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It begins on a sweltering summer day in a cybercafé sitting deep in the less-than-palatable shadows of downtown Ginza.
You’re here to weather out the heat, but you’re also here because you’re on your fifth straight day of grinding Legends of Yazarith, the hottest new MOBA to hit Tokyo’s gaming scene, which has long been a saturated with fighting games (which are only fun for you in short increments) and RPGs (your pitifully short attention span forbids you from getting past the tutorial).
You’re on your eighth game of the day -- you’ve yet to nab your first win; it’s just one of those days -- and you’re in a shitty mood, so you start snipping back at your online teammates to get their shit together. It’s pretty vanilla (you’re in no mood to get yourself banned when the game’s only been out for a week), though somewhat passive aggressive, and no one’s responded to you so far because those who flame first always win.
Well, at least you think so until your jungler sends a whisper to you offscreen.
applepie5: hey
applepie5: ur a support main right
applepie5: ?
You wonder if this is bait.
When you decide it isn’t (If he really wanted to flame you, he’d use all-chat.), you answer.
luxegirl: yea
luxegirl: why?
applepie5: wait
applepie5: sec
applepie5 has slain an enemy.
applepie5 is on a killing spree!
An ally has been slain.
An enemy is legendary!
applepie5 has been slain.
applepie5: sigh
applepie5: our team is bad
luxegirl: yea
luxegirl: lol
The game ends in a matter of seconds and there’s some rustling from the back corner of the room, coupled with a bout of laughter. You look over, decide it’s not worth your time, and return to your screen and see that you’ve received a new friend request from applepie5.
You accept it, glance at his match history, and note he’s a jungle main.
applepie5: i’ve seen u in a few of my games
applepie5: ur pretty good
luxegirl: o? lol
luxegirl: thx
You pride yourself somewhat on having half a brain but decide not to push it.
You don’t really know this guy, after all, and though your exchange has been cordial so far (which is frankly amazing, considering how much this game could simultaneously bring out the worst in you), this could easily turn out to be some nutjob who’s asking for feet pics tomorrow. You’d have no way of knowing because this is the internet and the internet is a safe haven for overeager rejects.
applepie5: uh btw
applepie5: i’m not a weirdo
applepie5: promise
luxegirl: lol ok
That's only something a weirdo would say.
applepie5: ugh
applepie5: gimme a sec
There’s some more shuffling from the back corner of the room, and this time you pay attention, because there’s a dude with a bad dye job wearing a red tracksuit and a pair of yellow-tinted glasses that he pushes up to the top of his head when he makes his way over to you.
Yes, to you.
He’s not meeting your gaze when he stops short at your table and it looks like it’s taken him an aneurysm and a half to utter even a single word. “Luxegirl right?”
You squint at him, studying him, as if assessing the risks involved with revealing your online identity; you figure even if he does turn out to be some nutjob, you can take him. He’s impossibly small—frail, probably fragile. You don't know much about fighting, but you probably have a leg up on him.
“That would be me,” you state, all business, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him in your swivel seat. “Apple pie?” Ugh. You sound stupid. Very stupid.
“Yeah.” At the sound of his in-game ID, he perks up, all aversions to being shy apparently gone. “Listen. … There’s a tournament coming up in a month and we need a support for our five-man squad.” He motions over to the four guys by the back corner of the cybercafé, one of them waving your way with a shit-eating grin. “Ours just left to focus on medical school, so you could say we’re getting kind of desperate.”
Oh.
Oh.
You consider it, shifting your gaze back to your computer screen. “Um, I dunno,” you say, somewhat hesitantly, even though every nerve inside is screaming to join because none of your friends play this game and because it’s summer vacation and there’s literally nothing better to do. “I don’t really play competitively.” Why the fuck are you lying, you think—you only ever play ranked these days and he probably knows it from your match history.
“There’s a prize pool,” he tacks on, looking very much like he doesn’t buy your whole hard-to-get-shtick. “600,000 yen, winner takes all. We were gonna split it five ways, so that’d be 120,000 each, but you can have my share. Money doesn’t really interest me.”
You blink.
That’s 240,000 in your pocket if you win, and the thought alone is enough to make you twitch with excitement. “OK, deal,” you say, way too eagerly, and you unwittingly reach out a hand for him to shake, which he does by the way because of course he does—he’s the one who asked you to join in the first place.
“I’m Kenma,” he adds, smiling. “You can set yourself up over by our corner when you’re done with your time slot here.”
*
You quickly get to know the rest of the team.
Your top laner is a quiet guy from Sapporo who doesn’t speak much unless spoken to; and when he does speak, it’s in unhelpful increments of “yes”; “no”; or “I wouldn’t know.” Kenma tells you he’s as reliable as they come, which doesn’t mean much to you since top lane is an island unto itself, but you learn quickly that Kenma rarely says things he doesn’t mean so you believe him.
Your mid laner is also quiet -- which of course he is, why are literally all gamers either unsociable introverts or loudmouthed dickheads -- and looks like he’s barely out of middle school, but you don’t question it because you’re not ready to open up another can of worms quite yet. He does a helpful-enough job of calling out wards and vision, which means he has utility, but he also roams too much, doesn’t always pick up kills, and falls behind stupidly. Kenma says he likes an aggressive mid laner, which is what he is, so you decide not to pick that battle.
Your AD carry, the guy you end up sharing a lane with, is a very, very loud and excited salaryman from Osaka. He speaks with a dialect and when he gets excited you can hardly understand him, but he’s eager and positive, which rubs off on you and somehow makes you eager and positive too, something you thought was a near-given impossibility considering your rap sheet of fickleness.
