Work Text:
Kenma is about as unremarkable as they come, if you were to ask him. He plays volleyball but he can never put himself totally into it; he goes to school, but it’s only ever going through the motions. He doesn’t have many outstanding qualities, and before he met Tetsurou, he really had nothing. He doesn’t have much even now, but he has Tetsurou, and often time that’s all that matters.
Being with Tetsurou is easy to Kenma, like second nature. Being with Tetsurou is like the way his thumbs glide over his PSP, guiding him through whatever he happens to be playing. It’s like setting up for a particularly good play. It’s like breathing; he doesn’t think about loving Kuroo, he just does.
He knows Tetsu so well, though, that he can tell exactly when something is off with his boyfriend, and as they’re sat on the train he can tell that the overall calm aura Tetsurou usually has around him isn’t quite there. He doesn’t seem upset, really, but maybe slightly on edge (the way he does before a particularly big game, or towards the end of a tense match).
He sighs, letting his attention turn back to the video game in his hands. Tetsurou doesn’t want to talk about it and Kenma isn’t about to pull it out of him. Focusing only on the screen of his PSP, he lets his fingers guide him through the game, dodging and attacking wherever necessary. He keeps it up past the next stop, but just as they’re pulling away from the station, he lurches forward, causing the device to fall to the ground.
By the time he’s picked it up, his character has long since died, and rather than starting over he stuffs the system into his bag, mostly unbothered.
Kuroo gives another sigh, looks up almost longingly out the window of the train. He’s hardly spoken a word the entirety of their trip, and without the distraction of his games, Kenma’s starting to wonder what’s on his mind.
“What’s gotten into you, Kuro?” he finally deadpans, gaze shifting over to his boyfriend.
Tetsu shrugs; he bothers with his carefully constructed facade for a few seconds longer before he decides it isn’t worth it. Hes going to have to tell soon anyway, so it might as well be here on the train. He doesn’t meet Kenma’s golden eyes, just says: “I’m going to Sendai.”
Kenma doesn’t quite understand; Sendai is far, nearly 400 kilometers away, but it’s not the end of the world. He’s taken trips; they’ve even gone for volleyball. He’ll miss Kuroo while he’s gone, but it’s not like it’ll be for long.
“That’s all?”
“University,” Tetsurou elaborates.
“Oh,” and then “ oh, ” as Kenma realizes just what Kuroo was trying to say.
He doesn’t say much else but pulls the PSP back out of his bag and lets his hair fall in front of his eyes. He doesn’t play well -- better than most people but not nearly as good as he normally would. He just chalks that up to the exhaustion of the school day, ignoring any and all other causes.
It’s not tense; that isn’t quite the right way to describe things, but neither of them are exactly calm as they step out of the train station. They’ll go to Kuroo’s - his parents work late into the night and the two of them prefer the quiet anyway.
Kenma almost says something as they step into the house, but quickly decides against it; he discards his shoes and backpack, waiting by for Tetsu to do the same. He’s had the 15 minute walk to process that Kuroo is going to Sendai in a matter of months, but it’s not enough -- he fears it might never be enough.
“Kenma,” the third-year tries as they stand in the kitchen.
Kenma’s quiet by nature, but this is beyond his normal demeanor. He swallows what feels like a sizeable lump in his throat, letting his eyes flick up to meet Tetsurou’s.
“Sendai’s okay,” he says half bitterly. It felt far when he went for a day trip but it feels far now that it’s Kuroo they’re talking about.
They both know it’s not okay, really, but that doesn’t need to be said. It’s been in the back of their mind (Kenma’s especially, naggingly so), that Kuroo is a third-year and that, as much as it hurts, Kenma is going to have to be left behind when he goes off to University.
“It could be worse,” Tetsu offers, unmoving, “Morisuke is going to Nemuro.”
Kenma doesn’t care about Morisuke going to Nemuro, even if it’s several hundred kilometers north of Sendai. Kuroo’s going to Sendai and Kenma, he’s going to stay exactly where he is. They’ll talk, of course, and Kuroo will come home every so often, but they’ll lose the ease they have, he thinks.
He won’t be able to simply walk down to Kuroo’s when he’s missing him, won’t see him in practice -- maybe he won’t even go to practice. He can’t help entertaining that thought.
He feels slightly like he’s crumbling in on himself, like his bones are turning to dust and like if he doesn’t lean or sit or something, he’s not going to stand much longer. It’s not true, of course, but it feels real to him.
