
“Mmm, thanks. Goodnight kitten.”
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Kenma hated clubs. They were loud, crowded and generally terrible. But the venue this month was at Bokuto's club, so he didn't have much of a choice. He pulled Kuroo along with him. Kuroo didn't protest.
That day, the club was even more crowded than usual, because Semi was playing. Though he was a world-famous singer, the god still stopped by Bokuto's club to play. Those nights were when the lines spilled all the way down the street, fans hoping to get a glimpse of the singer.
Kenma had told Semi it was stupid to be famous. Semi had reminded him that mortals’ memories of them were erased when the god went into hibernation, and so it was fine. He could become famous as many times as he wanted.
“Why are we at The White Owl?” Kuroo asked, looking down the long, long line. They couldn't even see the bar from where they stood. “Isn't this one of the hottest spots in the country?”
Kenma continued walking, fingers tapping away on his screen, easily clearing level after level. He didn't answer Kuroo. Kuroo didn't ask again either, following Kenma down the line.
It was a while before they finally reached the entrance. The bouncers, two intimidating giants, took one look at Kenma, and allowed the two of them in, glaring at the crowd to silence any protesters.
“Okaaaay,” Kuroo said slowly. Inside, the bass thundered underneath their feet. Strobe lights spilled in every direction, cutting through the darkness of the club. Kuroo shifted closer to Kenma, letting Kenma press against him, hiding away from the crowd.
They broke past the dancing bodies to the level above the club, an area only accessible by certain types. It was just as noisy and crowded as below, the dance floor filled with people. Or, well, not people. Kenma tightened his grip on Kuroo's jacket. A sweet gesture if one knew nothing, but it was more for Kuroo's protection than anything else.
Already, the creatures they passed were eyeing Kuroo, some out of curiousity, some out of interest, some out of hunger. A lamia licked her lips, flashing her fangs. A harpy hissed as they passed. A naiad giggled, winking at Kuroo. He shifted even closer to Kenma, warily taking in all these creatures, mouth open.
Kenma shot golden-eyed glares at the creatures. Instantly, they backed off, turning their gazes away. The crowd parted for them, whispers filling the room in a flurry. If there was one thing from all the myths that remained true to this day, it was that creatures loved to gossip. Now, they must be wondering, why has Athena brought along a mortal?
Once more, they climbed the stairs up two more levels. The bouncers let them pass without a word. The fourth floor were entirely private rooms. Kenma led Kuroo through the winding hallways, and finally, they stopped before a door that looked exactly like the rest.
Kenma glanced at Kuroo. He looked back. “Just stay calm,” Kenma murmured, turning his attention back to the door before them. Kuroo nodded wordlessly. He wondered if he should've given Kuroo more warnings beforehand.
The door opened. Noise spilled from the open doorway instantly. Kenma closed his eyes, bracing himself for the headache that was bound to hit him sooner or later. Distantly, he wished he had more of his spirit, so he could just teleport himself away from this hell.
He opened his eyes again, stepping through the doorway with a sigh.
As expected, the room was chaotic. Sitting around the round table, the different gods and creatures were chatting, some louder than others (read: Atsumu and Oikawa). Kenma didn’t look at them, shuffling along, dragging Kuroo behind him, to sit down at their designated seats. They ended up between Oikawa and Suga, respectively.
Suga turned his attention to Kenma. “Kenma! It's been a while,” Suga smiled, gentle as ever. “Who’s the mortal?” That drew the whole table's attention.
“Kuroo,” Kenma muttered, eyes pinned on the table. “He’s a holder.”
Suga's gaze drifted to Kuroo, scrutinising. Kenma recognised the look – calm on the outside, but a subtle tinge of danger. The rest subjected him to the same thing. There was only one other mortal, a green-haired, freckled mortal sitting next to Tsukishima, who gave Kuroo a look of pity.
“It’s nice to meet you all,” Kuroo said. It sounded casual, but Kenma sensed the hint of uncertainty beneath his words.
After a moment, they went back to their own conversations. Oikawa and Bokuto stole Kuroo's attention, drawing him into a loud conversation. Kenma withdrew back into himself, content to be silent.
