Work Text:
“Have you ever been confessed to?”
Truth be told, Kenma finds the question a little awkward. It’s not the usual genre of inquiry he often gets in his chat; most people ask him for gaming tips, or if he plans to collaborate with a certain brand, or which professional team he wants to join. After all, his viewers know him as a reserved guy who rarely volunteers information on his background unless prompted—and sometimes even when asked, he just doesn’t answer.
For a second, he thinks of ignoring this question, too, and perhaps he might actually have, had this match settlement not taken so long.
Have I ever received a confession? He took a few long moments to ponder on it.
His mind responds by summoning a memory of a girl, a courtyard, and his old PSP. Zemu, she’d said her name was. He’d thought she was a strange kid, but he couldn’t deny the furtive rush of excitement he’d felt when she’d pronounced herself a P3P player, too. It was a rare thing for someone he knew to share similar interests—though it never really bothered him as he’d always preferred being alone. Still, that was the first time he’d realized that having someone to talk to about his interests felt… nice.
But in the end, she was still a strange girl, and Kenma didn’t know how to act around strangers—which, to say, was basically anyone who wasn’t Kuroo. Kuroo, who knew what his silences meant without having to ask. Kenma had cursed him in his mind, then, for indulging him, because now he didn’t know how to interact with other people.
Then came another flash of memory: the same girl throughout his second year. He had, of course, noticed how she would linger at the corner of his eye, thinking she was out of sight. She’d given him a letter, once, he remembered, and followed him around constantly. Part of him had felt uncomfortable, like he was an artifact under scrutiny at an exhibition.
Perhaps the closest comparison he could make was of her and Taketora—those of the boisterous and passionate bunch. Actually, he thinks, you know what? She was just like Taketora, and that similarity had made him even more uncomfortable, and also undeniably somewhat irritated. In his first year, he had a fight with Taketora because of their clashing principles—but maybe the same reason that made him uncomfortable was also the same reason that made him curious about her.
Because, as he and Taketora had settled on all those years ago, being loud and passionate was not without its merits, in the same way that his approach to life was also well-grounded. And unlike Taketora, Zemu was just like Kenma—in that she, too, enjoyed playing games and was comfortable, even taking pride, in being the odd one out.
And just like both of them, as Kenma had come to learn, Zemu was determined and stubborn enough to finish what she had started, despite failing time and time again.
He remembers wondering why she kept following him around, wanting to be friends, and he remembered realizing that he didn’t really mind it, the idea of friendship—only that the way she went about it was what grated on him. But how could he tell that? How did one go about such things? He’d cursed Kuroo again for his inability to communicate with non-Kuroo individuals.
And then, finally: the day he had snapped. He’d come over to her after practice and asked her to talk. She’d been visibly excited, then, and he remembers wondering how she could put her heart on her sleeve so readily—and how it seemed to come to her without so much as a challenge.
He remembers walking alongside her, heading for the courtyard, thinking about what he wanted to say. He hadn’t really thought things through at that point. In fact, his urge to settle things with her once and for all had stemmed from Yaku’s offhand comment about him having a fan, and it gave rise to his long-buried confusion about why she was doing all this stalking instead of just acting normally around him like friends did.
At the courtyard, he’d turned to her with a slight frown, softening a bit when he saw the surprise on her face, the way she froze.
Ah, screw it, he’d thought, before saying: “Why do you keep following me?”
He remembers thinking that it was a nice and concise question that perfectly encapsulated his sentiments, but it must have come out wrong, because her face fell at it.
“I—” she’d begun, only to stop.
Curious at her response, he’d waited for her to proceed and noted that she seemed like she was having an internal dilemma of some sort. And suddenly, she’d jumped, proclaiming with her hands on her chest, “Senpai! I’m sorry—it seems I haven’t told you yet. Kozume-senpai, I…” She took a deep breath. “I like you! Please accept my feelings!”
Of all the things he had expected her to say, this had definitely not been one of them.
She likes me? He remembers thinking. But didn’t she just want to be friends? He had been so convinced of that fact, that the idea of her liking him romantically felt so outlandish, so… impossible! It had taken him a long time to get used to her presence as a potential friend, and now she was confessing to him? What more of her being his… his… girlfriend…?
What do you even do in this situation? he’d thought desperately. This was the kind of scenario he would come across in dating sims, but never in his life had Kenma actually considered the possibility of it happening to him in real life. And what was that odd feeling in his chest? It must be discomfort, and I must escape this situation immediately.
“Ah, I’m sorry, but…” he had heard himself saying, mouth moving on its own accord. “I can’t accept your feelings, so please stop following me around.” It had felt incomplete, then, and he wanted to say more—but was it even still appropriate to offer friendship on the table?
He had been just about to say it when he noticed how increasingly upset she’d been becoming—and so, he’d ended up saying nothing at all.
