It was supposed to be a joke. Kenma hides behind the door of Kuroo’s room while he’s downstairs to get them some tea. Nobody else is home. This is a good prank, Kenma thinks, I’m going to scare him a bit and maybe he’s going to tickle me then. Maybe we’ll end up cuddling (that would be really, really nice).

It is supposed to be a joke. Kenma jumps out from behind the door and rips his hands into the air when Kuroo comes in. He wants to yell something, a funny quote from a movie, but his body freezes when-

It was supposed to be a joke. But then Kuroo’s on the floor, the tray is dropped, and Kenma watches how his best friend shrinks into a tiny ball and covers his head with both hands.

“Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.”

“Kuroo.” Kenma’s voice breaks. He drops to the floor, reaches out, halts. “I didn’t know that you – I’m so sorry. Kuroo, l-look at me. I won’t hurt you.”

It takes a moment until Kuroo lifts his head. The tracks of tears on his cheeks feel like a knife through Kenma’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking at Kuroo, not moving an inch.

It was supposed to be a joke. But five minutes later, Kuroo sits on the bed, the spilled tea is wiped away, and Kenma listens to the story of what Kuroo has been living through during middle school whenever Kenma wasn’t with him. And oh, Kenma didn’t know that he could hate other people so much, but he does when Kuroo tentatively talks about fists that make bruises bloom and how being gay has only started to feel right when high school came around and Kenma’s fingers laced up with Kuroo’s in front of the team for the first time without any pain raining down on him.

“Tooru,” Takeru asks him one day. “What does being in love mean?”

“That’s a difficult question,” Tooru says. He’s sitting on the bench, wrapping his knee with an ice pack that Hajime has stuffed in his spare shirt. It’s loud on the court. Balls hit the ground in quick succession.

Hajime looks over to them, waves, grinning. Takeru bounces on the bench and beams back at him, but he hasn’t forgotten Tooru. “So? Can you answer it?”

Tooru doesn’t look at him. He watches the light dance over Hajime’s face, catching in the dark of his lashes. “It means that you do very silly things,” Tooru says to Takeru. “You may even hide it from the person. Maybe you’ve loved them for a very long time, but you can’t tell them.”

“Why?”

For a moment, Tooru is quiet. Then he ruffles Takeru’s hair. His eyes have gone soft, shimmering like they’re wet.

“Maybe because people prefer a hopeful illusion over an unchangeable truth.”

Takeru looks at him and frowns. “I don’t understand that.”

“I’m sorry. Why don’t you go train with Hajime?” Tooru watches his nephew run off. His knees hurts. He pushes the ice pack off and stumbles back onto the court.

Easy like that. – daisuga.

“Wanna be my friend?”

It’s Daichi’s first day of high school and he’s so nervous that he feels like throwing up, but then a soft voice asks that question. Daichi turns around, confused, and sees a boy standing next to him. It’s the welcoming ceremony and they should be quiet. But the boy smiles at him, his eyes spark, and Daichi finds himself nodding. “Okay. I’m Daichi.”

“I’m Suga!” The boy says, and it’s easy like that.

“Wanna be my teammate?”

It’s one week into high school and Daichi wants to choose a club, but Suga is faster with his question and then it’s not really a choice anymore. “Okay,” Daichi says, “what kind of teammate?” Volleyball, it turns out, can hurt, and Daichi’s arms are blue after a week of training. But he’s never felt so happy and alive and like part of a new family, and Suga’s there, and they walk home together. So that’s nice, and it’s easy like that.

“Wanna write each other letters?”

He’s always too slow to ask first. The graduation speech of Daichi has driven tears down Asahi’s cheeks, and Suga’s crying, too, but for other reasons. He hugs Daichi so tightly that he feels like drowning, and Suga smells like flowers and oh why does he have to let go? “Okay. Every day. And we’ll phone, and there’s skype,” Daichi says and, when nobody’s looking and Asahi helps by blocking the view, Daichi cradles Suga’s cheeks and kisses him until he starts to sob and nod, wild, grabbing Daichi’s suit.

It’s not always easy like that. Two colleges, nights on skype, a fight that is followed by two weeks of silence. Daichi, taking a train to Suga’s uni and showing up in his dorm at 3 a.m. with tear-stained cheeks and flowers stolen from someone’s garden. Suga, calling him an idiot and letting him in, always letting him in and close and back into the arms Daichi has always loved.

In the end, Daichi manages to be faster with just one question.

“Wanna be something more than just boyfriends?”

When the ring fits onto Suga’s finger, it’s easy like that, and forever will be.

