Chapter Text
The bass hit like a second heartbeat, thrumming through the floorboards of Bokuto's house and vibrating up through the soles of Kenma's feet. He stood in the doorway of the crowded living room, fingers curled tight around the strap of his crossbody bag, and tried to remember how to breathe.
Two months. Sixty-three days, if he was counting, and he was always counting. Sixty-three days since the last pill melted under his tongue. Sixty-three days of feeling everything, all at once, with nothing to soften the edges.
"You gonna stand there all night?"
Kenma's gaze snapped to his left, where Kuroo materialized from the crowd with two plastic cups in his hands. His dark hair was styled in its usual messy spikes, but something about the low lighting made the angles of his face look sharper, more severe. He wore a black t-shirt with some band logo Kenma didn't recognize and dark jeans that fit well. He looked good. He always looked good.
"I'm thinking about it," Kenma said, his voice barely carrying over the music.
Kuroo's expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes as he looked Kenma over. The crop top with long sleeves was a choice, pale pink, with a faded slogan from some game Kenma had never played, the fabric soft from too many washes. It showed a strip of his stomach, the jut of his hip bones, the faint outline of ribs that had become more prominent over the past year. His pants hung low on his waist, loose enough that he'd had to tie the drawstring tight to keep them from slipping down. The glittery makeup had been Hinata's idea, swiped across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose in a gesture that felt more like painting a target on his face than actual self-expression.
"You look," Kuroo started, then stopped. He held out one of the cups. "Here. Non-alcoholic punch. Bokuto said he made a special batch for you."
Kenma stared at the cup like it might bite him. "He didn't have to do that."
"He wanted to. He's been worried about you, you know. We all have."
The words landed somewhere between sweet and suffocating. Kenma took the cup but didn't drink, his throat too tight to swallow. The glitter caught the light from the strobe lamp someone had set up in the corner, scattering tiny rainbows across his skin.
"I didn't think it would be this loud," Kenma said, mostly to himself.
Kuroo leaned in closer, his lips near Kenma's ear. The proximity made Kenma's skin prickle with awareness, memories surfacing that he'd spent two months trying to bury. "What?"
"I said," Kenma repeated, louder this time, "I didn't think it would be this loud!"
Kuroo laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "It's Bokuto's party. What did you expect?"
Not this. Not the press of bodies, the smell of cheap beer and expensive cologne, the feeling of being underwater while everyone else breathed air. Kenma had imagined something smaller, maybe, something manageable. A handful of people playing video games in Bokuto's basement while music played from a Bluetooth speaker. Not this carnival of chaos that made his chest tight and his palms sweat.
"I need air," Kenma said, already turning toward the back door.
"Wait, I'll come with—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. Kenma softened his voice, tried again. "No, I just... I need a minute. Alone. Please."
Kuroo's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'll be here. If you need anything."
Kenma pushed through the crowd, keeping his head down and his shoulders hunched. A few people called out greetings, voices he half-recognized from school or parties past. He ignored them, focused on the rectangle of light spilling from the sliding glass door that led to Bokuto's backyard.
The night air hit him like a revelation. Cool and sharp, it cut through the humidity of the crowded house and filled his lungs with something that felt almost like relief. He walked to the edge of the deck, set his untouched cup on the railing, and gripped the wood until his knuckles went white.
Two months clean, and his hands still shook. His heart still raced at the slightest provocation. His brain still cataloged every exit, every shadow, every potential threat in his environment. He'd been told this was normal, that his body was recalibrating, that it would get easier with time. But time moved differently when you were counting every second, when each minute felt like an hour and each hour felt like a lifetime.
"Thought I'd find you out here."
Kenma's spine straightened at the voice. He didn't turn, didn't need to. He knew that tone, that cadence, the specific way the words landed somewhere between teasing and tender.
"I'm not running," he said.
"Didn't say you were." Bokuto moved to stand beside him, his presence solid and grounding. His golden eyes reflected the light from the pool, sharp and intelligent despite his usual goofy demeanor. He'd ditched his signature jacket somewhere inside, wearing a tight black tank top that showed off the muscles in his arms and shoulders. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine."