In dating sims, offering to still be friends after rejecting someone was like accidentally hitting the ‘break friendship button’ while trying to give a ‘friendship buff’. It was well intentioned, but it usually hurt more than it helped, and Kenma wasn’t trying to trigger any negative status effects, so he simply ended up watching her fumble an awkward apology.
Still, as he’d told himself it was the right thing to do, something in his chest began to sting a little—and there had been a brief feeling of regret in him at the sight of her looking so crestfallen. He didn’t understand the feeling; only that he should leave and escape this situation immediately.
“I… I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, senpai,” she’d rushed to say. “I only wanted to tell you properly.”
And he’d rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “You don’t have to apologize. Just… don’t follow me anymore, okay?” He had meant it as a sort of prelude to him letting her know that while he didn’t mind having her around, her behavior had made him uncomfortable.
Again, it had been the wrong thing to say because her eyes had filled with tears. “I won’t.”
He had given her a small, awkward nod, then, before turning to leave, and it had only been when his back was turned to her that he realized the twitching in his heart had worsened. Belatedly he’d realized that it was the feeling of regret—but why?
Another memory comes to mind. It’s his high school graduation, and he had been craning his neck to look for a familiar face in the crowd—though whose face he was searching for, he didn’t really know. Just that he’s anticipating someone.
“K-Kozume-senpai,” said a small voice. It had been a low enough voice to be easily swallowed by the clamor of the event, but the wind carried the sound to his ears, and he turned toward it, expectant—
Oh.
For a moment, he hadn’t known who he was looking at, his brain taking a while to register the sight. Then it clicked: it was her. This, he had realized belatedly, was who he had been looking for.
After the last time, she’d dropped out of his orbit, no more trailing after him or relentless chatter. He had felt relieved, of course, and grateful, because that had been his exact request, which she duly stayed faithful to.
But standing there in his uniform, on a day that was supposed to be the final page of this chapter in his life, he had found himself thinking, of course she’d be here.
Because if she wasn’t, he would have been disappointed. Strange, considering how often he had wished for the opposite—but even after she had stopped, she never really left. Not in Kenma’s mind, at least, especially when he would play P3P and his thoughts would drift to that strange girl who had suddenly approached him in the school courtyard. After two years of that, had it not only been natural to expect that she would see him through to the end?
“It’s you,” he’d said back then.
And now, as he scrambles for an answer to what’s supposed to be just a simple question, Zemu’s face is all that bounces around the walls of his mind.
“Uh… there was this one cute girl in high school,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She kept pestering me back then, but I kinda got scared of how aggressive she was in pursuing me, so I had to turn her down.”
did you like the girl back then even if you turned her down?
He reads the chat aloud before pausing to think, fidgeting with the rotational axis of his chair. “She was charming, I guess. But I didn’t really know how to handle being the recipient of that much energy and attention, so I got scared. I don’t know about me liking her; I’ve never actually thought about it.”
Kenma squints at the screen, as a word dominates the chat. “Guys,” he says, “what’s this about labyukeki? Who’s that? The user’s kind of familiar, but…” He lifts a hand to scratch his middle finger as the chats go crazy. Then a memory comes to mind. “Oh, right. I remember now; they’re a regular of mine who sends me donos every time. Why? What’s up with them?”
In fact, the only reason why Kenma knows their username is because they donate to him so frequently to the point where there is not a single stream where he does not see his name appear.
“‘Labyukeki is also a streamer’,” Kenma reads, “‘and she sometimes talks about her high school crush, which to me sounds a lot like she’s talking about you.’” He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. “Oh, come on. It might just be a coincidence. There’s no way.”
Go watch her streams if you don’t believe us!!!!
MY CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND KODZUKEN DO
ME A FAVOR AND CHECK OUT HER STREAMS
“You want me to watch a clip of her streams?” he says. “Alright, fine. If you want it so badly.”
Shifting in his seat, he turns to the other monitor, where he pulls up her profile, one hand lazily moving the mouse. He’s patient as he waits for her video to load, and when it finally does, it takes him a couple long minutes to realize why the girl on the screen feels vaguely familiar…
At last, it dawns upon him—it’s her. That weird kid who used to follow him around, Zemu. And though a lot of things have changed in the world, she still sucks at games, apparently.
In that second of him seeing the face behind Labyukeki and realizing who it is, he forgets that he’s live, before he remembers where he is and straightens in his chair, shoulders going rigid like someone just dumped ice water down his back. His gaze flicks off to the side, then snaps back to the screen, blinking repeatedly once. Twice.
No way.
He drags the cursor down and abruptly pauses the video. It’s awkward, and he scrambles for the right thing to say without making it sound like it is.
“Ah, this stream’s been going on for way too long now.” He clears his throat. Within him rises an urge to glance at the paused video again, and for a while he manages to stave it off. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. He quickly looks at the screen, then back at the camera. “And I’m not even playing anymore, so…” There’s another brief pause as he drums his finger on his desk. “I’m just gonna end it here. Yeah. Alright.” He forces a small nod. “Bye, guys.”
