Archive of Our Own

'WHAT,' Koutarou says, jabbing the back of his ballpoint into the UFO cushion beside him, 'IS WRONG WITH Without Words.'

It’s snowing. Early January is just as cold as balls as December was, but with the added bonus of some chilly fucking wind and snow. It's exactly the kind of thing that drives Koutarou up the wall, because where he's sitting, there's actually a messy pool of sunshine on Oikawa's white sheets that's warming his knees under his jeans, but he knows that the moment he steps out, he's actually going to have to pull something on. It's plain stupid to have to wear shades and a jacket together, that's all. They're not in the fucking mountains here. No, they're in Oikawa's studio. For a reason.

(True to his fucking word, as Koutarou always is in all matters of life from I'm gonna fail that class to I'm gonna eat that entire pizza in fifteen minutes, he's ended up on Gecko Tooru's doorstep to seek divine guidance for the direction of his project. Or as much as seek divine guidance actually means having the breakdown of his life ('The week,' Sawamura puts in.) while the reptilian god rests tranquil in his cage.)

'For the last time,' Oikawa says as he slams his thumb down on the space bar of his keyboard. (Oikawa is one of those rotten ass people who actually have designs on their keyboards. Koutarou doesn't know how to explain, it's like, those sticker things that go on the keys and shit. Oikawa, like the pretentious major of something that no one knows, has Starry Night on his keyboard, which is just the kind of thing a major of whatever his major is would have on a keyboard.) 'Without Words? You sound like an H&M T-shirt.'

Koutarou launches a paper ball at Oikawa, which he catches effortlessly with his fucking dog-chasing-Frisbee instincts and throws right back at Koutarou, who does not catch it effortlessly, but definitely catches it. In the eye.

'What's wrong with Without Words?' he asks. 'It is without words. I mean, as without words as Tetsu and Tsukki can get.'

'Okay, but I mean,' Sawamura says from the floor (he's on his back with an open textbook over his face, which, some might call him the proverbial sponge that soaks up all new knowledge superquick, but Koutarou's pretty sure that sticking two pages about Malthusian theory on your face and hoping you'll just absorb it isn't the way to study for anything), raising a hand, 'like, you know that this is our campus we're talking about, right?'

'My point exactly,' Oikawa replies, slamming the space bar again. Koutarou honestly thinks that people who type like that, like they have no respect for how far technology has come and whoever actually invented the keyboard and shit so that the likes of Oikawa could shitpost on the internet about how they love, like, waffles; he really thinks people like that should own laptops with specially reinforced space bars. Actually, maybe space bars are already specially reinforced or something. It sounds like the kind of fact Akaashi would know. 'Listen, I know you want this to be all sepia-toned and lovey-dovey and bull like that, but Kuroo took a cat in the face for the beanpole. I don't think even Ushijima can work with that.'

Okay, so maybe Koutarou hasn't chosen the easiest or most conventional semester project that he could have. Then again, Koutarou doesn't usually choose the easiest or most conventional method to do anything. Live life, acquire engineer boyfriends, eat pizza. This might actually be one of the tamer things he's done this semester, all things considered.

The final idea, whipped into shape by Koutarou and Akaashi with the occasional raised-eyebrow input from Sugawara, is this: all the pictures he's been taking, put together chronologically, presented without comment like the kind of over-the-top bullshit that one asshole in class always pulls that makes the professor go sparkly-eyed. Koutarou has never yet gotten the chance to be that one asshole, and they're in their third year already. It's honestly now or never, and he really wants to put Konoha's dirty look on Snapchat.

However, the tiny problem is the fact that even though Koutarou can catch a lot more than his camera can, it's his camera that has to do the talking. Whether it's Kuroo's terrifying ability to keep a straight face or Tsukki's equally hilarious one to flip the bird at the shortest notice, the end result is that many of the pictures Koutarou has aren't speaking for themselves yet. He needs something. A title to pull it all together, or a theme to touch on that explains why the pictures don't explain shit.

And for once in his miserable life when Koutarou honestly needs Gecko Tooru's advice, they're not making any progress.

'Look,' Sawamura says. 'Not that I know much about photography or romance—'

'Or management, apparently—'

'Shut it. All I'm saying is, they're your best friends. You don't wanna put just anything out there.'