The man’s breath reeks of cheap beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to rotten teeth. Tooru has seen the silhouette of a knife in his pocket before the man has even sat down on the bar stool by his side and smile at him with a lick of his fleshy tongue over thin lips. “Well, ain’t ya a pretty one,” the man slurs, grinning. Tooru tilts his head and smiles like honey. “Do you want to buy me a drink?”

Of course the man wants to. He wants even more, his filthy lips say, and Tooru is almost bored by the obvious slide of greedy eyes up and down his body. Hajime keeps throwing him quick glances from the other side of the club; there’s no worry in them, just impatience. He holds Hinata and Kageyama by their collars, they sit by his side, hands curled into fists where they don’t cling to each other’s. Hajime’s lips form silent words. ‘Hurry. They’re hungry.’

Tooru touches the man’s arm. His lips curve a bit more, he stands. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” How naive can someone be, Tooru thinks when the man’s black-dirty eyes light up with unconcealed lust, to think that he gets anything without paying a price?

“Wait. Where are we going?” The man begins to understand when Tooru’s already led him into a room that’s covered in pure white tiles. The door slams shut behind them; voices echo through the corridor they just walked, and Tooru keeps smiling, smiling, milky-sweet teeth and a soft tongue flicking his lips. “Who are you,” is all the man can say before Tooru gently puts a finger on his mouth – and shoves him onto the floor.

“It’s so easy to find food these days.”

The door slams open. Three silhouettes push inside, two growling in triumph and jolting forward. Tooru steps aside. Hajime comes to stand beside him, leaning in to kiss Tooru’s cheek. “Just in time,” he says, his smile tiny around needle-sharp teeth and the red glow of his two eyes, three, four, as the hidden ones on his forehead open and the horns slide back out from his hair.

“Don’t worry,” Tooru tells the man over his own gurgling screams. “You may survive this. If the young ones can control themselves.” He laughs, watching Hinata’s fangs dig into the man’s throat to share the best blood with Kageyama, their horns now visible again, claws scratching over the floor, and the hundreds of eyes on their skin opening to witness their meal.

Some nights, Kenma can’t stop the stinging and crawling of his skin with cold showers. He dries himself off and migrates over into Kuroo’s room, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and hips, hair tied into a ponytail. He only ties it back for Kuroo. There’s nothing to hide when they’re alone.

Kuroo doesn’t look up. He’s sitting before his easel, rough fingers guiding the brush in delicate strokes. Kenma licks his lips. He manages to speak, but it’s hard and awkward. “I,” he says, slow, and remembers that Kuroo will love him whatever weakness he admits, whether his recovery is sluggish or smooth. “I don’t feel… good.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Kuroo puts the paintbrush away and turns. He opens his arms. “Come here?” Kenma has waited for that. He moves, catapults himself into Kuroo’s hug. It’s hard to keep his fingers away from his back, his face-

“May I try something?”

“Uhm.” Kenma frowns. Kuroo has spoken gently into his chest, where he’s buried his lips and kisses his skin. “Okay?”

“Trust me.” And Kenma does. He follows Kuroo’s plea to lie down on the bed, after Kuroo’s spread an old white bedsheet over it. Kenma rests his head on his hands and listens to the noises Kuroo makes, shuffling closer, uncapping a tub of paint, or is it something else?

A paintbrush touches his back. Something cold melt against his skin. Kenma’s lips curl into a smile. “That’s a good idea. Can you turn on music?”

Kuroo can, and he does. Kenma doesn’t know for how long Kuroo paints on him. His skin tingles with sensation, bursting into sparks of joy and yes, good, that’s better than the crawling stings from earlier. It’s almost natural to fall asleep. It’s dark outside when Kenma drifts back to consciousness. Kuroo’s rummaging in the kitchen; a cup of steaming tea is on the nightstand, together with Kuroo’s phone. The display is lit up, showing a photo.

Kuroo has taken a snap of his back. He’s painted two wings on Kenma’s back that melt together into the shape of a door. The lock is twisted out of a cat’s mouth, green eyes shining with cunning. On the back of his hand, Kenma then discovers the shape of a small, golden key. He smiles.

His skin doesn’t itch anymore.

Kuroo asks him when they’re ten and eleven years old, lying in the grass of the garden behind Kenma’s house. Their fingertips touch, and Kuroo whispers as if it’s a secret. “If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?” He wants to say, so you can have a superpower or something, but Kenma already says, quiet: “Everything.”

Kuroo frowns. “That’s stupid. You can’t hate all of yourself.”

Kenma falls silent. His fingertips are cold and pale, like the small marbles Kuroo collects. He wants Kenma to stop making that sad, tiny face. “What do you like about yourself, then?”

