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wordsofelie · 19 days ago

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🎮Walls

Kenma x gn!reader

Summary: Life is falling into place for you: a spacious apartment, a good job, a healthy routine. That is, until you meet your neighbour—and the man is an asshole.

Content warning: time skip setting, manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, avoided sexual assault, swearing

Words count: 7.9k

Life feels like it’s falling into place. You have a new apartment in central Tokyo, in a building you used to admire when you were younger—one that made your neck ache from staring up at it. You’ve also started your own company, opening an architect's office that has been rewarding and you’ve made yourself a name in the field.

“What about your love life?” Your grandma asks.

And there it is—perhaps the one area of your life you’ve been neglecting. Well, that and your social life in general. Your work takes all your time. On the weekends you’d rather work or go to the gym or meal prep. Anyway.

“I don’t have time.” You answer casually. You always answer that.

Despite hearing this response hundreds of times, your grandmother still doesn’t seem satisfied. She hands you a box of miso soup and a bag filled with fruits and vegetables.

You chuckle, “thank you obaa-chan.”

“Are you sure you don’t need ojii-san to help you move?”

She points to your grandfather, asleep on the couch. That one couch that looks older than you and that you’ve seen your whole life. You often complain about the several holes and stains on it, but deep down, you know you would cry if they ever decided to get rid of it.

You put on a polite smile, “I think he needs to rest.”

The bag of food is well settled in your bike's front tray and when you start riding, you take a last glance at your grandmother waving from her window. You smile.

It’s only an hour by train, one and a half by bike, from your grandparents’ to your new apartment. Now that you have enough money and don’t have to live in a cramped studio that oddly looks like a garbage room, and with the university loans finally paid off, you chose to stay nearby—to be close to the family who raised you.

Your parents moved abroad when you were in junior high and they gave you a choice, which was probably the only time in your life that they listened to your opinion. And you wanted to stay in Japan, stay close to the two people you loved the most in the world. Your obaa-san and ojii-san, in their eternal kindness, sold their house in the countryside and moved to Tokyo so you didn’t have to change schools. You never told them, you guess because you were too grateful for what they did, but you wished you had left this obnoxious city, you wished you had grown up in their old wooden house instead of that tiny two-room apartment they brought—probably worth a lifetime of their work.

And the funny thing is, no matter how much you dislike the city, you stayed—for university, and now for work. The gods have a strange sense of humour.

You reach your apartment faster than expected. Outside, a few cardboard boxes are waiting for you alongside a team of sturdy men to help you lift them. You want to believe you could handle everything yourself, but after the first three trips between the sixth floor and the moving truck, you are overwhelmed with humility.

And remember, now you have the money to pay for this type of service.

You’ve struggled enough when you were younger—isn’t it finally your time to enjoy life?

The movers are surprised when you hand them generous tips with both hands. They bow a few times in gratitude. You want to tell them that you know what it’s like to have physical and tiring jobs like theirs, your grandfather has been there too—carpenter, brick mason, plumber, gardener, selling fish on markets from early morning.

Once they’re gone, you start to unpack everything. You keep a notebook with you to note down what you need to buy—extra sheets, dishwashing detergent, another glass of wine (if you ever invite someone over, the idea makes you cringe a little because gods know when that will happen, you don’t cross out the word anyway).

The first evening in your new place is… special. It’s quiet, spacious, clean in your living room, everything that you’ve ever dreamed of. You decide to open a bottle of beer and turn on your computer.

You still can’t believe you have a proper room where you can work, an office at home. It’s beyond what you imagined when you graduated from university.

It’s 8 p.m on a Sunday but you think that preparing for the week ahead won’t kill anyone. So, you sit down at your desk and check your emails.

The calm only lasts half an hour.

The first scream rings out, startling you so much that you almost choke on your drink. It takes a few seconds for your heart to return to a normal rhythm.

It is unusual. Absolutely, not like the screams in films. It doesn't sound like a woman’s scream, nor like someone needs help. Still, you ponder whether you should take a look outside or not.

You’re about to finish writing an email when you hear the second scream, followed by thud of a fist hitting a table. This time you’re convinced of two things: first that it comes from the neighbour next door and second, that neighbour is raging over something.

A million scenarios play out in your mind. The worst-case scenario is that someone is being hurt—perhaps a child or a partner. If that’s the case, you can’t stand by and do nothing.

Barely a minute passes before you find yourself standing outside the neighbour’s door.

You don’t know where the courage to stand here comes from because when it’s time to knock on the door, all this courage disappears. What if they are drunk? What if they beat you up in return? What is your company going to become if you go to the hospital? What if you never see your grandparents again?

“D’ya need something?”

A low voice coming from behind you asks and when you turn around, you’re faced with a tall man with dark hair.

“I-”

He smirks as he crossed his arms over his chest and waits for your answer.

“Are you a fan?” He finally questions when the silence stretches for too long.

You blink, confused. “I heard screams,” is all you manage to say.

The man's reaction is anything but predictable.

He bursts into laughter—a loud and weird laugh, that you decide not to comment on.

“Ah, Kenma is probably playing LoL again. I told him to quit. It’s bad for his heart.”

Every word is said too fast, too casually. “Kenma? LoL?”

“You’re the new neighbour?” The stranger ignores your questions. Maybe you’ve whispered them.

“I am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to keep it down,” he says, already turning toward the door.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I’m Kuroo Testurou by the way.” He calls over his shoulder as he steps inside the apartment. You simply say your name in return before he adds, “have a lovely evening.”

And just like that he's gone and you're left here, confused.

At least the screams have stopped, and you know the name of the person next door. It’s better than nothing and you won't end in a crime documentary about a murderous neighbour.

You go to bed early that night, hoping that this was the last time you would get interrupted working.

It turns out, you get interrupted every evening. The wall separating your office from the neighbour room is paper-thin. It makes you crazy.

Some nights it’s screams of anger, other it’s just uninterrupted chatting. You can ever hear the incessant clicks of keyboard keys.

You want to convince yourself that you can handle the situation, but when you start having dark circles under your eyes, when you pour orange juice instead of milk in your coffee, when you don’t turn to the right street to go to your grandparents house and arrive an hour later to their lunch, your obaa-san starts worrying about your heath (both physical and mental health).

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve moved,” she informs you as if you didn’t know when you started being woken up every hour of every night. “And you’ve been acting weird, my love.”

“My neighbour isn’t the quiet type.” It’s the first time you explain the situation to her. You don't want them to burden them with your problems, but fatigue brings out some honesty in you and the words leave your mouth before you can register them.