Without another explanation, he reaches forward and cuts the stream short, his heart hammering in his chest. Letting out an exhausted sigh, he leans against his gaming chair, staring at the screen.
Zemu, he thinks. Just what have you been up to?
That should have been the end of it. Unfortunately, when things involve Zemu, Kenma finds that they don’t usually go according to plan.
After that stream, people on the internet exploded wildly. They begin to dissect every second of it, picking apart his every word—even the ones that had nothing to do with her. Some immediately start shipping them together, creating elaborate theories that don’t even make sense in Kenma’s opinion, while others have gone full detective mode, digging up info on Nekoma and old tournament footage. They take grainy screenshots of pixelated stills with random figures circled in red, labeled Labyukeki?
Their speculation has turned into obsession at lightning speed. And, as always, not all of it is harmless, for mixed into the frenzy are people who turned their attention to tearing her down, criticizing and mocking her every move. This, Kenma cannot condone. He thinks of posting something about it, but in the end resolves to do it in a stream.
Posting about it would only add fuel to the fire.
But amid the chaos of the internet’s citizens, there is a silence that rings louder than any online fanfare—at least, to Kenma. It needles at him persistently, for after everything that happened, he had been so sure that she would show up again, worming her way into his light the same way she had done in high school.
Zemu had always been loud about him—unapologetically present, impossible to ignore. He’d expected her to return the same way she always did, filling the space with her familiar stubborn self, but when he starts his next stream, he finds that she isn’t there.
He doesn’t think much of it at first. Perhaps she’s simply late, and in any case, the chat is still a fast-moving stream that can hold its own, stacking on top of each other as quickly as they come and go.
Still, he finds himself waiting. Waiting for labyukeki to appear and send him a private message, but her name never appears.
It’s strange—how noticeable her absence is when thousands of others are still there. Stranger, even, how he keeps noticing.
Kenma doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. It didn’t make sense to him, the way his attention keeps slipping, the way something feels… off. He catches himself thinking about it more than he should, and every time, the same thought follows: Why should I care? She was just another viewer in a sea of many. So why did it feel like the stream was empty without her?
One day without thinking, he clicks on her stream. That he must announce himself is a thought that flickers through his mind absently, in the sense that he let her know of his presence in the same way that she has always—or used to—done.
But in the end he… doesn’t.
Nothing about it is unfamiliar, and he finds that even though so much time has already passed, she’s the same as she’s always been—a girl fumbling through games with clumsy determination, groaning dramatically at every small favor.
It’s funny, really—the old Kenma in high school had thought she was somewhat annoying for her dramatics, but now he finds this quality of hers to be endearing. He supposes it’s got to do about how she’s oddly consistent to herself, even after everything. She talks to her chat like they’re old friends, and they share inside jokes that he doesn’t fully understand but can recognize by the way everyone reacts.
Her community is nothing like the massive audience that he’s used to—and yet, it feels all the more intimate for it.
Inevitably, his name comes up, slipping into the chat here and there. Someone will mention him offhandedly or joke about that whole situation, and he would watch her reaction to try and gauge her side of the story.
To his disappointment, she would only laugh it off, and brush past the comment without properly addressing it. When more would follow in an attempt to grill her, she would redirect the conversation back to the game or literally anything else.
And don’t ask how Kenma noticed, but not once had she ever said his name aloud. Not once.
It doesn’t really matter. If anything, it makes sense—after everything that happened, of course she’d want to avoid it. Avoid him. Something about that hurts him, and because he can’t pinpoint the reason why it does, he decides to simply tamp it down.
Still, ever since that first—first, officially—time, Kenma finds himself pulling up her streams the moment they start. Sometimes he lets it run in the background while he does other things, only to realize later that his attention has wandered back to her.
It’s just easy to watch her, he supposes. Zemu’s content isn’t perfect; she messes up constantly and complains dramatically when things don’t go her way, but that’s what makes it entertaining and true. What Kenma especially likes about her is how she laughs things off just as easily as she complains, and talks to her chat like they’re long-time friends.
He’d begun watching her out of curiosity, just to see what she’s been up to since she no longer watches his streams—and now it’s evolved to genuine interest rather than just shallow wonder.
And without really having to think about it, he simply keeps coming back.
Ah, he’s definitely done it this time—something utterly ridiculous, that’s what. He sighs, scrolling through his feed and seeing post after post about what he’d said in his last stream.
Truly, it hadn’t been anything significant—to him, at least. It had been nothing more than a slip-up, really. After watching so many of Zemu’s streams, the inside joke had been somewhat ingrained in his vocabulary, and he simply forgot to switch it out when he was streaming.
