very fluffy fluff, established relationship, pre-timeskip
The whole world seems to brighten a little when Bokutoās eyes land on your figure, standing politely in front of the tree.
Hands entwined in front of you, a thick coat protecting your body from the sharp autumn wind, you sort of look like a child waiting for their parent to pick them up. Heās enamoured, truly, because only you could do so little yet make his heart flutter so much.
Excitement seems to spark up his body as he steps closer towards you, the sound of auburn and amber petals crunching beneath his feet with every step he takes. People are passing byāhis friends, his managers, his teammatesābut his focus is unwavering and you are the sole keeper of his attention. You are a star and he is the planet that orbits around your being, attracted to you with an incomprehensible force and desire.
If being in your orbit means he gets to feel like this every day, then Bokuto knows thereās no where else heād rather be.
You must hear his footsteps, heavy and loud as he quickly makes his way towards you, the excitement too much to hold in. Your head turns in his direction, and the first proper sight of your face makes his heart skip in his chest. You must have a doll or something, controlling his heart and his feelings and himself, because Kotaro is out of control and you are the only one to blame.
But still, when you smile graciously, wide and happy without a care for anyone else, he canāt find it in himself to care about whatever power you have over him. He is happy, irrevocably so, and in love. Your teeth peek through your blush-tinted lips and your eyes squeeze together as though they are shut. He wants to shout to the world how beautiful you are, and how all of that is his, but more than that he needs to feel you in his arms.
very fluffy fluff, established relationship, pre-timeskip
The whole world seems to brighten a little when Bokutoās eyes land on your figure, standing politely in front of the tree.
Hands entwined in front of you, a thick coat protecting your body from the sharp autumn wind, you sort of look like a child waiting for their parent to pick them up. Heās enamoured, truly, because only you could do so little yet make his heart flutter so much.
Excitement seems to spark up his body as he steps closer towards you, the sound of auburn and amber petals crunching beneath his feet with every step he takes. People are passing byāhis friends, his managers, his teammatesābut his focus is unwavering and you are the sole keeper of his attention. You are a star and he is the planet that orbits around your being, attracted to you with an incomprehensible force and desire.
If being in your orbit means he gets to feel like this every day, then Bokuto knows thereās no where else heād rather be.
You must hear his footsteps, heavy and loud as he quickly makes his way towards you, the excitement too much to hold in. Your head turns in his direction, and the first proper sight of your face makes his heart skip in his chest. You must have a doll or something, controlling his heart and his feelings and himself, because Kotaro is out of control and you are the only one to blame.
But still, when you smile graciously, wide and happy without a care for anyone else, he canāt find it in himself to care about whatever power you have over him. He is happy, irrevocably so, and in love. Your teeth peek through your blush-tinted lips and your eyes squeeze together as though they are shut. He wants to shout to the world how beautiful you are, and how all of that is his, but more than that he needs to feel you in his arms.
So he starts running. Perhaps it looks a little bit strange, the pure ecstasy beaming off of his face, his arms wide and ready as he sprints closer and closer, your name leaving his lips like liquid gold.Ā
You giggle at the sight of him and it is like velvet to his ears, your arms open wide and you let him embrace you with all of his might. Immediately after his arms wrap around your figure, he finds himself feeling better. Lighter, as though heās walking on clouds withe the world in his hands. Pulling you closer, he canāt help but lift you off of the ground, spinning you in his arms like you are a gift he gets to show off.
The little cries and pleas of embarrassment only make him feel warm, but eventually he relents, and you return back to the ground.
Bokuto doesnāt make any effort to move away, though. Heās still just centimetres away from your face, bodies practically touching with the proximity between you both. His hands move from your waist up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently as though you are a porcelain doll in his care.Ā
Lovestruck, you donāt bother to say anything other than a dazed,Ā āHiā, and the word sounds so sweet rolling off of your tongue he kisses your lips to capture the taste. Lips curling up, he smiles into the kiss, a little hum of delight escaping before he has the chance to stop it. But itās unfair, you are like honey and chocolate and all things good, addictive and saccharine and he canāt be blamed for wanting more and more.
