#the campfire drawing was inspired by a video but i have the vague memory now that someone drew something similiar....i cant remember

[avesdraws]

That didn't actually happen

[seijch]

➣ the fate of a blade has (and always will be) to live and live and live. whether or not they retain their memories is optional.

kuroo tetsurou + gender neutral!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

high fantasy au, angst

2k

this fic is inspired by the video game xenoblade chronicles 2, but knowledge of that game is not needed to enjoy this fic :-) this fic also takes place in the same universe as my ushijima fic simple life, but the stories of both take place independently of each other !!

Wait.

Stop.

"Kuroo?"

You know him; of course you do. You'd recognize the sharp lines of his face from anywhere, any place, any time. You take his appearance in the same way one would thumb through the pages of their favorite book: with familiarity and all the care in the world.

He turns at the sound of his name, his gaze searching for a moment for the source of the sound. When it lands on you, your heart breaks.

He looks about the same as always, hair permanently disheveled and exactly as annoyingly attractive as you remember.

(He used to lord it over you when you'd admitted it to him. "Oh?" he'd asked, chin in his palm and a twinkle in his eye. You had wanted nothing more than for the ground beneath to swallow you whole.)

It's been almost a full year since you've seen him. You didn't think you'd get the chance to ever again.

"Do I know you?" he asks.

You did, you want to scream.

You did—

(Your eyes blink open for the first time. Well, not really; they've blinked thousands, millions of times before. This just marks the first time your eyes have opened to your current incarnation.

For a moment, you think you're seeing double, the girl you assume is responsible for awakening you shadowed by her doppelganger. Ah, you think. They must be identical twins.

Introductions are standard. They have to be, when all you've come into this life with is your name and the innate knowledge of your power. Such is the life of a blade, you suppose. You come into this world with one purpose, one goal: to serve your driver, the person who summons you. 

Thankfully, your driver and her sister look nice enough, but their company does not, all scarred faces and scowls.

"Tough crowd, right?" a voice asks, low in your ear. You startle, whipping around to strike your would-be assailant. It's another blade, judging by the gem embedded in his chest and the vaguely unhuman look in his eyes. He holds his hands up in surrender, a playful grin on his face. "What a way to greet someone you've just met," he drawls. When your body relaxes, he offers his hand for you to shake. "I'm Kuroo. And as for this," he nods to the grim atmosphere of the camp, "you get used to it."

Niceties, it seems, are few and far between when your trade is entirely underground. Both your driver—and Kuroo's, whose driver is the mirror image of your own—were involved with the illegal dealing of core crystals, the very thing blades are summoned from.

You voice these concerns to Kuroo on your second night. "It took me a while to get used to it, too. Turns out our drivers aren't as morally corrupt as the rest of the crew." Blades tended to take after their drivers, their personality overlaid over the blade's to make each incarnation unique. "But hey," he rations, tossing a deep orange gem with one hand, "money makes the world go 'round, doesn't it?")

You did—

("You've got to try harder than that," he teases, the tip of his katana kissing the gem on your chest. "I was just starting to have fun, too." You hiss, ignoring the sting as you get up from where Kuroo's knocked you on your ass.

"Oh, I'll show you fun," you growl. He only smiles, dropping into a fighting stance as you pick up your weapon, a cannon drawing its projectiles from the ether energy in the air. You've long since learned that Kuroo is an opponent you can't hope to beat; there were a select few blades that were lauded throughout history for their power. Kuroo Tetsurou, wielder of the Chaos Uchigatana, happens to be one of them.

But that sure as hell won't stop you from trying.)

You did—

(The sparring sessions become routine, and you end up playing into Kuroo's hands every time. Each blow landed is an uphill battle against his strength, his skill.

Out of all the mornings and nights spent butting heads, you can only remember one instance where you come out on top.

Your breathing is hard, the cannon focused at his head. You'd tumbled into his lap at some point, but your head is hazy with the fog of victory. "I did it," you pant, chest heaving.

"After what?" he asks, as though he wasn't pinned to the ground. "How many losses did it take you, hm? Fifty? Eighty?" The real number—not like anyone was counting—is closer to ninety-seven. You wisely choose not to tell him that.

"You're not going to take this from me," you tell him as your breathing evens out, crooking a finger at him. Only then do you notice the space—or lack thereof—between you. You scramble to get up, offering him a hand. It's warm. Calloused. Fits perfectly in your own.

You try not to think about it.)

You did—

("What is this, Kuroo?" You're the only two awake, up for the last shift of guard duty while the rest of camp snoozes under the night sky. The only light around is the campfire Yaku set up hours ago. It burns low, crackling enough to cut through the silence.

"What is what?"

"Don't play dumb with me," you mutter from his shoulder, a bit muffled. "We both know you're smarter than that." His shoulders rise a bit, like a wave cresting and falling as he exhales from his nose in a half-laugh.

"Let's say," he deflects, "one of our drivers dies tomorrow." 

“How morbid. Are you talking about my driver?”

“Why would I be talking about your driver? It could be either of us. That’s the point of a hypothetical situation. It’s not likely to happen.”