At that, Koutarou sobers up, squints and nods at the pale yellow light on the sheets. It's true. It is true, but he's got two months to go before mid-March hits with its submissions, and he's kind of losing his shit over here. And he'd resolved, just a couple of weeks ago at Sawamura's disastrous house party, he'd told himself that this would be the year he got his shit together. Although the thing is Koutarou does have his shit together already, it's just that he loses it a lot.

Anyway. When one home base doesn't work, try another.

'Le Petit Blunt?' he asks. Sawamura groans in agreement and picks his book off with the tips of two fingers like it's infected, as Oikawa slams the space bar again. 'Le Petit Blunt, let's go.'

●●●

Hitoka adjusts her beanie over her ears and turns back to the oven. The truth is, she hates to talk negatively about anything even if it's just a small thing and she's not really being negative, just not necessarily positive; but if she were to be honest she's not as fond of January as she is of December. If she thinks about it, January should definitely be more hopeful than December because it's a new year and they can have new beginnings, and she makes sure to have a pretty calendar ready well in time for the next year with special dates all marked and a new recipe to try every week, but even though January always brings new things, December has this familiarity around it, kind of like having lived in the same year for so long that you know everything about it now and are content enough to say goodbye with a smile. Compared to that, the same winter that was cozy and made her laugh in December, is just a little unfriendly in January. For one, she wouldn't be sighing so much about having to wear a beanie indoors in December, but she is, because it's January. Her hair's grown beyond her shoulders too, and she doesn’t like tucking it inside beanies so it's curling all over the place, and she has to redo her roots, too.

Matsuoka [16:19]
first date: le petit dolphin! ˃̶◡ ˂̶◞♡

Me [16:21]
(●´□`)♡ Come on over! I want to see him!

University has picked up again, after a couple of false starts at the end of the holidays. Hitoka misses her mother more than she expected to; not having her around most of the year has always been a habit but it's different with university, especially after holidays. Maybe it's one of the reasons that January isn't her favourite, but well, she's eighteen now and living life on her own, and she knows these things change. After all, she didn't have work to keep her busy either, back when she was in high school, and now here she is, putting on mittens and setting out trays of giant cookies, thinking about everything from the temperature to little white labradors. But not specific little white labradors because that would be unfair to the other little white labradors out there and Hitoka has no particular reason to be thinking about any specific little white labradors anyway, and definitely not the volunteers in yellow sweatshirts who feed them.

University. University is busy, and work is busy, and her hair is growing out, and the cookies are burning. At least her projects are on track and Hinata's hug career is flourishing, because the collage of Polaroids on his wall is growing by the day. Not that Hitoka would ever think anything negative of Hinata— especially not Hinata— but it's definitely a sight to realise that he really is the second-shortest person on—

The cookies are burning. Hitoka squeaks and rushes to open the oven door, winces as she looks at the charred brown of what was supposed to be white chocolate chip.

Outside, she can hear loud voices. It sounds like Himuro-san is arguing with Izuki-san about something, which is as close to home as it gets these days. Granrodeo is setting up for the evening, and if Hitoka manages to get a new batch of cookies into the oven on time, she'll be able to catch their opener, and that's bound to lift her spirits. Not that her spirits are really down, but they could use a little bit of lifting anyway.

Yamaguchi [16:34]
good afternoon...are you on a shift?

They could use a little bit of lifting anyway, which everyone's spirits always do, because Hitoka doesn't think anyone can operate on hundred percent at all times unless they're Bokuto-san or Hinata, and she doesn't think it's true even for them. It just can't be; it's one of those little things about being a person, a whole person, who's working somewhere and trying to make something, whether it's cookies or a career. At the end of the day— or the afternoon— Hitoka supposes that being at Le Petit Ponytail is the safest way to lift her spirits.

Me [16:39]
Good afternoon! Yes, I am! ✿

Yamaguchi [16:40]
ah okay, see you soon then

Yamaguchi [16:42]
✿

In the end, she misses Granrodeo's opener, but she can hear the bass all the way in the kitchen so it doesn't really matter. And when she finally steps outside, wiping her hands on a dish towel, maybe she turns to the doorway waiting for someone else to step in, but that wait is wiped away when the door opens to Matsuoka's familiar red braids and the new sweater she bought for Christmas. Hitoka wishes that she could say the sight of Matsuoka is what distracted her, but the truth is, she's a little too busy staring numbly at Matsuoka's date.