"Kenma."
The word was heavy with expectation, with concern, with the kind of intimacy that came from years of friendship. Kenma exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the cool air.
"Anxious," he admitted. "Everything feels... loud. Bright. Too much."
"That's the withdrawals talking."
"No." Kenma shook his head, the glitter in his makeup catching the light. "It's me. This is me, without anything to hide behind. And I'm starting to think maybe I'm just... too much. For myself, I mean. I don't know how to exist in my own skin without checking out."
Bokuto was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out, his hand landing warm and steady on Kenma's shoulder. "You're learning. That's all. You spent years not having to feel any of this, and now you're drowning in it. But you'll learn to swim eventually."
"What if I don't want to?"
The question surprised them both. Kenma hadn't meant to say it, hadn't even known he was thinking it until the words were already hanging in the air between them. But there it was, the ugly truth he'd been carrying for sixty-three days: the part of him that missed the numbness, that craved the sweet oblivion of a pill dissolving under his tongue, that hated every second of this raw, exposed existence.
Bokuto's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Then you hold on to the people who want to swim for you until you're ready. That's what we're here for."
Kenma turned, finally, and met Bokuto's gaze. There was no pity there, no judgment. Just steady, unwavering acceptance.
"I don't deserve that," Kenma said quietly.
"That's not your call to make."
The sliding door opened behind them, spilling light and noise into the backyard. Kenma tensed automatically, his body moving into a defensive posture before his brain could catch up.
"Hey!" Hinata's voice cut through the tension, bright and cheerful. "There you are! Kageyama's looking for you, Bokuto. Something about the music being wrong?"
Bokuto groaned, but his hand lingered on Kenma's shoulder for a moment longer before he stepped away. "Duty calls. But Kenma, if you need anything, anything at all, you come find me. Okay?"
Kenma nodded, not trusting his voice.
Hinata bounded over to the railing, his orange hair wild and his smile wide. He, too, had gone the glitter route, though his makeup was more elaborate, swirling patterns around his eyes that made him look like some kind of forest sprite. He was wearing a cropped hoodie that showed his muscled stomach.
"You look amazing," Hinata said, eyeing Kenma's outfit. "I told you the glitter was a good idea."
"I feel like a disco ball."
"That's the point! We're supposed to be noticeable tonight."
Kenma's stomach dropped. "Why?"
Hinata's smile softened into something more knowing, more serious. "Because you've been hiding for two months, and we miss you. And maybe because there's someone inside who's been asking about you, and I thought maybe you'd want the chance to..." He trailed off, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Kenma's heart stuttered in his chest. "Who?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Hinata."
"Fine, fine." Hinata leaned in conspiratorially. "Akaashi. He's been asking Kuroo about you for the past hour. And Kuroo's been very pointedly not telling him anything, which I think means he's jealous, which is very interesting, but that's not the point. The point is, Akaashi is here, and he's single, and he's been looking at the door every five minutes like he's waiting for someone, and I think that someone might be you."
Kenma's mind went blank. Akaashi Keiji, with his quiet intensity and his sharp wit and his unfairly beautiful face. Akaashi, whohad always seemed untouchable, unreachable, like a star that burned too bright to approach. Akaashi, who had never shown any interest in Kenma beyond casual friendship. Or Kenma didn't want to believe otherwise.
"I think you're wrong," Kenma said.
"I'm never wrong about these things."
"You're frequently wrong about these things."
Hinata's grin widened. "Only time will tell. Now come on, get your punch, and let's go inside. I promised Kageyama I'd dance with him, and I refuse to do it alone."
He grabbed Kenma's wrist and tugged him toward the door, and Kenma let himself be pulled, let himself be guided back into the noise and the chaos and the light. His heart was still racing, his hands still shaking, but there was something else there now, something that felt almost like anticipation.
The living room had transformed in the twenty minutes he'd been outside. Someone had moved the furniture to the edges of the room, creating a makeshift dance floor in the center. Bodies moved together in a rhythm that Kenma couldn't quite match, caught in the strange underwater feeling of being sober at a party for the first time in years.
