He Was My Captain, And I Was His Setter. But After Our Last Game, He Became Mine.

The envelope was waiting for him in the mail slot when he got home, stiff and official among the junk mail. It was from a university in Tokyo, his first choice. His first acceptance. He should have been ecstatic. Instead, the crisp paper felt impossibly heavy in his hand, like a formal notice marking an end date. He tucked it into his school bag, the corner digging into his textbook.

An hour later, he was walking beside Kenma, the setting sun bleeding orange and purple across the sky. The air was cool, carrying the first hints of spring. It was a walk they’d made thousands of times, a rhythm so ingrained in him that he could do it with his eyes closed. But today, he was acutely aware of every single detail, as if seeing it for the first time and the last.

“So, big news,” Kuroo said, trying for his usual easy tone. It came out strained. “Got my first letter today. I’m in.”

Kenma’s thumbs didn’t stop their frantic dance across the buttons of his handheld console. “Hm. That’s good, Kuro.” His eyes remained fixed on the screen, but his response was automatic, expected.

They stopped at the convenience store, the bell above the door chiming their arrival. Kenma drifted to the refrigerated section, his gaze scanning the rows before his hand predictably landed on the salmon onigiri. Kuroo watched him, a painful ache blooming in his chest. He knew Kenma would pick that one. He always did. Kuroo grabbed his own usual, spicy tuna, but the familiar packaging felt foreign in his grip. Everything felt like a memory he was already having.

As they walked again, Kenma unwrapped his snack with practiced, one-handed efficiency. Kuroo found his own gaze fixed on the way the dying sunlight caught in Kenma’s hair, turning the dark roots to gold and the bleached ends to a soft, pale yellow. He cataloged the slight slump of Kenma’s shoulders, the intense focus in his cat-like eyes as he navigated a difficult level, the soft sound of his breathing next to him. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t the comfortable, easy quiet they normally shared. It was thick with everything Kuroo couldn't bring himself to say. The words were lodged in his throat, a painful lump of fear and something else, something he refused to name.

Kenma finally cleared the level, the console emitting a triumphant little jingle. He took a bite of his onigiri and finally glanced over at Kuroo, who quickly looked away. Kenma’s gaze was sharp, analytical. He didn't say anything, but Kuroo felt it anyway—the observation, the processing. Kenma tilted his head slightly, a small, curious motion, before his attention returned to his screen. He filed the information away. Kuroo’s forced cheerfulness, the way he was staring, the uncharacteristic quiet. It was another piece of a puzzle he was beginning to realize he didn’t want to solve.

The squeak of shoes on the polished wood floor was a familiar, comforting sound, but it did little to ground him. Practice was a blur of motion and shouted instructions. Kenma moved through the drills on autopilot, his mind still snagged on the walk home, on the weight of Kuroo’s stare. He tossed the ball to Lev, the set a little less precise than usual. He could feel Kuroo’s eyes on him from across the net, analytical and intense, but it felt different from his usual captain’s scrutiny.

“Alright, gather up!” Kuroo’s voice cut through the noise. “Let’s go over that new read-blocking strategy. Kenma, come here.”

Kenma jogged over, his pulse picking up for a reason he refused to examine. Kuroo was talking to the team, explaining the theory of baiting the spiker, but his eyes were on Kenma. When he finished his explanation, he moved to stand directly behind him. Kenma froze. He was used to this, to Kuroo using him as a mannequin for demonstrations, but the air suddenly felt thin.

“Okay, so when their setter is in this position,” Kuroo began, his voice a low rumble just over Kenma’s shoulder, “they’re going to favor a quick. Your instinct is to commit early.” He placed his hands on Kenma’s arms, his palms warm and his fingers firm. “But you have to wait. Feel the spiker’s approach.”