Still, when he had said it—oh, come on, relax. I’m not throwing; this is an 82% confidence play, you know—he hadn’t thought much of it, and went on playing like usual. But he’s forgotten how vicious people on the internet can get, and it’s only when he finally turns off his stream to doomscroll in bed that he’s seen the damage it had done.
Well, perhaps damage might be too dramatic a word. Chaos is the better term for it, he supposes. From his vantage point, he observes that there is much less hate this time around, only more of theories and analytical thinkposts. (Admittedly, he’s had his fun reading through some of them.)
And maybe this it’s this abated negativity that makes him ultimately decide to just… pretend that he hadn’t done anything out of the norm. In his stream following the incident, he does nothing to clear up the air—doesn’t even acknowledge it’s brought up in the chat.
Let them wonder, is the mischievous thought that he abides by. He’s got something more important to preoccupy himself with, and that’s his dilemma on whether he should make his presence known to her in her streams.
Obviously, she already knows that he tunes into her channel—there is no way that she doesn’t, given the time she spends on the wild grasslands of the internet—yet for some reason he’s nervous about actually addressing the elephant in the room, even if it’s simply through a private message attached to a dono.
He squints at the screen. He’s been staring at the blinking text cursor for a couple of minutes now, debating between sending it or not. In the background, Zemu’s character is getting its ass beaten; the girl herself seems to be distracted, and Kenma has a vague inkling as to why.
Alright, screw it. He holds his breath and finally clicks enter: When you said you were going to work hard, I didn’t think it would involve a stunted success rate. Still, I wish you all the best. You’re really persistent, you know that? Keep it up.
Despite himself, Kenma finds some entertainment in the way Zemu reacts upon reading his message. She’s frozen solid, like she had just gotten shot. Blood rushes to her face, down her neck, and her mouth is slightly gaping from surprise.
There’s a tingling in Kenma’s chest when it registers to him that he’s responsible for this reaction from Zemu. It feels… pleasant. Satisfying, like he’d just defeated a boss he’d been having difficulty with.
He only realizes that he’s been smiling the whole time he’s been watching her when his cheeks start to hurt. Onscreen, he can see that her entire face is burning, and once she finally regains some of her composure, she’s stumbling through her words. “Um… right. Where was I?”
Kenma huffs out a quiet laugh. Until now, he’s never really paid much attention to people and how he perceives them—and until now he’s never known it to be possible that someone could be this cute.
Cute? He catches himself. When did he start saying such things about another person? Even he can admit that it’s a little out of character for him to be preening over someone acting flustered—nevertheless, he can’t seem to stop.
And these thoughts plague him as he keeps tuning into her streams and making donos just to see her smile.
If this is already the way he is acting even before any tangible interaction with Zemu, imagine his reaction when she finally reaches out to him. Surprised is definitely an understatement, though he doesn’t know why he is—the Zemu he knew in high school would totally do the same.
uhh hey kozume-senpai,,,
ah, this is really awkward;;;
i think you already know who i am but!!
i’ll introduce myself again anyway////
it’s me, zemu from high school,, and if this makes you uncomfortable
i’ll just leave you alone and pretend this never happened,,,
i just felt like i should message you since youve been a regular in my streams these days…
and it kinda got me thinking about how things ended between us back in high school,,,
im not even sure if it ended okay,,, but tbh you were
the highlight of my high school years and i really hope
none of it left a bad taste in your mouth :Oc
He reads the message over and over again, unable to believe his eyes. To be honest, he hasn’t really expected any developments to come from his private messages and donos. He just really wanted to support her because he genuinely enjoys watching her streams—but this… is a pleasant surprise. He’s totally unprepared for it, but it’s a pleasant thing all the same.
Since then, they kept texting and talking. What began as an exchange of a couple messages turned into long conversations that went on until late into the night. And though he’s well aware that she previously harbored romantic feelings for him, in his mind, too much time has passed for puppy feelings like that to linger. Her support now, he thinks, comes only from simple kindness, or maybe loyalty to an old connection.
Still, there’s something about her that he can’t seem to ignore or dismiss. Every message from her leaves him grappling with a warmth that he doesn’t quite know yet what to do with. His skin tingles at the thought of her, a soft buzzing that trembles even his bones yet doesn’t shatter anything fragile in his body.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and maybe even a little unsettling but… not entirely unwelcome.
So he keeps the conversation going—because, somehow, talking to Zemu has become one of the few things he looks forward to everyday.
Kenma doesn’t realize just how much it has been ingrained into his routine until Kuroo—oh, so annoyingly endearing—points it out.
“So,” Kuroo drawls, using his feet to propel the swivel chair around like he’s some kind of movie villain, “what’s the world-famous Kodzuken up to these days?”
Kenma spares him a deadpan glance from the bed. “You say that every time you come over.”
“What?” Kuroo smirks, careening himself toward the bed. “‘World-famous Kodzuken’? You don’t like it? But it’s true!”