He spotted Kuroo near the kitchen doorway, talking to Yamamoto. Their heads were bent close together, and Yamamoto was laughing at something Kuroo had said. Kuroo's hand rested on Yamamoto's shoulder, casual and comfortable, and something in Kenma's chest twisted at the sight.
They'd been friends since childhood, he and Kuroo. Best friends, for a while. And then something more, for a brief, desperate period when Kenma had been drowning and Kuroo had been the only lifeline he could reach. It hadn't been healthy. It hadn't even been particularly good, most of the time. But it had been real, and it had meant something, and Kenma had spent the past two months trying to convince himself that he was over it.
He wasn't over it.
"Earth to Kenma." Hinata waved a hand in front of his face. "You in there?"
"I'm here." Kenma shook himself, tried to focus on the present. "Where's Akaashi?"
"Ah, so you are interested." Hinata's grin turned sharp. "Last I saw, he was by the stairs. Come on."
They wound through the crowd, Kenma keeping his eyes on the back of Hinata's head so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the people he passed. The music shifted to something slower, more sensual, and the energy in the room changed accordingly. Couples gravitated toward each other, hands finding hips and lips finding necks.
Kenma had never been part of a couple. He'd been part of a situation, once. A desperate, messy arrangement that had left scars on both of them. But not a couple. Never something as simple as that.
They found Akaashi at the base of the stairs, deep in conversation with Konoha. His dark hair was styled simply, falling across his forehead in a way that made Kenma's fingers itch to touch it. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and dark slacks, the outfit formal enough that he looked like he'd come from somewhere important rather than a house party.
"Keiji!" Hinata called, and Akaashi's gaze lifted, landing first on Hinata and then, slowly, on Kenma.
Their eyes met.
Kenma forgot how to breathe.
Akaashi's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his gaze, a darkening that felt almost like heat. He excused himself from Konoha with a murmured word and crossed the space between them in three measured steps.
"Kenma," he said, and his voice was deeper than Kenma remembered, richer. "I was hoping you'd be here."
"I almost didn't come."
"I'm glad you did." Akaashi's gaze swept over him, taking in the crop top, the glitter, the way the low lighting turned Kenma's skin to porcelain. "You look beautiful."
The word hit Kenma like a physical blow. Not pretty, not cute, not fuckable. Beautiful. Like something worth preserving rather than consuming.
"You too," Kenma managed, and immediately wanted to kick himself. Smooth. Real smooth.
But Akaashi smiled, a small curve of lips that transformed his face from merely striking to absolutely devastating. "Would you like to go somewhere quieter? The music is a bit overwhelming."
Kenma nodded, not trusting his voice. again Akaashi's hand found the small of his back, light enough that Kenma could pull away if he wanted, present enough that the touch burned through his crop top and into his skin.
They climbed the stairs together, leaving Hinata behind with a knowing wink. The second floor was quieter, the music reduced to a distant throb. Akaashi guided him down a hallway lined with closed doors, past couples in various states of undress, to a room at the end that Kenma vaguely recognized as Bokuto's bedroom.
"Bokuto-san said I could use his room if I needed a break," Akaashi explained as he opened the door. "I hope that's okay."
"It's your room as much as mine."
Akaashi chuckled softly. "I don't think Bokuto would agree with that assessment."
The bedroom was dark, lit only by the glow of a gaming setup in the corner. Akaashi led Kenma to the bed, and they sat side by side on the edge of the mattress, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
Kenma's heart was beating so fast he was sure Akaashi could hear it. He felt acutely aware of every inch of space between them, every breath of shared air, every point where his body might accidentally brush against Akaashi's.
"I heard you've been clean for two months today," Akaashi said quietly. "That's impressive."
"It's been hard."
"I imagine it would be. But you're still here. That says something."
Kenma looked down at his hands. "I don't know if I'm still here because I want to be or because I don't know how to leave anymore."
Akaashi was quiet for a moment. Then his hand moved, covering Kenma's where it rested on his thigh. The touch was gentle, deliberate, electrifying.
"Can I tell you something?" Akaashi asked. "Something I've been thinking about for a while now?"
Kenma nodded, unable to speak.