By the time the food was served, Kuroo was laughing loudly with Bokuto and Daichi, fitting in to their dynamic easily. But an arm remained on the back of Kenma's chair, a silent, comforting presence.
The talk was all the same. Kenma sipped on his drink idly. Kuroo talked as he removed bits and pieces from Kenma’s plates, all foods he disliked, replacing them with the ones he liked. It was an action so casual, it drew murmurs that Kenma pretended not to hear.
Kenma withheld a groan when people started moving around. They would bump into his chair, talk loudly right behind him, and were general annoyances. Kenma leaned forward, curling into himself.
Even as Oikawa and Suga vacated their seats, Kuroo stayed right next to him, making conversation, this time with Tsukishima and Kageyama. It was common knowledge that the two gods hated each other. It was a wonder how Kuroo was able to carry a conversation with the two stoic gods and easily mediate it whenever an argument was about to start. Kenma almost felt jealous.
Usually, at events like these, people knew not to talk to him.
It appeared someone missed the memo. Kenma startled when something bright orange suddenly popped up in his field of vision. It was a boy. He looked like the bright, excitable and overwhelmingly positive kind — the kind Kenma avoided like the plague. They drained too much of his energy,
The boy had a soft glow around, reminding Kenma of sunlight. He wasn’t a mortal, Kenma could tell that much. It still didn’t explain why he was there.
“Hi! I’m Hinata Shoyo!” He said, as cheerfully as Kenma had expected.
Kenma winced as the rays around him intensified with his smile. “…Kozume Kenma,’ he offered reluctantly when the nymph didn’t move, waiting expectantly.
Hinata brightened at the admission of his name. Kenma raised a hand to cover his eyes. “Oh, sorry! They’re kind of hard to control. I’m still working on it! Bakayama says I can’t do it, but I’ll prove him wrong!”
Baka…Kageyama? Kenma had noticed that the two were sitting together at the start, making Hinata Kageyama’s guest. Yet they seemed to be at odds with each other with all the bickering they did. It could rival the twin fox spirits’, Sakusa’s guests.
“Good luck,” Kenma said neutrally. He pushed his food around his plate.
Hinata didn’t leave. He continued chattering on instead. Kenma answered whenever a question was posed. For some reason, he felt obliged to answer the Heliade. There was something about him that made Kenma not want to upset him.
As Kenma glanced at Hinata, the nymph’s glow had lowered enough for Kenma to see a different sort of glow emitting from him. It was one he was familiar with — the glow of a holder.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. He hadn’t expected that. It was rare for mythical creatures to pick up their spirits as it took a longer time to assimilate into their magical bodies. This piece was considerably big, though it was nowhere near Kuroo’s.
Kenma subtly shifted his knee, so it just brushed against the other’s. The nymph didn’t notice, energetically recounting some tale involving him and Bokuto. From there, he started drawing out the piece.
He felt his godly energy increasing with each second. It took a while to fully draw out the piece. All the while, the sun nymph remained oblivious to it. Kenma did a quick check: his progress was now at sixty percent.
He wondered how much his progress would increase when he absorbed Kuroo’s piece.
Kageyama came then, dragging a kicking Hinata away, their voices raised. Kenma turned to Kuroo. “Kuro, I want to go home.”
Instantly, Kuroo turned away from his conversation with Daichi. The boldness of that sort of surprised Kenma, even with how used to it he was. Then again, it was his fault for interrupting in the first place.
“Of course. Let’s go,” Kuroo agreed readily. Kenma stuck close to him as he said his goodbyes around the room, so at ease he made Oikawa and Ushijima seem like old friends. The speed at which everyone had warmed up to him was astounding. He’d thought it would take longer.
As he watched Kuroo clap Iwaizumi on his back, Kenma wondered if this was simply his sociability or if it was because he didn’t recognise the sheer danger of some of these creatures. Maybe a bit of both.
Oh well. It’d be amusing to tell him later.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Kuroo was twenty-seven now. He'd graduated university and went on to join the Japanese Volleyball Association as a bright-eyed newbie. His love for volleyball really showed no bounds, Kenma mused.
With each year that passed, Kuroo got to know the other gods; Kenma's begrudging family. He got along very well with Bokuto, both of them matching each other's energy to a concerning degree. With Daichi and Iwaizumi, he was lively, bringing humour into their conversations.