In his defence, Mohawk-san cleans up wonderfully in a blazer. It's definitely Hitoka who's to blame for dropping the dishtowel. Definitely Hitoka who's to blame for letting it lie on her feet until Yamaguchi does, in fact, end up walking in right after.

●●●

It’s snowing.

The thing about home bases is just that— they're home bases. There isn't much that could actually stop Koutarou from being at ease the moment he steps into one, even if the feeling might not last for long, sometimes. And honestly, the way Koutarou often does life when it's not cooperating is to hold on to those five seconds of things not being shitty, and then going from there. If there were five seconds there can be five seconds more; it's a long life.

Himuro points at them with his half-gloved hands the moment they walk in, singing something unfamiliar that Koutarou'll ask him the name of later; Akaashi’s already at the counter, laptop open on the blueprint of the day. Scarf still wrapped around his neck, hair a little messy, one of the thirty six thousand ways Koutarou likes him. Across from him, Kuroo's opening up boxes of sprinkles and glaring down at them.

The place isn't full yet, but it's got just enough people to get Koutarou's smile going. It's so much better to work in the noise sometimes (although he's been informed on occasion that he has no say in the matters of appropriate work ambiance, given that he listens to American brass house bands while revising for finals. Apparently American brass house isn't even a real genre).

Le Petit Rock has always had this kind of hazy, laggy sort of look around it in winters. It's Koutarou's third one and he's used to it by now; the way it looks like the outside fog has somehow crept in at the edges so that the golden lights are diffused across it, and at the same time, the warmth of those same golden lights kind of cuts through the chill and brings the place to life like a little box of comfort inside the muffled ocean of January. Even if the doors let the mist in, they shut the rest of it out. The streetlights distant even though they're right outside, Kuroo's car looking like it's been parked in the same spot for years.

The sun's starting to go down already. Not that that's ever bothered Koutarou. Its slanting rays bring out the colour of Akaashi’s eyes, and up this close, he’s got nothing else to do but stare.

'For real,' Oikawa's saying as they install themselves on their usual stools beside Akaashi, who only leans in long enough for Koutarou to press a clumsy kiss to his cheekbone. (Okay, so, all things considered Koutarou actually has a soft spot for the stools by the bar, which is funny because they sure don't. Have a soft spot for him, that is. He's been on that shit with Kuroo for the third year running now, but the man refuses to switch them out from their, like, stylish white hard ass-plates that've probably done long-term damage to his tailbone that he could sue for, to something a little padded. Still, loyalty is loyalty and the best thing about Le Petit Skateboard is that it's a twenty-hour establishment that serves everything from espressos to vodka, and it's just not the same having the latter in a booth. Or even the former, because then he can't look into the kitchen and throw shit at Yaku.) 'Sawamura, I know you like to hide behind the fact that Bokuto fails at life even harder than you do, but you know you're a whipped man, right?'

Even Akaashi smiles at that.

Yachi steps out of the kitchen, and Koutarou smiles at her, but she misses it. She's looking at the entrance like she thinks the door's gonna come at her with an axe or something, so he follows her gaze and snorts at what he sees.

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' Sawamura says icily. 'I should be the one commenting on your intelligence for not believing me on the Sasuke thing.'

'You should,' Oikawa says. He sounds grave. 'That was the last nail in the coffin actually. I can't say anything about Sugawara's standards anymore. I mean, look at your shirt.'

'Word,' Kuroo says once he's finally done with the daily struggle of filling up the stupid sprinkle jars. 'When I saw all that shit go down at the party, I was like, suddenly I can believe that Sugawara bought that figurine.'

'Speaking of party throwbacks,' Koutarou says, motioning towards the door. Tanaka's finally managed to hang up his little redhead date's coat after three tries, and Tsukki's freckled teddy bear is standing behind him, waiting his turn. Yamaguchi, right, that's the name. 'Pity Asahi isn't here, Sawamura. Could've taken the heat off you, although at least that man knows the truth when he—'

'Listen,' Sawamura hisses. 'I only keep you lot around for networking. I'll fucking kill you.'

'Oh, he'll kill us. He'll kill us with the Sasuke figurine that his boyfriend—'

'Actually,' Himuro cuts in, and Koutarou jumps a little because that was over the mic. 'I want to call up a special guest performer this evening.'