However, your carry is also somewhat of a moron and the biggest liability on your team.
Alright, you think, after watching him die in two separate 3v1s, wasting all high cooldown abilities—you decide this is a battle you’re definitely going to pick later.
Kenma, you learn, is the shotcaller of the team, and speaks with a patience befitting of the most ancient monk in a faraway temple. He doesn’t always explain his thought process, but the few times he does you find yourself learning something new. It’s a pretty awesome phenomenon, since you’d assumed you’d learned the ins and outs of the game already.
You get in a few wins -- you do pretty well, all things considered -- and call it a day when the clock strikes 10pm.
*
You and Kenma amble up the stairs of cybercafe until a hot wave of summer night air punches through.
Cars whiz through the streets around you and the bustle of the city is fully alive and well, even at this hour.
“So what do you think?”
He doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy who beats around the bush, so you decide to be honest. “Your carry is a problem,” you say, feeling somewhat guilty because he’d been the most welcoming and receptive of them all. “He farms without looking at the map to see where we have vision, then complains when he dies.”
He’s listening -- he seems like he takes a lot of time to consider an answer before actually saying it aloud. After momentary lull, Kenma resigns himself. “Yeah.” He agrees with you, which is somewhat surprising, since this is his hand-picked team. “Carries can generally afford to be on the stupider side.”
"...yeah."
You’re itching to make your way to the subway station, but it looks like he’s waiting for you to say more, so you start rattling off other observations: your top laner’s decent (Kenma was right about that), your mid laner seems to do as well as Kenma does, and if Kenma’s ahead, which he usually is, so is his mid laner.
“Why do you jungle?” You ask, suddenly, because it only occurs to you then that he'd be suited for something flashier, maybe more impactful. “I thought for sure someone like you would want to play mid lane or AD."
He shrugs. “Jungling lets me control the tempo,” he states, very matter-of-factly, like it's something he hasn't given much thought to at all.
“Oi—Kenma!”
“That’s Kuroo.” Kenma beams at you—it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him beam so bright, and it’s enough to catch you off guard. “He's a friend of mine.”
“Oh, maybe I should—"
You think that’s your cue to go your separate ways, but the rooster-haired guy in the distance named Kuroo makes his way over with a pork bun in hand. “You’re late,” he states, somewhat tepidly, not a lick of surprise on that face as he hands over the pork bun to Kenma. Then he looks at you, assessing you with a smile that looks so practiced he could use it for a beauty pageant. “New friend?”
“New support,” Kenma looks to you. “What subway line are you taking?”
*
Turns out the three of you take the same line.
You don’t say much because those two look like they have history and being social with one person is hard enough, let alone two who have things to actually discuss.
From what you understand, they’re part of some volleyball club, and half of your heart can’t imagine Kenma playing volleyball, but you’re certainly not going to say that aloud, even if he is in the middle of crushing some random rhythm game on his phone that looks way more difficult than the game you were playing in the cybercafe.
“This is me,” Kenma says, standing up, waiting for the doors to open; and like a freaking ghost, he vanishes off the platform without another word, without even saying goodbye, and you’re left to your own devices with Kuroo, this stranger you’ve literally never met that you are now stuck with.
“You’re not getting off?” You ask dumbly, as the train moves along, smooth as butter across the tracks.
“Last stop,” he says, getting up from his seat and offering it up to a passing grandma with a handful of groceries. He hangs onto one of the handrails, leaning over as his shadow swallows you whole from above. “You?”
“Oh.” You blink, feeling somewhat miffed because you’ve never seen him on the same line as you before. Not that you would. Tokyo's a big city. “Me too.”
Suddenly you realize you have literally nothing to say to this guy—you don’t know him; he doesn’t know you, and you are bad at small talk, like, really, really bad. So you start fiddling with the phone in your pocket, wondering if it’s a bad look to start browsing the internet.
“You two make a really cute couple,” says the granny next to you. “Most couples these days just go on their phones without saying a word to one another—but you two…” She beams. “You two are really just something. It makes me happy.”
“Oh—we’re not—”
“Thanks granny.”
You blink, looking at Kuroo to see if he wants to take the lead on this one. But he just smiles back at granny and offers her a diatribe about how his generation is technologically obsessed with that practiced smile and granny has that look on her face like she’s part of a conversation she very much did not sign up for, which makes you wonder if this guy is 1) a moron 2) or an actual genius. You decide on the latter.
He moves on without a hitch, turning back to you. “So. What high school do you attend?” He asks, smiling. You realizes he smiles a lot, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it makes you wonder how many of them are actually genuine and how many of them are force of habit.
“Jissen.”
“Kenma and I go to Nekoma.”
“Oh. You must be really smart,” you say. "Nekoma's a crazy good school."
“Kenma’s really smart,” he smiles back. “Y’know, the lazy genius type. He sat in on my physics class just once and picked up all the concepts without a hitch. Cool, right?"
“Um…alright.” It’s starting to dawn on you that this guy talks about Kenma, like, a lot but maybe that’s just his way of filling the silence. You don't mind, instead, shaking the thought off. “So what’s this about you guys and volleyball?”
He doesn’t sit down even as the train cart begins to clear and you start wondering if maybe you smell bad. He tells you about his team -- they're lowkey, he says, but you don't get a chance to ask what the hell that even means -- and you don’t get much of a chance to wonder too much either because you hit the last stop and it’s time to get off.
You notice, of course, that he waits for you to get off the cart first before following along, and you think he must do this with everyone—he’s probably more polite than his disposition would show, what with the spiky hair and shit-eating grin like he's waiting for you to eat dirt. He's a genuinely nice guy.