He needled and teased Oikawa, making Suga, Yahaba and Semi laugh so hard they almost cried. Miraculously, he even fit in with Sakusa and Ushijima, easily chatting about niche topics like the pollination of a beetroot, throwing in a few too many farming puns.
He pulled Kageyama into long conversations about volleyball, which had Kageyama talking more than any of them had seen. He bounced off Tendou well, matching his weird humour.
Most of all, he'd taken a shine to Tsukishima and treated him like a little chick, even though Tsukishima was years older than him. They'd all witnessed Tsukishima's walls slowly, very slowly, come down around him, showing his care in his own strange way.
With each year that passed, the age where Kenma could collect his piece of spirit drew nearer.
He had to collect it, he didn't have a choice. It was far too big of a piece to let go. And when Kuroo eventually died, the piece would either split up and imbue itself into thousands of different people, or go to somebody else that Kenma would have to spend another century searching for.
(Kuroo wouldn't die, not so soon, right?)
Besides, he found that he liked seeing that glow around Kuroo, indicating that he was a holder. He had the option of waiting until right before Kuroo's death to collect the piece, of course. But he was already overly attached to the mortal. Spending more years with him would only strengthen that.
If it could be strengthened, that is. Never had he felt so much emotion for a being.
Oikawa had joked that maybe Yahaba had shot Kenma with one of his arrows. It certainly felt like it, except what he was feeling was very much real and not induced.
“Kitten, what are you thinking so hard about?”
Kenma glanced up from where he'd been absently staring at the ‘Game Over’ screen on his computer. Kuroo placed a bowl of cut up apples on his table, a little toothpick sticking out of one.
“Nothing,” he said, instead of the words that threatened to crawl up his throat and spill out of his mouth.
“I keep telling you, you should go pro, or maybe even stream,” Kuroo said. He’d been going on about that for a while.
Kenma huffed. “No. I don't need the money or the attention.” As a god, he'd accumulated more than enough money to live lavishly several lifetimes over. It was just that Kuroo insisted on living comfortably and contributing to their funds.
“Fine. Hey, the other day I came across this post about Achilles and Patrocules. Were they really fucking?”
“Obviously,” Kenma was grateful for the topic change. “Anyone with eyes could tell.”
“So, who was the top and bottom?”
“That…I don't know. Ask Oikawa.”
“Oh come on, that's like, the biggest debate in Greek mythology ever.”
“I'm not interested in things like that.”
Kenma listened to Kuroo's dramatic whines. There'll come a day when he will never hear them again. Such was the fate of an immortal.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Kenma ran his hands over a calico cat, who meowed in contentment. Opposite him, Yaku was talking to a gray cat. The small man was one of Kenma's symbols personified: a cat. It'd been a while since he last heard from him.
While Kenma was looking for the pieces of his spirit, it was Yaku's job to take on the remaining tasks. Kenma hated people, so more often than not the task of sharing wisdom with mortals fell to him.
Though on the rare occasion Kenma talked to mortals, he wondered if it was really working.
“A hell…hound?” Kenma said, blinking owlishly.
“Yeah. Just came and ruined everything I did. That bastard, I swear, when I get my hands on his freakishly tall–”
Hellhounds. Kenma hadn't heard about them in a while. As their name suggested, they came from the Underworld. They never came up to the mortal world. If they were, that meant the God of the Underworld was gaining power again.
It wasn't exactly threatening per se, but the God was one of the most powerful among them, rivalled only by Daichi and Bokuto. It would be dangerous if the power was imbalanced.
“Is there only one of them?” Kenma interrupted Yaku to ask.
Yaku frowned. “I don't think so. He mentioned another hellhound.”
So two hellhounds were in the mortal world. One was already enough of a threat, but two? Something was going on.
He had an inkling of what it was.
“Yaku, I want you to keep an eye on that hellhound. And try to find the other,” Kenma said slowly.
“You want me to do what? No way. That bastard wouldn't stop pointing out how short I am. I'm not making nice with him.”
“You don't have to be best friends with him. Just try to see what his intentions are.”
“Fine, I'll do it. What's your theory?” Yaku scratched a gray cat behind its ear.