“Doesn’t mean I like it,” Kenma grumbles, returning his gaze to his phone, where he’s scrolling mindlessly on social media. His thumb freezes on the screen when he comes upon Zemu’s post: that “letting my followers decide what to play” thing was a disaster and i am NEVER doing that again!! 😭
A smile tugs at his lips before he knows it, and just as he’s about to scroll past the post, his phone disappears from his hands.
“Aha!” Kuroo exclaims triumphantly, looking at the screen. “Who’s this? Did she somehow capture my precious kouhai’s heart~?”
“Give it back,” Kenma says, but it’s weak and lacks conviction. He reaches for the phone, but Kuroo easily leans back just out of range, grin widening like he’s just found something infinitely more entertaining than bothering Kenma for no reason.
“‘Labyukeki,’” Kuroo reads, eyebrows shooting up. “Ohhh, this is that Zemu girl you’ve been talking about, isn’t she? Zemu.” He drags the name out, obnoxious and sing-songy.
“No, she’s not,” Kenma says flatly, though the heat creeping up his neck betrays him. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Kuroo hums, scrolling on Kenma’s phone with zero shame. “Because I distinctly remember you bringing her up at lunch earlier. And when I asked you who you were texting. And didn’t you just hang up from a call when I got here?”
“I didn’t bring her up,” Kenma snaps, finally managing to snatch his phone back, clutching it a little tighter than necessary when it’s finally brought to safety. “It just happened.”
Kuroo raises an incredulous brow. “And that makes a difference, how…?”
“It just does,” Kema insists, which is practically an invitation for Kuroo to stare at him with the kind of look that makes Kenma want to throw a blanket over his own head and vanish from the world. He hates it when Kuroo does that. “...What?”
Kuroo’s grin shifts into a more knowing look. “Nothing,” he says innocently. “It’s just interesting.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it, Kuro.” Kenma frowns.
“Mhm.” Kuroo props a chin in his hand. “So you don’t like her, then.”
Kenma sees the trap a second too late. “What kind of question is that?”
“A normal one?” Kuroo says. “You watch her a lot, talk to her a lot, smile at your phone like an idiot—”
“I don’t—”
“—you bring her up even when I’m not asking—”
“I do not—”
“—so naturally, I am left to wonder if my adorable little best friend has an adorable little crush,” Kuroo finishes with that same shit-eating grin.
“I don’t!”
“Interesting indeed,” he muses. “I wonder what this Zemu is like, and how in the world did she ever manage to capture the heart of my precious little best friend.”
“Stop saying that,” Kenma mutters. “And I have not one damn clue what you’re talking about, so quit making things up, okay? We’re friends, and I just watch her streams a lot. That’s it.”
“Right,” Kuroo says lightly, and it’s clear that he believes not a single word of what Kenma has said at all. “And you don’t smile at your phone like a lovesick cat.” He pauses, as if trying to weigh whether he should say his next words or not. In the end, his mischief wins: “And you definitely don’t get weirdly defensive when I mention her.”
“I am not being weirdly defensive,” Kenma says defensively.
“Of course, of course,” Kuroo says with a dismissive wave of his hamd, but he sounds far too pleased with himself to make a convincing act. “But it’s okay, I get it.”
“I told you,” Kenma says through gritted teeth. “There is nothing to get.”
“Kenma,” Kuroo says seriously, leaning forward now. He stares at him like he’s trying to cut through all of Kenma’s flimsy excuses with just his eyes. “I did not raise a coward. You like her.”
Raise a—? Kenma’s just about to say, an indignant string of curses forming in his mind before Kuroo’s words make him stop short in his tracks. Kuroo is obviously, stupidly wrong, and not one thing of what he said made the slightest bit of sense because—
His reason fails him.
Because—
Indeed, why exactly? He thinks of the way his eyes wander to his phone on instinct, searching for her name, the skip of his heartbeat when he finds it. He thinks of the way he looks forward to her streams, the way he leans closer to his computer in rapt attention, finding himself easily entertained by the way she stumbles hilariously yet gets right back up just as easily.
Kenma’s never been the type to seek validation in other people. He’s not the dictionary definition of confidence, but he’s secure in himself just enough that he finds it unnecessary to worry over how he is perceived. But with Zemu…
He finds himself feeling lighter, proud, when she laughs at something he says. He finds himself wanting to impress her, to induce even just the tiniest sliver of awe from her and hear her praise him like he’s the single most wonderful man she’s ever seen. Of course, as expressive as she is with her feelings, he’s never really had to try too hard.
Still… that does not erase the fact that he… tries.
Kenma Kozume—world-famous Kodzuken, as Kuroo infuriatingly puts it—who is known for his calm and collected disposition, who makes sponsors line up for the chance to work with him, only to be selective in the partnerships he wants to build, who makes it a point not to let anyone move him away from his stubborn principles…
…is actively being driven to action by the part of him that wants to impress Zemu.