“I’m not really good with gaming, that’s more of Kenma’s thing. Once I tried to tag along and play paladin in this, um, multiplayer game? I only had to press one button, but I couldn’t even do that without dying, so Kenma just gave up on trying to teach me.”
You’re ambling down the quiet backstreets of Hatagaya, wondering what you can say to contribute to this conversation about Kenma but you literally just met him today and have nothing to say that he probably doesn't already know.
You’re not all games, really, you have other interests. But how do you convey that without making him uncomfortable? So you frown, and he catches you frowning because he perks up. “Did I say something wrong?” He asks, leaning over like a question mark, blocking your view of the street. “What’s up?”
A blush kisses your cheeks and suddenly you’re finding it hard to focus because his face is dangerously close to yours. Talk about personal space. “Nothing,” you tell him. “I just—we don’t have to talk about games,” you tell him.
His smile vanishes, and for a moment, you’re the one wondering if you’ve said something wrong, but he bursts into laughter. “Oh thank god—I was just making it up as I went.” He beams, stretching his arms out wide. “Did any of what I said make sense?”
“Um, yeah. All of it,” you tell him, trying to swallow a laugh. “But it sounded like you were reading from a wiki page.” You stop short at the apartment complex at the top of the hill. “This is me.”
He stops short, gaze resting on your building. “Oh. Cool.” And he smiles, waving. “See you.”
You smile back. “See you.”
*
The next few days go by unceremoniously: you practice with Kenma and the team and make a concerted effort to help your carry, and for the most part, the five of you are in sync, a remarkable feat given how late you joined the game.
“Oi. Come with me,” Kenma calls out to you—the two of you have been working on invades into enemy territory, something you normally wouldn’t go out of your way to do in an online match, but playing with Kenma is like playing the game on easy mode.
You can focus more on the things you can do instead of what all your teammates are doing. You actually didn’t even know the game could be played this way, but now that you do, you’re not sure if you can go back to solo ranking.
At 10pm, the five of you call it quits for the night and head out together into the sweltering summer heat. Kuroo is outside, waiting, carrying two pork buns in his hands. He beams when he sees you, and for what it’s worth, you beam back.
“For you,” he says, offering you a bun.
“Really? Thank you,” you tell him, smiling. Then to Kenma. “Are we meeting at the same time tomorrow?”
Kuroo grins. “We have volleyball practice. Wanna come?”
Somewhat startled by the invitation, you nod unwittingly and suddenly Kenma is sighing and telling you it’s not worth coming to; it’s really boring, and Kuroo is being all eager and excited that you’re not even sure what you should be feeling. “Kenma looks really cool in a uniform,” he says, and hey that’s kind of a weird thing to say about your friend, but you’re so busy biting down into your pork bun, your gaze resting on Kuroo, that you completely miss his shit-eating grin and the way he’s nudging Kenma in the chest.
*
The next morning, you wake up at 6am and dust on some BB cream and eyeliner before stumbling out your front door.
You meet outside a gymnasium downtown, where there’s a spread of abandoned warehouses and shuttered restaurants.
Naturally you think, of course, alright, it’s happening—this is where I’m going to get kidnapped—this is where young girls go to die until a voice calls out from behind you “Oi! Over here!” and you brace yourself for the impact because it’s definitely, definitely happening today.
Instead, Kuroo puts a hand on your shoulder, jolting you out of your morbid reverie. “Hey, did you hear me? The gym’s back there.” And naturally, you shriek at the sound of his voice.
“Whoa!” He backs off, somewhat incredulous at your shock. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You OK?”
You clutch at your chest, not realizing you’d been holding your breath up until this point. “Kuroo.” Exhale. “Oh thank god it’s just you.”
He arches a brow. “Who were you expecting?”
“A murderer,” you mutter, feeling your face heat up.
“A murderer?”
Your face turns red – you didn’t actually expect him to hear you. And now that he has, you’re embarrassed. Like, really, really embarrassed. You whip around, ready to bury your head into the ground, instead, making a B-line towards the subway station, but Kuroo hooks his index finger onto the collar of your shirt before you can get even one step in.
“Oi—wrong way,” he chides, tugging you in the opposite direction where the words Kaifu Gym are printed in big block letters.
You relent and let him lead you while he starts rattling off casual insincerities: “this’ll be fun!” “you’ll get to see Kenma in a new setting!” “Kenma’s waiting on the court—you’ll get to see—”
“Kuroo.”
At once, he stops, unhooking his index finger from your collar. “Yeah, what’s up?”
You pause, shaking the thought off. “Never mind.” You follow him from behind and he has a look on his face like he’s wondering what he’s done wrong.
*
You're the only one who shows up to watch, and Kenma is right, this is kind of boring. They're doing weight training, dead sprints, pretty much anything under the sun, and you find yourself a quiet corner to watch from a distance because, well, there's nothing better to do.
Only when they start practicing on the court do you pay attention, and you notice, of course, that they look a little different in their uniforms, that Kuroo is right. Seeing Kenma in a new setting is kind of inspiring, even if he does look less than interested in whatever Yaku and the others are doing by the base line.
This is cognitive dissonance because you’ve only ever seen Kenma behind a computer screen and Kuroo as the guy who kisses up to random grannies on trains. “You guys are pretty cool," you tell them once practice ends.
Kuroo nudges Kenma in the ribs, grinning.
*
You take the train back together. Again, it’s just you and Kuroo now, and he's still talking about Kenma-this, Kenma-that, the fact that Kenma would've never picked up a volleyball had it not been for him. “Y'know, Kenma wouldn’t have even given it a chance—”
“Kuroo.”
