you're my robin

“Hey, Kuroo,” Bokuto calls out, and Kuroo’s gaze refocuses just in time to watch Bokuto roll onto his side and face him. “You hear what I said?”

Kuroo stiffens, and the smile that looks oh so carefree is actually forced. His cheeks were as red as they were in his fantasy, but there’s nothing at all romantic about their bro night in. He was here, in his room, paging through volleyball magazines, and not in the warm embrace of the Bokuto in his dreams. “Yeah, the captain of that girls’ volleyball team is pretty cute.”

“I said that ten minutes ago! You totally spaced out on me!” Bokuto wails, but he’s grinning where Kuroo expects a frown. Kuroo guesses he’s amused, not offended, and the way Bokuto flicks Kuroo’s forehead signals as much.

“I was just thinking,” Kuroo says a bit defensively, even though he doesn’t have reason to be. He frowns and begins picking at the frayed threads of the blanket they’re sharing, wishing his fingers were slipping between Bokuto’s instead of the scratchy fabric.

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” Bokuto playfully accuses, and he’s not wrong. There used to be a time that Bokuto would point something like that out while pouting, clearly feeling ignored, but this time he scoots a little bit closer, even tilting his body over Kuroo’s so that it blocks the overhead light. Bokuto pets the spot he flicked earlier, brushing a few of Kuroo’s messy bangs out of Kuroo’s eyes and circling his thumb over Kuroo’s left eyebrow.

Kuroo breathes in and breathes out, letting the fantasy of pulling at collar of Bokuto’s shirt until they’re pressed chest-to-chest materialize and fade. It’s not helping that Bokuto’s hands are so soft, or that he looks this good haloed by Kuroo’s dim, bedroom lights. He rolls onto his side and away from Bokuto, trying to keep his blush secret. “I have a lot on my mind!”

Such aversion tactics have never work on Bokuto, and now is no exception. Bokuto flops onto his back and rolls into Kuroo’s view, still grinning smugly as Kuroo sips on the bottle of water he tossed aside earlier. “Wow, you’re so deep.”

The blush Kuroo’s trying to hide is in full view as his lips curl around the ridges that tell him Bokuto drank from this bottle and chewed on the rim. It’s an indirect kiss, his brain tells him. Kuroo chokes on the water but plays it off as a shrug, capping the bottle and pushing it away again. “What can I say? I’m a deep man.”

“You are,” Bokuto agrees. Kuroo won’t admit it, but he misses some of their banter. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy having Bokuto in his corner, but it was easier to discredit the butterflies in his stomach when Bokuto wasn’t holding his gaze and smiling like Kuroo is something precious and wondrous.

“Why thanks,” Kuroo says sarcastically. If Bokuto won’t joke around, at least he can. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not as Bokuto’s smile melts into one of his more common, comfortable smirks, and he shakes his head fondly. Even though that reaction is what Kuroo wanted, the butterflies refuse to settle.

“Uh huh,” Bokuto grunts with a roll of his eyes.

Smirking back and feeling a bit more like the them they used to be, Kuroo settles on his elbows. He knows he’s only torturing himself with this intimacy, but it’s nice, sharing a breath’s distance and a conspiratory smirk with Bokuto. He’s about to crack a joke or say something to provoke Bokuto or share a fact he learned in chemistry that will make Bokuto’s eyes light up and his head cock in that owlish way Kuroo finds so adorable when Bokuto does that.

And by that, Kuroo means Bokuto reaches for Kuroo’s water bottle, uncaps it, and drinks straight from it, mindlessly chewing on the rim before Bokuto copies Kuroo, tossing it over his shoulder haphazardly.

It’s a little choked out when Kuroo asks, “so what were you saying?”

“Oh!” Bokuto smiles so broadly that his dimples show and he crowds a little closer to Kuroo. “It was about that volleyball team!”

“So I was right earlier!” Kuroo attempts to punch Bokuto playfully, but Bokuto catches his wrist and tugs Kuroo against him, into light wrestling. They shuffle for a bit until they’re both on their sides, facing each other a bit breathlessly.

“You’re weren’t!” Bokuto frowns, not in that wobbly-lipped way whenever Kuroo shrugs Bokuto off his shoulder because it makes Kuroo get crazy ideas like leaning into Bokuto and kissing him crazy, but in that cute, melodramatic way Kuroo dreams about at night. “I was saying that the leader isn’t as cute as that tall middle blocker, and she’s not as cute as you, so she’s not cute at all!”