The other, far more stubborn part of him wants to test its own limits: just how far is he going to keep pushing this narrative of friendly interest? His mind, then, constructs a handful of excuses: it’s normal to be intrigued by a recurring character, and wanting to impress someone isn’t anything special, either.
But they all fall apart under the scrutiny of Kuroo’s gaze and the gravity of his words. You like her.
Could the truth truly be as simple as that?
It’s a difficult notion to wrap his head around; after all, what does he know about liking someone? What does he even have to compare it to? Even after Kuroo finally leaves, he’s still turning the thought over in his mind.
He stares at the ceiling, phone on his chest, and it hovers over him like a persistent poltergeist, uncomfortable in its presence.
Liking someone. It sounds simple when someone like Kuroo says it—effortless, obvious, much like identifying a pattern in a game that you’ve seen used and reused a hundred times before. Oh, that’s just how it works. But this doesn’t feel like that. There’s no clear tutorial, no objective marker blinking at the corner of his vision telling him what this is supposed to be.
Liking her. Perhaps it is not such an impossibility, but does it even mean, to like someone? If, in fact, he does like her as Kuroo says, what does that mean for him? For them? Does he have to pursue her? Do they have to be in a relationship immediately? He doesn’t quite know if he’s ready for that yet.
“Why is this so hard?” he grumbled, burying his face into the pillow. “Damn you, Kuro. Why do you always have to make things so difficult for me?”
He flips on to his side. From this angle, he can see the soft pulses of light from the PC he left on sleep mode. It stares at him like a taunt, waiting for him to make the next move.
He sighs again: “...this is stupid,” but there’s no real bite to it anymore—because the more he tries to argue against it, the more everything lines up in a manner he can’t unsee.
It mocks him, a bait dangling just beyond his reach; the way his mood could easily shift from annoyance to entertained with just a few words from her, the way he notices things about her he normally wouldn’t about other people, and the way—without thinking—he chooses options that would lead back to her, again and again, like she’s some kind of default route he keeps unlocking.
If this were a game, he’d have figured it out by now, and there wouldn’t be this much confusion.
He groans once more as Kuroo’s annoyingly certain voice returns to him: You like her.
“Alright,” he says aloud to no one but the darkness. “Fine.” Shifting onto his back again like a man in distress, he drapes his arm over his eyes, a futile attempt to shield himself from the admission he had just made. “I... like her.”
At last—the realization of a lifetime has come into knowing, one long ripened in silence that is years in the making. And though it rushes forth not with trumpets or the swell of a victorious rhythm, it is no less profound in feeling and in thought.
A truth that does not break over him like weather, nor flare as a long-promised epiphany—only a guest in arrival that waits for his gaze to fall upon it with welcoming arms.
I like her.
Relief comes next, a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and it is his testament to the freedom that accompanies this acceptance. He wonders, fleetingly, at the long detour he took to arrive at something so inevitable.
So, there’s that. There’s the clear answer to the clear question that he never would have thought to ask himself if Kuroo hadn’t been so persistent. But…
He withdraws his arm from over his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “...So what if I do?”
What comes next?
His thoughts start to branch out in many directions at once. The road most traveled by is one that involves pursuing the object of your affections, but the idea feels foreign to him. Odd. He tries to break it down the way he would any unfamiliar system—compare it to what he already knows and map out the differences.
But every time he lines it up with what he already has with Zemu, the distinction blurs.
So what difference does being in a relationship make? Is it a label? Expectations? More time together? Less space? He doesn’t get it, and more importantly—he isn’t sure he wants to get it. At least, not right now.
He closes his eyes, the snake no longer chasing its tail in circles.
He likes her, and for now, he’s okay with leaving it at that.
“Hey,” Zemu’s voice crackles from his headphones. If Kenma closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that she’s right next to him. “Do you remember the game you were playing when we first met?”
“P3P,” he says immediately, scrambling for the memory. It slips through his fingers like sand, so he adds, “But I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t remember much else.”
“Oh, I figured,” she says. “You were preoccupied with training and all that, so I was honestly surprised when you still remembered me back at your graduation.”
Ah, right. His graduation—now, that day he remembers clearly, remembers the relief he felt when, finally, the high school chapter of his life has come to a close. Tora had been hounding him for weeks on end, trying to convince him to pursue volleyball, but he had been firm on his decision not to.
It was only during their graduation day that Tora finally relented, saying, “But you’d better watch me on TV, got it?” Then he’d turned to Kuroo and Yaku, who had taken the time to visit, and started crying.
Kenma had shaken his head, craning his neck to look around even though he didn’t really know who he was looking for. He had been just about to follow Tora when Zemu had called her.
“I remember,” he hears himself say, a smile on his face. At this point, he’s no longer interested in playing and decides to pause the game to focus on Zemu instead. “You ran through the crowd like you were late for something.”