He meets your gaze, “Mm?”
“Why do you always talk about Kenma?” You say, feeling somewhat on edge now that the train carts are completely empty and there are no grannies to buffer the odd space sitting between you.
Kuroo blinks, leaning over you. “Don't you have a crush on him?"
You blink. He blinks back.
You blink again. He beams, smiling.
"Um, no. He's a friend. A teammate, I guess." A sigh escapes your lips. “That’s why you’ve been talking about him all the time? Because you were trying to wingman?”
Now it’s his turn to blink. “Hm, yeah, I guess I was.”
“Kenma’s a friend, a teammate,” you tell him again, just so he knows, feeling your face go hot because this is actually a bit humiliating to admit aloud. You sound like a child, and this is so not what you signed up for. “So please. Let’s talk about something else. Anything. Tell me about your favorite ice cream flavor. Your favorite classes. Just. Anything. Else. Please, I’m begging you.”
He pauses, considers it a moment. “OK, OK.” He starts stroking the very nonexistent stubble on his chin. “It’s strawberry and o-chem.” He lowers his gaze to yours, smiling. “Also, would you wanna hang out this weekend? Like, on a date.”
You blink.
He blinks back.
“OK.”
*
You put on your cutest dress, check your makeup twice, and leave your apartment complex to find Kuroo waiting for you in a pair of jeans and a button up halfway tucked in. He’s a pretty snazzy dresser, albeit casual, and when he meets your gaze, he beams. “You look nice,” he says, and you tell him he looks nice too—which makes him grin wider.
“So what do you wanna do today?” You ask. “Weather’s nice.”
“I have something planned.”
*
He takes you a cat café in Akihabara, where you drink coffee, play with kittens, and talk about your lives.
You tell Kuroo about your team and he tells you about his. You learn he's the captain, which is important, and he tells you while he may not be the flashiest player, he's certainly reliable, which is a weird thing to brag about because most players would be entering a whole pissing contest to see who could jump highest. Some part of you expects him to bring up Kenma again, but he doesn't; he's totally reverent to the players on his team, rarely ever taking credit for their success, and for a moment you wonder if he's just bullshitting you -- but from the look in his eye, that one of absolute adoration, you realize he's telling the truth.
"I hope I get to watch you compete for real some day," you tell him.
"You should come to our showmatch next week," he says, petting a particularly friendly kitten who has its belly out for rubs. "Not quite a real competition, but close enough, right? You'll get to see us really shine."
Us, you think. He never says I; it's always us.
You beam. "OK. But on one condition."
"Mm?"
"You have to come to our game first."
He throws his head back when he laughs. You've learned to really like the sound of his laugh. "I was already planning on it," he tells you. "Don't worry, I'll be your first and most loyal fan."
You believe him.
*
He walks you to your apartment after your outing. He tells you about his dad (he works two jobs to make ends meet) and his grandparents (they practically raised him); and you tell him about your mom (who never ceases to piss you off), your brother (who apparently inherited her ability to piss you off too), and your dad who seems content to just watch your mom and brother piss you off. You half-expect him to give you some diatribe about appreciating your parents, but he doesn't; he just laughs, which makes you laugh and suddenly the topic of family doesn't seem so weird anymore.
He stops in front of your complex and you meet his gaze, pausing. "Um, I guess this is me," you say, somewhat hesitantly, just so you have something to fill the space.
He beams. "I'll see you at your game then?"
"Um..." You sort of expected him to kiss you, but when the realization dawns that he probably isn't going to, you resign yourself. "Yeah!" You say -- yikes, it's a bit eager, but you decide not to dwell on it. "I'll see you at the game."
"Cool."
It's quiet, and he pauses, leaning over--
--and brushes away an eyelash from your face. "Make a wish," he says, cradling it on the soft pad of his index finger like it's some precious treasure only two you can see.
You smile and blow.
*
The day of your tournament inevitably rolls around and you huddle in a circle with your team before the start of the match.
Some part of you expects Kenma to make some speech, but he doesn’t, so you decide to take on that mantle. “Let’s keep up what we’ve done in scrims,” you tell them. “On a count of three—go team!”
“Go team!”
You take your seats in the box at the back of the café and spot Kuroo outside in the first row, among rows and rows of empty seats, waving two little homemade flags with your name and Kenma’s name painted in sparkles.
You smile and wave at him before taking your seat, turning on the PC, and zoning in.
*
It’s a best-of-three, due to the time constraints of having ten free booths occupied by “un-paying customers” and the first game is an unceremonious slug: your team compositions are both poised for late-game, no one’s making the first move, and everyone has jitters, including you, because this is your first time playing-playing, and this isn’t like solo-ranking or scrimming. Everyone’s dead serious.
“We can do this,” says Kenma. “Just like practice.”
For whatever reason, it sticks—and works. Because your carry starts playing aggressive, as does your mid laner, and your top laner is finally aware there’s a whole half of a map he hasn’t been looking at. The five of you close out the game, inevitably, and win by only a sliver thanks to a clutch four-man stun from Kenma.
The second game is a wipe.
Your enemy gets the early ball rolling by bullying Kenma in the jungle, which makes it impossible for the rest of your team to catch up. Your mid laner falls behind, your AD carry tilts off the face of the earth, and even your top laner starts flailing. They know Kenma is your trump card, and the panic starts settling in because there’s nothing you can do about it: they’ve opened up Pandora’s Box and all you can do is desperately try to wrangle the chaos that’s already escaped into the atmosphere.
No one says much as you gear up for your third game, not even Kenma.
You look at Kuroo, who beams at you, and back at your screen.