“Oya?” Cute. Bokuto thinks he’s cute. And has his arm draped loosely over his hip. And is currently bumping the tip of his nose against Kuroo’s. And blushing and biting his bottom lip like he wants to kiss Kuroo as much as Kuroo wants to kiss him. “Oya.”

Kuroo slides his fingertips between Bokuto’s and whispers his name. The breath shared between them ghosts off Kuroo’s lips, the soft tickle making him shiver against the perfect, warm chest muscles when Bokuto scoops Kuroo into a hug. Bokuto dips, and Kuroo lets him. It’s the kind of push-and-pull moment that leads into the perfect kiss, the kind you see in movies, and that must be why Bokuto completely ruins it.

Bokuto laughs into Kuroo’s mouth, all sweet smiles and hot breath, when he should be parting his lips against Kuroo’s. That’s quite alright because Kuroo laughs too, and then he’s cupping Bokuto’s cheek and piecing their lips together like they should have from the start.

“Mm,” Bokuto hums, his entire chest vibrating so deeply that Kuroo feels the purr of it strum into his own body. There’s just a slip of tongue when Bokuto licks his lips, an accidental moment so teasing that Kuroo feels himself groan into the kiss. Bokuto must feel it too, because he grips Kuroo’s hipbones with both palms, holding him in place like he’s afraid Kuroo will disappear if Bokuto doesn’t squeeze him tight.

Kuroo slants his face and closes his eyes, focusing only on the soft patter of lips and the occasional brush of teeth. In moments like this, the insecurity melts away. The nose he’s certain is too long when he looks at it in the mirror bumps against Bokuto’s perfectly, and he can’t imagine his giraffe neck any other way than just long enough for Bokuto to cradle it in his hand and play with the short hairs on the back of his neck. Sometimes an off-center kiss brushes against patchy skin, and Kuroo wonders if Bokuto’s insecure about shaving too.

Kuroo’s thinking, focused on how his two front teeth must be longer than the rest of his mouth because it they keep catching Bokuto’s bottom lip whenever they kiss, when Bokuto starts with the laughing again. Kuroo frowns, but Bokuto cups his jaw and continues to kiss him, bubbles of laughter spilling into and in between each kiss.

Kuroo’s never been the one that can simply exist with actions, though. He tugs at Bokuto’s wrists and pulls away just enough that with every word, his lips graze against Bokuto’s teeth. “What’s so funny?”

“Hm?” Bokuto chases his lips for a moment longer, until he opens his eyes just enough to recognize Kuroo. “Just ‘cause you taste good.”

“Really?” Kuroo asks, smiling so hard he feels Bokuto’s cheeks against his dimples. “Because you taste like chips.”

“Hey!” Bokuto yelps back, pushing on Kuroo’s chest for leverage. Kuroo clings as they fall backwards, a shout equal parts surprised and giddy shared between them. The bag of chips they shared crinkles as they tumble down, and Kuroo feels the empty bag rumple against his back.

They both still at the new position, Bokuto’s too-warm palms still planted on Kuroo’s chest and Kuroo’s knee still loosely raised between Bokuto’s thighs. Kuroo blushes thicker and thicker as his chest begins to swell with a feeling that’s warm and weightless. This, he knows, Bokuto feels too, because Bokuto’s smile is a full bodied one. His physical smile is a small, tentative thing, but his eyelashes flicker to match the demure blush sitting high on his cheeks and his fingertips shyly curl against Kuroo’s chest.

Kuroo brushes away the few stray hairs that fell into Bokuto’s face, and he tilts Bokuto’s chin up with just his knuckles. “Hey, Bokuto?”

Bokuto’s eyes snap to Kuroo’s at the sound of his name, like a reflex, even though he swallows hard enough that Kuroo feels the up and down bob of his throat. “Hm?”

“You’re lucky I like the taste of chips,” Kuroo whispers, right before leaning in to continue where they left off.

“I mean Kuroo,” Hanamaki clarifies, restraining a slight smirk. The bonfire dances across his face as Matsukawa pulls him close and the move to the side in tight strides. Matsukawa’s eyes go slightly wide and he does his best not to look just as Hanamaki urges, “don’t look.”

They look natural as they move together as fluidly as one of the flames roaring bright and orange, illuminating their skin and making their shadows dance long and dark against the ground. Matsukawa does a doubletake, as discreet as it is, and Hanamaki smirks at the slight flush he spots on his prince’s consort’s cheekbones. “He is.”