“Nothing.” There’s something wet, glinting on Kenma’s cheek.

That’s the moment where Kuroo takes Kenma’s hand for the first time. “Come on,” he says, and then again, louder, “let’s go play! I’ll show you something cool about yourself!”

After a moment, Kenma follows him. He wipes his tears with his shirt and nods.

Twelve years later, Kuroo takes his hand again and kisses the knuckles. “What are you thinking about?” His arm rests on Kenma’s shoulders, lap full of two sleeping cats, and Kenma leans into his side, lips still red, warm, mouth a smile.

“Nothing,” he says, soft, before stealing another kiss from his boyfriend. “I just thought of another thing for my list.”

“Will you tell me?” A rough thumb caresses Kenma’s knuckles, one by one, careful and so familiar. Kenma nods. “Sure. Thing number two hundred and fifty seven that I like about myself – that I’m here right now.”

The hug that Kuroo gives him knocks all air out of Kenma’s lungs, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. This time, it’s Kuroo who’s crying.

“Mom,” Hajime says when he’s sixteen and sitting on a kitchen chair, watching his mother decorating gingerbread cookies with frosting, white as the snow outside. “How do I know that I love someone?” Even before his mother can reply, he stands, hurrying to check on the turkey with red-blushed cheeks. “I mean,” he murmurs into the oven. “I don’t know – he could be – I mean, sh-she, of course. But how do I know that I want to be with someone forever?”

His mother smiles. She tucks back a strand of brown hair, streaked with grey. “You’ll know, Hajime. One morning, you will wake up and feel calm. It’s not a wild and exciting thing, realizing that you’ve found the one. It feels like coming home.” When she reaches out to brush back a strand of Hajime’s hair, he gives her a nervous smile. “O-okay. Thanks.” – “You’re welcome. Wanna try a cookie?”

“Mom,” Hajime types into his phone when he’s twenty-six. The message is sent, and Hajime quickly deletes the usual notification of ‘this number is out of service’. He looks at the man next to him, soft brown hair, fingers curled into the pillow, glasses on the nightstand. A ring would look good on him, Hajime thinks. Silver, maybe. Platinum. Something that lasts forever.

“Mom,” he types once more, smiling even as the tears come and wake Tooru up. “I wish I could have told you in person, but I hope you’ll read this somewhere up in the sky. You were right. I did it. I’m home.”

“Bokuto-san, why do you keep calling me pretty?” Akaashi’s voice is calm. He is standing behind Koutarou just as he’s pulling off his shirt, and the surprising voice speaking to his back has him jolt around.

“Whoah! You scared me, be more careful!”

“I’m sorry.” Akaashi blinks, watching silently as Koutarou stuffs a fresh shirt over his head and pushes the sweaty one into his bag. The locker room is empty; Akaashi is responsible for being the last one and taking care of everything, which Koutarou thinks is very smart. Akaashi is brilliant. And he’s also clever enough to think of something that confuses Koutarou as much as that just now.

“I dunno what you mean,” he says slowly, furrowing his brows at Akaashi. “I do it because it’s true? And – y’know. Just. I-isn’t it obvious? Why do you call people pretty?” His cheeks are on fire, fuck. Koutarou quickly picks up his bag, pushing the belt onto his shoulder and tries to walk past Akaashi.

A soft hand curls around his wrist. “Please stop,” Akaashi says. There’s something dark in his words, and when Koutarou glances back at him, Akaashi is looking down, his lips a thin line. “Don’t say that to me if you don’t mean it.”

What? “But I do! You’re really pretty, and you’re intelligent and cool and-”

“Stop it.” The grip on Koutarou’s wrist tightens for a second. Then, Akaashi lets go, stepping back. His arms are wrapped around himself. He looks vulnerable, Koutarou thinks, oh no, what did I do, I don’t want him to cry. “I’m… sorry?”

Akaashi turns his head to the side. A shiver runs down his arms. “Just. I’m younger, you’re a great volleyball player, you could have – have anyone-”

Oh. Koutarou understands, finally, God his head is slow these days. Well, in that case. “I won’t stop.” Before Akaashi can protest, Koutarou gently cradles his cheeks, thumb brushing along the corners of his lips. “Hey. Look at me. I just really-” He is about to do this, fuck, fuck. “…I really like you. For who you are. So – when I say that, when I call you pretty, it’s – it’s how I feel. If you hate that, I won’t do it anymore, if it makes you uncomfortable or somethin’. But if you just think that you’re not good enough, I won’t stop. ‘cause you are, ‘cause I like you a lot, really really, I do, you’re so beautiful and-”

“Koutarou.” Akaashi leans in, and kisses him. “Shh,” he whispers against Koutarou’s mouth, soft, his lips trembling. “Okay. You can keep saying that, then.”