But you—you have a feeling, and you urge Kenma, your top laner, and your carry to wait in the bushes for an invade, even as your mid laner bitches about how this is going to waste time and resources. You just have a feeling—a feeling, and sometimes a feeling is all you need.
Their jungler shows up, along with their support, but you get the catch on them first with a stun.
Double-kill. Triple-kill.
Your mid laner meets you in the river, along with your top laner.
Quadra-kill.
Ace.
The ball gets rolling and it doesn’t stop.
*
You always imagined winning something—winning and then making your way over to kiss your boyfriend in celebration, but in the moment, all you can do is huddle up with Kenma and your teammates and cry because you’ve literally never won anything in your life, let alone with an actual team.
You did it, you think, smiling.
We did it.
*
Since you end up taking a sizable portion of prize pool, as promised by Kenma, you offer to pay for ice cream on the way home.
Technically, eating on the subway isn’t allowed—well, it’s looked down upon—but it’s late and you don’t care. “Oi, Kenma, you know she's coming to watch our showmatch this weekend,” says Kuroo, taking a lick of his strawberry sundae pop.
Kenma arches a brow, looking up from his rhythm game to study Kuroo’s face before looking at you—and you blush, of course, looking very, very inconspicuously at the far edge of the subway cart where no one’s sitting. “Um—yeah,” you say, trying hard not to blush because both of their gazes are fixed on you, waiting. "I was going to tell you about that."
“Are you two dating.”
You blink. Kuroo gives a thumbs up. You try not to literally face-palm.
Kenma sighs. “No wonder you showed up to our game,” he says, looking at Kuroo. “Should’ve just said so.”
"Where's the fun in that?"
You lower your gaze, feeling somewhat ashamed. “I didn’t want things to be weird since the three of us are friends.”
"It's not weird," he says, standing up to exit the subway cart.
He offers a smile before taking off.
*
"So we're dating...?" You say, stopping at the entrance of your apartment complex.
"Well, we went on a date, so I'm not wrong with the verbage," says Kuroo, looking very smugly at you. "If you want to get technical about the correct nomenclature."
"No need to be defensive," you tell him, arching a brow, somewhat amused at how thrown off he looks. "I wasn't accusing you of anything." You get the feeling he doesn't like being wrong, and the thought alone is enough to make you smile. "Just wanted to get the full picture."
"Full picture huh," he says, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. "Well, what do you--"
"--we're dating," you say, feeling your stomach do a backflip. Because you've said it aloud and it's true, and now you're starting to understand why Kuroo is acting so weird and defensive. You feel strangely vulnerable. "Yeah. That sounds right. But."
He looks wounded. "But?"
You tip-toe and press a quick kiss to his lips.
Almost instantaneously, a blush kisses your cheeks and you lower yourself back to the ground. "There," you say, turning your heel towards your complex, glancing over your shoulder to see the look on his face -- something of shock, surprise, and humility. "Now we're dating."
He smiles.
*
Kuroo is good.
Like, not just high school good, but actually good—like you could see him playing volleyball in a real league, or in the Olympics, or in a Nike commercial kind of good. You don’t know much about the sport -- hell, you aren’t a very sporty person to begin with -- but it’s easy enough to understand he’s one of the pillars of the team. Which makes sense. He’s a captain. In every sense of the word.
The other team has much flashier players: they jump high, spike hard, and run with gusto across the floor like their lives are half a breath from being taken away. They have a whole stand of cheerleaders—cute girls wearing their jersey numbers, a cheer squad dedicated to chanting, and flyers with their team name.
You realize Kuroo is the kind of player that shines most when he’s quiet. What a weird phenomenon given his daily disposition, but you suppose it’s not totally uncharacteristic. He's perfectly content being in the shadow of someone else's greatness, even if it means he goes totally unnoticed.
He waves at you from the base line of the court, ready to serve.
You wave back, somewhat stupidly.
And hold your breath when he tosses the ball high in the air.
*
The gym empties out fast after Nekoma wins.
“T—That was awesome,” you say, beaming, and you find yourself somewhat mesmerized by his face, covered in a sheen of sweat—and the way his muscles ripple from the back of his shirt.
Oh. Oh.
He’s actually totally ripped, all lean muscle and no pudge at all.
“Thanks,” he grins at you like it’s no big deal at all and you decide not to tease him about how freakin’ in the zone he was—how much he seemed like a stranger, like…a real athlete! Holy shit, he is a real athlete, and when the realization dawns, you blush.
“Are you hungry? Wanna grab dinner?” Thank god his question is enough to break you away from that silly reverie, and you nod, of course, even though you’re not that hungry at all.
“Um, Kuroo,” you say, leaning against the pillar, trying hard not to meet his gaze.
Actually, trying pretty damn hard not to look so obvious checking him out—but he notices (of course he notices), and next thing you know he turns around and has you caged against the pillar, hands on either side of you like something straight out of a shojo manga.
Your face goes hot, looking up to meet his gaze; and you notice he’s no longer smiling—his eyes are heavy-lidded, hungry, and dark. “Kuroo—” But there’s no resolve in your voice and you sound pathetic and desperate—and what are you if not pathetic and desperate?
He presses closer, closer, until his skin meets yours, and finally, your lips.
It’s a chaste and tender kiss—a peck, innocent as can be, and when he pulls back you wonder if you’ve done something wrong, only to realize he’s actually teasing you. “You’re cute when you blush,” he tells you, brushing a lock of hair away from your face, and fine—two can play at this game, you think, frowning.
You grab him by the scruff of his uniform and pull him into another kiss, which surprises him enough. Your teeth clash, clumsily, and the suddenness throws off the angle of your head, but he shifts, grabbing you by the thighs—hauling you to your feet. And you yelp from the abruptness, but wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling him writhe between your legs as your back presses hard against the pillar.
