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“You just fuck Oikawa because he’s pretty, right?”

Hajime drops the ball that he’s wanted to serve. The newest member of his university team has stepped next to him, watching him practice alone after official training’s over. Hajime’s never liked the guy. Now, he takes a deep breath, and swallows the wild animal rising in his throat deep down his chest. 

The guy leans in closer. His grin has Hajime’s blood roar inside his veins. “I mean, he’s practically a girl, I guess. Pretty face, long legs. I get it. I get why you’re doing it, it’s convenient. But honestly, no matter how nice his lips would look around a dick, I don’t understand – “ 

“Yeah,” Hajime says, and turns. He stares down at the guy, letting his fingers curl into fists, his eyes going dark. “You don’t understand.” 

And Hajime thinks of Tooru’s smile when he goes home to his family, when he hugs his mother and father and lifts his baby sister into the air, stroking her fuzzy hair. He thinks of the laughter echoing through the gym, Tooru’s hands gently guiding his little nephew’s fingers to touch the ball just right, Tooru’s mouth shy and warm against Hajime’s, Tooru curling in the bed they share and falling asleep with quiet peace on his pale skin and stars glinting in the freckles along his neck that Hajime has the unbelievable privilege to kiss. 

His fist crashes down so hard that the guy falls right over. There is a horrible crack, echoing through the gym, and blood smeared over Hajime’s fingers. He steps closer, standing above the guy who whimpers like a child and holds his broken nose. 

Hajime’s voice is a dark, wild snarl. He doesn’t hit the guy again, but he grabs his collar and lifts him to his feet – and his teeth are bared, white, ferocious.

“You don’t know anything about him, asshole. And I swear, if you talk about my fiancé like that ever again, I’ll break more than just your nose.”

When the numbers on his watch click to a weak shimmer of 12:00, Kenma pushes the window of his room open and jumps. 

The bushes on the ground soften his fall, the backpack he’s hidden underneath dried leaves pressing into his ribs as he crashes onto it. Kenma lies there for a few breathless, horrible moments, and listens. The silence is overwhelming. No noise from the house, no dangerous growl of his name. Kenma exhales, slow. His phone chimes. 

He gets up, snatches his backpack, and runs. 

The train ticket costs all of the money he’s been able to save up and steal away from his father’s wallet. It’s just enough, and he prays that the ticket inspector won’t throw him out because he’s wet and there’s dirt on his shoes and mud splattered over his pants. But tonight, Kenma is lucky. The night is black as ink, stars blurring into white asteroids as he curls on his seat in the late night train.

He runs the rest of the way as fast as he can. His lungs burn like acid, his feet and fingers are frozen blue, but it’s all worth it when he presses the door bell and someone opens. 
Kuroo smiles when he sees Kenma stand there. “Hi,” he begins, “you’re – “

“I’m eighteen,” Kenma says, breathless. “He can’t – can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m free. I don’t have to – “ The words tumble out of his mouth, useless fragments, and then he tastes salt on his lips because he’s started to cry. “Tetsurou.” 

And Kuroo, perfect, wonderful Kuroo, slides Kenma inside and hugs him so tight that a broken sob falls out of Kenma’s throat. He can see a faint light from the kitchen, hears the quiet whisper of Kuroo’s parents. They’ve been waiting, Kenma realizes, and then he cries into Kuroo’s shirt and his knees gave in. They waited for him. 

“You’re home now,” Kuroo says. “It’s okay.”

It’s barely the hint of a touch, when Hajime drags his nail along the soft skin of Tooru’s thigh, along a swirled galaxy of spit-slick bruises, but Tooru whines like it’s all he has, all he needs to crumble and break for this man who owns him down to his naked soul. “Hajime,” his throat works around the name, lips red-fucked from Hajime’s cock earlier, the taste still heavy there, warm, lingering. “Please, oh please, I need – “

“I know.” The kiss on his hipbone is feather-light. But oh, Tooru jolts from it, tries to speak, and fails miserably. Because Hajime’s fingers curl deep inside him, sliding and fucking dragging over the soft rim of his hole that Hajime’s fucked open so well, where he’s made him come and spread him pliant and dripping wet. 

And when Hajime’s dark voice growls “you’re the sweetest thing, darlin’, falling apart for me like that” into his bared neck, Tooru sobs. He shatters, white behind his eyes bursting, his skin and broken whimpers and everything, anything, it all belongs to Hajime. The fingers have stilled for a moment, and Tooru’s throat is raw when his back arches, bends into any form that Hajime wants him in, anything to get him deeper, oh please. 

But Hajime’s grin is warm and his chuckle rumbles through Tooru’s skin when he kisses Tooru’s thigh once more, and says: “Not yet, love. I’m not done with you yet.”