Kenma ripped open another cat treat. The cats around them sat up as the scent hit them, crowding around him. “He's probably after Kita. I think.”
“That makes sense,” Yaku tilted his head. “It was a huge mess when the kidnapping and everything happened. Aran-san hasn’t seen Kita-san in centuries. Anyway, have you found any holders yet?”
Kenma's mind flashed to Kuroo. At thirty-two, he was quickly climbing the ladder of the JVA. “Yeah,” Kenma answered. A black cat curled up in his lap. “He has a very big piece.”
“That's good. Who are they? A scientist? Or a philosopher?”
“Neither. He's in the Sports Promotion Division of the Japanese Volleyball Association.”
“What? Why?”
“He wanted it.”
“You know, you're talking like you have a close relationship with him,” Yaku paused. “Do you?”
Having been found out so quickly, Kenma scrambled for words for a moment. It's not like he could lie to Yaku, the cat would know instantly. “Yes,” he admitted.
“Really? I thought they were just rumours,” Yaku said. “What's he like?”
“He's…” Kenma trailed off. A calico nuzzled into his hand, purring softly. “The best person I know.”
There's a moment of silence. Kenma jolted, jerking his head up. He hadn't meant to let that slip.
“I meant like in the smart way, but sure,” Yaku said, shaking his head. “This is new.”
Kenma shrugged. He watched the calico cat slowly climb into his lap, next to the black cat, settling down around it. “I don't want him to die,” he said softly.
It was quiet as Yaku let Kenma have that moment. “It's inevitable,” the cat finally said, gently, as if Kenma would break the second he heard those words.
In a way, he felt like he would.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Kuroo was thirty-five when it happened.
Kenma had been holed up in his gaming room, hunched over his keyboard. His fingers flew across the keys, clearing puzzle after puzzle. The Nekoma jacket he wore, a few sizes too large for him, swallowed up his frame.
His phone rang, breaking Kenma's concentration. That's odd. He always turned on the Do Not Disturb on his phone. Only a few people could pass through it: Kuroo, Daichi and emergency calls.
He paused the game. Picking up his phone, it was an unknown number. A deep feeling of dread wedged itself in his gut.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Kozume Kenma-san?”
“Yes.”
“We're calling from xxx Hospital. Kuroo Tetsuro-san was involved in a car crash–”
Everything faded away. His blood rushed to his ears. His heart stilled to a stop.
Car crash. The words repeated themselves in his mind. Kuro. Car crash. Hospital.
Kenma's body was moving before he'd registered it. Shoes, key, phone. He tumbled out of the house. Where was the hospital? He vaguely remembered one three blocks away.
He was running. His chest heaved. Breathing was hard. Everything around him was a blur. His emotions were in a frenzy. They clawed at his throat, squeezed his lungs, burned a hole in his stomach.
Dimly, he noted that the emotions were stronger than he usually felt them.
He didn't know how long it took to get to the hospital, only that it was far too long. He must've looked crazy. He didn't care as he headed straight to the counter.
The receptionist looked up. If she thought he was insane, she didn't show it. “You are?”
“I'm– Kozume Kenma. I'm here for. To see–” Kenma's tongue refused to cooperate, seized with panic. “Kuro. Kuroo Tetsuro.”
She nodded, the picture of calm next to Kenma. He gripped the counter harder. The marble threatened to splinter into pieces, his godly energy leaking out of him. He didn’t have the mind to suppress it.
“He's currently in operating theatre three. You're welcome to wait in the waiting room,” the receptionist said.
Kenma was off the moment she finished. He followed the signs in the hospital, ending up in front of a set of doors. The sign above was lit up, indicating that there was surgery going on.
He slumped into one of the chairs outside. He hugged his knees to his chest. His heart hasn't stopped pounding. It was so loud it was the only thing he could hear.
From the corner of his eye, he could see waves of godly energy spilling from him, a soft golden, his control over it lax in his panic.
He took in a sharp breath, reminding himself to breathe in this mortal body. He didn't know how long passed as he sat curled up like that.
In the best case, Kuroo would only have some injuries, like a few broken bones. They'd be an inconvenience, nothing more. In the worst case, he'd be close to death, slowly dying of internal bleeding or something equally worse.
