do you know how many days it's been since kuroo last saw you?
he hasn't been counting—doesn't know it off the top of his head, or even what the exact date was, and today, he's not even sure he could tell you if it's april 7th or 9th—but if he does the math, he can get a ballpark answer.
around four years—365 days multiplied by 4, add in a leap year, you land with one thousand-four hundred-and-sixty-one days. give or take a few, for your situation.
but maybe he should've expected to see you here, all things considered.
(one night, a few weeks before graduation, maybe? you had mentioned you were going to grad school in edinburgh—he leaned down so you could yell it into his ear over the music of the bar. you were tinted a sweet shade of purple in the light—your friends were busy playing an arcade game that kuroo couldn't name anymore.
something died in kuroo's throat that night. he went to tell you congratulations—if a little halfhearted—but never quite made it there. a friend came over to swipe a game token you were holding, and you laughed and shooed him off. kuroo's roommate's hand landed on his shoulder, and then there was a shot in his hand. not much room for deliberation there, he supposes).
somehow, it seems, he'd forgotten those details until now. he'd been ducking from awning to awning to avoid the rain; he'd forgotten to pack a raincoat; he'd been in such a rush—last minute business trips be damned—that he didn't think to check the weather even when he decided to schedule a later return flight. a friday night, a full saturday, a sunday morning all to himself in a city that wasn't his—one that he felt a misplaced affection for despite never visiting prior to wednesday at 3:53pm.
and now, you're standing at the awning just ahead of him—facing out towards the street, watching the rain while you tear at the bready pastry in your hands.
(your hair has grown out from your college-age bob. it sweeps down past your shoulders, though he can't see where it disappears to. you must be twenty-six now. he recalls you complaining about hairstylists who cut your hair too short—about bad haircuts that lasted for months for you and moments for him. he thinks you always knew how to fix things).
he forgets there's a gap between your awning and his, so he doesn't move quite fast enough. his hair is a little more soaked than he would've hoped by the time he gets to you.
you turn your head to look at him before he reaches you—a piece of your pastry hanging by your fingers, waiting to be placed between your teeth. your brows are furrowed, your gaze a little hard, until you reach his face.
"tetsurou," you breathe, and he smiles down at you for a brief moment before you've pulled him down to wrap your arms around his neck. you pull back, placing just the heels of your palms on his cheeks to avoid scraping him with the crust of your pastry. "oh my god- what are you- why are you here?"
"business trip," he replies, "it was last minute. didn't think to reach out."
"god," you say, and pull him in again. "it's been years," you mumble into his shoulder, "you've gotten so old."
there's a moment when he wants to know everything you've done for the past four years—what you celebrated, what you never dared to tell anyone about, the food you've eaten, the drinks you drank until you made yourself sick. have you smoked recently? he wants to ask, if so, please let me breathe it in.
"how are you?" he asks instead.
(he feels twenty-one again. he's on the perimeter of a house party with you. he won't ask you about last week—when he kissed you and you dug your nails into his back. he won't leave your side either, and you keep leaning into him, but you're both making vague observations about the people who pass in front of you. do you ever think about it? he wants to ask. he never does).
"good!" you say, "yeah, no, busy, but- you know. good." you've leaned your shoulder into the brick wall now, and he mirrors you. you've both got your heads leaned in so close, he thinks he can smell the soap off your body.
you've always had a strong nose. maybe you can smell his.
do you ever think about it? did you ever?
"if it weren't such a downpour, i'd invite you to coffee at my place," you say, with a half-smile pulling at your lips. you speak with an exasperated breathiness now, one that he only heard in early winter and spring. he wonders if old habits die hard.
"it's okay," he says, "i like the rain."
you smile now, fully. warm. "i know."
(he's twenty-two. you're a few months from graduation and one of your friends insisted you all buy cheap tickets to some concert. he stepped outside to breathe and watch the rain—you followed. you wore his rain-soaked jacket for the rest of the night, and he thought about the way you pressed your lips into his shoulder in that absent-minded sort-of-way for the rest of the week. you both went on dates with different people the following thursday).
do you remember the poems you used to write? he wants to ask. the ones where i never knew if you talking about me or not. i used to keep myself up over them, would read them once, twice, a third time under the light from a lamp that was bound to go out the next night, but never did. do you remember that stupid dumpster outside my apartment? he wants to say. where it was always too windy to light anything, so we sat outside in the cold and talked for hours, looking over our shoulders whenever we mentioned someone by name.
on the road next to you, a small girl in a big raincoat and galoshes speeds down the road, her father carted behind her by the hand. he desperately tries to slow her down. kuroo looks down at his shoes and kicks a loose rock, then looks up again at you. you lean past him, tossing what's left of your pastry into the trash can next to him.
"i think you would like it here," you say. he smiles.
are you different? he wants to ask. are you the same girl i thought i might've been in love with? do you still hum when you cook? do you still refuse to use a recipe? do you still bite at the edges of your lips until they bleed?
"yeah?" he asks, with a smile that takes up more of his face than he'd like to admit. he leans over you as he rocks against the wall. "what about it?" it sounds less like a question, and more like a challenge—he's not sure how he intended it to be.
"it's slower here," you reply. you reach your hand out towards the road, waving five spread fingers out across a landscape you can see painted across your eyes. "removed, but not boring," you settle on, and smile up at him.
"you think i like slow?" he asks.
"i know you need it," you reply.
back then? no. now?
maybe.
"when i first moved here," you start. he looks over at you, but you're not watching him. you're looking out at the street again, eyes fixed on something that he can't place. "i swear i saw you everywhere. anyone over six feet, anyone running along the coast. sometimes, i'd think i heard your voice and i'd just stop- listen for a second, waiting to hear more of it." you look over at him, "of you," you clarify with a laugh.
"there were these guys in some of my classes, i don't know, they used to use your cologne, or your soap or something it would just-" you laugh again, "it would drive me insane."
(he's twenty-two. you keep a toothbrush at his apartment—just in case. when you're here, he sleeps on the couch).
"you know," you laugh again, and you watch him, carefully. your eyes keep flitting over his face—quickly, from one place to the next, like you're not quite sure where will tell you what you want to know. "i think i was in love with you back then."
(he's twenty. he wants to know you. he thinks about you for an entire day after you whisper an exaggerated thank you to him during class and laugh at his offhanded joke).
"yeah," he replies. "i think i was in love you too, you know."
he smiles down at you, and then he knocks his shoulder into yours. when you laugh, you curl into him, letting his body's warmth radiate into you where your arms touch.
your laugh sounds wet, a little shaky.
if he spoke, he's sure his would too.
"when the rain lightens up," you start, "would you like to come back to mine?"
he clears his throat, a soft, breathy sort of thing escaping him when he speaks.
"yeah. i'd like that," he replies.