Logically, she advises you to go and talk to them. “Be kind and explain calmly that you work from home and need to rest because your job is very demanding,” she says. She can’t help but speak with pride when she mentions your work, and you want to smile. But you don’t because all you can do with your mouth is yawn.

“I’ll go if they don’t stop.” She thinks she looks terrifying with her pink apron and her pointed finger. You get up and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

You’ve depended on them your whole life, you won’t bother them again.

It’s strangely silent that evening and with a heart full of naivety, you believe you will finally have a good night of sleep. But before that, you need to work on a very important project, one in collaboration with the city hall, probably the most important of your career so far and that you won against renowned architects’ companies. The first sketch is done, and you can start doing the 3D model now.

That is until you hear the neighbour talk and talk and talk.

Enough.

You don’t even check your reflection in the mirror or bother changing into a decent outfit. You simply grab a jacket, put your shoes, and this time, you dare to knock on the door.

You must have been very insistent or perhaps the knocks were loud enough to drown out whatever music or phone call he was listening to—because after three or four sharp taps, he finally emerges from his cave.

The man is nothing like you imagined. Long hair with remnants of blond colouring, yellow eyes narrowed as if annoyed. He is not small but not as tall as who you assumed was his friend. His attitude reminds you of one of those nerd boys you avoided in high school, though you would bet he is around your age.

“Huh?” Comes out of his throat.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides when he doesn’t even greet you.

“Good evening.” You try not to bark. You need to be the mature one here otherwise he won’t be receptive. You’ve learned that from dealing with arrogant old men in your job. “I am your new neighbour; I live next door. It’s a pleasure to meet you but I was wondering if you could talk a little bit less...loudly.” You remember the points your grandmother has given you and it’s all you can think about (apart from insults and words you might regret), “I am working from home so it can be hard to focus with your chatting.”

His face turns into furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. You're pretty sure you hear a sigh escaping his nose. He avoids your gaze and when he meets your eyes again, the annoyed stare has disappeared, and he looks blank again. He's unreadable.

“Sorry. I will be careful from now on.”

His words sound as scripted as yours. A knot in your stomach forms and the palms of your hands start to sweat.

Why in the world does this asshole seem annoyed when you’re the one who hasn’t been able to sleep and work for freaking days?

“Is that all?” He dares to ask.

“I hope it will be.” You threaten with pursed lips and your chin lifts a little.

“Fine.” He mutters and closes the door behind you.

Great. Your neighbour is a shithead.

The gods are unfair sometimes. Life is falling into place for you but they seem to have one last obstacle for you: him. Kenma.

A storm of questions keeps you wake that night, the main one being: what is this guy doing with his life?

Doesn’t he have a job? What is he doing of his days since he doesn’t seem to be sleeping at nights? And how can he afford an apartment like yours when he looks like he just graduated from high school?

Maybe he was born rich—unlike you. Maybe his parents are paying for everything and he just spends the days doing nothing and doing LoL?

What’s a LoL, anyway?

You search the term online and discover it’s a stupid video game. That doesn’t surprise you. Kenma seems like exactly the type to waste time playing video games all day.

You don’t want to play it stupid, but you can’t stop thinking about how detached he looked when you complained (nicely and respectfully). A part of you wants to make him pay, just a little. Your grandma would probably disapprove, but that's fair play, isn't it?

And so, during the day you start putting on music. Musical music, it’s the only genre that helps you focus when you work. You make your phone calls while standing right next to the wall separating you from Kenma. You even move your coffee machine into your office. The closer, the better, right?

Your little revenge lasts a week. You don’t want to be cruel��not that it would matter much, since you assume he’s jobless.

At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but the second you turn off the music and return the coffee machine in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire and monstrous roars make your walls tremble.

You invest in earplugs.

You don’t see him much—which is a good thing. Occasionally, you pass by him in the corridors or the lift. Neither of you speaks. A lazy look from him and a quick movement of your head to avoid his gaze are the only interactions you have. He always wears his hair in a half-ponytail and oversized jumpers, from a brand you don't know and has them in every shade of colour. You almost look up “Bouncing Ball Co.” online but decide you don’t care. You don’t care about anything related to this man. Really, anything.

The other neighbours, however, seem to like him. They smile at him, greet him warmly as if he wasn’t a pain in the ass who plays stupid video games at full volume. You conclude they’ve never had to share a wall with his gaming room.

When you complain about it to your grandparents over tea and sweet potato cakes, your grandfather suggests moving back to their house. Your room, after all, hasn’t changed a bit, with your old drawings and posters still hanging on the walls.

“They should fix the problem, coming back here won’t change anything to the situation.” She says while pouring you another cup of green tea, the hot drink feels good and warms you up, if only a little. “I’ll go talk to that Kenma boy.”

Your grandfather only shrugs, he never wins an argument with her.

“Please don’t,” you beg. Your grandmother does that thing she does when she’s lying—she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

You try to stop the chaos by yourself. By trying you mean that you leave notes at his front door (some rather fiery when you’re not in the best mood, others more docile when you have been praised for your work by your peers.)

But the letters pile up, eventually covering the straw mat outside his door. One evening, you hear a child on your floor asking their mother why there are so many envelopes by Kenma’s door. The mother replies, “Oh, those must be letters from fans.”

Fans. This word again. Coming from Kuroo you thought it was sarcasm; the guy looks like he often uses sarcasm even though you don’t really know him, but now it really starts to make you wonder: who really is this man?

When your initial plan doesn’t work, you resort to a more direct approach. Every time you hear noise from the other side of the wall, you pound on it with your fist.

If that rude bastard can’t read a polite note (you fucking said “please”!), he’ll surely understand this.

The only thing keeping you sane is that you’re going away for work for a full week. The train ticket, the hotel, the food, everything is paid by your client and when you finally leave Tokyo you feel a wave of relief. The knot in your stomach that you’ve been carrying for days disappears.

You call your grandma to inform her you’re in the train now.

“Have a safe trip and don’t overwork yourself. Your worth is greater than any project.”

You smile softly, “I know. don’t worry.”

She’s about to hang up, but you interrupt by saying, “And please don’t go to Kenma’s in my absence.”

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s always his name on your lips these days.”

You’re glad the train starts moving, you blame the surprise of the movement for the slight skip in your heart, “Bye bye, I’ll call you when I arrive.”

