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His name is Kuroo Tetsurou this time around. Acting captain of one of Tokyo’s finest and most resilient teams, Nekoma, he’s living a decent life so far, a fun one for sure. Not an exhilarating one by any means, like that time he rose to the pinnacle of power when rabid, snarling dynasties came right after one another in rapid succession, or when his scientific blockbusting breakthrough led to an era of awe. This life, belonging to the new rendition of himself, is a comfortable one for now.
He may forget it after more cycles whiz by. It’s impossible to remember everything that he’s seen, all the faces he’s come into contact with. There are other incidents, jarring ones that sometimes keep him awake at night, scratching at the back of his suppressed memories. Nightmares aren’t new for him, but that doesn’t mean that he’s used to them by any means. He’ll be sweating in his sleep, heart thundering, imprisoned in a nightmare that he’s lived before. Grotesque imagery he’s forced to relive make his days in underground crime look pretty, delicate, even.
And then he’ll be up. Kuroo won’t remember bolting up; the heavy burden of his chest desperately filling itself with air in short gasps never leaves him, though. No matter how many times he lives, that’s a constant. This thing—reincarnation—is his version of normal. Has been, for what? How many centuries has it been now? Eras mush together. He’s met thinkers that’ve challenged the very foundation of humanity. Kuroo’s been places he shouldn’t have, either. He’s died in tragedy that’d inspire Shakespeare, and he’s lived happy endings that’d leave the world with cavities.
The gasps are back. Short. Hasty. Shallow. Kuroo puts his hand over his heart. Just like he thought, it’s a stampede of frantic heartbeats. One, two, three, four, he counts them repeatedly, rhythmically. Pulsating heartbeats echo in his ears, and everywhere he looks is painted over with the deranged sights from his nightmares. They’re haunting him in real life too now.
This isn’t real.
He knows it’s not real. For these things, feuding empires, gut-wrenching plane crashes, to happen in the confines within his bedroom—
Stopping himself there from bringing memories dipped in anguish to the forefront of his thoughts, he concentrates on slowing down his heartbeat. In and out, in and out, in and out, in and out. That mantra’s looped in his head, above hellbent fires, above the suffocating water in the oceans, above rumbling earthquakes that’ve shaken his lives upside down.
Get up.
As soon as he thinks this, he doesn’t realize that he’s dressed and in the middle of sneaking out at 3:47 AM. Being alive for this long has made him the expert in sneaking out as well. There are other categories that he excels at from building experience, of course, yet he’s always been proficient at this one, even in his first life.
That’s a new one.
Streetlamps flicker on and off; it’s all right, though, because he’s trekking down a familiar road with his hands in his pockets. If they all went off at the same time, he’d have no trouble finding where he needs to go.
When was the last time he thought about his first life?
For the first time in a while, the prickling night air is uncomfortable, and Kuroo has trouble separating lingering harrowing imagery from reality.
Harrowing imagery and reality were inseparable at points.
Tokyo is always bright, always running. There’s part of it, however, on the outskirts that’s dimmer than the rest. As he walks, the voice of the city grows distant, hushed to a murmuring whisper that’d lull a child to sleep.
A fresh new sign above the convenience store he regularly goes to catches his eyes. The owners must have replaced the old, dying one that was vandalized months ago. Kuroo gives the sign another onceover. Stylized bold letters scream the shop's name, and there are no flickering letters that alter the name into an unsightly word. Like whenever he comes here, the parking lot’s nearly empty, save for the employees. There are other cars here today, which is odd, but not unheard of.
Automated doors slide open, welcoming him like an old friend. The cashier on duty greets him by name.
Kuroo peruses the aisles for nothing in particular. While scanning different boxes that seem to be the same, he decides to pick up a few things. He’s already out here, so why not?
When he peers over into the next aisle his heart lurches out of his throat; painfully scraping the sides of his throat, he quickly flattens his shock.
He doesn’t recognize your appearance, but he knows you better than anyone, because you’re like him. Little expressions that cross your face as you browse the store—Kuroo’s seen all of them.
Kuroo’s overwhelmed, and he turns away to recompose himself. Again, his heartbeat’s blaringly loud. Fragmented thoughts sprint across his mind, pairing with his clammy hands. The store’s comfortable quietude starkly contrasts with his jittering nerves. To be this visibly nervous is out of character for him. But this is no normal situation. You’re here, after all. In the same place as him, at the same time.
While living more lives than he can recall, Kuroo’s discovered little anomalies here and there. There are periods when he meets others like himself—others that can sympathize with the nightmares.
But then there’s you, the abnormality of abnormalities.
Soulmate.
You’re his soulmate, and he’s lived countless lives with you. They’ve ended in different ways—in love, in bitter divorces, in natural disaster, and the most agonizing of all: with not knowing each other.
Going over there and casually talking to you, maybe even dropping a pun into the mix, would be the ideal. You’d both rekindle your feelings for each other and—
Stop.
Kuroo picks up a random box and pretends to read it so that he doesn’t look as out of place as he feels. Issues never stop prodding at his lives. The most infuriating ones are tied to you.
It’s not uncommon for you both to live your lives without ever meeting each other. Fate, or whatever’s out there, isn’t kind to you just for being soulmates. In fact, there’s this odd tether of cruelty to the whole debacle.
You never remember him from your past lives. Ever.
Again, he doesn’t process that he’s walking until he’s reaching for the top shelf at a product you’d been eyeing. No, perhaps he didn’t want to realize it, because he doesn’t want to confront the situation until he absolutely must. Nationals aren’t as intimidating as this. There goes his heart again, thumping and pounding when he just managed to calm it down. It’s punching his eardrums again.
“Looking for this?” Kuroo brings the familiar box down to eyelevel. The design and lettering took hours to draw up, but what’s inside is better, because it’s your favorite. He should know. After all, you both started up the company together back in the early 1900s, propelling it to the juggernaut status it has today. Unlike your memories, it’s survived for this long. Contents inside the box have been altered, sure, yet it’s fundamentally the same, an invention you both laboriously worked on.
“Uh, no.” Awkward air drapes around both of you as you snatch away an item from the self below it. Immediately, he notices the glimmering on your ring finger. “But thank you. . .?”
So you’re married in this life.
Snowballing tragedy keeps piling up, he sadly muses.
“Kuroo,” he finishes for you, flashing a forlorn grin that doesn’t come close to meeting his eyes. Unsteadily—and hoping that you don’t notice his rocking hand—Kuroo puts the box back on the top shelf. Waving you goodbye, he says, “Nice to meet you.” It sounds much more somber than he meant for it. Briefly, he wonders if you caught it. If you did, nothing’s said. Kuroo walks away.
His name is Kuroo Tetsurou, and he remembers.