His tongue slips into your mouth and suddenly everything is hot, eager, and sticky. Kuroo is an impassionate kisser, content with being submissive and forcing you to take the lead—but taking the reins just as you’re starting to get aggressive and utterly overwhelming you. You run your hands through his hair and he pushes you harder against the pillar, moaning into your mouth, rocking against you when you link your ankles around his back to prop yourself up properly.
You want to get closer—is it even possible to get closer, you think—and the kiss starts spiraling, becoming more desperate, more raw, and less playful and fun. He goes hard, and you can feel the rub of him between your legs. With one hand still squeezing your thigh, he reaches up his free hand to slide under your shirt.
Until the door of the gym slams open and you freeze.
Shit.
Slowly, Kuroo pulls back and your breaths go silent as he peers over the corner to check who it is, only to meet your gaze with a shit-eating grin. You’re behind the pillar, this is OK, as long as they don't see you, right?
Ugh.
Making out in a place as public as this is for dipshits and what are you if not a dipshit?
“Huh. Guess he’s not here.”
It's Yaku.
You literally want to bury your face in the ground like an ostrich, but Kuroo just smiles at you—maybe he’s trying to be reassuring, but sadly that shit-licking grin on his face does little to relieve your concerns.
“Weird, I didn’t see him leave.”
Ah, Kenma’s here too. Fantastic.
Kuroo gives your thigh a squeeze and you have to mentally remind yourself to shut the fuck up because there are people on the other side of the pillar, other people who are no doubt looking for you. But he doesn’t seem to mind, leaning in, pressing a kiss to your cheek—your neck…
You swat him away, shooting him a glare.
There’s some shuffling as Kenma yawns. “He probably left right after the game with his girlfriend. If not, he won’t mind if we head out—”
A pause.
“First.”
OK, Kenma knows.
Fuck.
“Go on without me,” Kenma tacks on. “I left my shoes in the locker room.”
“Alright, fine. Suit yourself.”
There’s the creak of the gym doors, then silence. Kuroo looks at you again, not quite understanding the severity of your actions, the fact that Kenma has figured you out—and he actually presses up against you, his erection hard against your thigh. “Oi, Kuroo,” Kenma interjects, voice utterly devoid of any emotion or interest. “Your bag’s still on the bench, so’s your jacket. So wherever you are, you should probably get dressed."
Kuroo just smiles, still out of his eyeline. “Oh? You sure that’s mine?”
…
You actually give him a shove in the shoulder, and a look like what the fuck—and he snorts with laughter while Kenma sighs. “You might wanna be more subtle next time,” he says.
You think he's probably rearing to leave, but.
“Or maybe you two should find a love hotel.”
A very unhelpful suggestion, but fine, it’s totally fair.
*
The subway ride back is quiet.
Kuroo’s leaning over you, holding onto the guardrail, and you’re finding it very, very hard to muster up the courage to say something without blushing at him.
He looks uncharacteristically peeved, “I mean, do you want to?”
Silence.
“Um, yeah.” But your insides are screaming—of course I want to! “Yeah,” you say with just a little more resolve this time, looking up to meet his gaze. “I do.”
*
Turns out love hotels in Shibuya are a pretty hot spot at 1am in the morning, a somewhat relieving revelation because you’d rather not be remembered by the hotel manager, a nice old man who looks like someone’s grandpa, who checks you into your room: second floor, flower-themed, and smelling of springtime daisies and summer fields.
“I’ll take a shower first,” Kuroo says, smiling at you, and you nod, watching him strip off his jersey with a blush. Seriously, you do your best not to stare, but you can’t help but wonder if he’s doing this on purpose—and you don’t have to wonder long because that smile on his face fades into something of a smirk. “Like what you see?”
"I can't believe you just said that," you sigh and throw a pillow at him—he catches it, laughs, and takes off towards the shower.
The wait is excruciating, so you turn on the television, nothing interesting there, and start fiddling with the contents of the room.
You parse through the room service options, even though you have no intent to eat; you start opening various cabinets, half-expecting something new every time you open them, only to find the same old can of peanuts and soda; and you look at the basket of—wait, are those contraceptives? Right, right. You don’t need that. You’re on birth control. Wait, did you take your pill today? Yes you did, idiot, you have an alarm for these things.
When Kuroo returns, the steam of the shower follows him into the living space.
This is real. This is happening.
He takes a seat on the bed, the weight pulling down next to you. "Listen," he says. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I'm fine with--"
"--I want to," you interject quickly because, well, it's true: you really want to. You're just not sure where to begin. "I just...can we go slow?"
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Of course." And pauses before leaning in to kiss you again, his skin still damp -- you realize he tastes like somewhat…spicy? Like cinnamon and something earthy. And he's surprisingly gentle, considering what happened in the gym, and you move to grip something only to remember he’s already half-naked. He presses you slowly into the mattress and his chest is pressed against yours, still blistering hot from the steam of the shower, and suddenly the fabric of your dress feels too thin between you.
“Can I ask you something?” You say, pulling back with a blush.
"Sure."
"Um..." Maybe it's a little weird to be asking now, but what the hell, why not. "When did you know...you liked me?"
Kuroo grins, cupping your chin with one hand. “From the first day we met.”
You’re about to ask him if he really believes in love at first sight, but he leans in and presses an innocent kiss to your cheek—something weirdly domestic given the fact that you’re literally sitting on the bed of a love hotel. “I always thought you were cute,” he says. “But I really thought you had a thing for Kenma.” Ah—back to this again, you think, and you don’t notice his hands are crawling under the hem of your dress, his fingers brushing across the skin of your stomach.