The business trip goes well. You manage to make your voice heard and your opinion valuable. You meet a lot of other architects, some congratulate you for your work, other only glower at you. They envy your position. You’re young, you’re not the child of a well-known person and you still success in everything you undertake.

You meet a man of a year or two your senpai; he’s very polite, smiles a lot and seems genuinely interested in your ideas.

The absolute opposite of your neighbour.

By coincidence, he lives in Tokyo too, and you end up on the same train back. The discussion is easy, mostly about architecture, and you enjoy conversing with someone who truly understands the nuances of your job.

He offers to drive you home since his car is parked near the train station and even if you refuse at first, you finally agree. It’s better than calling a taxi, right? You’re still confused at the fact that you’re the person who sits in a taxi rather than watching them from afar.

You don’t see it coming, the approaches, the undertones. He suggests stopping at a bar, but you decline, you tell him you’re tired, and the more he talks, the more it’s obvious he didn’t offer that ride out of sympathy.

Your throat feels tight, and you start cursing yourself for trusting a complete stranger just because he does the job as you. How stupid.

You finally catch a sight of your apartment complex and even though you liked the hotel room and the calm of it, you’re suddenly desperate for the four walls of your place—no matter how noisy they can be.

“You can stop here,” you tell, perhaps a bit too loudly. You try to make the shakings in your voice away. “Thank you.”

He does as you tell, you’re about to open the door when a cold hand lands on your thigh. A shiver runs through you, and your legs seem paralysed.

“Don’t you want to stay a little longer.”

You can't meet his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation,” you absolutely don’t. “But I really have to go home.”

“Your boyfriend is waiting or something?”

You open your mouth to lie, but the tension in your neck and throat is too strong. In a sudden move, you open the door and babble a “thank you.”

The engine stops and you know he is looming closer to you.

“Wait,” you want to go faster but he whirls you around by taking your arm. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You were all talk on the train, let’s continue the conversation somewhere else. Or maybe you want to invite me over?”

The snicker that tugs at the corner of his lips makes you want to vomit. Just like with your neighbour, you’re done being compliant and if being polite doesn’t work then you might use violence.

“Ah, you’re home.”

You both turn to the voice. The lazy and unbothered voice. Kenma’s voice.

“I brought to make curry, is it fine for you?” He lifts a plastic bag while saying this.

His eyes flick to the man for just a second—brief, almost out of time—but the intensity in his gaze is enough to make him pause, and then, instinctively, take a step back.

“Let’s go,” Kenma tells you simply and you follow him.

He walks behind you, from the moment you step into the lift to when you finally reach your front door. Somehow, you feel safe.

Apologise, thank him. Your mind orders. But your hands can’t stop shaking and your throat is still dry.

“If you need something…” he starts but stops, his gaze shifts awkwardly to the side, as if seeking the right words. “Just knock. On the door or the wall. You seem good at that anyway.”

You’re left speechless when he closes the door.

It takes you a whole minute to find your keys and get inside.

It’s cold. Silent. Dark.

It’s strange how you suddenly feel lonely.

You’ve always dreamed of living in a spacious place like this; but the white walls, the too-cleaned surfaces, the too-tidy shelves are oppressive.

“Ah, you’re home.” Kenma said.

But are you really?

These four walls and you; they’re not warm, not lively.

You curl up in your genkan, your shoes still on, the light still off and you start crying.

You haven’t in months, or maybe in years.

Did you even cry when your parents left? When you’ve been mocked for wearing soiled shoes in school? When your so-called friends called you boring?

You find the strength to shower and crawl into bed. Kenma lets you sleep that night. You close your eyes wondering if he is thinking about you for you are thinking about him.

Kenma is away for the next week, and you wonder what he is doing. You don’t complain about the peace his absence gives you, but you also want to say thank you.

Thank you for two things; of course, for helping you with the man but also for leaving a bento of curry at your doorstep.

I made too much–Kozume Kenma

It is written.

Now you know both his name and family name.

Somehow, the thought makes you smile.

The curry isn’t really good–it’s too salty and the potatoes are too hard. It’s nothing like your obaa-san’s food. Still, you think it deserves an apology for being an asshole with him, not matter how fair you thought it was.

The clean plastic box is waiting for him in your kitchen, wrapped in a pretty furoshiki and when you hear keys and footsteps coming from outside a few days later, you rush out.

“Kozume-san,” you call for him.

“Hello there,” Kuroo answers in its place.

You only notice the tall guy at his side when he speaks.

“Good morning Kuroo-san,” you bow.

“Heh?” Kenma raises an eyebrow.

“What? You’re surprised because I’m friends with your annoying neighbour.”

“Annoying?” You mumble and a “oops” escapes the dark-haired man.

“His words, not mine.” Kuroo clarifies, pointing a thumb at Kenma, who only sighs in response.

You clear your throat and hand Kenma the box, “thank you for the food. It was...convenient.”

Before you can finish the acknowledgement, Kuroo starts laughing, “convenient. Kenma, man, for gods’ sake, stop cooking.”

Your neighbour takes the box from you and clicks his tongue.

You don’t linger on the goosebumps his fingers leave on your skin.

“My manager said I should eat healthy food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never listen to me. Anyway, we’re going out tonight, wanna come?”

You don’t realise he’s talking to you but the silence stretches for too long and his tilted head suggests he is waiting for an answer,

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Kuro…” Kenma mumbles and his shoulders slump.

You can't tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. He’s so hard to read, it almost upset you.

“Kenma won’t be there,” Kuroo informs as if he isn't standing next to him. “It’s gonna be fun. Apparently, you work a lot, it could be good for you, you know. It’s not just me, by the way, some old friends will come.”

“Okay.”

Kenma widens his eyes and Kuroo smirks. Both seem surprised, though you’re probably the most surprised here.

“Okay.” You repeat, maybe to convince them—or yourself.

“Great, I’ll see you at seven then.”

He grabs Kenma by the shoulder and leads him inside.

Your eyes meet yellow eyes one last time, and your heart skips a beat—or a thousand. Either way, it feels good.

It’s hard to focus on work that day. You keep thinking about what you’re gonna wear, what you’re gonna talk about. What if you make a fool of yourself? What if you’re boring?

Your forehead hits your desk, and a long sigh escapes your lips.

You get ready when it’s time, going for something comfortable and simple, and when seven rings, you find Kuroo standing in front of your door.

“There you are, shall we go?” He offers and though your eyes scan around you, you find no trace of Kenma.

Kuroo said it; your neighbour won’t come.

