junk drawer bits (1)
Kageyama, Haru, and Kenma - 499 (words)
“I mean it makes sense.”
Kenma lounges on the counter - the counter - and Haru wonders idly how many health codes are being violated right here, right now as Kenma talks at him.
“You’re both insanely athletically talented. You have weird food obsessions.”
It’s bad enough that Kenma is in the middle of his prep area. But he’s sprawled across the counter like it’s his sofa at home and Haru was trying his hand at a new recipe and kept losing his things. Like his bag of apples. And his measuring spoons. And his cutting board.
“You’re disgustingly single minded when it comes to your preferred sport. And you both have that brooding look and dark hair and unfairly pretty blue eyes.”
His cutting board is under Kenma’s butt. Kenma is sitting on his cutting board.
This is his life now. Kenma plopped down in Haru’s life like a beach ball hitting the water one day and just… never went away.
He sighs and gives Kenma his full attention. To be fair Kenma does have half ownership of the business and probably more or less paid for the counter he is on top of. He definitely paid for the cutting board he is sitting on.
“And you’ve both got that,” Kenma hums contemplatively, “slim but toned look going on. Like you’re not skinny or scrawny but you’re not, you know.”
“Built like Yamazaki or Bokuto.”
“Exactly.”
Kenma beams at him, just long enough for Haru to feel unsettled, and then looks at his phone. His eyes flicker between his phone and Haru a few times.
“Are you sure you’re not related?” He holds out his phone and Haru takes it, even though he knows what he’ll see. “You two could be twins or something. Cousins at least.”
Haru studies the picture of Kageyama. They do have a similar body type and the same colored eyes and hair. But really. That’s about it.
“You’re reaching,” he informs Kenma. “And you’re literally in the middle of my kitchen on my cutting board while I’m trying a new recipe to make us money.”
Kenma frowns a little and Haru is in no way swayed by it.
Really. He’s not.
“What’s your point anyway? Do you have some weird twin fetish or something?”
Kenma doesn’t answer right away and he has fifteen glorious minutes of silence while he wrestles the board out from under Kenma and sets himself up at the other end of the counter to work on his recipe. He’s in the middle of adding pinches of various spices when Kenma hops off the counter and wanders over.
Kenma presses his head against Haru’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and whispers so quietly that had he not been so in tune with Kenma’s voice he would have missed it, “Fetish? No but I think I have a type.”
“Is that all,” Haru mutters when Kenma’s arms circle his waist. “I could have told you that.”
“You’re not mad?”
“At you? Never.”