So he pulls away, looks you in your eyes, and kisses you again. His lips are rough, chapped from the transition into the colder month, but they feel like heaven against your skin and youāre in no place to tell him to stop. Your nose, cheeks, the little gap between your eyebrows. The corner of your eyes and the centre of your forehead. Itās not a sign of possession, itās adoration, raw and unfiltered and undeniably warm and he has never felt happier a day in his life.
Reluctantly, he pulls himself back at the sound of your pained laughter, the feeling of fluttering kisses tickling you in ways that are meant for behind closed doors, where his teammates cannot see.
Large palms run their way up your face, pushing your hair back and cupping your ears. Just as he expected, theyre freezing to the touch, and he wonders if your hands are the same. Like youāve read his mind, you bring them up and place them on top of his, and he is in awe of just how delicate you are. Itās not like you need protecting, heās well aware of that, but with you in his hands so cold and soft he canāt help but think youāre fragile, a baby he must look after, a loved one heāll never let go of.
āYou must be freezing.ā He mumbles, lips pouted and eyes round as he looks at every single inch of your face. Itās as though heās trying to take you in, get a picture of you in his mind like heāll never see you again, but youāre smiling because youāre you and he canāt help but smile back like a fool.
You shake your head at his comment, but your hands donāt give way, instead pressing his mellow hands closer to your ears. āItās okay, youāre here now.ā You whisper, like a bird singing on a spring morning, light and feathery and full of life.
He canāt control himself, he lifts your head up at an angle so he can reach your jaw, pressing his lips softly against the skin. You hum, and itās so lovely, and he releases his hands so he can hold them by your sides.
As though heās a child, he swings them side to side, squeezing gently to let you know heās there. Itās not like you would have forgotten, not in the seconds itās been since he was peppering kisses against anywhere he could reach, but you love it nonetheless. Itās Bokuto, itās him, and for you there could be nothing you love more.
āShould we go?ā You ask, looking in his golden eyes as he stares back down at you. For a second, you question if the weather has gotten to him, his mouth still and eyes barely moving. But all it takes is a kiss, a small and careful one against his rough lips, and he is back to life, grinning with pride as he nods almost eagerly.
Stepping to your side, pulling you back onto the path, he finally kisses the crown of your head, butterflies fluttering against his stomach walls. āLetās.ā
well, not really you. your name. and when he picks up the bookāthe hardcoverāand flips it over in his hands, he sees you. a little professional portrait that you mustāve taken after college, with foliage in the background and your hair framing your cheeks and a smile that doesnāt quite reach your eyes.
youāre older. and he is too. heās stopping in a bookstore after work, christās sake, looking for something to remind him of youāa shitty YA book you complained about, a collection of hemingwayās short stories, a book of poems. any of them, anything at all. at twenty-five he still yearns for college, and he hates that more than anything. he shouldnāt want to go back to shitty student apartments in shitty cities with shitty food from half-stocked grocery stores. kurooās life is good now, with an apartment thatās too big for one person and recipe books that heās never opened laying on his countersā
but he wishes anyway. and part of him knows that itās more the extension of you, and maybe of his youth, than it is of the time itself.
so he looks for reminders of you in every bookstore he enters, and today, just today, he found the most obvious one of all.
poetry section, a poetry collection, a book with scrawling lines over the cover.
youāve titled it the anatomy of love, and the idea of holding something so close to you, so personal, almost makes kuroo drop it right there. he doesnāt, of course. in fact, he swears he can feel the pads of his fingers pressing a little harder into the coverāas if merely by the pressure, heāll be able to mimic pieces of you again.
he flips to a random page. itās a bad habit of his, to never read the beginnings of books when heās browsing. but the beginning gives away so little, and heāll forget the details by the time he gets there. you always told him about writing style, about the flow of words and the way a hook can only tell you so much.
so the middle, it is. or rather, page 38. his eyes catch on a stanza, something about frost and the reflection of light and the way eyes disappear with laughter, but itās the next line that he thinks he could commit to memory if youād ever ask him to.
what does it mean to love you still?
he could almost laugh.
he knows what it means for him towards you. itās bookstores and failed dates and relationships that never last longer than five months because somethingās always off. itās chasing after the color of your hair or the scent of your perfume or looking for lavender body wash in every store.