Kenma choked, burying deeper into his knees. He couldn't think, couldn't try to calm himself down by thinking logically. His emotions strangled him, their thorns poking him full of holes. His heart bled out onto the floor beneath him.
Arms were enveloping him. Kenma forced himself to look up even though his body revolted at the very action. He took in Yaku's familiar scent, and let himself break down.
He'd never cried like this before – all-consuming, his world narrowed down to his cries. His lungs threatened to cave in under the pressure of it. Breath was hard to draw; it was expelled as soon as it was drawn. The sensation of hot tears spilling down his cheeks was wildly unfamiliar.
He'd always been sort of detached from his mortal body. After all, all that mattered was his mind. Yet as he shook in Yaku's arms, he could feel the other's warmth seeping into him. It only made him cry harder, emotions hitting him in roaring waves.
Kenma cast tired looks around the area. Kuroo's parents were here, clutching each other worriedly. He'd met them a few times, and they always received him enthusiastically. The picture they painted now was a sharp contrast to the smiling faces he was used to.
Akaashi and Oikawa were also here, hovering nearby, looking worriedly at Kenma. “Ken-chan, your energy,” Oikawa said hesitantly. He raised a hand, gently suppressing Kenma's energy with his own.
His energy was pushed back into him, but Kenma didn't feel it. He curled back into himself.
“You're okay,” Akaashi murmured, taking the seat next to him.
Kenma wished he could believe that.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The room was quiet. The sounds of machines beeping in random staccato was the only source of noise.
It was dark. The windows were open, letting in a soft breeze. It blew the curtains into the air, creating some sort of aesthetic atmosphere. The moonbeams lit the room up in its soft glow. Tsukishima was probably hard at work.
Kenma didn't notice any of these. He stared at the monitor, watching the line of Kuroo's heart rate rise and fall in an even pattern. The number next to it blinked as it flipped between numbers: 70, 72, 71, 74, 71.
The surgery was a success. He will be fine.
The doctor's words replayed in his head. They'd said other things as well, but Kenma had been too caught up in the sheer intensity of relief that had hit him to listen.
He chewed on his fingernails. It was a bad habit of his that he could never quite fall out of, no matter how many lifetimes he'd lived through. Kuroo had certainly tried.
It had been a week, and Kuroo was still not waking up. Legally speaking, there was nothing Kenma could do. Illegally, however. While he may not be the best in healing - that fell to Semi - he still had a vast extent of experience and knowledge in healthcare. He’d spent a few lifetimes in the healthcare field, collecting pieces of his spirit.
But there was nothing Kenma could do. His godly energy was too weak to properly aid in any fields unrelated to his own and he was completely unwilling to take that risk. There weren't any machines or tools he could use. Unless he stole them, but that was more trouble than it was worth. All he could do was trust in the doctors’ capabilities.
The helplessness of it all left him strangled.
“Mmm…Ken…ma…?”
Kenma jerked. He nearly fell out of his chair, catching himself just in time. He whipped his head around, cat eyes widening at the sight of Kuroo sleepily blinking his eyes open.
“Kuro,” he breathed out. Then he was on the other man, careful not to hit any tubes. He buried his face into Kuroo’s neck. He didn’t think his heart could take it anymore — the constant fluctuations between mind-numbing shock, anxiety and worry that ate away at his very being, and crushing relief.
He felt a trembling hand come up to pat his head. “Sorry kitten,” Kuroo rasped. “I gave you quite the scare.”
“Shut up,” Kenma whispered back, unusually fierce.
Dead. Kuroo could’ve crossed the River Styx and into the Underworld. Never to come back out.
He could’ve left Kenma.
The realisation sunk itself into his very bones. Kenma made little choking noises. He didn’t have any more tears left to cry, so all he could do was whimper and sob.
He removed himself when a nurse came rushing in, but he stayed next to Kuroo. Their fingers remained intertwined.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
“You look very cute trying to cook, doll, but we both know you can’t cook to save your life.”
Kenma rolled his eyes at those words. The nicknames hardly fazed him anymore; as annoying as they were, he kind of liked them. “You’re still recovering,” Kenma snapped, scraping even harder.