“Yeah.” Matsukawa twirls, letting the tail of his jumpsuit fly into the air as he turns his lover in circle after circle. It’s the second solstice festival Kuroo’s observed, but the first that he’s allowed himself to look as one of Bokuto’s would.

As one of Bokuto’s own, Hanamaki has been dancing this dance against Matsukawa for the past four years. Their bodies move as one every solstice, honoring the forces that allow them to remain together, the gods that bless their victory as partners on the battlefield and in their tent. It’s lewd dance by his own understanding, but one with honor and pride, as he’s come to know for himself. And for those like Matsukawa, born and raised on these principles, nothing is more worthy than the recognition of one’s union in body and mind.

“Well then,” Matsukawa whispers, so low that not even the other couples dancing around them would hear it, “we better give them a show.”

His voice sends shivers up Hanamaki’s spine and the thrill of Matsukawa sneaking a glance to where the snooty, Southern prince is no doubt watching them with eyes so wide they’re almost overcome with black, fills Hanamaki with a pleasure he didn’t know was possible. It makes Hanamaki grind a little hard, sway a little longer, against Matsukawa. His arm slides up Matsukawa’s, and Matsukawa gropes the flesh of his thigh. They move as one, sway as one, dance as one.

“One thing,” Hanamaki says, grabbing Matsukawa by the fabric of his chest and tugging him close when Matsukawa attempts to pull apart.

“Anything,” Matsukawa says in a ghost above Hanamaki’s lips.

In that moment, Hanamaki believes that Matsukawa would truly give him anything, but he also knows what he’s asking of Matsukawa is harder than that. “I’m not giving you up, even if they ask you to join them tonight.”

This time, it’s Matsukawa’s eyes widening until the black nearly overtakes the dark brown. “Nor would I you.”

-

“Tch,” Kuroo grumbles, crossing his arms. Watching this dancing is enough to make his insides squirm together uncomfortably, clenched with a heat he’d rather deny as well as a desire to do the same as the gyrating, rutting bodies in front of him.

His husband -- or rather overlord, if you bothered to ask Kuroo -- excitedly turns to him, eyes as bright as the fire and as hot as the couples in front of them. “You like?”

“I can fight, Morganite,” Matsukawa insists, and Hanamaki already growls.

“Don’t call me that,” he says before leaping into action. He unsheathes his sword and slices through the sky swiftly. With his hardness and refined skill, battle is second nature to him. The vanguard of Lunarians dissolve beneath his blade, even as the rows behind them threaten to overtake him and Matsukawa and harvest their shining insides.

Hanamaki takes down another row of the moon invaders before his eye catches a glimpse of Matsukawa in the periphery. His companion gem is fighting alongside him, cutting through three Lunarians with a sword as one begins to attack with a flute. It’s too late by the time Hanamaki realizes it, and he screams, “Issei!”

Matsukawa pivots on his heel to protect himself from the attack, but the sheer force of his defense is enough to break his arms cleanly at the elbows. Matsukawa is, after all, only a 3.

In a feral, instinctive urge to protect, Hanamaki screams out and throws his sword to protect Matsukawa. The attacking Lunarian dissolve into wisp and wind as soft as the rolling, black clouds that appeared, but the damage is done. It takes seconds before Hanmaki slices down the Lunarian God directing the attack and both he and Matsukawa begin to fall.

Matsukawa’s cracked remains fall as quickly as his dense body, clear speckles of yellow and blue twinkling through the clear glimmer beneath the dust protecting Matsukawa’s gem insides. Hanamaki falls to the ground with his knees pressed into the dirt and a thud. Matsukawa falls to the ground in a shatter, his legs breaking and three thick cracks splitting through his face, one going so far as to half Matsukawa down his torso.

“Ouch,” Matsukawa barely breathes, as though the fall truly did hurt him. Hanamaki knows better; Matsukawa feels nothing when it comes to his body shattering, just like the few times that Hanamaki shatters himself.

“You broke,” Hanamaki spits, too upset to say, ‘I told you not to fight,’ or ask, ‘why, when I had it myself?’ He could berate Matsukawa all day long, but age has taught him that it would be meaningless. Instead, he begins to pick up Matsukawa’s scattered pieces.

“Oikawa will put me back together,” Matsukawa says, and Hanamaki wants to shake his head.