but for youātowards whoever it may beāyou say that itās scrawling words on unsent letters, standing out on parisian balconies and smelling the smoke more than you do the flowers that bloom beneath the railing.
he flips a few more pages deep, maybe just a quarter from the end now. he always knew youād make it one day, you know. ever since you wrote those damn break-up poems in college, where youād make him read them and heād gasp and whine and ask why are you fantasizing about our break-up? and youād laugh at him every time. back then, it didnāt seem real. none of it did. what was his was yoursāyou kept his pictures on the fridge with the magnets that your grandmother sent you, and he kept anything of yours just a little beneath his skin; close enough to feel it, to see it, to wear everything that you were proudly against his arms and chest and cheeks and everything in betweenāand not far enough that he could ever pull it out.
but your poem, of course, back to that, page 96 now, titled kitchen, oh dearest, what have i lost?
he pauses, and for a moment, kuroo wonders if he ever shouldāve seen this book in the first place. his eyes flicker down to the first line.
when i was younger,
second.
i laid on the kitchen floor and pretended it was
third.
mine. the tile was dark and cold and it
well, he supposes thereās no stopping himself now, is there?
hurt the tops of my thighs, but i stayed.
thereās another stanza now, kuroo runs his fingers along the end of the page. is this what you did? did you run your fingers along the parchment like you could feel the love from them too?
i do that now, too.Ā
in another world, that would be your reply. kuroo decided he hated paris about three years ago. he despises it now.
and i ask the echoes of my kitchen, what have i
what have we both, he thinks.
lost? beyond lips and tongues and laughter, what do i lose without
a breath.
him? i hate how sobs hit tile floors.
kuroo closes the book then. he checks the author again, is it really you? a flip to the picture, and there you are still. sobs arenāt exactly something he enjoys picturing in tandem with you. heās pictured you in a lot of places since heās leftāyour apartment, mainly, but maybe the louvre on a good day. on a worse day, on a date, with some french guy that you speak french to and he really hates because heās french.
he needs to stop going on business trips to paris. one, because paris has never treated him well. two, because he needs to stop looking for you. three, because he knows he never will after reading this.
he looks at the book in his hands again, follows the trace of the illustrations on the cover. for the anatomy of love, he certainly managed to flip to every break-up poem possible. if you were here, he knows you would scold him for trying to separate love and heartbreak, as though the two are any less connected than joy and despair.
he sighs, which makes the teenager standing next to him browsing the other poetry books glare his way, and for a moment, he considers saying shut up, this is my ex-girlfriendās book that i didnāt know she wrote and iām trying to figure out if i should buy this or not. so far iām leaning yes!
he doesnāt. you would probably be embarrassed if he did that, and heād make fun of you for being embarrassed until you hid your face behind your hands.
kuroo thinks, for a moment, that maybe youāve placed the love poems at the beginning, so he opens the book again. just the cover, and flips to another page, just a few lines of text lying in the upper half.
for my ex-boyfriend, who i hate that iām still in love with. all my poems were ever written for you anyway, it only seems right that my first collection be, too. thanks for being my practice all throughout college, big guy.
so, kurooāsābig guyāsāfate has been decided for him. he leaves the disgruntled teenager in the poetry section, and heads towards the cashier hoping for the quickest check-out experience of his life. he pretends to ignore the way thereās a steady warmth in his chest, pretends to ignore the way his teeth bite into his lips like theyāre trying to hold back a smileāeven if itās already there.
and when kuroo walks out of that bookstore, dedicated book in hand, and back onto the street, he doesnāt waste a moment before he pulls his phone out. he knows where your contact isāhe hates to say he doesnāt have your number memorized, what a dramatic moment that wouldāve made this, right?
but he calls you. in case that wasnāt an obvious enough decision. and he lets it ring. once, twice, thr-
your voice hits his ear. it almost doesnāt sound like youānot with the distance and the crackle of the phone and the way he can hear someone speaking french in the backgroundābut it is. you, that is. itās the girl he fell in love with sophomore year of college, no matter what way he tries to twist it.
ātetsurou?ā you say, and he doesnāt know how to reply. or maybe he does, but it consists of i love you and come home and i promise i make enough for the both of us with a real drawn out please?
he doesnāt say any of that first, though. he shouldnāt come off too strong.
so he settles.