The eggs remained stubbornly stuck to the pan. Kuroo shuffled closer, his crutches hitting the floor rhythmically. Kenma turned to snap at him again, but then Kuroo rested his chin on top of Kenma’s head. “I’m not disabled, ya know. It’s just a few fractured bones. Did you even use oil?”
Kenma, about to retort that no, it was not just a few ‘fractured bones’, paused, turning to stare down at the pan. He turned off the heat with a huff. Cooking was one of the few things he could never quite pick up, which annoyed him to no end. Kenma shifted slightly, throwing the pan into the sink.
It made Kuroo burst into laughter. “Come on, kitten, we can do it together,” he coaxed.
Which was how Kenma found himself chopping up garlic and other vegetables as Kuroo cooked them all expertly, balancing gingerly on one leg. He appeared to be making curry rice. It smelled delicious already.
The meal was taken with the usual quiet chatter. Kuroo went on about some new show he’d discovered as Kenma listened. He liked moments like these; cozy and quiet, filled with the warmth of good food and loved ones.
It was inevitable that it would be gone one day.
Kenma couldn’t picture sharing the same bond he did with Kuro with someone else. It was out of the realm of possibility, because emotions were fickle like that. They never bent to logic’s rules.
“Kuro.”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t die early.”
Kuroo choked on his rice, coughing. Kenma waited. He recovered, gulping down some water. “Is that what you were thinking about?” He asked. “I won’t die before my time comes.” He laughed, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Promise me, Kuroo.”
“Alright, fine. I promise. You won't get rid of me that easily.”
“I don’t want to,” Kenma said.
There’s another round of choking and drinking water. Kuroo placed the empty glass down. “Give me some warning before you say things like that, kitten,” he said. He paused for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “That’s good. I don’t plan on leaving you anytime soon. Don’t get sick of me.”
I would never threatened to trip and spill from Kenma’s lips, but he bit down on the words. He nodded instead, the simple action saying the thousand words he couldn't.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
“Happy forty-sixth birthday, Kuro,” Kenma murmured into the stillness of the night.
Kuroo smiled, flipping the screen of his phone over to show the time. 00:00. Right then, messages began popping up on his lockscreen.
Oikawa:
happy birthday tetsu-chan!!!
you're one year older now ( •͈૦•͈ )
may you get drunk and party till the end of time
(ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-
im earlier than ken-chan aren't i??
Yaku:
Happy birthday
Daichi:
Happy birthday Kuroo!
Tsukishima:
Happy birthday
Kenma read the messages as they popped up. “I said it first,” he pointed out.
Kuroo chuckled, dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Yes you did, princess.”
The kiss startled Kenma. For all that they acted like a couple, they haven't actually kissed yet, even though it was constantly simmering in the back of his mind.
The air tensed. Kenma glanced up at Kuroo, finding the man glancing down at him. The other had aged well. He barely looked thirty. People had begun to mistake Kenma as Kuroo's son, since the god had stopped aging long ago.
Kuroo broke eye contact.
Irritation flared in Kenma's chest. It's been thirty years, which should've been nothing to a god like him. Time was nothing to them. But he was running out of patience. He was well-aware that Kuroo liked, maybe even loved him. He knew Kuroo knew he did too. Just how long was he planning to run away?
When he'd already almost lost him once?
Kenma tossed his controller aside to climb into Kuroo's lap. It wasn't the first time he'd done so. Kuroo automatically wrapped arms around his waist, securing him.
They stared at each other. Kenma looked at his reflection swirling in those dark eyes. Then he leaned in.
There weren't fireworks exploding in the background, or horns playing triumphantly. It felt more like he was coming home after being away for a long, long time. Like he was properly tasting the sweet, sweet taste of nectar and ambrosia again. Like he was finally reaching the happy ending in a book after the character's hardships.
They separated. Kuroo turned his attention to Kenma's neck. The god sighed, tilting his head back. The moon framed him, making him glow.
In the afterglow, Kuroo whispered, “I love you.”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The first time they had someone approach them, asking about their relationship, Kuroo had almost died laughing.
It had been a normal grocery trip. Kuroo had pressed a kiss to Kenma's lips to satiate the god after an argument about what snacks to get.
The lady had come up to them, tapping Kenma on the shoulder when Kuroo was distracted. She looked scared, but was putting on a brave face. Concern bled into her tone as she quietly asked Kenma, “are you okay? If you need help, tap your foot twice.”