Maybe it’s a good thing (it isn’t, but it helps to tell himself that). Maybe he’s too attached to Kuroo anyway; maybe this is all for the best. Maybe he’ll look back in a few years when he’s off to University and be glad Kuroo went to Sendai after all.
He pulls his - no, Kuroo’s - jacket tight around his waist and says: “At least Morisuke doesn’t have a boyfriend to leave here.”
It’s not fair for him to do this, and that’s likely about how far he’s willing to take things, but he’s shell shocked and he doesn’t know how to treat the situation.
Tetsurou tries to say something heartfelt but doesn’t; he can’t force it, even if he wanted to.
“You can visit me,” he offers, turning from where he stands at the fridge.
Kenma breathes in sharp at that, finally sparing Kuroo a glance upwards. He’ll visit, granted he has the time, but it’s never going to be like having Kuroo down the street.
“Kuro,” he laments, shaking his head. He doesn’t take the thought any further; maybe when they’re in Tetsu’s room he’ll give him something more, but he doesn’t have it in him. Kuroo is a light. Kuroo is his other half; Kuroo is the one who convinced him to play volleyball in the first place; Kuroo is Kuroo, and Kenma won’t be able to replace that.
He doesn’t even have many other friends, really -- he knows Hinata, Karasuno’s number ten, but that’s about all he’s got. That’s nowhere near Kuroo’s level though: Hinata’s at a different school, and he’ll never be to Kenma what Kuroo is. Nobody will.
“How long?” Kenma asks coolly, no emotion behind his words. He supposes he knows, but it’s good to know exactly how much time they have.
Tetsu confirms Kenma’s thoughts: he moves in April, giving them slightly under four months to prepare. It won’t be enough time, but Kenma thinks he could have years of advance notice and still need more.
He doesn’t ask for any food, even with Kuroo telling him that they have apple pie in the fridge; his bento was left untouched but if he dares to eat he’s sure he’ll be sick. Instead, they go down the hall into Kuroo’s room, bed left unmade and inviting.
It’s Tetsurou, through and through -- little traces of him are left throughout.the room: shoes, beyond the ones he wore for that day’s practice, are set by the door, a calendar hangs, marked up with practices and matches. It smells of Kuroo, even, though Kenma can’t pinpoint what that scent is. It’s just Kuroo, his Kuroo.
His Kuroo sits up in bed, looking up invitingly at Kenma. And, for as much as Kenma’s feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground, he takes a few tentative steps forward toward the bed, sinking into the comfortable embrace of his boyfriend.
He’s overwhelmed, suddenly. Nothing happened, nothing changed since they came into the room, but Kenma doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know how to process what’s going through his head. He doesn’t even think he could form a coherent sentence, but he’s not convinced Tetsu could, either.
“Sendai will be okay,” he says decisively, even though that’s not inherently true; maybe if he says it enough, it will be.
“It has to be,” Kuroo agrees. After all, it’s real and there’s no avoiding that.
Kenma tries but fails to respond, and he’s not sure when the line between awake and asleep blurred, but soon the soft afternoon light has disappeared into nothing, really, and Kuroo’s still there but it’s later, has to be at least three hours later, or maybe three days. Kenma doesn’t know.
He’s sheepish, rubbing at his eyes to try and adjust as he wakes, glad that Kuroo doesn’t mind his falling asleep. He won’t sleep well later, but he doesn’t think he would have anyway, so that’s nothing but a fleeting concern.
Tetsurou sighs tentatively, letting Kenma know that his parents have both returned from work. “I’m going to town tomorrow,” he says. He tells Kenma his mom has promised to take him to shop for everything he’s going to need for school. “Time is going to pass like nothing.”
Kenma’s jaw tightens slightly. He shakes his hair out of his eyes, just says: “I know.” Four months isn’t long at all, and before he knows it, Kuroo’s going to be gone.
“I’ll be gone before anyone knows it, won’t I?”
“I know, Kuro,” Kenma repeats, this time slightly quieter. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Kuroo’s insistent, though. He continues on, talking about his schedule and his living situation, wondering aloud what everything is going to be like. As deeply as Kenma cares for him, he can’t listen to it anymore.
“Kuro,” he says flatly, turning to face the third-year. “Please, just stop talking about this.”
“Kenma-”
“Kuro-”
“I don’t mean to upset you,” Tetsu says, resting his head against the wall.
“You’re not upsetting me,” sighs Kenma. “I’m tired of hearing about Sendai.”
Tetsu doesn’t seem satisfied with this, as Kenma suspected. “Kenma, I can’t make it better if you won’t admit you’re upset,” he says quietly.