āhi,ā he replies.
and you laugh, bright and airy and so not french and so just like college that it hurts.
"you're going out again," you say, and your roommate, kuroo, laughs a little.
"i am," he replies, reaching for his shoes. "that's allowed, right? you didn't write up that bedtime rule just yet?"
it's allowed and there's not really a bedtime rule, but for some reason, you kind of want him home. call it selfishness or jealousy or whatever, but, recently, there's been a little ball that forms in the pit of your stomach every time he walks out the door after 11 PM.
"no, no it's still in revision. i think i'll have it ready next week." you grin, a little halfheartedly you'll admit. "it'll be on the fridge when it's done."
and he laughs, "thank god. we need a little structure around here. if you haven't noticed you're an animal."
you could hit him, you think, just for a moment.
"ah of course, because i'm the one who has weird midnight escapades, right?"
"right," he says, tugging his lip between his teeth. "gotta do anything i can to keep you contained."
kuroo pulls his shoe onto his foot and, as he searches for his wallet, you find yourself inching your way towards the front door. you're not really sure what your big plan is here, but, for some reason, body blocking seems like a great startāat least for the moment, anyway.
"you gonna uh-" he sways one of his hands back and forth in a little shooing motion while the other stuffs his wallet into his back pocket.
you eye him, "okay, but what if i have a nightmare? like a terrible horrible one where everyone i love dies." you pause for dramatic effect, "you included."
"then you call me," he says, a little smile creeping up his lips. "y'know, like you always do?"
"but tetsurou i mean like, bad. like, really bad. like, plane crash, shipwreck, my-worst-nightmare kind of bad. what's a phone call gonna do then?"
"what's me being here gonna do then."
"oh, you know." you're pretty sure he doesn't, and you really don't either if we're being honest here. "human touch? a helping hand? a little oh my beloved roommate it is just so sorrowful to see you like this maybe?"
"is that what i sound like in your head?"
you laugh, "sometimes."
"right now?"
"maybe."
kuroo shakes his head a little, plucking his keys off the hook before he begins to nudge you away from the door.
"you're gonna be fine," he says. "promise."
(so much for a great plan)
"and if i'm not?" he tilts his head at you and you jut out your bottom lip, holding on to any chance of pleading with him you have.
"i don't know, you got life insurance?"
"oh fuck you," you say, and he laughs.
"i'm kidding. really though, what's gotten into you?"
that, you think, is a really good question. if this conversation happened a month ago, you'd be pushing him out the doorāall six feet and five inches (he insisted you knew that the moment you moved in together) of him in one fell swoop. you'd be begging for kuroo to get out of this apartmentāand you'd be reveling in the alone time you'd get after he was goneābut, lately, seeing him go makes your skin crawl a little.
and you know well enough that's not because of some stupid nightmares you've been havingāit's because you hate to see him go. you like having him around and you like talking to him and you like the idea of him spending the night with you instead of whatever girl from his organic chem class hit on him this week.
(and that's not to say you're one to slut shameāyou're just jealous. bitterly, terribly, jealous.)
but that, you think as you work it out in your little head, is entirely your own problem, and really no reason for you to drag him down with you.
"it's nothing, really." you back away from the door, squeezing between kuroo and the handle. "i should let you go."
"no wait," he turns, facing the path you were planning to use to escape, and you halt. "you're freaking me outāi'm worried about you."
"i said it's nothing, tetsurou. i was being stupid, just go." you wave your hand out in front of you, motioning for the door.
"i'm not gonna leave you here if there's somethingā"
"go."
"but i don't think it'sā"
"go," you repeat, and he pauses.
you scrunch your brows at him, hoping maybe that'll get him off your case. at least that way you could go lie in your room and pretend you hate him or something.
"no," he says finally. "i'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's up."
"tetsurou-" you start.
and he says your name, a little quieter than you'd usually expect from him, "just tell me."
you would like to say you consider what you're going to say to him for a moment. that you come up with something really wonderful and articulate and well-thought-out enough to get you out of this situation; you don't.
"i like you, stupid. i really, really like you and watching you go makes meāupset, that's all."
he grins, big, wide, and toothy, "you like me?"
the reality of what you said sets in a little as you watch his teeth poke out from behind his lips, and part of you wishes you could take it back. he's never going to let you live this down and you know it.