Koutarou raises an eyebrow at Kuroo, who pulls a sturgeon and shrugs, turning to squint at Himuro. As it turns out, Himuro's already looking at Kuroo with a wide grin, and Koutarou takes a moment to put two and two together, which is a shame because that's two seconds he's lost on the length of the victorious hoot he lets out.

'Oh, no, no,' Kuroo's saying already, even as Oikawa swiftly vaults over the counter to push him out. 'Himuro, listen—'

'I don't know how many of you know this,' Himuro's saying while Koutarou scrambles to pull out his camera and the scattered crowd murmurs and giggles, 'but your darling manager sings better than I ever will. Don't you want to hear him?'

'SURE DO,' Koutarou and Sawamura chorus, enmity of the day immediately put aside in the face of that One Chance they get per year to actually make fun of Kuroo. Koutarou's already laughing, leaning forward, gripping his camera. Sure, this isn't exactly what he had in mind when he wanted to come over to think things out, but that's one of the ways in which life is stupid lucky.

Kuroo puts up a token struggle against Oikawa, but gives up soon enough when the room agrees loudly. At the end of the day, Kuroo's always been here to fill rooms up; he's shaking his head and skipping a giant step to the stage, pulling his white apron over his head and setting it behind a speaker. Koutarou thanks fuck that the T-shirt under his red flannel isn't stained; he wouldn't have had the heart to edit it out later and having stains in a video isn't aesthetic. Life is stupid lucky.

'All right, all right,' Kuroo says, blinking then smiling when Himuro steps away from the mic stand. He comes closer, wraps a hand around the mic, smiles out at the room. 'First of all, Himuro, thanks for throwing me under the bus.'

Life is stupid lucky. Somewhere, a few years ago when this café was being designed, whichever architect fuck that Koutarou wants to send flowers to decided that the entrance wouldn't be directly visible from the stage, but the stage sure as fuck would. He'd never really registered this detail until now, but maybe that's why he's here. The thing about home bases is you don't notice things until you do, and then you can't un-notice them.

Because the thing is, there is some force in the world that Koutarou wants to send flowers to.

When Kuroo turns to tell Himuro in a whisper what he wants to sing, Koutarou wants to send flowers to someone, because the door opens just then and Kuroo neither sees nor hears it.

And when Kuroo takes a breath and says 'So this one's for this one guy who I'm very glad isn't here right now', Koutaro really wants to send flowers to someone, because life is stupid lucky.

Tsukki has paused in the middle of taking his jacket off, and he's looking at Kuroo, and he's very much here right now.

●●●

'So this one's for this one guy,' Kuroo-san says, and Hitoka's already smiling, 'who I'm very glad isn't here right now.'

After all these months of working Le Petit Star, she has definitely had the time to get used to Kuroo-san's singing habit, but the truth is that even after all these months, it always gets to her somewhere, how sweet he sounds. Not that she doesn't think Himuro-san sounds equally wonderful; it's just, they're both different kinds of wonderful, and when Kuroo-san sings it's just a little rough; his voice gives out a little sometimes or goes quiet when he starts to focus on something too hard to keep singing, which is actually even sweeter because he's actually singing most of the time that she sees him working. One thing is definitely that she hasn't heard him perform, not like this, so she actually gets rude enough to cut herself off mid-sentence from whatever she was saying to Yamaguchi, just to turn to look at Kuroo-san properly.

But then: 'Shit,' she hears Yamaguchi mutter, and turns back just for a moment. He's looking at the doorway, and when she looks too, she understands why.

Tsukishima-kun is frozen even as the door swings shut, with one shoulder out of his jacket and the fabric twisted around the opposite arm. Hitoka finds herself focusing on the details out of reflex; the tips of his golden curls darkened from the air outside, his nose and cheeks slightly red, eyes trained on Kuroo-san already, mouth open. Hitoka doesn't know what says more about how things are changing; the fact that she didn't even spend more than a minute on being shocked that Matsuoka's date is Mohawk-san, the fact that she didn't spend more than a minute fumbling around Yamaguchi, or the fact that she understands without missing a beat why it's so lovely to see Tsukishima-kun here despite never having thought in that direction before. It makes her wonder, really, how many things around her she's just accepted without looking at them carefully; how many things were so implicit that she never properly registered them— the nervous rhythm of Yamaguchi's fingers on the countertop beside the latte order she has memorised by now, or how she knows Matsuoka always wears that one particular pair of golden earrings when she wants to look her best, or even how many times she's seen Kuroo-san wear this combination of clothes: his red shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the thin-worn neckline of his white T-shirt underneath, his flat shoes under his indigo jeans.