Kuroo’s hands slid from his arms up to his shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the muscle just beside his neck. It was meant to be an adjustment, a way to square Kenma’s posture, but the touch lingered. It wasn’t clinical. Kenma could feel the distinct texture of the calluses on Kuroo’s fingertips through the thin fabric of his shirt, a familiar friction that was suddenly anything but. The heat from Kuroo’s body soaked into his back, a solid, encompassing presence that made it hard to breathe. The scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, clean smell of his skin filled Kenma’s senses.

The gym, the team, the entire world seemed to fade into a dull background hum. There was only the weight of Kuroo’s hands, the heat of his body, the soft sound of his breathing. The touch lasted for a second too long. Then another.

“You have to be patient, Kenma.”

Kuroo’s voice was different. It was low, almost a whisper, and rough around the edges. The sound of his own name, spoken with that strange texture, sent a sharp, undeniable jolt through his entire body. It started at the base of his neck and shot down his spine, a current of pure electricity that made every nerve ending light up. His breath caught in his throat.

From across the court, Yaku shouted, “Are you two done posing? Some of us want to actually practice before we get old!”

Kuroo dropped his hands abruptly and stepped back. The sudden loss of contact was like a shock of cold water. “Right. Let’s run it,” he said, his voice back to its normal, commanding tone.

But Kenma’s focus was gone, completely shattered. For the rest of practice, his sets were clumsy, his timing off. He couldn’t think about the ball or the net or the spikers. All he could feel was the ghost of Kuroo’s calloused fingers on his skin, the lingering warmth on his back, and the echo of his name spoken in a voice that promised something he didn’t dare to understand.

Later that night, the familiar comfort of Kenma’s room felt warped, unfamiliar. He was curled in his gaming chair, the multi-colored glow of his main monitor washing over his face. The soft clicking of his controller was usually the only sound needed to fill the space between them, a comfortable rhythm Kuroo had long ago learned to tune out. But tonight, the silence behind him was a living thing. It was heavy and watchful, pressing in on him from the spot on the edge of his bed where Kuroo sat.

Kenma tried to lose himself in the game, a new RPG with a notoriously difficult final boss. It required his full attention, a level of focus that usually walled off the rest of the world. Yet he couldn’t stop feeling Kuroo’s eyes on him. It wasn’t a casual glance. It was a stare, steady and intense, and it felt like a physical touch against the back of his neck. A prickling heat spread across his skin, raising the fine hairs on his arms. He fumbled a command, his character taking a critical hit that nearly wiped out his health bar. He swore under his breath, his knuckles white on the controller.

The feeling was too much. It was the same unnerving intensity from practice, the same focused energy that had made his breath catch when Kuroo had said his name. He couldn't ignore it, not here, not in the one place that was supposed to be his sanctuary. With a frustrated sigh, Kenma hit the pause button. The screen froze on a chaotic battle scene, the silence in the room suddenly absolute and deafening.

He swiveled his chair around slowly to face Kuroo.

The older boy was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. The unreadable expression Kenma had caught glimpses of all day was fully present now, unguarded in the dim light of the room. It was a raw, complicated look, a mix of sorrow and a deep, aching tenderness that made Kenma’s stomach tighten. Kuroo wasn’t looking at the screen or at his phone. He was just looking at him.

“What?” Kenma’s voice was barely a whisper.

The question seemed to startle Kuroo, pulling him from whatever deep thought he’d been lost in. He blinked, a flicker of his usual mask snapping back into place, but it was too late. Kenma had already seen what was underneath. Kuroo forced a lazy smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Just admiring how you’re going to permanently curve your spine before you’re twenty,” he deflected, his voice attempting a light, teasing tone that fell completely flat. “Seriously, Kenma. Your posture is a tragedy.”

The joke landed with a thud in the charged air between them. It did nothing to dispel the thick, raw vulnerability that hung in the room. Kenma just stared at him, his golden eyes searching Kuroo’s face. He didn’t push, didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to. He knew a deflection when he heard one. Kuroo was hiding something, something big enough to make his gaze feel like a brand and his silence feel like a scream. He turned back to his monitor, the paused game a monument to the shattered peace, the unspoken thing still pulsing in the quiet space that separated them.