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Fear ruined everything, Kenma thought. They knew it would, inevitably, ruin everything they had. And they didn’t want to let fear ruin what they had with Kuroo.
No no.
They would do that themself.
Kuroo had confessed on the last day of school, at his graduation dinner. Kenma had thought their heart would explode, they were so happy. They hadn’t thought that Kuroo would ever like them. They were convinced, as they always were, that they were unlovable. Too anxious. Too much to handle. They were impossible to deal with. But Kuroo had been there, and now, he would stay there.
Kenma appreciated Kuroo every day. Sometimes they could not get out of bed, would cancel on Kuroo too late, sometimes right before a date or a dinner. Kuroo would ask if they wanted him to come over instead. Sometimes they did, and he would, and they would sit in silence together. It was a good silence. Kenma appreciated the company.
Kuroo was steady in Kenma’s life, always there for them when they needed him.
They would play together sometimes, tossing the ball around more than anything. Occasionally Shouyou would turn up, Kageyama in tow, and they would play the four of them. Just tossing the ball around. Sometimes the four would go out, wander the streets, Shouyou dragging Kageyama around, jumping around excitedly looking in windows or making him eat bites of his ice cream while stealing twice that from Kageyama’s own ice cream. Kenma would hold Kuroo’s hand under the table, steal glances at him, but they had never been comfortable with that kind of public affection. Kuroo knew it. He was respectful of that, too.
Sometimes after dates like that, Kuroo would invite Kenma to sleep over at his house, and Kenma would say yes, and they would settle down, sweating under a single sheet, breathing together, lips and teeth and tongues and hands. Sometimes Kenma would panic, push Kuroo off, and curl themself up in the corner of the bed while Kuroo sat on the ground, watching them with gentle eyes until they could speak again. They would apologize, he would reassure them that everything was okay and get back into bed, and eventually they would shuffle back over to him to place their head on his shoulder. He would stroke their hair. He was understanding. They were grateful.
It was almost too good, Kenma thought. And when things seemed too good, they worried.
Fear became a staple in their relationship. They would mess something up, and Kuroo would say it was okay, but they would watch him all night, wondering when he would leave them.
Or his text responses would be monosyllabic, and as many times as Kenma told themself that it was because he was busy, or preoccupied, or tired, they still could not stop the creeping thoughts, telling them that he didn’t love them anymore.
They spent the summer together. They were happy in the summer. Kenma kept their anxiety a secret. They did this all the time. Concealed it.
They were terrified of rejection. They didn’t know how they would handle the inevitable, being left behind. Being replaced. Kuroo was a natural flirt. It was harmless, but he was. People LIKED Kuroo, intimidating as he looked. He would move away, find someone else he liked, someone cooler, less anxious, less… like this. And then he would leave them, and they would be so used to having him around that they wouldn’t know what to do.
They couldn’t let that happen.
Walking home from the store, summertime, almost time for Kuroo to move on to university, Kenma stopped in front of their house. Groceries in hand, mostly just snacks, they dropped Kuroo’s hand. On the walk, Kuroo had been eating Pocky, sharing the occasional piece with Kenma and kissing them when no one was looking. They had blushed every time. Now, the Pocky was gone, and the game was over. Kuroo looked down, facing them.
“Not going to invite me in?” they thought he said. That’s all they remembered. They could see his little smirk. They played this game a lot.
But in this game, Kuroo always got his way. Kenma would always invite him in. They were terrified of being left, abandoned. They did what Kuroo wanted, regardless of what they wanted. Most of the time, at least. But this time, they would turn the tables. Or, rather, change the entire game. This one, they could win. They would have to win.
Staring at the ground, they shook their head.
Kuroo didn’t say anything. Kenma imagined his surprised face. They didn’t look up to see what he really looked like.
“You should go,” they remembered saying.
The rest of their speech, they did not remember. They assumed they probably said something like “I think we should have a break,” or “since you’re leaving for university, you should be single,” or “I don’t think it’s going to work out.” What they did remember was watching Kuroo’s feet take two steps back, pause, and shakily turn before retreating down the street, towards his house. Then their vision blurred out too much for them to follow his movements anymore.
They stood on the sidewalk, head dropped, tears hitting the sidewalk in front of them. They had expected him to fight back, at least a little bit. But there was nothing. There were no words. Just like that, Kuroo was gone from their life.
Kenma felt empty. They had always been drawn to Kuroo. Always. He had some kind of pull to him, something that kept Kenma coming back, just to be in his presence. A gravitational force that kept Kenma with him, kept them just behind him, in his space, always with him.
They shivered.
Somehow, the evening air seemed cold. Maybe fall was coming. Or maybe Kenma had lost the one light point in their life.
They turned on their heel and lifted their head, staring at the door to their house. The tears didn’t stop, but they just rolled down their cheeks, without causing a fuss. They were done. It was over. They had done it. They had left Kuroo before he could leave them.
And they wouldn’t feel a damn thing.