You knew that, and in lieu of relief, you’re disappointed. You ignore the reason behind it—it doesn’t make sense, but you feel it anyway.

“Sure, let’s go.” You say with a last glance at Kenma’s door, hoping it will open. When it doesn’t, you decide to follow Kuroo.

Kuroo’s friends are fun to be with. There’s Yamamoto, a bit too loud for your taste but nice, then there’s Kai, who’s interesting and makes you comfortable and finally Fukunaga, who is quiet and—something else. The four of them went to the same high school, one from the opposite district where you grew up. They tell you there are usually more of them but one of them is in Russia, another is doing a campaign abroad. Kuroo mentions the other ones, but you don’t remember all the names.

“We’ve got some pretty famous guys in the team,” Kuroo says with pride.

“Kenma the richest though,” Yamamoto complains, and you raise an eyebrow. So, he does come from a wealthy family, you conclude.

Two more join the group, Bokuto and Akaashi, and you can’t help but relate a bit to the latter, with his serious attitude and reserved nature, especially when Kuroo jokes that you’re both workaholics. You don’t deny the assumption.

The evening goes pretty well, faster than expected. You’re not too awkward and find yourself laughing at Fukunaga’s lines to Yamamoto and discuss literature with Akaashi.

You drink a little too much compared to what you’re used to and it’s almost 2 a.m when Kuroo offers to drive you home. The room is blurring, and you can’t refuse.

You sleep the whole way home, vaguely aware of the man helping you into the lift, and only realise you're almost in your flat when you catch the sound of Kenma's voice.

“I’ll take care of them,” you hear him say.

The next second you're pressed against him. His skin his colder than Kuroo’s but his scent is a mix between hazelnut and white musk. Your nose is drawn to his neck.

You don’t know how he manages to take your keys and remove your shoes, but when you open your eyes again, you’re on the couch and he is standing in your kitchen, pouring water into a glass.

“You’re being nice… again…” The last part is above a whisper.

He takes his time to answer, he always does that. “I’m not a brute.”

“I thought you were.”

“Sorry.” He apologises and despite the alcohol making your mind dizzy, your eyes widen and you sit up straight.

“I should be the one apologising.” You reply.

“Don’t be so loud.” He groans and hands you the glass.

“Oh, wanna talk about loud? Weren’t you the loud one when you played shooting games and LoL?”

“I don’t play LoL anymore,” he avoids your gaze.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I tried asking nicely, but you wouldn’t listen or even look at me.” You let out an annoyed grunt, “just like now. You’re not looking at me right now.”

Your body moves on instinct, and inch forward, your nose almost touches his. His ears turn red, but you don’t flinch back. “Do I disgust you or something?”

When he finally turns, when his breath brushes your face, and the pupil of his yellow eyes dilate, you feel every single one of your muscles stiffen. You break the eye contact when your cheeks are burning up.

“You don’t disgust me,” he says but you've already forgotten the initial question.

“Thanks for helping me last time.”

He says nothing back and gets up.

“Drink water and go to bed.”

What happens next must have been a nightmare (you wish it was). But he’s one foot outside your apartment when your stomach twists violently, and you barely make it to the sink before letting your guts out.

It’s the first thing you remember when you get up the next day, Kenma helping you walk to the bathroom, helping you brush your teeth, putting you to bed.

You vomited. In front of your asshole neighbour. He helped you, cooked you food, showed you his kind side, and you vomited.

You’re nothing but shameful.

You want to hide in your bed and never get out of it. Maybe you should move out, sell your apartment and go abroad.

That would make your grandparents sad, though.

You sigh loudly, your head hurts but you still go to your kitchen to make yourself a coffee.

Being in this place reminds you of the night before and if you don’t want to drive yourself crazy pacing the floor, you decide to take your bike to go to your safe place.

Obaa-san notices it right away; the dark circles under your eyes, your bad mood, your incessant fawning—everything gives away your lack of sleep.

“Is your neighbour annoying again?”

Your heart races faster at the mention of Kenma, “what? No, no. It’s over, we found a… solution.” You lie through your teeth.

“What’s wrong? You’re not even eating your food.” She wants to serve you more soup, but you stop her.

You sigh, again, but tell her everything. When you’re done with the story, you see her brows furrow deeper and deeper.

“We didn’t raise you to vomit on people’s feet.”

Your stomach twists, “please don’t talk about vom—I’m embarrassed enough.”

“As you should be. Isao, let’s go.”

She calls for your grandfather and starts packing a bag of fruits.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to apologise.”

You curse yourself and every single decision that led you to this exact situation. You’d rather quit your job than face Kenma and be forced to write excuses in front of your family.

It’s cruel, cruel, cruel.

You follow them anyway.

“Huh?”

“Kenma-kun,” your grandmother says. “Pardon the intrusion but we came as soon as we found out what they did to you.”

You look down at the floor, not caring if you seem like a child instead of a twenty-something-year-old. You just want this to be over—soon, soon. But then, Kenma chuckles, and your head lifts.

“It’s fine,” he says. His laugh is soft, so nice to your ears. You’ve never heard him laugh before, but now, you don’t want to hear anything else.

“Please enter,” he offers the three of you, and you finally step inside his apartment.

The curtains are closed but lights cover the walls. Purple, red, blue. The couch is huge, and the kitchen looks too clean to be used. It makes sense when you see boxes of takeout and instant ramen on the counter. At the back, you see the door to his gaming room—the one next to your office—open. You can’t count how many screens there are, and cables are scattered across the floor.

And it smells like hazelnut and white musk. You’ve never smelled something so nice before.

Why does it feel so warm inside? Why do you feel safe here?

“I brought fruits, it’s nothing, but please accept it.”

You end up staying there for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing at all. You learn he played volleyball back in high school, and that he is two years younger than you. Your grandmother is peeling fruits, your grandfather is drinking the lemonade Kenma offered and he explains that he owns a sports company.

“What a smart boy,” your grandmother exclaims.

You don’t really know what “sports company” means. It could be a million things, and it’s certainly more complex than that. He probably simplified it for your grandparents’ sake.

“Our grandchild is also very smart. They have an architecture office and are the youngest-ever architect to work with Tokyo City Hall. Do you know the new hospital they’re building in the suburbs? They designed the plans and-”

“Alright, it’s almost time for dinner.”

You get up suddenly.

The sun starts to get down, and you only take notice of the time by watching the hour on your phone.

The corner of Kenma’s lips lifts a little and you immediately turn to your grandfather for his smile is too sweet for your heart to handle.