He seems like he knows what he’s doing and you let him take the lead, relaxing into the mattress as he presses one, two—three more kisses to your mouth. You’re warm and nervous, and as if he’s read your mind, he offers you a reassuring kiss to the cheek again. “Slow,” he says, tenderly. “We don’t have to rush.”
You giggle—you’ve never seen him so soft before. “You don’t have to be that delicate,” you say. “I’m not fragile, y’know.”
Whatever apprehensions he had about going ridiculously slow are apparently gone as he undoes the straps of your dress, letting the fabric slide down your shoulders until your breasts are on full display. His hands start moving before you get lost in the anxiety of being half-naked before him for the first time and he starts feeling the curve of your body. “You’re so cute,” he says, husky and low, and you hold your breath when his thumb brushes against your nipple—replacing it with his mouth in the same breath, his tongue swirling gently until it’s completely stiff.
Shit, shit—“Um, Kuroo—maybe I should—”
“It’s alright,” he whispers. “Let me do the work.”
You don’t want to be a total pillow princess, but if he insists…who are you to tell him no?
He presses a line of kisses down your bare stomach until he reaches the fabric of your underwear, which are already damp and wet. He pauses, playing with the hem, and you blush, ushering him to hurry up because you’re starting to get conscious of how close his face is.
“My bad,” he says, tugging down your underwear—taking in the sight of your naked body, looking like he’s literally just won the jackpot. “Just wanted to enjoy this for what it's worth,” he tells you, and his fingers dip lower to touch your aching center, and you arch your back at the contact, trying not to moan because it’s too early to sound so needy and desperate.
Kuroo seems really pleased with your reaction, grinning. But he doesn’t boast, pressing two soft fingers against your center again, making you writhe. “Kuroo—I—,” and all your thoughts vanish to dust when he slips a single finger inside you, sopping wet.
“Slowly, right?” He smiles, but that smile betrays an infinite amount of mischief. “You’re the one who said you weren’t fragile.” And before you get the chance to respond with something snippy, he lowers his face to your center and presses his tongue against your clit with one long lick.
You start trembling—sure, you’ve imagined this many, many times, but nothing ever compares to the real thing, and when you moan, you have to physically restrain yourself from letting out these embarrassing noises.
“Relax,” he whispers softly, pulling away. “It’s just you and me,” and for whatever reason, his impassioned attempt to make you relax actually works. Because when he lowers himself to go down on you again, you arch your back, focusing on the wet slurping sounds he’s making, the way his tongue feels against you—and you’re whispering his name softly, literally humping his face, but his hands come up and dig into your thighs, stopping you from going too fast, too hard.
You try to focus on the fact that he has two fingers buried inside you, and the sounds are so absurd you start quivering—the sensation is too much, what with his tongue swirling around your clit, the heat of his breath closed around your entire center, and the two fingers digging in and out, scratching at the itch inside you.
Whatever anxiety you had is gone and you’re tensing around him, squeezing because that’s all you can do to feed that terribly delicious itch inside you. “Kuroo, please—” And all your aversions to sounding desperate and needy are apparently gone because you’re literally begging him to go faster, which he obliges, of course he does, and he offers you just a smile before digging his tongue harder against your clit—
And you moan, loudly, and you’ve gotten over the fact that Kuroo’s constantly peering up at your body, the way you’re writhing as his fingers curl inside you. He’s slurping, sucking, making all these wet and messy sounds—and you press closer to his face, raising your hips, offering yourself up shamelessly because you’re all desperate and longing as you search for something you can’t quite put your finger on.
Until you do—his fingers curling against just the right place, and suddenly the itch inside you bursts, stretching from your core to your fingertips; you’re trembling, shaking until you’re convulsing, pulling his hair, riding the wave of your orgasm, and he digs his hand into your thigh, squeezing tight, helping you ride it out until you’re pushing him away, until you’ve had enough. But all he does is curl his finger and you think you hear his name on your lips but you’re dazed in the afterglow, covered in sweat.
When he pulls away, he smiles and crawls next to you, planting a kiss on your mouth, and you taste yourself. “Aw, you look tired,” he says. “We can stop here if you—”
“No,” you say, turning him on his back, straddling him and feeling his erection press stiffly against the inside of your thighs. When you pull back the hem of his boxer shorts, you blush—you actually blush like an idiot because of course you’ve thought about his dick, but you never thought you’d be straddling it on the mattress of some cheesy love hotel. In fact, you started this whole summer fling thinking you’d never get past second base, or first base for that matter, but here you are.
Kuroo’s moderately big, not too veiny but with a curved head, and he’s watching you with a smirk and suddenly you’re very conscious of the way you’re staring—and getting annoyed at how smug he looks reclining back on his back.
You don’t think twice, settling over his erection, lining yourself up carefully while he keeps his eyes on you, holding you by the waist to steady your balance.
A gasp escapes you as he comes inside you—slow, just the tip. And you pause, feeling a shiver of excitement run down your spine as you ease yourself down; you’re keenly aware of the fact that he’s whispering quiet praises under his breath “there, slower—just like that”; “good, that’s good”; “you’re doing so great” and when he’s finally buried by the hilt, you realize his fingers are digging into your thighs so tight it hurts.
“You’re OK?” He says, softly, and it takes you a moment to understand he’s holding back from completely bucking inside you—that he’s taking it easy on you. "Talk to me."
“I’m good,” you say, and you buck your hips once, trembling at the feeling of him inside you. He closes his eyes, digging his fingers into your thighs, but it feels good, like a prickle of external pleasure that doesn’t quite compare to the internal pleasure between your legs.