“I was. I almost missed you.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You didn’t.”
The silence that follows is a comfortable one, but it stretches too long that Kenma returns to his game, thinking that was the end of it—and it’s only some minutes later that Zemu speaks again.
“You didn’t answer me that day, you know. When I said I’d capture your heart.”
“Right,” he says, pausing his game for the second time tonight.
“You just blinked at me,” she accuses, but he can hear only playfulness in her tone.
“I was overwhelmed,” he reasons, making her laugh under her breath.
“By my incredible romantic charisma?” she suggests, and Kenma can imagine her wiggling her eyebrows to tease him.
“No,” he says, deadpan. “By your volume.”
She gasps at this. “Rude!”
“Hmm,” he hums, and it’s nights like this that he’s able to actually appreciate just how easy it is, talking to Zemu. So easy, in fact, that he can’t believe he ever had a hard time dealing with her at all. “Back then I didn’t know how to handle someone like you but… I think I do now.”
Part of him regrets having been so… ah, perhaps anti-social is too aggressive a word, but what he’s looking for falls somewhat along the same zone. He should have tried harder to get close to her—hadn’t he been curious about her all this time? Instead, he’d let his uncertainty get the best of him.
He tries not to think of all the wasted years. They could have been friends way sooner, had he simply not been an idiot.
Oh, well. He sighs. At least they’d found each other again, after all this time.
He’s fallen so deep into the well of his thoughts that it takes him a while to register that she, too, had not spoken. “Hello?” he called into the static. “You still there, Zemu?”
He waited for a couple moments, but there was no answer. He pulled up the tab on his computer to check if she had somehow hung up on him, but she hadn’t. “Did she fall asleep…?” he mumbles to himself.
“Ah!” Finally, Zemu’s voice comes through. “Sorry. I’m still here, senpai. I…” she trails off. “I’m just tired. And oh! I just remembered, I have to do a stream in the morning, so I’ll go and get some rest now…”
She sounds weird, he thinks. What’s up with her? Did something happen? He tries to recall if he had heard anything from her end, but he’s fairly certain if there had been anything else other than silence, he would have remembered it.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
To his surprise, she hangs up on him.
Kenma stares at the screen, bewildered. The situation is so foreign to him that he realizes with a start that in the weeks they had spoken nonstop, she’s never ever done that before—hang up on him, that is.
It only further solidifies his theory that something had, in fact, happened to her. Perhaps she had received some kind of bad news and didn’t want to make him worry. And oh, isn’t tonight just filled with so many surprises? Kenma is startled once more to find that he feels disappointed she wouldn’t tell him what’s wrong.
Or perhaps it had been something he’d said? Then again, that only brings him back to the question: why wouldn’t she tell him?
Surely Zemu knows that she can tell him if he’d done or said something to bother her? Or had he given her the impression that he hates being told off?
He runs his hands over his face, sighing for the nth time tonight. He should just ask her about it tomorrow—or later, technically, since their call had gone late into the night. It’s not like there’s anything he can do about it right now, anyway.
He goes to bed, then, wishing tomorrow would come quickly so he can talk to her again.
He’d hoped that sleep would offer him, at least, some small solace from the nagging worry that he’d done something wrong. But as always, leave it to Zemu to get him to do this he’d otherwise never do—he’d never once tossed and turned over something he’ed said before, never carried a worry so persistent that it bothers him even in his dreams.
When he wakes up the next morning, his gaze snaps to the clock, only to realize he’s late for her scheduled stream. He fumbles for his computer and pulls up her profile immediately.
The face that greets him onscreen is noticeably tired. There are dark circles beneath her bloodshot eyes, and her hair—clearly “managed” in a rushed attempt to look tame—still frizzes at the edges.
It’s obvious to Kenma that Zemu hasn’t slept.
His thoughts return—again, again, again—to their conversation the night before, and once again, the suspicion returns in full force: he must have said something wrong, something so terrible that it kept her up all night. He’s certain of it.
Kenma stares at her face on the screen again. She’s smiling and giggling to herself, though he has no clue why. Perhaps she is delirious from the lack of sleep. Or perhaps something funny had happened earlier before he joined the stream. Still, even though she’s smiling like this, he still feels bad that she wasn’t able to get the rest she needed—all because of him.
Sighing, he makes a mental note to ask her about it later and apologize if he must, but first… a reminder. His fingers fly across the board before he knows it, and he hits send: You should sleep properly after this, Zemu. You look exhausted
It’s only when the chat erupts that he realizes how much of a big deal it is for him to send her a message on the public chat for everyone to see. Not that he’d wanted to hide it, exactly; it’s just that he’d forgotten how wildly people tend to react.
Meanwhile, he watches as Zemu blinks at the screen, then turns to look at the camera, searching for confirmation from her invisible audience.