“He is a kind man,” your grandmother whispers to you when they’re about to leave.

“I know, I know.” You groan.

She pinches Kenma’s cheeks, “call us if you need anything.”

You would’ve guessed he’d hate physical contact, but he doesn’t complain. His features are soft as she says goodbye.

“Good luck with them, they seem tough, but they can be very sweet!”

“Oi!” You shout but they close the door behind them, chuckling.

You don’t want to face Kenma, don’t want to show him the embarrassment on your face.

“So… dinner?”

“What?” you turn a little in his direction.

“You said it’s time for dinner. Do you want to order something?”

The question makes you happy even if it leaves you puzzled for a few seconds. It seems like Kenma Kozume is full of surprises. And maybe that’s what you need, so you shrug.

“Why not.”

When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts ordering food, you smile widely and bite your lips.

A dinner leads to another, and another, until it becomes a routine. You come to his place, usually on Mondays because it’s his only free night. He shows you some of his games, you never beat him, and he laughs when you blame it on the controller.

You’re impressed by his skills and think that maybe he should become a professional.

You pretend to be upset when you lose, but deep down, you just want to hear him laugh.

Sometimes you cook something together, though you’re the one in control of the quantity of salt and the temperature of the oven.

And he listens to you ramble or complain about your work.

When he’s out of town, which happens more often that you thought, you start to go out more. You decide that it’s time to put more colour in your apartment, so you buy cacti, and carpets and frames. You long to draw again, like you used to, so you bring back your old pencils and sketchbooks from your grandparents’ house. You missed the smell of that cheap paper and ceder. Sometimes, you have a drink with Kuroo after work (alcohol-free; you won’t repeat the same mistake twice) and a coffee with Akaashi on the weekends. It's often quiet with him; he reads a book and you draw him reading.

When Kenma comes home from his trips, you welcome him with drawings of beautiful places you saw while he was away and good homemade food.

“Better than what I ate at the hotel,” he says, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t really know where this friendship is going, maybe it isn’t meant to go anywhere, but it’s comfortable and deeper than any relationship you've had in years.

You had no idea what you needed before, but since he showed up in your life, it all became clear.

You still know little about him; he remains a mystery to you, and you can never decipher what he's thinking. But you enjoy being with him—that is.

There are some glances exchanged that last a bit too long, hands brushing against each other, words left hanging in the air as if they’re too fragile to be spoken aloud. It’s not enough to call it something more, but it’s also too much to ignore. Sometimes, it keeps you awake at night.

It's Christmas and you hate this time of year. It's cold outside, crowded in the streets and on top of that, it's the time when your parents return to Japan. Apparently it's important for them to spend time with the family, which you find hilarious, given that they've never been here for any of your birthdays.

You complain and groan about it to your grandmother; she’s used to it. It’s the same song every Christmas. She always stays quiet, and when she does, you know she agrees with you.

It would have been more fun to be with Kenma, you can’t help but think when you’re sitting at the table, half-listening to your father talking about his new project in Singapore. Instead of being here, you could be eating KFC on Kenma’s couch, playing Mario Kart (you’re almost as good as him now) until the sun rises.

Your brother is watching YouTube on his phone (isn’t 12 years old a bit too young to have a phone? Why did you have to wait until you were sixteen and get a part-time job to buy one that lasted until uni?).

You don’t realise you’re glowering over him before your mother calls for him, “Kengo. Turn off that video, please, we’re eating.”

“But it’s Kodzuken’s last live of the year, and he’s breaking his record.”

You roll your eyes and get up to help your grandmother in the kitchen.

“Who’s that Kodzuken?” You hear your grandfather asks from afar.

“He’s the best YouTuber and streamer. You know he has over 10 million subscribers on YouTube, and he sponsors volleyball players too. He’s like the best.”

“Let me see that fabulous man,” Isao chuckles. “But that’s Kenma-kun.”

The plate you’re holding almost drops to the floor.

“Yes. His real name is Kozume Kenma.”

You feel the gaze of your grandmother on you, and she’s about to say something, but your voice chimes in, and you take the phone from your brother’s hands.

“What the fuck…” You curse.

“What’s wrong?” Someone asks; you don’t even know who. You’re too stunned to answer.

“I-I’ll go wash my hands.” You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and tap his name into the internet.

There are articles about him, a YouTube and Twitch channel, and your brother was right, with million and millions of views; he even has a Wikipedia page.

Why didn’t you know that? Why did you assume he was a rich kid too lazy to work.

You don’t know why but you’re feeling betrayed. It feels like you’ve been lied to—which technically isn’t the case, but it feels the same.

Everything makes sense now: the fans, Yamamoto’s comment about him being rich, the mention of his manager and above everything the sleepless nights spent on his games talking, chatting, screaming. He was just working.

You feel extremely stupid for not connecting the dots before, but you also wish he had told you. Not that it would have changed anything in your friendship, but at least you wouldn’t feel like you’ve spent the last few weeks sharing most of your time with a stranger.

The anger you experienced when your first met him is quick to come back, even if it’s not for the same reason now. It’s not because he is too loud, but because he is too quiet.

Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe you don’t matter to him as much as he does to you. Maybe he’s not the stranger, but you are, and he just pitied you.

It’s a good thing your grandmother opens the door to come and get you, otherwise, you could have spent the whole evening making up scenarios and speculating on why Kenma never told you what he was really doing in his life.

You act like nothing happened when you sit back down at the table. Your brother has turned off his phone, and your grandfather keeps glancing at you. You stay silent until your parents leave.

"Don’t be mad at him,” your grandmother says when it’s time for you to head home.

You don’t promise you won’t be.

You do go home, but instead of your door, you stand in front of his. He’s probably still doing his live, but you knock on the door anyway.

When he opens, you can see the red in his eyes, probably from staring at the screen too long.

“What’s that?” You show him your phone.

“My… YouTube channel.”

He’s so unbothered, so unimpressed, it makes you want to cup his face with your hands and scream at him.

“I didn’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were doing this. You said you had a sports company.”

“I have a sports company. Why are you so upset?”

Kenma never asks questions, he usually just answers them and then listens to you talking, asking more questions. It leaves you confused.

“I know nothing about you.”

You feel your eyes getting wet and your throat tightens. Why are you so emotional when it comes to him? You hate how weak it makes you.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. Everything, is the answer.

Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What makes you laugh (apart from seeing me lose at Mario Kart). What films do you like? When did you start being friends with Kuroo? What's your happiest memory? Your saddest one?