‘But who will put me back together if he can’t?’ Hanamaki doesn’t ask. He just looks down at the jagged edges of the clear, sparkling rocks in his hands, remains of Matsukawa that surely fit together even though they don’t look like they do. He holds them to his chest, tightly, and scoops Matsukawa’s chiseled torso to his chest, holding all the solid pieces that make up Matsukawa’s body.

Barite.

“He was adamant about it, in fact! -- His own words!” Tetsurou says with a wave of his hand. “His name is Akaashi Keiji, and he would be honored to bump with you -- also his words.”

Tetsurou’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary, and the truth isn’t too far from it, in this case. For once Koutarou is glad that Tetsurou is a family friend, it’s only through his connections that Koutarou can ensure a match.

Speaking of which, Koutarou can’t stop looking at the hologram file Tetsurou sent. It’s a standard file of his potential fertilizer recorded for a few moments, simply introducing himself and smiling. To Koutarou, he looks like an angel. “I still can’t believe he would want to.”

“Well believe it,” Tetsurou’s voice cackles, “because you meet with him tomorrow!”

Koutarou is glad they’re no longer in a time where they carry cellphones to call each other, or else he would have dropped his phone and broken it for sure. “What!?”

-

It’s so soon.

Knowing Tetsurou, he probably held back the information that Akaashi proposed to bump with him, and for that Koutarou is grateful. He only learned the news two hours ago, and already he’s running up and down his halls, telling his mother of the proposal for the fifth time (though she acts as excited as though it’s the first) and turning his closet inside out in an effort to find something that will make him appear both presentable and fertile tomorrow. Tetsurou’s already messaged him the details, and Koutarou can’t focus on anything else.

“Just look at him!” Koutarou says for the sixth time, bringing up the hologram screen with the brief recording. “A-ga-shee.”

“He certainly has some good genes. And a good health history,” his mom says approvingly, though her smile is thin and nervous.

-

“Chew with your mouth shut and don’t slouch. You want to show them your good teeth but not the family’s bad back,” his mother reminds, dusting Koutarou’s presentation clothes. He opted for something classic and traditional, even though he feels a bit silly. Koutarou hasn’t worn clothes like these since his fertility ceremony when he began bleeding at age eight, but it feels special to wear them again.

Plus, they make him look pretty fertile already, if he’s honest, and that’s never a bad thing considering that only 15% of matches -- even good matches -- result in a conception. A side effect to the nuclear warfare in World War III was the inevitable sterility, and even more surprising was the fertility that began in men’s bodies and the ability to impregnate for women. Some called it a sin against nature, but most just called it “reality” nowadays. Koutarou doesn’t really care; he doesn’t know any other world than the one he lives in now, and he’s had enough dreams that result in sticky thighs and crusting stains to know what he wants.

So he knows it’s an honor to look fertile and all but… “I look fat.”

Koutarou tugs at the loose robes and his mom slaps his hands away. “You look fertile. Now stand up straight and don’t forget what I told you about telling them about your brothers and sisters. You have to remind them how strong your genetics are, not your size. You’ll want to look smaller, and--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Koutarou yawns, already tuning his mom out. He just wants to meet Akaashi and those gorgeous, lost-in-them green eyes already.

-

“I-I’m sorry, he really is more presentable,” Koutarou’s mom assures for the fifth time when Koutarou slouches at the table. He burped this time and patted his chest to show how good he’d be at burping babies, but the action made his mom’s face turn white, and the Akaashi clan hadn’t reacted in the least. “Really, you should see him--”

“No,” Akaashi’s mother says, beginning to smile softly, “he’s perfect. We confirm the match, should you accept it.”

“I accept!” Koutarou blurts out, slamming his hands on the table and leaning over to shout it before his mom gets the chance. Akaashi, stone cold up until this point, cracks, revealing a small smile in that stoic gaze. Koutarou’s cheeks go red and his stomach twists with such heat that he could almost believe that smile impregnated him already.

-

“So…we’re going to bump,” Koutarou says, a few moments later. Once he’d accepted the match, their mothers had ushered them out so that they could talk logistics, and now he’s walking along the trail of bamboo bridges over a koi pond. In history books, this kind of pond teems with hundreds of goldfish, but the one Koutarou walks over only has three fish in it. The fish trail behind the couple, fat enough to prove that they expect to be fed.