Then, before she can really make sense of any of it in a way that will be easy to remember later, Kuroo-san is leaning forward and whispering one, two, three, four into the microphone, bracelet catching the light where his wrist bends against the black stand.

Then the beat starts, heavy but muffled in the only way she can imagine hearts to sound up close, and out of the corner of her eye Hitoka sees Bokuto-san lift his camera. She's glad for it, she really is, because she doesn't know where to look right now, who to smile at, who to laugh at, or whether she's just supposed to be quiet and take in as much as an outsider possibly can. The lights, the people, Tsukishima-kun's black jacket. Kuroo-san's voice when he starts to sing.

Settle down with me.

Hitoka feels this twinge in her throat, building from the hinges of her shoulders and creeping up and around the sides of her neck. Kuroo-san's accent is soft, folding around the words gently, amplified by the microphone so that she notices different aspects of it even though she's heard him sing so many types of songs before. Over the microphone it's easier to catch the little bruises in his voice, scratches here and there where it husks out at the end of a line. Settle down with me, and it's almost like he's murmuring it instead of actually singing.

She's even more observant today than she is normally. She catches the exact moment Bokuto-san lowers his camera and stops looking through the viewfinder, and even though his back is to her and she can't look at his face, she can imagine it anyway. She catches every time Yamaguchi turns his head to look at Kuroo-san and Tsukishima-kun in turns, and makes sure to be looking at the other one so that they don't miss anything. It's a coordination that Yamaguchi doesn't seem to be aware of until he looks right at her; and Hitoka doesn't even spare a moment to be flustered.

Hopeless, Yamaguchi mouths just as Kuroo-san reaches the hook.

I'm in love now.

The chorus seems to hit Tsukishima-kun with just the kind of personal aim that she would expect it to; when the words reach the glass ends of the room, he steps back physically. Hitoka catches that, too; the half-step, the hand reaching out just a few inches to hold onto something, before ego stops it; she knows Tsukishima-kun by now. Hopeless.

Hitoka only looks at Yamaguchi, and she doesn't think there's really anything she can do or say to show how much she agrees, and she also doesn't think he needs a confirmation. If she's watching as an outsider, he's Tsukishima-kun's best friend, and it's little— big— things like that which get to Hitoka sometimes; the way you can be so involved in something that isn't your story entirely but is too close not to be, either. How the lump in her throat is stuck there because she's spent countless mornings right here, nearly burning cookies and arranging spoons, stuttering through orders on bad days and managing to smile and wish every customer happy holidays on good ones. How it's also there because she knows the hard-backed weight of red economics textbooks just by association, because tight-knit is a far-off concept for people like her until it isn't; Hinata bounding over to her on the first lunch of the academic year and deciding that friendship was as simple as hello, and the way Kageyama never highlights his texts.

Yamaguchi has known Tsukishima-kun forever. It must be wonderful to be him right now.

Friendship, Hitoka thinks, is the way you can be so involved in something that isn't your story entirely but might as well be. The song is soft and so painfully sweet that she wonders at Kuroo-san for being able to bear singing it to a room half-filled with strangers, but when he hums at the end of the second chorus and waits for the guitar break, the almost-blank look on Himuro-san's face as he steps up says it all. He's looking at a spot on the floor, so focused on getting the notes right, saying in the best way he can that this moment belongs to Kuroo-san; he was the one who made the invitation, after all. He's been playing here since his first year, Hitoka knows; how attuned he must be to it all.

Yamaguchi sighs from next to her, and she turns to the door automatically. For a moment, anxiety grips her; Tsukishima-kun is stepping out of it which is telling enough, but he also hasn't put his jacket back on fully. Hitoka can see the large snowflakes of the evening drifting to collect on the ground, and she wonders if Yamaguchi will follow.

But then there's movement from her left again, and she watches silently as Bokuto-san steps off his seat and makes his way to the door.

●●●

It's snowing.