He’s met with silence on Kenma’s part; he doesn’t know how many times he has to tell Kuroo he isn’t upset before he believes it.
“Kenma.”
“Just stop.”
Kuroo shakes his head -- there isn’t much he can do at this point. Kenma won’t give any, he probably just needs time to process, but he’s not in a talking mood. Of course, Kuroo is smart, and even if he wasn’t quite so, he’d be able to tell quite easily that Kenma was upset. At the very least, he wasn’t thrilled. That was plain to see.
Tetsurou sighs, deciding he’ll just drop the subject for the time being. It isn’t any good to bring it up and nothing is going to come from it; when Kenma wants to talk, he’s allowed, but that’s nowhere near his comfort zone at the moment. Tetsu understands, honestly -- he knows Kenma so well at this point, knows that eventually he’ll come around, but that he just needs time.
It doesn’t happen that day, nor the next. They maintain normal; Kenma’s quiet but loving towards Kuroo, who tries his best to make his most of the time they’ve got. Neither of them are particularly emotional, but Tetsu is slightly more so, which is to be expected. Their teammates notice, but give them the courtesy of ignoring it.
There are whispers behind volleyball carts, sympathetic sideways glances in their (but mostly Kenma’s) direction, but no direct comments. After an unusually exhausting practice, Kenma stalks off to the locker room, worn down and completely desolate. Kuroo is thriving, it seems -- he’s had a successful practice for the most part, a stark contrast to Kenma.
He’s the last in the locker room besides Tetsurou, sat on the bench with his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s dressed, ready to head home, but he can’t will himself to get up; there’s no point, really.
Tetsu zips up his jacket, approaching the bench. He towers over Kenma even when they’re standing, but with his sitting position, he’s left feeling entirely small and vulnerable.
“Kuro,” he sighs, just feeling something inside him give. He can’t put a finger on what it is, can’t even begin to identify what it might be, but there’s something there.
Kuroo looks up almost instantly, cocking his head to the side, as if waiting for Kenma to elaborate.
Kenma moves away slightly, though now that he’s addressed the third-year, it’s a bit late to take it back. He says: “I’m sorry.” For what, he doesn’t know, but he is. He stops thinking about it and lets his mind take over the talking.
“It’s not your fault-” Kuroo tries.
Kenma shakes his head, almost insistently. “Sendai will be good for you, Kuro,” he says. He swears he feels his heart shatter in a million different pieces. “You’ll do well.” He’s absolutely not pleased to be seeing his boyfriend off to University, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.
Tetsurou doesn’t seem to buy it, but he spares it for a moment as Kenma continues, his voice hardly loud enough for the captain to hear.
“It’ll be hard,” he says, voice involuntarily breaking, “but we’ll be okay.” The unspoken “ we have to be ,” hangs understood in the air.
Tetsu shifts his weight onto his other foot, wrapping his arms around Kenma and catching him by surprise; he’s pulled to a stand, head against Tetsurou’s chest.
“I’m not letting anything come between us, Kenma,” Kuroo promises, pulling away to give his boyfriend a serious glance. “I’ll be in Sendai but we can make it through.
Kenma can feel his cheeks burn bright red with regret -- he’s never one to share his feelings so openly, and Tetsurou consoling him leaves the second-year feeling strangely guilty and small.
“You don’t have to say this, Kuro. I know, ” says Kenma, who’s willing to try anything to sate his emotional boyfriend. He’s never one to let his emotions be so clearly known, but there’s something about the thought of Kuroo being gone that makes him feel strangely vulnerable.
It’s not the worry that Kuroo’s going to forget him or that he’ll find someone new, not the worry that Kuroo won’t have time for him, nor the worry that he’s going to come back changed; Kenma worries that he’s not going to be able to get by without Kuroo around.
Tetsu is a constant in his life. Tetsu has been there since childhood, a lingering, comforting presence, and the knowledge that that’s being taken from him leaves Kenma feeling like the ground’s been pulled from beneath him.
Tetsurou is on edge, still -- Kenma can’t blame him, but he wishes he could put him at ease.
He sighs tentatively, pulling away from Kuroo before speaking once more. “Let’s just enjoy the next few months,” he offers, just trying to appease Kuroo.
Tetsu’s shoulders relax slightly at that, and though Kenma can tell he wants to fight back, he doesn’t. It’s easier, for now, for the second-year to pretend that it isn’t happening. They’ll need to face it come April, but for now, he’s got Kuroo, which is of the utmost importance.