“What do you think about me?”

Among the infinite questions rushing through your mind, this is the one you chose. Perhaps it’s the one you’ve wanted to know the most, the one that’s been eating you alive for weeks.

“I-” He begins but stops immediately.

“Of course,” you turn around. Two steps, is all it takes to reach your door, but Kenma stops you.

When you face him again, you feel your blood rushing through your whole body, warming you up.

He’s avoiding your gaze, but his hand clings to yours and his face his red, from his chin to his ears.

“You’re interesting and it’s nice to talk with you… Your food is good. You’re passionate about your work and it makes me want to be more invested in what I do. You’re funny when you’re upset and you’re a terrible, terrible player.”

His grip loosens a little, and he straightens up.

“I think you’re great, a good person. Someone I like spending time with, someone I think of when I go to bed, and someone I miss when I’m away. I didn’t tell you about my job. Maybe because I assumed everybody knew me, well, at least everyone who uses social media. Maybe also because… you’re way cooler than me, and what I’ve done with my life is nowhere near what you’ve accomplished.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. It’s the longest you’ve ever heard him talk—he who never uses extra words, who makes minimal effort in everything he does—just bared his soul to you. He must be exhausted at this point.

You gulp loudly, and the only thing your mind can picture is you kissing him. So you do. One step toward him, a hand against his cheek, and your lips on his.

You fear he might push you, run away, and slam the door in your face. But instead, he kisses you deeper and his hands find your hair and the back of your shoulders and your waist.

You don’t know how long it lasts—one minute, forever. Your brain doesn’t seem to work properly, only your heart responds, and it screams his name.

Kozume Kenma.

One of you breaks the contact only to rest your foreheads together.

It’s awkward, but it feels right.

Someone passes by, one of your neighbours, and you both step back.

They greet you with a wide smile, excusing themselves for interrupting.

You clear your throat, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He says, not meeting your eyes.

That night when you go to bed, even though the sheets are cold against your skin, you think the walls feel warm.

“And so, if you want to marry someone, you just need to be annoying and insult them for being an asshole.” Kuroo explains matter-of-factly to Bokuto.

“I never said Ken was an asshole.” You justify.

You hear Kenma sigh.

“Well… at least not directly to him. But I thought it really hard. Maybe I wrote it in the letters I left at his door-”

“Love… they got it I think.”

“Right, sorry…”

“Arrrrgh, I’m so jealous… I want to have a relationship like you guys.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck and groans loudly.

“Bokuto-san, if you love someone just tell them.”

“But Akaaashi, I’m not a poet like you. I can’t just write love letters and stuff.”

“C’mon, bro,” Kuroo interrupts. “Isn’t it great to be single? You don’t have to worry about making the other mad or sad or-"

“Kuro says this because he doesn’t want to be the only single guy here.”

“Oi! Kenma, if I hadn’t helped you conquer their heart, you wouldn’t have been able to get someone like them.”

“You helped him?” You rest your chin in the palm of your hand and look at Kuroo.

“He never told you? The night when you were completely wasted, two years ago, I was the one who suggested he take care of you. And the day when-”

“Okay, time to go. Your grandparents are waiting for us.” Kenma gets up and you can see Kuroo smirk from the corner of your eyes.

You’re about to tell him to wait, you want to know more about his friend’s story. But Kenma takes your hand and leads you outside, not caring about Kuroo’s comments about him being a coward and Bokuto’s complaints about nobody caring about his love life problems.

Once you step outside, you call for him.

“Huh?” He speaks. He never says more than that.

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your nose and whispers, “I love you too.”

a/n: the story comes from a dream i had, i woke up and knew i had to write it haha. hope you enjoyed it

elie

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pfpanimes · 4 months ago

Text

⌕ haikyuu • kenma.

like or reblog if you save/use. 🤍

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orleia--xe · 4 months ago

Note

HELLO HELLO—

May I request

Kenma / Semi / Kuroo helping reader with her period for the very first time

Kenma/ Iwaizumi's reaction upon finding a love letter in theur locker after practice from reader (the very first time that someone actually showed interest in them)

Take your time, there's really no rush 💥💥

But I could be your crush, like-! | ◈ K.K | I.H

| Summary: With the final bell for the day, he heads over to the lockers and atop his stuff, adorned with a letter...Hm..Unusual..Someone love letter in his lock? Are you sure it's right...?

| Genre: Fluff, school setting, requested by @avens0nly.

| Author's notes: This is mostly a stretch for me, requests are open for almost ANYTHING you want, read the rules though. This is pretty much a word vomit, but one that is pretty.

| Warnings: N/A. fangirls? pushing down the stairs (gently and very little. but don't do this irl to anyone). Some fanmade stuff and some personal headcanons, nothing too much. r/x l/x is your full name.

𝕂𝕖𝕟𝕞𝕒 𝕂𝕠𝕫𝕦𝕞𝕖

Quickly stretching his neck as he continued to be pulled by Kuroo as Kenma's fingers continued to work on his phone screen, pressing to defeat the boss to pass onto the next level.

As he continued to gently tap on his screen, as Kuroo kept talking with Yaku and pulled him to the lockers. Admitting, he'll open it within a few seconds, he busied his fingers again with the game on his phone.

Losing the first tie, as the loosing theme was played on the screen as Kenma glared at his phone, again starting it as he huffed and continued to angry tap on his screen to try an defeat the boss, right before s phone snatched out of his hand as Yaku sighed, Kuroo holding it above Kenma's reach,

"Ya! Hurry up, Kenma. We have practice." He told Kenma as Yaku patted Kenma's back, trying to get Kenma to soften his hard glare on Kuroo, telling him he'll get his phone within a second and ushered him to turn towards his locker.

Groaning, Kenma lazily fiddled with the lock to open the locker, and atop his messily put away uniform, stayed a perfectly tucked in....envelope.Very easily recognizable, a love letter. Kenma rolled his eyes, since his locker was right beside Kuroo's, he'd gotten one too many love letters by accidents which were meant for Kuroo.

So he picked it up, just slapping it in Kuroo's face who held it, grinning sheepishly as Kenma began changing into his practice uniform and jersey.. Jut as he pulled the res jersey down, Yaku held the letter back to him as Knema stared back at the two staring at him expectantly, "what?" he asked annoyed.

"It's not Kuroo's...It's for you." Yaku told him as Kenma, rolled his eyes, not believing the joke for a second as he looked at them with a face that definitely meant he did not believe them, "Seriously." Kuroo said, and that look on his face when he was being serious about something.