Akaashi stops and bends down, staring at the fish more intently than he’d stared at Koutarou. In fact he hadn’t looked at Koutarou since he’d accepted the match, which now has Koutarou’s stomach doing more flips, and this time not in the good way. “Do you think it’s right that they make us do this?”

Koutarou thinks about it for exactly half a second before shrugging. “I mean, we have to in order to keep the human race going, right? And I want a baby, so it makes sense, at least for me.”

“Yes,” Akaashi says vaguely, still staring at the fish. “But we don’t get to keep our firstborn.”

“Well… I guess not.” Koutarou frowns and crouches down beside Akaashi. He doesn’t understand why he’s asking these questions. “Are you unhappy about the match now? Is it… Am I too big?”

Koutarou blushes despite himself; he knows his qualities and he’s not ashamed of them, even if they aren’t the most desirable. Akaashi though, simply smiles at his question, and Koutarou watches Akaashi’s reflection in the water avert his gaze, blushing just as much. “I don’t find that an undesirable quality in you.”

Koutarou squares his jaw. He’s relieved that Akaashi feels that way, but it doesn’t settle the worry from Akaashi’s questions still. He dips a finger into the water and laughs as the fish’s mouths tickle his fingertip when they bite at it. “Then what is it?”

“You and I will make beautiful children.” Koutarou nods, expecting more, but it never comes. He watches Akaashi’s reflection and then looks up at him, but Akaashi’s gaze looks distant, even though it’s trained on the fish. Koutarou opens his mouth, but before any words come out, Akaashi adds his finger besides Koutarou’s, and admits in a whisper, “I don’t want to give up any of our children.”

It’s treason, the words Akaashi is saying.

“It says north now,” Kenma directs. But it doesn’t mean much; his phone has been directing them northwest and southeast in circles for the past half hour now. Still Keiji smiles encouragingly and follows his lead.

It’s weird, being listened to. Not really, because Kenma is used to being listened to. His team listens to any observation he follows, even though other teams dismiss him just based off looks. But this is different. Keiji doesn’t need to see him prove himself on a volleyball court to trust him, and that’s something Kenma hasn’t experienced since Kuro or Shouyou, both trusted friends that Kenma has years learning them as people. Keiji? Not so much.

They pass by in complete but comfortable silence as Kenma wordless leads Keiji into the mirror of directions leading to Kuro’s apartment. Anybody else would usually be annoyed by now, but Keiji says nothing of his silence. It’s comfortable, leading in a way that makes him comfortable; it’s almost as if Keiji trusts him, and his eyes are beautiful, gleaming a dark green when Kenma sneaks a peek out of the sliver of his eyes, enjoying the way they’re set straight ahead, like on a goal or a scoring point, where Kenma’s leading.

Kenma glances at his phone and realizes they’re lost again just as he sneezes, and as soon as he’s wiping his dripping his nose against his sleeve, Keiji’s holding out a facemask. “For you. Don’t let your cold get worse, or it’ll affect you.”

“Thanks,” Kenma says, reaching out to grab it. He puts it on and sniffs back his snot. The air doesn’t feel cleaner, but it must be, if Keiji is the one giving it to him. Keiji is the responsible one, and that’s why he and him are stuck together, just like Kuro and that pain-in-the-ass Koutarou are, Kenma knows. He pockets his hands into his heavy jacket, trying not to feel jealous. It’s been years since his best friend started dating Keiji’s best friend, but that doesn’t make the sting any less.

Luckily, Kenma’s phone pings, and that means he doesn’t have to think about those jealous, ugly thoughts anymore. He looks at his phone’s screen and glances up at the building in front of them. Keiji’s watching him carefully, and Kenma pretends it’s just because of the directions. “This is it. B16.”

“Okay,” Keiji says and follows him up the stairs. Keiji’s hand rattles with the 6-pack of beer he insisted they buy before showing up. He suspected Koutarou might forget to buy enough alcohol for everybody, and Kenma appreciates Keiji’s foresight.

Their footsteps thump in time as they ascend up the steps, and Kenma misses the sound of their heels clicking when they reach the top of the steps. He only gets a few paces more of Keiji’s click, click, click before they’re in front of Kuro and Koutarou’s doorstep. Kenma’s head hangs.

“Oh, I forgot--” Keiji says, stiffening all of a sudden.

Kenma feels the annoyance, even as he feels a soft spot for Keiji. They’ve already had a last minute stop, and he really doesn’t want to turn back now that they’ve found the apartment. Besides that, it’d spoil a good memory. “What?”