"I've been watching you. For years, actually. And I always thought you were the most fascinating person I'd ever met. The way you saw the world, the way your mind worked. But you were always so distant, so closed off. And then I heard about the drugs, and the things you were doing to survive, and I wanted to help. But I didn't know how. So I waited. And I watched. And I hoped that one day you'd find your way back to yourself."
Kenma's throat was tight. "That sounds like a lot of effort for someone who wasn't worth it."
"You've never been the one who gets to decide that."
Akaashi's hand moved, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Kenma's knuckles. The sensation sent shivers up Kenma's arm, settling somewhere in his chest and refusing to leave.
"What do you want?" Kenma asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Right now? I want to kiss you. But only if you want that too."
The words hung in the air between them, an invitation and a question. Kenma's mind raced through all the reasons this was a bad idea. He was damaged goods. He was still recovering. He had a history with Kuroo that complicated everything. He didn't know how to be intimate without the buffer of substances, without the floating, detached feeling that let him pretend he was somewhere else.
But Akaashi was looking at him like he was something precious. Like he was worth waiting for.
"I want that," Kenma said.
Akaashi leaned in slowly, giving Kenma every chance to pull away. Their lips met in a soft, tentative press that made Kenma's eyes flutter closed. It was nothing like the kisses he'd had before. Those had been desperate, messy, transactional. This was careful. Curious. Like Akaashi was trying to learn him, to memorize the shape of his mouth.
When Akaashi pulled back, his eyes were darker than before, his breath slightly unsteady. "Was that okay?"
Kenma nodded, his heart pounding in his ears. "Can we do it again?"
Akaashi smiled, and this time when he kissed Kenma, it was deeper. His hand came up to cup Kenma's jaw, tilting his head to get a better angle. Kenma's hands found the front of Akaashi's shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The kiss grew more intense, more hungry. Akaashi's tongue traced the seam of Kenma's lips, and Kenma opened for him without hesitation. Akaashi groaned into his mouth, the sound reverberating through Kenma's entire body.
"You taste like punch," Akaashi murmured against his lips. "And something sweet. Something I can't name."
"I didn't drink the punch."
Akaashi pulled back, his brow furrowing. "Then what—"
Kenma kissed him again, cutting off the question. He didn't want to talk about the taste in his mouth, the one that had nothing to do with anything he'd consumed. He just wanted to feel this, to be present in this moment with this person who looked at him like he was worth something.
Akaashi's hands moved to Kenma's waist, his thumbs tracing the strip of skin above his waistband. The touch was maddening, too light and too much at the same time. Kenma arched into it, chasing more pressure, more contact.
"Tell me what you want," Akaashi whispered against his mouth.
"I don't know," Kenma admitted. "I've never done this sober before."
Akaashi stilled, his expression shifting into something more serious. "We don't have to do anything. We can just kiss. We can just talk. Whatever you need."
"I want..." Kenma struggled to find the words. "I want to feel something that isn't anxiety or sadness or the urge to disappear. I want to feel good. Is that selfish?"
"It's human." Akaashi's thumb stroked along his hip bone, the touch soothing even as it sparked heat in Kenma's core. "Let me make you feel good, then. In whatever way feels right."
Kenma's hands came up to Akaashi's shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He thought about all the times he'd been touched before. All the hands that had grabbed and pulled and taken. None of them had ever asked what he wanted. None of them had ever offered, only demanded.
"Just this," Kenma said. "Just kissing. For now."
Akaashi nodded, his expression softening. "Just this."
They kissed for what felt like hours, learning each other's mouths with a patience that Kenma had never experienced. Akaashi's touches remained gentle, never pushing for more, never demanding anything Kenma wasn't ready to give. And Kenma found himself sinking into it, relaxing into the sensation of being touched with care rather than urgency.
At some point, they ended up lying on the bed, legs tangled together, lips still moving in that slow, exploratory dance. Kenma's fingers had found their way into Akaashi's hair, tangling in the soft strands. Akaashi's hands stayed on Kenma's waist, keeping him anchored, keeping him present.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily. Kenma's lips felt swollen, tender. His body was humming with arousal, but it was different from the urgent, desperate need he'd felt before. This was slower. Warmer. More like honey than fire.