As Kenma gently plucked the letter form Yaku's hand and lookied at it, adorned with a pixelated kiss mark on top of it, which he thought was cute and a pixelated heart sticker and Kenma written with a cursive writing in golden, ochre yellow and black ink pens...a lot of effort was taken in to write this letter for him, huh? Kenma subtly smiled and Yaku noticed that, as he grinned at Kenma,

"Go away." Kenma suddenly looked up and told Yaku and Kuroo. As Kuroo demanded to stay, but Yaku thankfully pulled him away as Kuroo kept complaining. As Kenma looked down at it, opening the letter and pulling out the butterscotch smelling paper out, he liked it, it was one of his favourite flavour.

"Dear Kenma-san,

I write this letter in hopes of conveying my feelings for you. It might be overwhelming, so I apologize. I did not know what to say, but I agree that I adore you and your smile and your eyes and everything.

I see the efforts you put in to be with your friends when you want to, despite being an introvert. I see you play games on the bleachers right before volleyball practice. I wanted to say; I like you, a lot.

I understand if you don't, but I wanted to get it off my chest and so I thank you for holding my feelings for the time while,

Love, R.L."

He read, trying to control the smile reaching his cheeks, it was nice...Very nice, actually..He quickly ushered on his shirt perfectly, wore his sport shoes and ran to the volleyball court of the school, other members already there. Kuroo huffing in annoyance as Yaku winked to him subtly, smiling, before nodding to the bleachers...

As he looked up to see a cute person, waving down at him with a soft smile and a shy expression...He softly waved too, walking closer to the bleachers as she leaned down to hand a him a water-bottle.

You handed to everyone, actually. But as you bent down a bit to give it to him, his eyes fall on your ID card dangling down...

R.L: R/X L/X. Nekoma, 2nd year.

Besides the brooch of the school on the ID, like it had everyone's initials...Hm, he was too busy staring at your ID, that he didin't even get a word out as you were simply dragged away by your friend outside.Your friend was one of the players' cousins or something, Kenma wasn't sure, but she pulled you out with her, claiming she needed you for something, telling them they'll survive without a manager for a day or two more.

But who were you to give him such a cute letter, attend to his interests within a few seconds and a piece of paper and then leave him without anything else, suddenly catching his feelings within a few second??.. R.L....Hm, he'll find you later, won't he?

𝕀𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕫𝕦𝕞𝕚 ℍ𝕒𝕛𝕚𝕞𝕖

Iwaizumi, stood outside the gym with the Matsun and Makki, both clowning off and troubling Kunimi to teasing him or something as they all waited for Oikawa to be done with his fangirls.

Iwaizumi sighed and opened his own locker, as he peered in, in the middle of his uniform, books and others was a love letter, as he scoffed. 'Another one' he thought, pulling the letter out as Makki and Mattsun stared at it, with grins,

"OI!! SHITTYKAWA, ANOTHER LETTER FOR OUR BUGABOO~~" Makki said in a high-pitched and dramatic as Oikawa turned to them, smirking as he apologized to his fangirls and took his leave, taking the letter from Iwaizumi as usual Kunimi, Kindaichi, Mattsun and Makki peered it as Oikawa tore open the letter.

The letter decorated with turquoise and teal decorations to match the Aoba Johsai jerseys and colour, which the guys thought was pretty cute of the person to do so...Iwaizumi paid him no mind, continuing to remove his shoes to change them.

But as Oikawa unfolded the letter and began reading it, his smile, pride and smugness depleted, he became pouty as Makki and Mattsun cheered idiotically and loudly as Iwaizumi turned to them as Oikawa folded the letter and placed it neatly back in the simply decorated envelope, shoving it to Iwaizumi with a pouty expression,

"It's for you."

Iwaizumi stood there, frozen as he hands reached for the letters and almost snatched it as he read over the words quickly...Oh fuck...

Dear Iwa-chan,

May I call you that?? I apologize but I write this letter to explain my hidden feelings for you. What else is there to say except that I adore you more than anything. You're so smart and so confident in what you do. I hope to reveal my feelings to you if I could, sadly I'm a coward who can't explain my feelings...

This letter may not suffice, but I hope it can bridge the gap between us, if possible. I would like to be your friend and get to know you more, as we learn of our feelings...Though that may remain a dream, I desire for it to be the truth, but until then..I adore you,

Love, R.

In perfect handwriting in teal ink with slightly stain of it at the edge of the paper. Does not matter, how long has it been has his heart fluttered like this? How come HE had a secret admirer...Oh he needed to find out who was this person behind the letter.

As Makki and Mattsun whistled lowly and kept saying and confessing the words to each other, dramatically, while Oikawa scoffed and pouted. How sweet, as they began walking down the hallway of Aoba Johsai to head to the volleyball gym, just as a student, who was running, bumped shoulders with Iwaizumi..

You tripped, almost slipping as Iwaizumi caught your wrist, "Ac-Fu-sorry...sorry!!" you apologized, bowing a bit as you held back onto his wrist and the jacket sleeve, removing your hand as you smiled, running away as Iwaizumi smiled and waved, god you were cute.

As he looked down, he noticed tiny stains of teal on his sleeve, matching the love letter he received as he turned to catch your own cardigan you wore on top of your uniform slightly stained with teal ink at the sleeve...

Maybe he'll catch you later on this ink and this...adoration of yours, yeah?

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m4iya · 1 month ago

Text

⋆⑅˚₊ Order up! - Banana cupcakes with cookie dough and chocolate chips to eat in for @moochiwoochi

A friend of a friend ft. Kozume Kenma (fluff, crack)

w.c 1.5k

“Here, I’ll carry that for you!” A voice perks up behind you, and soon after, a small weight is lifted right off your shoulder.

“You didn’t need to do that, Hinata. It’s a light bag.” He shook his head in dismissal.

Before becoming the current manager in training, a classmate of yours noticed that you’d always leave school immediately after class, never heading to any sort of after school club. Approaching you on one of those days, he suggested that you join the volleyball club as their new manager. You felt like he had locked in on you as a target, because once he made the connection that you were essentially free, it was like he became hardwired to pester you about it every single day.

So you could say it was more like he forced you to join, telling sob stories about how lost the team would be once they’re left without a manager, saying that someone has to keep the troublemakers in line. You wondered if he considered himself part of that bunch.