In fact, it’s rare to see him so pleading, so desperate, that you have to lean over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Aw, you look tired,” you say, mockingly—and when you sit back up, you feel him bury himself deep inside you again. “Should we stop?”
He laughs humorlessly, and you decide to stop teasing, bucking your hips—the ache between your legs starting to warm and feel really, really good. Deliciously good in a way that his fingers weren’t—and when you glance down to see where you’re connected, you feel your breath hitch. He stops just short of pounding into you, still restraining himself steady. “Guess I shouldn’t tease so much,” he manages to muster out, every word an even bigger strain on his already strained voice.
“I like it,” you tell him, and he grabs you by the hips, crushing you closer—whatever dignity he has is gone, and you buck your hips as he thrusts himself inside you.
His rhythm goes faster and faster, until there’s no rhythm at all—it’s just desperation to cum and he’s pumping, hitting that spot inside you that makes you arch your back. His eyes roam your body, the way your breasts bounce, and suddenly he’s clenching your ass and thrusting harder inside you—
“Kuroo,” you pant his name in every exhalation, and apparently that’s some signal for him to start digging harder into you—but whatever he’s doing, it’s working, because another itch is building inside you, building fast. “Kuroo.”
He shifts, tossing you into the mattress—and suddenly you’re being pressed down as he enters you again in one swift thrust—and you’re whimpering when he grinds his hips into yours, his fingers reaching down to circle your clit. “Wanna see you cum again,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a kiss. “You can do that for me, right?” And he thrusts again and again, his fingers getting desperate and sticky with your slick.
“Mmrpfh—” You literally can’t muster out anything but his name and your moans, and you rake your nails into his back as he slams into you harder, harder—
And then you cum, again, and he keeps thrusting inside you, helping you ride that wave of your orgasm—that wet slapping sound deliriously fucking good as he cums right after with a grunt, his dick twitching inside you as his thrusts slow to a halt.
He stays inside you for just a while, catching his breath, smiling at you.
He brushes a lock of your hair away from your face. "You're so cute," he says again, and somehow he says it with no smugness at all this time; he actually means it, he adores you, and truly, you believe him.
Only then does he roll onto his back and you have to remind yourself to take a breath as dark spots start clouding your eyes— “I wish we met earlier this summer,” you tell him. "We should've done this a long time ago." And he laughs in agreement.
*
Summer ends.
Kuroo knits his brows, peering at the text on his computer screen. “What does it mean when someone says my flame game is weak?”
You lean over to look at his computer and see a bunch of asterisks in his allchat.
ref0rmed: neko do me a favor ?
neko1994: sure!
ref0rmed: delete this game
neko1994: but i'm in a cybercafe
neko1994: my friend won a tournament for this game here actually
ref0rmed: lmao then go suck his dick u fuckin fangirl
neko1994: i'm a guy
reformed: delete the game
You scooch over, leaning over his keyboard to type up a response for him. “Hey, you smell really nice,” he says, leaning in to smell your hair. “Is that your shampoo?"
But you keep looking at the text in his allchat and decide it's not worth your time. Why bother, you think, staring at your timeslot, there's no point in wasting what little valuable time you have left in the day. “Let’s go somewhere else,” you suggest, looking down to hide that unseemly blush that’s creeping up on your face again, and before Kuroo can protest (“but we have 30 minutes left in our timeslot”), you take him by the wrist and tug him out.
“Let’s go do something fun,” you say, pleadingly. “Maybe we can watch a movie—or dinner?”
“What’s the rush?” He laughs, not quite getting the point of you trying to squeeze the course of an entire relationship in the span of two days—the two days you have left of summer break. You tug on his hand, and he follows along happily like a puppy dog until you reach the entrance of a quiet café.
“Hey—hey—what’s wrong?”
He stops you from opening the door and you pause, wondering if you’re being too clingy. “We only have two days left,” you tell him, sounding much sadder than you’d intended. “I wanted to make the most of it.”
He blinks at you. “What do you mean?”
You look at him, really look at him, and sigh. “After this…it’s just…we’re going back to school, we won’t see each other anymore, right?” The more you explain yourself, the more you feel as if you’ll unravel and suddenly you’re wondering if you’re like all those pathetic and desperate rom-com heroines who can’t get a grip on themselves.
“And…why wouldn’t we see each other?”
You blink.
He blinks back.
“Because…this is a summer thing…right?”
He meets your gaze. "It isn't...for me."
"Oh," you say, rather dumbly. "It isn't?"
Kuroo shakes his head. "Unless I have the wrong idea."
"No!" You say, almost desperately. "No, no. I...I'm the one who had the wrong idea. You're perfect. I mean, you're...idea...was perfect. You had the right idea. Your right idea was perfect? Please don't make me explain myself anymore."
"No, keep going. I'm enjoying the show."
You groan, burying your face into his shoulder. This is somehow more humiliating than being naked in front of him. He offers you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "It's cute when you get flustered," he tells you. "I look forward to seeing you get flustered much more in the future."
*
"Hey."
"Mm?"
Kuroo gives your hand a squeeze as he stops in front of your apartment complex. "What did you wish for that day?"
You blink, but the realization slowly dawns on you when the memory of the eyelash returns. The memory of your first date, a date which he did not kiss you. You smile. "I wished that summer would never end," you tell him.
He blushes. Well, there's a sight. You rarely ever see Kuroo blush, and the sight of it is enough to make you laugh. "It's cute when you get flustered," you say, all mocking and in good fun. "I look forward to seeing you get flustered much more in the future."