Akaashi's by the door, just outside it; Koutarou knows that's where he'll stay. Tsukki's already further away, standing with his back to the facade of the café, the lights from inside colouring him half in orange-gold and the streetlight a few metres off rendering the other half in the soft blue-white of winter evenings. He's leaning forward a little, hands in his pockets, snow already beginning to gather in his hair.

He looks like he doesn't know what to do, and for once, Koutarou understands him.

Thing is, growing up around someone who has an angel's voice is one thing, and understanding just how far they've come is another. When Kuroo stepped up to the mic, Koutarou'd never have guessed in a million lifetimes that this is what he'd pull; and if Koutarou couldn't, he doesn't even know what to say to Tsukki. None of them are dense here; snow's falling, streetlight's flickering, Kuroo's singing for Tsukki and life is changing.

He can still hear the softest strains of Himuro's guitar, in that way that places like these always pull in people off the street. Inviting, warm, so light for someone who isn't part of the story.

Koutarou's part of the story. Akaashi's part of the story. Tsukki's stunned profile is the story.

He knows Koutarou's there. Koutarou knows that. None of them are dense here; he's always known that Tsukki genuinely enjoys his privacy. For him not to be saying anything right now is the biggest sign Koutarou could ever ask for, and that makes him lag. He's seeing the colours and hearing the sounds, and he knows that Kuroo singing that one fucking line over and over was what made Tsukki leave; kiss me like you wanna be loved, wanna be loved, wanna be loved.

Koutarou's wonder for the world is in love with Tsukki right now, with the way he looks so terrified that someone could do this to him. Koutarou in his entirety is in love with the world. The snow's beginning to gather in Tsukki's hair, and inside, Kuroo's started singing again. None of them have anything to say, but Koutarou wants to stand here in the quiet. He doesn't think he can take any more of the music than Tsukki can.

He knows what he wants to call the project. He knows it with such a fucking conviction that he's not going to breathe a word about it to anyone else, not even Akaashi, not even Oikawa. He's part of the story, and that part of the story is his. When it comes together they'll see.

The guitar gets louder for a few seconds when Akaashi opens the door to slip back inside. It brings Koutarou back into the linearity of the moment; he stops his circles and looks up at Tsukki again.

'Come,' he says. 'Let's go back.'

Maybe it's not his place, but Koutarou's always been an ass like that. He doesn't care if Kuroo might actually notice Tsukki coming in this time; won't care if it'll make him stop short and miss the beat and have to start over again; won't care if he won't start over again at all. He cares so much about every single detail of it, the very breaths Kuroo takes between lines and the invisible curl of Tsukki's fists inside his pockets, that the only safe way out is to not give a shit. Let life happen the way it does; there hasn't been a day when he's not been here to catch Kuroo.

He doesn't. Notice, that is, when they step back inside. He doesn't notice because his eyes are closed, both hands wrapped around the mic now, and the way he's swaying just the slightest bit along with it, side to side, tells Koutarou that he doesn't know he's even doing it.

God, he's a beauty. But Koutarou turns to look at Tsukki, at how he's staring, and suddenly he can't remember why he was so impatient for Kuroo to find someone before this.

Himuro joins in for the last chorus, just an absent-minded harmonisation with Kuroo's stronger voice. It's honestly only then that Koutarou lets it hit him in the fucking chest, and oh, it does. Sometimes he finds himself thinking that they're too young to be feeling shit like this, but that thought goes as fast as it comes; he's seen more. Not worse or better, but definitely more.

But that doesn't mean everyone else has. By the time the song ends and Kuroo rests against the mic stand with his eyes closed for one last moment, Tsukki's already outside again. Koutarou doesn't blame him this time either; and he won't follow.

Kuroo opens his eyes and smiles, and he looks content. All things considered, Koutarou just hopes that Tsukki remembers to cover his head.

●●●

It's snowing.

Kei has a vague memory of reading the forecast in the morning and smiling at it. Kei has a vague memory of the morning. Kei has his hands in his pockets and the door hasn't swung shut fully behind him. Kei has a pair of stolen headphones inside the café behind him. Kei has countless other stolen things inside the café behind him. Ballpoint caps, composure, dances and keychains.

Kei has a realisation.

It's snowing. Kuroo's voice accompanies him even outside, in his chest. This feels like falling in love, falling in love, falling in love.