"not if you keep looking at me like that."
"you like me," he repliesāsame phrase, different emphasis.
"i do," you say.
"that's adorable."
you eye him, "don't baby me, big guy."
"no, no it's not even like that i justā" he stares at you for a second before he leans forward, holding your jaw between his fingers.
his eyes run over your face, your nose, your lips, and you feel your skin melting in his hands. he waits there, pulling his lip between his teeth again."
"can i?" he says finally, a little spark lighting up in his eyes.
you nod (as enthusiastically as you can with your jaw held in place), and then he leans forward, crashing his lips into yours.
and listen, you'd spent a lot of time thinking about what kissing kuroo would be likeāmore so than you'd ever care to admitābut it's nothing like you'd imagine. there's no honey on his tongue or fire in his mouth, but it's him. in some indescribably, stupidly-appealing sort of way, it's him.
he moves like tetsurou and he tastes like tetsurou and he runs his tongue along your bottom lip in a way that nearly takes you off your feet before he pulls away.
"you okay?" he asks, huffing a little breath from his throat.
One of Osamuās favourite things about living with you was getting to see you in the mornings.
Just as dawn begins to break and he waddles himself into the kitchen, the light blaring into his eyes doesnāt even bother him. He sees you, instead, standing at the stove with your breakfast cooking, face puffy and hair unkempt, but beautiful nonetheless.
Heās not too sure how he noticed it, but he thinks your eyelashes always look extra pretty in the mornings. Longer, softer, in a way that makes a gentle person look like a porcelain doll. Your movements are slow, and his eyes are trailing them as though theyāre the best thing heās ever watched. The sleeve of your jumper hangs loose on your arms, and it sends a strange, churning-like feeling to his stomach. Youād asked if it was his, and his sharp answer of no had almost left him red in the face, and you simply confused. Although youāll never know, you look good in his hoodies, in a way that suits you a little too well.
And when you acknowledge the second presence in the kitchen, it seems like the only thing youāre wearing is a smile. Your grin is seeped with the leftover haze of your sleep, and your eyes look as though theyāre shut, but he still believes itās the brightest thing heās ever seen.
Bright enough to make him crack a smile, warm enough to encourage him to walk over, inserting himself right beside you.
Admittedly, thereās not a load of counter space, but he grew up with a twin brother, and heās an expert at sharing spaces meant for one. If youāre bothered by his presence, you donāt say anything, choosing to linger in the comfortable daze that has settled upon the two of you. He wonders if you can sense the way he searches for you in the corner of his eye, or if you can hear just how active his heart is in his chest for someone whoās just risen.Ā
As you reach over for the butter settled over on his side, his bare arm sets ablaze from where you brush over his skin. He feels like a school boy, hands clamming up on his chopsticks as he whisks a couple of eggs together, pretending his whole being did not just burn at your touch.
Seeing your meal complete, decorated neatly on a plate, a frown etches itās way across his lips. He canāt help it, in fact, heās completely and utterly unaware itās even happened, but heās so used to your warmth that he doesnāt want you to go. Youāre the blanket on top of his quilt in the winter that makes it so hard to wake up, and he forces himself to resist the urge to pull you back to his body as you start to leave.
At the doorframe, you pause, plate in one hand and cutlery in the next. Slowly, you turn your head back, catching his gaze that has set so fondly on you.
āGāmorning, āsamu.ā you whisper out, teeth peeking out from behind your lips as you flash him a smile. He canāt focus too much on that alone, the sound of your voice, raspy and gently still plagued with last nightās slumber.
He manages to reply with a small āMornināā of his own, watching as you make your way back to your room. Perhaps itās selfish, a bitterness covering the tip of his tongue, but he doesnāt think good is the right word to describe it.
For, if his morning were to be good, youād be whispering that beside him, dressed in his clothes underneath his bedsheets. Your arms would be wrapped around his torso and his breath would be flittering over the bare skin of your neck as he whispers it back. He would be yours as you would be his and he wouldnāt have to stare at you as you leave, because youād always be right beside him in the first place.
Simply, he does not believe a morning where you are so close yet not his can really be good, but for someone like you ā someone like gold ā he is more than willing to wait.
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