At half-past eight, Kuroko slinked out of his room and past the hallway; he peered into the kitchen.
Kagami was cutting up a few stalks of droopy-looking spring onions. The wilted tip splintered and broke when he pulled it apart; his hands were stained with dirt. Kuroko waited until he set aside the knife and deposited the minced vegetables on a plate before he spoke.
"What are you doing?" Kuroko said. The back of Kagami's ears prickled, visibly. He cursed under his breath.
"Couldn't you make a little effort to make some noise?" Kagami said, without much heat. Kuroko leaned against Kagami's back, pressed closer to breathe in the smell of olive oil and garlic.
"No," said Kuroko, shamelessly. When he looped his arms around Kagami's waist, his limbs fell laughably short, barely covering his width. Kagami caught his hands, and worried at his skin with his teeth, sucked on his fingers until Kuroko made a soft, wanting sound, sensitized.
"You bruise easily," said Kagami, coaxing Kuroko's hand back to its paler shade. Kuroko looks at his shorts, at the redness of his thighs, the grooves along his legs.
"I like it," said Kuroko, through the fabric of Kagami's shirt. "Is it so bad?"
Kagami shook his head, amused. "No," he reflected, kissing the top of Kuroko's head. "Not at all."