[ the slight 'oomf' that comes from kenma is even slighter than usual, gentled by his sleepiness and his warmth and more than all of that, kuroo's warmth that kenma always has room for. when he's not here, that particular familiarity isn't filled by anyone else; can't be. instead kenma goes through his daily life with a space that's inside him more than beside him empty and missing what it knows should be there. it would be a lie to say that he doesn't worry about kuroo; it also won't do any good to mull it over too much.
his energy and attention is better spent when kuroo is there; is here; is home.
kenma's arms slip natural and easy over kuroo's shoulders and one hand smooths up his nape along the shorter hairs there up to thread into the soft mass of it. always sort of messy. it's comforting, this small thing that hasn't changed and seems to draw with it this implication that, of course it hasn't and of course kuroo hasn't and of course they haven't. his sigh is only audible because it's otherwise so quiet, the soft inhale one that kuroo can certainly feel perhaps along with the rabbiting of the cat's pulse that's not nervous so much as happy.
they aren't kids anymore. they are going to keep growing, walking forward.
it's not that kenma doesn't know this. he does. they both do.
but right now it's not what's important.
tension melts out of kuroo and the way kenma's fingers card through his hair is a conscious effort to shoo the vestiges away even more. when kuroo still lived next door, kenma might have grumbled or complained: i can't reach the pie. but kuroo doesn't, and he won't maybe ever again, and it bothers kenma almost as much as admitting how much it stings as it does to experience it.
he never asks kuroo if he misses him and it feels foolish and stupid and self centered to be concerned of it enough to be reluctant to inquire.
the arm draped over kuroo's shoulder is bruised explosively, not from volleyball but from a fall he could've avoided if he wasn't distracted imagining someone who wasn't really there beside him just yesterday. it will hurt something impressive next practice but there's nothing to be done about it now and honestly kenma couldn't care less. kuroo's old shirt is soft and worn and reliable but nothing compared to kuroo himself whose touch is almost a kiss but not quite.
unconsciously, the hand not in kuroo's hair makes a small fist in the fabric of his shirt; holds on.]
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his energy and attention is better spent when kuroo is there; is here; is home.
kenma's arms slip natural and easy over kuroo's shoulders and one hand smooths up his nape along the shorter hairs there up to thread into the soft mass of it. always sort of messy. it's comforting, this small thing that hasn't changed and seems to draw with it this implication that, of course it hasn't and of course kuroo hasn't and of course they haven't. his sigh is only audible because it's otherwise so quiet, the soft inhale one that kuroo can certainly feel perhaps along with the rabbiting of the cat's pulse that's not nervous so much as happy.
they aren't kids anymore. they are going to keep growing, walking forward.
it's not that kenma doesn't know this. he does. they both do.
but right now it's not what's important.
tension melts out of kuroo and the way kenma's fingers card through his hair is a conscious effort to shoo the vestiges away even more. when kuroo still lived next door, kenma might have grumbled or complained: i can't reach the pie. but kuroo doesn't, and he won't maybe ever again, and it bothers kenma almost as much as admitting how much it stings as it does to experience it.
he never asks kuroo if he misses him and it feels foolish and stupid and self centered to be concerned of it enough to be reluctant to inquire.
the arm draped over kuroo's shoulder is bruised explosively, not from volleyball but from a fall he could've avoided if he wasn't distracted imagining someone who wasn't really there beside him just yesterday. it will hurt something impressive next practice but there's nothing to be done about it now and honestly kenma couldn't care less. kuroo's old shirt is soft and worn and reliable but nothing compared to kuroo himself whose touch is almost a kiss but not quite.
unconsciously, the hand not in kuroo's hair makes a small fist in the fabric of his shirt; holds on.]
Welcome home.
[ missed you. ]