Keiji breathes in, closes his eyes, and turns to face him, opening those beautiful, emerald eyes of his. Kenma feels himself blushing, but of course it’s just because he’s confronted by a beautiful person like Keiji. Anybody would be, surely?

It’s an overused meme and one that Akaashi’s intimately familiar with, but that’s how Bokuto decided to introduce him to Kenma. Akaashi should have expected no less ridiculous from his beloved captain, but still it makes his heart skip a beat when Bokuto juts a thumb in Kenma’s direction; Akaashi almost feels like he’s seeing something private to Kuroo, something he shouldn’t know.

“Ha, ha! Not really. I really had you going, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, pointedly looking at the ground and not at Kenma. “I am Akaashi Keiji. Pleased to meet you.”

Akaashi’s not sure what he expects, but it isn’t the quiet voice, small but steady. “Kozume Kenma.”

Akaashi looks up to see if Kozume-kun has to add, but Kozume is staring right at him. Akaashi looks away. The feeling of looking at something private and not meant for him doesn’t go away.

-

It’s not exactly that Akaashi dislikes Kozume. In fact, he doesn’t mind Kozume in the least. Unlike the senpai he’s grown to love, Kozume is quiet, as blunt as Akaashi is, and seems to be as attentive as Akaashi is on the court.

“I like him,” Akaashi says after that first outing. Bokuto had said it would just be a friendly gathering, but Akaashi sees it for the matchmaking double date that it was. “He’s very observant, isn’t he?”

“Ehh!?” Bokuto yells out -- too loudly, as usual. Bokuto reacts with all the usual theatrics, flailing his hands exaggeratedly and all. “You thought so? Kenma isn’t like that all! Only with those video games of his!”

‘Kenma,’ Akaashi thinks. He’s not sure why, but Bokuto using Kozume’s first name bothers him. It seems inappropriate. Rude, even. But then again, what’s new for Bokuto-san?

-

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, as suavely, as delicately, as masterfully as only Bokuto could master. Which is to say: not all. But Akaashi pretends it is, because he loves Bokuto, as a friend and as a teammate. “Wanna go out with me and Kuroo again?”

Akaashi looks up and stares right into Bokuto’s eyes. Akaashi does it for no other reason than he knows he knows it embarrasses Bokuto. In that sense, he’s a little shit.

Expectedly, Bokuto looks away, flustered and cheeks pink. “I-I mean! Not with us, just with us.”

Akaashi continues to stare.

“Kenma will be there.”

“Okay,” Akaashi says, looking away. If he blushes, Bokuto doesn’t tell him so.

-

“Keiji,” Kozume says. He’s looking at the ground as he says it, but Akaashi’s heart skips a beat all the same. It’s almost enough to block out how Bokuto runs at Kuroo and Kuroo drops his schoolbag to catch Bokuto in a running tackle or hug, Akaashi’s not sure which.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kozume-san,” Akaashi says, smiling slightly when he says it this time. Whereas last time had been all formalities, Akaashi means it this time.

Kozume’s small, golden eyes widen and they quickly dart away. Akaashi, however is quick to notice his cheeks burning up. Last time Kozume had hidden behind Kuroo, but this time he bares himself vulnerably in front of Akaashi. In the background, Akaashi hears Bokuto kissing that annoying pain-in-the-neck Kuroo-san too loudly for anybody’s benefit. Kenma squirms. “It’s just Kenma. But… You too.”

“Because,” Kuroo continues, and he’s careful not to look at Bokuto. His eyes sharpen with the resolve of a soldier, a look Bokuto’s only seen on the court. “I have a friend who’s having a hard time. I didn’t realize we’ve grown so far apart until now, and I really want to be there for him.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says. One syllable. A breath. He kicks pebbles in the cracks of the sidewalk. They’re walking so close that their shoulders bump into each other every now and then, yet it feels like they’re a sea apart. Bokuto stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Aren’t I a friend?”

“You are.” Kuroo glances at Bokuto out of the side of his eyes, that white-lipped frown relaxing into an easy smirk. Bokuto’s never hated it until now. “But you don’t need me.”

“I need you!” Bokuto insists, a bit too loudly so that a few women passing by avoid them and send nasty glares their way. Bokuto can’t even feel bad about upsetting the aunties like he’d usually feel. “The whole team does! You’d really throw us away that easily?”

