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People always assume things.
They assume Kenma dislikes people. They assume he dislikes talking, dislikes the outdoors, dislikes noise. They assume Kuro’s hair needs hairspray, or that Kuro is a playboy flirt who’s slept his way through the girls in his class.
People always assume things, and it takes too much effort on Kenma’s part to correct them. It’s not like it matters what they think, after all. What matters is how many times he can sneak sips of Kuro’s juice, or the number of little ridges on the sleeve of Kuro’s favorite jacket. (There’s thirty-nine, a little flattened and stretched from wear and tear.)
Kenma can’t stop people from assuming things, but that’s okay. He knows the truth, and so does Kuro, and that’s enough. It’s enough that Kuro knows it’s not that he dislikes people, it’s more that they.. make him uncomfortable. People are hard to understand, no matter how fascinating they are from a superficial, distanced level. Kuro knows Kenma really enjoys talking, when it’s in the quiet dark of their childish blankets forts or muffled against Kuro’s chest or his shoulder. Kuro knows that Kenma likes springtime, when it’s breezy and sunny, or those bright, blue days in autumn where everything is red and gold and scarves are a must. Kuro knows Kenma relies on noise to keep away the defining silence that sometimes smothers him. Kuro knows Kenma adores his bedhead, loves running his hands through the soft hair. And they both know that Kenma has been Kuro’s first everything.
They know the truth. And even when people assume things, they just turn away and continue on.
However.
Sometimes things are assumed that make Kenma bristle. He rarely ever shows it, but it happens.
The biggest one is his own apathy.
People have mocked Kuro for chasing after Kenma. Kenma, the “apathetic weirdo,” who only thinks about video games and leaving. They tease him subtly, backhanded jabs and misguided laughter. Kuro just shrugs, he doesn’t care. He knows Kenma loves him. He knows that.
Kenma, however.
Kenma hates it.
Kuro tells him it’s okay, it’s nothing to stress over. But it still gets to Kenma, when people undervalue his feelings for Kuro. He knows that Kuro understands, that doesn’t need to be explained. And yet…
When people assume he doesn’t feel for Kuro, it makes his insides twist into painful knots and his heart stutter. He loves Kuro. He does. He loves him so much it hurts, sometimes. He loves Kuro in a full body, unconditional way. Loving Kuro is just how he is. Kenma can’t breathe every now and then, too overcome with his sheer adoration for his best friend. Why can’t they all see that! Kenma wants the world to know how much he loves Kuro. The only problem? He doesn’t know how to express it in ways other people will understand.
No one understands what it means when Kenma pressed his face against Kuro’s back, just to inhale that cheap cologne Kuro keeps wearing. His back is broad, strong, soft, the perfect place for Kenma to squish up against, clench small fists in his jacket, or slip exploratory fingers up under his shirt just to feel Kuro shiver. It’s a back Kenma is so familiar with he doesn’t need to open his eyes, he knows what it looks like. Dark skin and smooth curves, that’s what he knows he will see under his paler fingertips and palms.
No one understands Kuro when he smiles as Kenma pulls out his game while they’re cuddled up on the bus or couch. Kuro knows Kenma isn’t ignoring him. Kenma just likes his games, and Kuro likes watching. He likes laughing at Kenma’s frustration, he likes helping Kenma name characters, he likes snatching the device out of Kenma’s hand and totally beating a level out of sheer luck. There’s always an extra battery pack in his pocket, easy to use for both Kenma’s handheld and his phone, just in case. Watching Kenma play his video games has been and always will be one of Kuro’s favorite past times.
But maybe… it’s okay. If people undervalue, assume, jump to conclusions. It’s Kuro who knows, it’s Kenma who knows, too. They understand what they have, they understand how sacred it is. It might itch under Kenma’s skin when people fail to see the truth, but maybe it’s okay, because Kuro understands, Kuro sees, he’s always seen. He’s always been the one to see what’s going on in Kenma’s heart and head and entire being. 1
So what if they don’t say I love you very often.
Kenma leaves little hearts on Kuro’s homework sometimes, hearts to match the sloppy things Kuro swears are hearts scribbled across Kenma’s notebooks. They’re always touching, it seems, even if it’s just the corner of their sleeves or their toes. They share shirts, socks, food, water, even toothbrushes. The I loves you’s are written in different ways, like the way Kuro always carries a dosage of Kenma’s meds, how Kenma always has a snack in his bag even if he never eats. Kuro does, and always gets the dopey smile that makes Kenma turn away to hide his own when he pulls out some sugary “nutrition” bar.
Years and years of knowing each other have dulled any embarrassment between the two. Kenma doesn’t hide from Kuro, as there’s no point. Kuro has seen every inch of him; both the physical and the mental. Kuro has seen Kenma break apart and tear himself to pieces, Kuro has seen Kenma pull himself up and swallow down his various mental demons. Kenma has watched Kuro fall to pieces in a single breath, the cool and collected captain hiding his face for near an hour while Kenma strokes his hair and doesn’t ask questions. This is what they do. They take care of each other, they don’t let the other stay miserable. There is a strict no moping policy between them. Bad days are a different matter, but moping always calls for gross raspberries blown against Kenma’s stomach, or prodding fingers at the bottom of Kuro’s feet that bring forth peels of cuttingly shrill laughter.
They’re Kuro and Kenma. They’re a matched set, a pair, complementing spirits. They don’t need others to know the truth, they know that themselves.
Kuro and Kenma.
Assumptions made by strangers are of no importance.