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It takes them two season-change to go from first kiss to the moment Kuroo slipped his hand into Kenma’s shirt. From hooded sweatshirts with drawstrings, to thin long sleeves, and finally to loose short‑sleeved T‑shirts.
For eighteen and nineteen‑year‑olds, the pace was slow—but Kenma didn’t mind. He didn’t want to reach the stage where kissing Kuroo no longer made his brain short‑circuit quite so quickly.
Lying in his bed, Kenma threw the blanket off with a huff and rolled from lying on his side into a sprawl, thinking irritably: he hadn’t minded—until last weekend.
*
Kuroo moved into his apartment near campus last fall. But whenever there’s no school related activities on the weekend, he came over to the Kozume house for dinner every Friday night. After dinner they would go back to Kenma’s room.
No one remembered who leaned in first; all that mattered was that after five days apart, no matter how many times they’d experienced it, physical contact is always in dire need as compensation.
Kuroo slipped his hand into Kenma’s shirt, his large palm kneading the slightly tense muscles of his back, working up to his shoulders and neck with just enough pressure to loosen them, then moving down along his side.
Kuroo’s hand easily covered Kenma’s side. His thumb, rough with a thin layer of callus, traced back and forth across Kenma’s abdomen, feeling out the rise and fall of his ribs, before stopping at his chest.
The first time his thumb brushed over the flush of red there, Kenma’s body flinched. The thumb retreated slightly, circling a half circle around the area. And when it covered the sensitive peak again, Kenma went rigid and pulled back, breaking their kiss with a breathy, “Kuro… Kuro, wait—no.”
Kuroo murmured a quick, gentle “Sorry, sorry,” before chasing after Kenma’s lips again. The hand that had withdrawn moved instead to the back of Kenma’s head, ruffling his hair in the soothing way Kenma liked.
That was where the problem lay.
Everything had happened too fast. After Kenma rushed to that reaction on instinct, Kuroo followed up far too quickly.
They had a few more chances to be alone over the weekend. They shared several light kisses, platonic pecks, and during their Sunday afternoon nap, Kuroo had pinned Kenma in his arms, all hands and closeness—but not once did he slip his hand back under Kenma’s shirt.
That night, when Kenma found himself alone in his room feeling worse than his usual pre‑back‑to‑school blues, he didn’t realize how serious the situation was.
*
Waking up to the phantom sensation of Kuroo’s big hand on him—only to realize he was alone in bed—three days in a row was infuriating enough.
And then there was those moments while studying, when his focus slipped and his thoughts drifted to Kuroo. As he buried his face in his hands, his shirt rubbed against his skin, and the sensitivity in his chest was impossible to ignore.
Only then did Kenma finally acknowledge that he might have fucked things up.
Waiting for Friday night—the only possible turning point—was his only option.
It felt like holding a breath in his chest the whole time. The moment they went upstairs after dinner, Kenma pressed Kuroo against the closed door, rose onto his toes, and kissed the lips he’d forced down to his level.
Startled, Kuroo let out a soft “Hmm” before breaking into a delighted grin as he brushed against Kenma’s mouth—then, as always, smoothly took the lead.
Usually, the moment Kuroo’s tongue slipped into his mouth, Kenma’s brain would shut down along with it.
This time, it didn’t.
Every ounce of his attention was fixed on the hands at his back: one gripping his shoulder, the other resting at his waist.
They didn’t move. At all.
Damn it. He’d really dropped a rock on his own foot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
*
On Sunday evening, Kuroo took Kenma out per Mrs. Kozume’s request, to give the third‑year exam student a break. They settled dinner at a light salt‑flavored ramen place, and Kenma saw a thin line of hope in his bowl.
Even though he’d ordered the standard portion—two slices each of two kinds of chashu—Kenma slid his bowl up against Kuroo’s, loosened the noodles, and transferred half the chashu and some noodles over. Kuroo watched this familiar ritual without comment, till when Kenma pulled his bowl back, Kuroo looked up in mild surprise.
“Do you want the chopped scallions, Kenma?”
Gotta give it to Kuro to notice this right away.
“Yeah. The white scallions in this kind of ramen—I tried them last time. I think it’s because I don’t like scallions, I just assumed I wouldn’t like these,either, so after one bite I just stopped eating them,” Kenma said as he picked up a piece of half translucent, broth‑soaked scallion and bit into it. “But when I thought about it later, they were kind of sweet. Actually pretty good.”
Kenma looked straight at Kuroo and spoke as pointedly as he could.
“I guess it really does happen—realizing later that you were wrong about not liking something.”
Kuroo nodded enthusiastically. “That’s good that’s good. White scallions are good for you.”
And then he started eating.
It was only because of Kuroo’s openly approving expression that Kenma dropped the metaphorical knife.
*
Kozume Kenma wouldn’t let the same thing trouble him for too long. Two weeks was his current limit.
So for the second Friday in a row, the moment Kuroo stepped into the room, Kenma kissed him—this time dragging him straight onto the bed.
When Kenma’s hand touched the back of Kuroo’s neck, Kuroo, who’d been about to deepen the kiss, stopped and caught Kenma’s smaller, cold hand in his own.
“Kenma, what’s wrong?” Kuroo interlaced their fingers, his thumb tracing calming circles in Kenma’s palm and tried to warm it up at the same time. “Why are you nervous?”
Meeting Kuroo’s gaze, Kenma felt heat flood his throat and the corners of his eyes.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it—but he couldn’t bring himself to say something like touch me either.
So he bit his lower lip, pulled free, then grabbed Kuroo’s wrist and shoved his hand under his own shirt instead.
As Kuroo followed the motion and slid his hand over Kenma’s lower abdomen—held still from holding breath—he averted his gaze, not asking questions or making comments that would put Kenma more on the spot.
He closed his eyes and reclaimed Kenma’s mouth, using his tongue to coax Kenma into releasing his bitten lip. With permission, the hand that had been held by Kenma now began to explore, slowly and gently.
His thumb rubbed back and forth over the sensitive tip with just enough pressure not to tickle. When Kenma let out soft, broken sounds, Kuroo responded with a louder sigh of his own, like he’s telling Kenma: we’re together in this.
Kenma melted under his touch, arching his back, thinking that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this person.
*
Walking Kenma home after Kenma had walked him to the station to catch his train, Kuroo suddenly smacked his right palm with his left fist.
“Ah!” His face lit up in realization. “I get it now! That scallion—”
“Kuro, shut up.”
—fin
After Kuroo left for college, on the first weekend he came home, Kenma insisted on walking him to the station.
Just before Kuroo entered the ticket gates, he noticed Kenma frowning slightly, lips pressed together—and, insisted on walking Kenma back home.
After that, neither of them needed to insist. Kuroo grew very fond of this three times back and forth trip.
Mrs. Kozume was only puzzled the first couple of times, wondering why the time Tetsu reported getting home didn’t quite synchronize with the time he’d left. After that, she simply smiled as she watched her son—ears tinged red—pad upstairs on quiet, cat steps.