“Can I ask something,” Koutarou whispers back. His fingers are shivering. Akaashi smiles. “Yes?”

“Are we boyfriends now?”

The answer is a soft laugh, and another kiss.

beechichi:

Older Kenma doodle (that got out of hand) inspired by @moami‘s tweet

idk honestly…

“You look gorgeous.” Kuroo’s voice is heavy with admiration, and he takes a step forward, gently touching Kenma’s wrist. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Kenma says. He lets the blacksmith adjust the filigree jewelry that curls along his arms, his neck, smooth and perfect against his silky hair. The other apprentices spent an hour helping him, lining his eyes with red for fire, dusting crushed earth over the roots of his hair, painting his nails blue for the ocean’s grace.

Now, Kuroo has brought him the jewelry that is wind and energy, pulsing with magic right where his veins send blood flowing into his body. The blacksmith steps back, eyeing Kenma over. A soft smile spreads on his lips. “You are honestly, just. I don’t have words. Sorry, it’s silly, I made this for you but I didn’t know it’d be so – so-”

Kenma swirls around and kisses him. It’s a quiet touch of lips, barely a moment. Kuroo freezes, his breath hitching against Kenma’s mouth. His eyes are closed when Kenma pulls back. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. You’ve made me complete for the ritual.”

Kuroo blinks at him, slow, like a cat that shows affection with a drop of dark eyes. “You were always complete. The ritual is stupid. Kenma, you’re the most powerful magician that the world’s seen in what, centuries? They just want to control you.”

But Kenma just smiles. “Maybe.” His fingers lace up with Kuroo’s, wiping soot off the rough hands of his beloved one, tracing the harsh lines that whisper about years in a smithy, about nights with Kenma, kisses, touches, two souls as one.

“They can’t hurt me. Not when I’m carrying your silver on my skin. Let us go.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Kuroo bursts through the door of the flat, a plastic bag full of groceries in each of his hands. Snow is hissing behind him, a storm of white flakes trying to claw its way into the warm house. Kuroo manages to slam the door shut with his foot before dragging the groceries into the kitchen. “Kenma?” He calls out while searching the bags, only putting away what belongs in the fridge and then wandering through the flat with a packet of sandwiches. “Ken-”

The door to Kenma’s room is open. Kuroo moves closer, taking a peek inside, making sure that his steps are loud enough to not startle his boyfriend. “May I come inside or is it alone time?”

“You can come in,” Kenma replies from inside. A blanket rustles, and Kuroo recognises the noise of a gaming console being put onto the nightstand. “Welcome home. I missed you.” It’s only with those words that Kuroo pushes the door open and comes inside. Kenma is under the blanket, curled up, lips forced into a thin smile. A jolt of pain flies through Kuroo’s chest.

He’s by Kenma’s side and underneath the blanket within seconds. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. Are you havin’ a bad day?”

Kenma bites his lips and nods. Sometimes Kuroo hates being right, hates knowing the reason that tears well up in Kenma’s eyes. “How can you still l-love me when I’m,” Kenma begins. His voice is so tiny, wet, shivering, and Kuroo immediately acts. He carefully slides his hands below the blanket, tickles his fingertips along Kenma’s soft waist. “Mhm.” Kenma closes his eyes, hums, a hiccup following as he smiles through the tears. “Kuroo.”

“I couldn’t not love you,” Kuroo says. “I don’t care if you look different.” His fingertips are reverent when they paint invisible patterns of gentleness onto Kenma’s lower belly that has gotten bigger and softer after he’s stopped playing volleyball in college. “I love you in any shape and age, I love you with wrinkles and grey hair and with blind eyes or a bigger stomach. I’d kiss you until we both couldn’t breathe anymore, no matter what. You’re always – just.”

“…I’m your K-Kenma?”

Kuroo nods. His neck is wet where Kenma has buried his face, and his chest hurts a bit because short nails dig into it through his Iron Man shirt. But it doesn’t matter. Kenma’s stomach is warm and beautiful below his touch, and the hiccups stop. “Okay?” No, it’s not. He knows. It returns, and it takes time to heal.

But Kenma looks up with eyes as golden as sunlight, kisses Kuroo’s mouth until both of their heads are dizzy, and then he lets his own fingers slide down to tickle the trail of hair on Kuroo’s stomach until both of them laugh, grin, smile.