Kenma stared blankly at the lady. “I don't need help,” he said after a moment.
“Are you sure? If that man is grooming or abusing you–”
“Kenma?” Kuroo cut in. The woman jumped, giving Kuroo a nervous smile.
Kenma ignored his lover. “I'm fine,” he repeated. “Thank you for your concern.”
He watched the woman hesitate, clearly trying to figure out if Kenma was really okay or if he was just brainwashed into thinking this was the norm.
Finally, she gave a decisive nod and walked away, heels clacking on the floor. Kenma watched her go. At least she'd had the courage to check on him, even if she'd been wrong about the situation.
“Princess, what happened? What did that lady want?” Kuroo asked curiously, coming up next to him.
Kenma turned to look at him. At fifty, he only looked forty. Oikawa was really pulling through with him.
He explained the situation. Kuroo burst into laughter, which went on for three minutes straight.
“Stop that. You're making a scene,” Kenma said.
Kuroo wheezed. “Sorry, kitten,” he regained his composure. “Do I look that old? Wait, it's not me, it's you. You look…eighteen.”
Kenma shrugged. He didn't care how old he looked. After all, mentally, he was centuries older than Kuroo. “It's not my fault. I can't control that.”
“Yeah, well,” Kuroo grinned. “I guess this is going to be a problem in public. We should tone it down.”
“If you can even keep your hands to yourself."
“Hey–!”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Kuroo was only sixty-eight when he broke his promise to Kenma.
He'd been off for weeks before then. Sudden confusion, terrible headaches, flashes in the periphery of his eyes. Kenma had been, rightfully, concerned. Kuroo had brushed off all his attempts to seek medical care, chalking it up to age or feeling tired.
Then he collapsed in the middle of the kitchen while cooking.
Kenma barely remembered what happened after, but he found himself in the waiting room of the hospital once more. He curled up on the chair, staring distantly at a spot on the ground.
A stroke, the doctors had said. His brain was swelling, pressure increasing. With finality, the doctor said, it is best to say your farewells now.
What did he even have to say? What could he say? He knew it was inevitable that Kuroo would die. The reality that it was actually going to happen still wasn’t any easier to accept. He didn't want to say goodbye. He didn't want to absorb his spirit piece back.
Tears blurred Kenma's vision.
He hardly noticed who came and who went. Soft pats on his shoulder. Murmurs. Quiet sighs.
They'd let him in after a day. Kenma sat next to Kuroo, just staring at the unconscious man lying on the hospital bed. He looked so pale.
A trembling hand reached out to grab the other's. It felt frail and wrinkled in his grasp. If he squeezed any harder, he might crush the bones beneath his fingers.
The spirit piece glowed brightly. It called for Kenma to absorb it back. The half-spirit within him rattled against his cage. Sparks burst from his fingertips. He couldn't do it.
Then the hand squeezed back. Kenma's head shot up. Kuroo watched him, dark eyes barely open. But Kenma could see the sheer love in them.
He closed his eyes. Kuroo squeezed his hand again, albeit lightly. With a shuddering breath, Kenma began the process of absorption.
It hurt like nothing had before. Not because the process hurt. It tore Kenma apart to watch the glow around Kuroo dim, eventually fading to nothing.
Kuroo died the day after. His heart rate flatlined, never to beat again.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
For the next five months, it was as if the goddess of wisdom had died with his lover.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Spirit progress: 88%
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
“You're going to what? Kenma, you spent thousands of years collecting your spirit back! You'd have to do it all over again!”
“Think wisely, Kenma. You'd be sacrificing all the time and energy you’d invested thus far if you did this.”
“I don't care.”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Spirit progress: 1%
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The gods didn't die. They'd always been around, blending into human society. Hera healed the hearts of the divorced and heralded happy marriages. Apollo sang for millions, spreading the joy of music.
If one took a telescope to the clear night skies between February to September, they would glimpse a nebula. Blue, red and green rings encircled a white dot. With a faint white light enclosing it, many remarked that it looked like a cat's eye.
Look around the hills or observatories in Tokyo late at night during those months. Perhaps you would be able to see Athena, looking through a telescope, fondly gazing at the Cat's Eye Nebula.