“You tell me, Mr. Ninety-Seven.” You’re sure he’ll take the compliment, say something about how his total number of wins against you has gone up into the hundreds, but he surprises you with what he says next.

“Don’t pretend like we’re not equals.” When you huff, he exhales, refocusing.

"Let me finish. Let's say one of our drivers dies tomorrow. One of us returns to our crystal. When they're reawakened," he does his best to crane his neck, trying to make eye contact, "we won't remember this. We won't remember us."

"Yeah." It's a fact of life; blades only live as long as their drivers do. They return to the conscious, corporeal plane once they're reawakened. It's something you know, something you'll always know, through this life and the next. You're sure there are countless people, blades and drivers alike, that have been wiped clean from the slate of your memory. "And?"

"Is it so bad," he says, barely audible, like he's trying to convince himself to believe it rather than persuade you into agreeing, "to be so selfish with your present because you'll never remember the past and aren't promised a future?")

You did—

(The next job ends in an ambush from some of the competition.

You're sure the exertion will weigh on you later, but right now, you relish in it. You've long since passed the point of being one with your driver. The ether bond between you causes you both to glow golden with the raw energy being used, and she handles your cannon with ease. They say that it's during battles that the lines that separate driver and blade are the most muddled, and right now, you know it to be true. You’re certain that you two can take on whatever comes, that you’re on top of the world and nothing will take you down.

So you do just that, the cannon's shots of ether echoing into the night, against the rock walls of the cliffs surrounding the valley.

The dust clears. The euphoria of battle begins to seep out of your bones.

Your driver's twin sister—Kuroo's driver—lies broken and bloody on the dry grass.

"No," your driver sobs, her eyes glassy in a way you've never seen in all your months together, "you said it was us against the world." Her voice cracks, "You said-"

"I know what I said." Kuroo's driver has always been the more rational twin, hasn’t she? When she smiles, her teeth and gums are stained red. "I meant it. Still do." Her words are punctuated with a gurgle bringing with it a bubble of blood that pops on her lips. "It always will be. Now run."

"What-"

"Reinforcements are coming!" Yaku shouts, out of breath as he runs in your direction. You're not sure if it's because of exhaustion or because his driver's life force is ebbing away, the ocean itself receding in time for low tide.

"I can't leave you behind," your driver cries, tears running down her cheeks unbidden. Kuroo is fighting them off by himself, a speck barely recognizable in the distance. He's winning, too—for now.

A blade with a driver on their last legs won't last. The realization is heavy as it drops to the pit of your stomach, like a pebble creating ripples in a pond.

"You have to. What's the first thing we learned on the job?"

It's one of the first things you learned about the job, too: when things go south, it’s time to bail out.

You're told to run and not look back.

You and your driver—you're sure it's a trait inherited from her—have never been good listeners.

When you chance a glance behind you, you're just in time to see Kuroo and Yaku's core crystals fall to the ground as their driver takes her last breath.)

You did.

(Life is dull after that. Colors are no longer as vibrant, the excitement that came with each day long gone. You wonder if that excitement was something that came with Kuroo alone.

Gone are the sparring sessions, the late nights spent on watch duty. You know your driver has it worse; she's despondent half the time, enough for the crew to leave her to fend for herself.

"We have enough money," you tell her one afternoon. The coins clink softly as you draw the strings of her purse closed. "Let's buy a place somewhere. I hear Uraya is nice this time of year. Would you like that?"

"Yeah," she replies. The firecracker you’d come to know and love has fizzled out. "I'd like that."

You pretend to not notice the locket she clutches close to her chest when the nightmares get the best of her. When you'd first awakened, Kuroo had been the one to tell you the story behind it: it was the first thing the two of them bought with the money from their first job.

You wonder where Kuroo and Yaku are now, eyes trained on the view of the sky from the window of the inn. You wonder if they've returned to the land of the living.

But thinking like that won't get you anywhere; after all, even if they were, it wouldn't be the Kuroo and Yaku you know.)

His eyes are guarded, entirely without recognition. In the end, he was right. (And you're sure that if Kuroo—your Kuroo, not this Kuroo that stands before you—was still around, this would be yet another victory held over your head. You find it a little annoying that he's still winning, even now.)

In the end, you are the one left with the memories. The weight of them is enough to bring you to your knees, to drag you into the depths with no chance of ever seeing the light again. Every fiber of your body wants to reach out to him, to ask "Don't you remember me?"

But you've had your share of selfishness.

Your driver is waiting for you to return with the groceries. (She's taken to cooking these days. She's no good at it, but the humming you hear from the kitchen on good days makes eating her awful dishes more than worth it.)

You swallow, but it does nothing to get rid of the lump in your throat.

"No," you smile up at him. The edges of it are a bit too strained to be genuine, and he notices. You’ve known him long enough that you can read his tells, the slight narrow of his eyes when he picks up on something poorly concealed. He’s perceptive, as always. You suppose some things never change.

(Your Kuroo knew you. He knew you well enough that the slightest change in mood would tip him off. But then again, that feels like ages and years and lifetimes ago.

Now, you’re just a stranger that’s stopped him in the middle of the street.)

"You don't."