EXCUSEME???@@$
GUYS DID THAT JUSR HAPPEN???
ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU FDFOING HEREE>???
sir?? why are you telling her what to do?? 🤨
OH WHO IS YOUUUUUUUUUUU
Despite himself, Kenma cracks a smile as he reads through the chat. Zemu really has built something here; a rare community that burns with life and is deeply connected with each other. Her viewers are like her in so many ways—their energy, the way they speak—and the thought only makes his smile wider.
Something warm swells in his chest. Pride, he realizes. It feels familiar, much like the time he and his team fought brilliantly against Karasuno. He’d been bursting with satisfaction, then, and gratitude for the team that had gone that far with him. He’d felt proud—both of himself and Nekoma.
Yes, he thinks now as he leans back on his gaming chair, that’s exactly it. Pride. He’s proud of Zemu for doing what she loves and finding people along the way who enjoy her company just as much as she enjoys theirs. A community like that is not so easy to come by.
“Ah, I—” she croaks, bright red. “Oh, I mean—yeah, I didn’t really sleep. So, yeah. That’s why. Haha.” Onscreen, her character takes damage as she misses a chance to attack, too distracted. “Wait, guys, slow down—”
Kenma watches her nibble on her lower lip as she unsuccessfully attempts to drag her attention back to the game. Unfortunately for Zemu, the aggressive flush finding its home on her cheeks and ears does nothing to convince anyone that she’s actually focusing.
For the rest of the stream, Kenma can’t seem to stop smiling as he watches her. Zemu has always been bad at games—that’s part of her charm—but today, she’s especially terrible, and the chat is having the time of their lives teasing her for it.
God, she’s so cute, Kenma can’t help but think all the while.
It’s only after she ends the stream that Kenma finally tears his gaze away from the screen, cheeks sore from smiling so much. His room now silent, he has this feeling that he’s forgetting something…
Right—he’d meant to ask what he’d done or said wrong last night. His thumb hovers over her name in his phone as he debated whether to text first or just call her outright.
Zemu ends up deciding for the both of them when she sends a text first.
you know, you make me rlly happy, kozume-senpai;;;
it’s just… i’m scared i might be too much for you again,,sorry if this is kinda random 😭 i just really wanted to say it
He reads the text over and over again, equal parts confused and happy. Confused, because this isn’t what he expected. Didn’t he do something to upset her last night? What’s with the sudden, sentimental message?
And still… he’s happy. He’s happy that he makes Zemu happy, and for all the scarcity of his gregarious qualities, she’s the one person he wants to keep getting along with. And he wants to keep making her happy for as long as he can—for as long as she lets him.
Too much? he wonders, staring at the words she sent. Once, that might have been true—once, he might have shrank away from her. But now… now Kenma wants to pull her close. He wants her to tell him everything—everything that bothers her, everything that brings her joy. He wants her to place pieces of herself into his hands and just let him see her, fully and honestly, in the way that he was not able to all those years ago.
He realized it last night, when he caught himself reading too deeply into her sudden change in behavior, turning over every word they had exchanged in the span of a few hours to recall what he might have done to offend her.
And, then, more than that, he’d fussed over why she didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him, even when he asked.
It aches to know that what he’d done to her in high school still weighs on her now, years later. He truly had not meant to do her any harm, and yet it seems that he had caused some irreversible damage that he can only hope to begin making up for.
You don’t have to worry about what happened in high school anymore.
I just didn’t know how to meet you halfway then, but now I do
He’d told her the same thing last night—only it had been something insignificant in passing. Now, he wants her to know the full magnitude of it, that she no longer needed to bother holding herself back around him.
If you’re still worried… I can tell you so you don’t have to keep guessing
Can I call you?
Her response is immediate: yes////
When Kenma first realized that he liked her beyond the typical boundaries of a platonic relationship, he had quickly decided to bury it. It had felt like the safe, logical choice, for keeping things the way they are with Zemu was enough—is enough for him.
But when it comes to her, Kenma finds that being complacent is never the right way to handle things. With Zemu, he must muster the courage and effort to leave his comfort zone and go out of his way for her.
And, of course, for her, he will do just that.
It’s decided. He’s not going to hold himself back anymore. After all, how can he, in good conscience, want to be the first person she thinks of when she wakes, when he can’t even prove himself worthy of such an honor? When he can’t even bring himself to tell her that he likes her and that he wants to be with her for a long, long time?
How can he ever hope to prove—both to her and to himself—the depth of his feelings if he does not make the first effort to bridge the yawning chasm between them?
What he has—what he wants to have—with her is not a game he can reset, but it is something that only moves forward if he does. And he can’t do that if he keeps hesitating. Besides, there are no extra lives waiting to be claimed if he lets this moment pass.
With a decisive sigh, Kenma presses the call button and watches his phone as it comes to life with a familiar ring.