“I’m not throwing you or the team away,” Kuroo says -- nearly snaps -- with his jaw clenched into place. He nearly sounds offended, but that can’t be right or he wouldn’t be leaving Bokuto or Fukuroudani behind. “I’ve known him a long time. You wouldn’t get it, it’s a childhood friends kind of thing.”

They briskly pass by a few laundromats and grocery stores. Bokuto stares at their reflections warped on the glass. Kuroo is Nekoma red in a discount sign for a 2-for-1 dry cleaning special. It looks all wrong. “So your childhood friend is more important than your boyfriend?”

Kuroo keeps walking, but Bokuto notices his shoulders stiffening and the second-long pause in his stride. Bokuto keeps walking as though he hadn’t though. From a half-pace behind Bokuto, Kuroo holds his breath. “That’s not fair.”

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?” Bokuto glares at him long enough that Kuroo knows Bokuto thinks he’s stupid, and then he looks away, burrowing into the high collar of his Fukuroudani sports coat. It’s chilly even without hearing this news, but now his entire body feels like ice.

Bokuto doesn’t look at Kuroo, but he can imagine Kuroo’s face shifting through a number of expressions, starting off with the shock, taking the hurt that Bokuto’s thrown at him, and finally the sharp anger that Bokuto hears in his voice. “We’ve never put a name to it. You can’t just spring that on me when I’m telling you this.”

“You just feel guilty for leaving me. Us. The team.” Bokuto shakes his head. Inside his pockets, he’s clenching his fists. “We were gonna win Nationals this year and next. A perfect three for three.”

“We will,” Kuroo says, as though he didn’t just say he was going to transfer schools and leave Fukuroudani forever. Where his boyfriend is. For a childhood friend. “We’ll just be on opposite sides of the net this team. Let’s meet on the court and not lose to each other, okay?”

“No.” Bokuto swallows the lump in his throat and, shaking his head, says again, more forcefully, “no. I don’t want to.”

And this time, Kuroo does stop. Bokuto takes five steps before he realizes it, but he doesn’t look behind, only stopping in his tracks when Kuroo says, “well it doesn’t matter what you want for once. It’s happening.”

That gives Bokuto pause. Finally his body stops like the ice it feels like. Ice statue or human, Bokuto can’t tell anymore. It only hurts more when the memories flood in of Bokuto cornering Kuroo in the storage room after putting up the nets or how he’d been the first one to slip his fingers between Kuroo’s while studying for their midterms. It had always been him making the first move, doing what he wanted, hadn’t it?

“l didn’t mean that.” Bokuto hears Kuroo’s footsteps catch up to him, but he doesn’t feel Kuroo’s hand when he squeezes Bokuto’s shoulder. “Look, it’s not any easier for me. You might not see that, but is. I’ve given this a lot of thought, so…”

Bokuto figures he has two choices. He can either accept this and be angry, or not accept this and be angry. Angry or not, Kuroo is his best friend in the entire world, and a little more than that, too. So it’s 100% genuine anger and acceptance when he finally evens his breathing and says, “You better improve your block because I’m gonna hit all the balls twice as hard at you for doing this to me.”

“I’ll worry once you learn how to spike a straight,” Kuroo jokes. It’s the wrong thing to say, which Kuroo seems to realize only once Bokuto starts glaring at the sidewalk concrete again. He looks sorry, and Bokuto’s glad, hoping that Kuroo feels a shred as shitty as Bokuto does. They take a left at the corner and then Kuroo tries again. “Your spikes have always been a pain in the ass to block. Don’t go easy on me just because we’re…you know.”

Bokuto’s decided to remain mad about this, so he’s not letting Kuroo’s sexy voice or amazing smile sway his decision, even though his heart betrays his decision by skipping a beat at those last words. “Are we? Still?”

Kuroo shrugs and when he bumps his shoulder against Bokuto’s, his knuckles brush against Bokuto’s. “Why not? There a rule against dating people from rival schools?”

Bokuto smiles despite himself, even if the knots in his stomach are equal parts nervous and excited. The knot quickly tightens though, and it leaves behind an empty weight, a heavy burden of something that should be there. He wants to feel happy for all they’ve shared, not what they’ve lost, but even Bokuto is finding a hard time finding the silver lining. “It’s not going to be the same.”

It sounds more wistful than Bokuto would like, and Kuroo seems to notice. But he’s not making fun of Bokuto; he leans a little closer, promising in that low, sweet voice of his, “we’ll figure it out.”