Kenma does a good job at pretending, he thinks. He’s got Kuroo mostly convinced things will be okay (he has yet to believe it himself, but that’ll come in time). There’s a constant gnawing, nagging something in the back of his mind telling him three months and then two months and then six weeks and eventually one week and though he does his best to ignore it, he can’t.
It’s the day before Kuroo’s about to leave that the reality of the situation hits Kenma.
“You’re sad, aren’t you?” Tetsurou asks.
“I’m not.”
“You’re a little sad,” he tries.
“Am not,”
“Are too.”
“Am not !” Kenma finally insists, turning to face away from his boyfriend.
Tetsu sighs, says: “it’s okay to be sad, Kenma.”
“I can’t do anything to fix it,” Kenma deadpans, shoulders slumping.
Tetsu agrees, “maybe not. But you can acknowledge it.”
Kenma huffs at that, thinking to himself that it’s not worth it. It won’t do any good, because it won’t make Kuroo stay, anyway.
“I’ll help,” Kuroo says. “I’m sad, aren’t I? Thinking about leaving you in Tokyo makes me sad, Kenma.”
The second-year almost recoils at that, at the very real thought of them being separated by hundreds of kilometers, but forces himself still.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
He’s heard the stories from others, all too common: the older person goes off to University and the distance drives a wedge into the relationship. It’s far more likely than the opposite, but Kenma will be damned if he doesn’t try to keep the relationship alive.
He was exhausted before their talk, but he’s even more so after. It’s always a little more so at Kuroo’s house -- he feels secure here, in Kuroo’s bed, and lets himself drift off into sleep.
Kuroo follows soon after, and though their position is uncomfortable at best, Kenma doesn’t think he’s ever felt better.
They wake to abrupt sunlight and an obscenely loud alarm, clock reading 8:37, giving them precisely three hours and twenty three minutes until Tetsurou needs to be at the train (three hours at home, Kenma tells himself.)
He makes breakfast. It isn’t spectacular; isn’t even good, really, but Kuroo appreciates it. The toast has char marks from the oven and the orange juice really isn’t cold enough, but Kenma feels a bit empty himself, anyway, so he doesn’t need a filling breakfast.
They don’t speak, really, just sit at the table and enjoy each other’s presence; Tetsurou’s club jacket clings off of Kenma’s shoulders, smelling of mint and sunshine and love, and Kenma aches somewhere deep and dark inside of his chest.
Time ticks and the voice in Kenma’s head says two hours by the time the toast is cold and plates are pushed away, and he feels like he’s about to cry.
He showers quick, the water runs cold and some of the dye runs out onto the tile of the shower, and he can’t help but remind himself that every second he’s in the bathroom is a second away from Kuroo. He’s done when there’s an hour and a half left, comes out immediately and lays his head on Kuroo’s chest.
“You were right,” he says, so silently Kuroo doesn’t even hear. He repeats himself, looking up earnestly.
Kuroo cocks his head in response, gazing down at his boyfriend.
“You were right ,” Kenma persists. “I was sad -- am sad.”
It does no good to tell Kuroo this now that he’s so close to leaving, but Kenma needs him to know. It’s urgent, the way he says it, like there’s nothing more important in the world.
“We’ll be okay,” Kuroo says, jaw clenched.
“We have to be,” Kenma whispers, voice breaking.
The train station is bustling, as usual. Tourists, students, and families alike pass through to the platform, and Kenma practically crumbles in Tetsurou’s arms when he turns towards the train.
“Don’t go,” Kenma pleads, voice wobbling.
“Not now, please not now,” Kuroo says cooly. Kenma can tell it’s a facade, just as it was the last time they were at this train station, the same day Kuroo informed Kenma he was leaving.
“I love you, Kenma,” the third-year says quietly. For a moment, it’s as if they’re alone in the train station, never mind those people running around them.
“I love you, Kuro,” he returns easily.
The older of the two hesitates, pulls away for a moment. He wrestles with his jacket for a moment, Kenma’s eyes widening in realization as the third-year places his jacket over Kenma’s shoulders. It’s far too big but it’s warm and it smells just like Kuroo, a comfort Kenma doesn’t quite have the words to thank him for.
“We’ll be okay,” Tetsu repeats, a strange finality to his words.
“We have to be,” Kenma agrees, pulling the jacket a bit tighter around him.
And then, as quickly as he was there, Tetsurou is gone, leaving only a gust of wind from the train and the scents of mint and sunshine and love in his wake.
Kenma thinks that, perhaps, even if Kuroo isn’t physically there for the time being, he’s got a strange presence. He always has, and he always will. And Kenma’s sure that as long as he can hold onto that, he’s never truly going to be alone.