"Thank you," Kenma whispered.
Akaashi's thumb stroked his cheek. "You don't need to thank me for wanting to be close to you."
"I'm not used to this. To being wanted without... an exchange."
Understanding flickered in Akaashi's eyes, and his expression grew sad. "You deserve more than transactions, Kenma. You deserve someone who wants you for you. Not for what you can give them."
Kenma's eyes stung. "What if there's nothing left of me to want?"
"Then I'll help you find yourself again. But I don't think you're as lost as you believe."
The words settled into Kenma's chest, warm and unfamiliar. He didn't know if he believed them. He didn't know if he was capable of being found. But lying there in the dim glow of Bokuto's gaming setup, with Akaashi's gentle hands on his face and Akaashi's taste still on his lips, Kenma thought maybe, just maybe, he could learn to try.
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
"Kenma?" Kuroo's voice came through the wood, tight and controlled. "Can we talk?"
Kenma tensed, his body going rigid against the mattress. Akaashi's hand slid from his face to his shoulder, a silent offer of support.
"I should go," Kenma said quietly.
"You don't have to." Akaashi's voice was low. "I can tell him to leave."
But Kenma was already untangling himself, already moving toward the door. Because this was Kuroo, and Kuroo was the one person Kenma had never been able to escape, no matter how hard he tried.
Kenma opened the door to find Kuroo standing in the hallway, his face shadowed in the low light. His eyes flicked past Kenma to where Akaashi was sitting up on the bed, his shirt rumpled and his hair mussed, and Kenma watched something dark and possessive flash across Kuroo's features before it was carefully smoothed away.
"What?" Kenma asked, his voice flat.
"We need to talk. In private."
Akaashi rose from the bed, straightening his shirt. "I'll give you two a moment."
He brushed past Kenma in the doorway, his hand grazing Kenma's hip in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring but instead sent a jolt of complicated longing through Kenma's chest. Then he was gone, and it was just Kenma and Kuroo, standing in the doorway of Bokuto's bedroom with sixty-three days of sobriety and years of history stretching between them.
Kuroo's jaw tightened. "How long has that been going on?"
"What?"
"He's going to hurt you."
Kenma laughed, the sound hollow. "Everyone hurts me, Kuro. That's kind of the theme of my life."
"Not everyone." Kuroo stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I never hurt you."
"You did. You refused me." The words came out before Kenma could stop them, the wound still raw after all this time. "I came to you and you said no."
"Because you were high out of your mind, Kenma. Because you were using me to avoid dealing with your problems. Because I loved you too much to take advantage of you like that."
The confession hung in the air between them, sharp and unexpected. Kuroo's eyes were bright, desperate.
"I've always loved you," Kuroo continued, his voice cracking. "Even when you couldn't love yourself. Even when you were drowning. And now you're clean, and you're beautiful, and you're looking at everyone but me."
Kenma's heart was beating so hard it hurt. This was what he'd wanted, once. What he'd dreamed about in those desperate moments when the pills weren't enough and the loneliness was crushing him. But that was before. Before Akaashi's gentle presence and calm voice. Before he'd started to learn that maybe he deserved more than transactional affection.
"I can't do this right now," Kenma said.
"Kenma, please—"
"I'm trying, Kuro. I'm trying so hard to get better. And you standing here, telling me you love me, it's not... it's not fair. You had your chance. You said no. And maybe you were right to, but you don't get to come back now and expect me to just..."
He trailed off, unsure how to finish. Kuroo's face had gone pale, his expression stricken.
"I'm sorry," Kuroo whispered. "I just... I thought if I waited, if I gave you space..."
"I needed you," Kenma said, his voice breaking. "I needed you and you weren't there."
The words were like a physical blow. Kuroo flinched, his entire body tightening with the impact.
"I know," Kuroo said. "And I'll spend the rest of my life regretting it. But Kenma, please, if there's any part of you that still..."
He didn't finish. Instead, he stepped forward, his hand coming up to cup Kenma's face.
Kenma's mind went blank.
And then the bedroom door swung open behind him.
"Well," a new voice said, sharp and amused. "This is interesting."