On todays agenda – or rather, this week’s agenda, was a training camp organised to bring a few teams together for practice matches. The boys piled onto the bus, leaving space at the front for you and the other manager to sit. Hinata usually talked your ear off about volleyball in general, but he’d always specifically mention ‘Nekoma’ and ‘his friends from Tokyo’. You opted not to admit it, knowing that he wouldn’t shut up, but it left you wondering who these mysterious ‘City boys’ – as Tanaka calls them – really were.

After a drive filled with petty arguments (Hinata and Kageyama as per usual), the bus reached the inn where you’d all be staying for the rest of the camp. You were informed that the practice matches would commence tomorrow, and so you set your things down and went to sleep.

With the morning sun peeking through the curtains, you awoke. Tidying your clothes, you headed out to the cafeteria where your peers were having breakfast.

“Hey!” Hinata waves to you from a seat, and you walk towards him, setting your plate down on the table.

He started rambling about how excited he was to play, talking with a mouth full of food

“Finish your food first!” You scolded him, elbowing his arm.

Once everyone had finished eating and preparing themselves, you all headed down to the gymnasium where they would be playing their games today. Stepping inside, there were multiple other teams who you’d never seen before, matched up and playing against each other. Though there was a single team that was standing off to the side, waiting.

Suddenly, you felt a tug on your arm as you were pulled towards them by an overly gleeful Hinata.

“Kenma! Hey!” He called out to a blonde haired boy who looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else. Though, upon hearing his name, he turned towards Hinata with a smile.

“There you are. You guys got here yesterday, right?” You wondered if this soft spoken boy was one of the aforementioned Tokyo students.

“Huh? How did you know we were here?”

“Oh, just from the..” He paused for a second, pulling out his phone. “...10 – or so – messages you sent since yesterday.”

“Let’s not sweat the details!” He chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Anyways, I wanted to introduce you to our manager!” Hinata ushered towards you.

“Hello.” He turned to you with a faint smile. You nodded in return, smiling back.

Before you could continue, a whistle sounded, calling the boys to group up. Sitting near the coach, you took notes as you watched the game play out.

During the break, the boys grouped up once more, all talking about various things. Handing out water bottles, you overheard Hinata’s loud voice in conversation with Kenma as they sat on the steps near the gym doors. Walking over to the two of them, you handed Hinata his bottle, and he took a big gulp before continuing.

“Hey Kenma, our manager plays games too!” He quipped. You crouched down near the two of them.

Kenma’s head whipped towards you. “What kind..?” His gaze was kind of.. scrutinizing?

You figured it was nothing. “I play RPGs and shooter games. Sometimes I’ll play other stuff though.”

“What about that driving one with the turtles and bananas?” Hinata chirped with his arms in front of him, twisting them left and right.

“Mario Kart?” Kenma replied with a scowl.

“Yeah!”

“Oh, I’m not very good at that one.” You chuckled. “I always end up in last place.”

“Probably better than Shoyo.” Kenma muttered. “He can’t even hold the controller properly.”

You laughed as Hinata tried his hardest to defend himself, giving up eventually. Leaving the two of them, you went to collect the bottles and refill them for later. As you were walking back to the exit, you noticed that Hinata was no longer there.

“Where’d he go?” You asked Kenma.

“Kageyama challenged him to a race or something” He shrugged. “They have so much energy..” He sighed before looking up at you.

“I’m just going to wash and fill these up.” You said, looking down at the bottles you were carrying.

“Wait a sec, I’ll come.” He offered as he left to retrieve his own team’s bottles, leaving you to wonder where their manager was.

Once he returned, the two of you headed outside towards the outdoor sink. You looked over at him; “Does your team have a manager?” You asked.

“Nope.” He sighed. “We don’t really need one. The manager work is usually split up between us all. So since you were filling your team’s bottles, I figured I’d do the same.”

You nodded in agreement, setting the bottles down near the sink.

“Do you find it hard? Being the manager.” He asked, unscrewing the caps off the bottles.

“Not really.” You answered. “It’s a little outside of what I’m used to, but I get to meet so many people, and I always have something to do, so I guess not.” Turning the tap, you shudder at the recollection of a few unsavoury memories.

“Though, sometimes I have to deal with a bunch of fights. I usually break up Hinata and Kageyama’s squabbles when the captain isn’t around.”

“Kind of like a referee.” He jokes. “Maybe you should start carrying a whistle..”

“Right? I’ll end up losing my voice at this rate.” You rinsed the caps, and began filling the bottles one by one.

“They’re still at it..” He points out. The two of them have been racing up and down the hill for who knows how long at this point, yelling at each other as they do so.

“Whatever.. Maybe one of them will trip and roll down the hill..” You mutter, defeated and exhausted. “How about you? Anything difficult with your team?”

“Well.. Theres this new guy who keeps insisting that he’s our ace.” He spoke with a small frown. “He’s sort of okay.. but he’s lacking in all the fundamentals.”

“And I’m guessing you’re who’s been asked to help him?” You chuckled as Kenma grimaced, screwing the cap of the last bottle. “Yeah..” He began to help you with yours as the two of you continued your conversation, chatting about various subjects including the games the two of you were into, how you came to join and whatnot. He wasn’t surprised to hear how Hinata practically guilt tripped you into joining. Though, the two of you agreed that there was just something that made him hard to ignore.

Kenma also told you about how the two of them first met and how Hinata had been lost at the time, which was very characteristic of him. You made a comment that despite his loud demeanour, he always seemed to befriend much quieter people.

Though it was your first time at a training camp like this, you found yourself letting loose pretty easily. Having so much in common with Kenma really smoothed out your conversations. The two of you landed back onto the topic of games as you headed back inside the gym to set the bottles down.

“Really? You have that game?” You gushed. “It was always out of stock wherever I checked!”

“Yeah, I waited in line before the store opened.. First and probably last time I’d do that.”

“I couldn’t even find it on second hand sites..” You complained. There were usually so many resellers, so where did they all disappear to at the time?

“I can lend it to you if you want” He offered. “I brought it with me. Finished it on the train.”

“Seriously? You’d let me play it?”

“Only if you don’t mess up my save files.” He joked.

Before you knew it, the coaches called the boys back to practice. You had kind of been coaxed into joining this club at some point, but it wasn’t something you’d say anymore. After all, you’ve been able to meet so many people. You looked over at the team, watching Hinata as he flailed around in an attempt to escape Kageyama, who seemed to have made a rare miss with his toss. You couldn’t help but laugh.

Mya's Bakery Event 𝜗𝜚 other works

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