Work Text:
- - - - -
The words aren't flowing.
It has become quite a problem as of late. He'll look at the picture on his desk and roll his one between his finger - but not a word is written down. His notebook is often simply closed or forgotten and the lines that were meant to be filled stay empty. And maybe it's because he's a poetic little shit and he finds that phrasing it that way makes him seem like less of a literary failure.
And the letters from home stack up.
He wonders if he should burn them.
- - - - -
It was a laugh that made his head turn, and with a laugh that his world ended. Well, figuratively at least. Of course fate would be too cruel as to let him leave the world with his dark haired companion. But then, maybe that wasn't what was meant to be. Maybe he was meant to live, and Kuroo was meant to die.
Maybe he should join him.
Maybe he shouldn't.
- - - - -
It didn't seem very fair to him, that people still approached him.
"Why hello there. Sorry it I'm bothering you, but I simply couldn't ignore you. You're captivating to look at, you know? I imagine talking to you would be like drinking heavenly elixir."
"Hey hot stuff. You're pretty fine, maybe we should talk sometime."
"Woah, I've never seen gold eyes before. They're simply beautiful. Then again, what part of you isn't?"
He would sometimes pretend to be flattered. He would sometimes give gentle smile while denying giving his phone number. He would maybe even tell the person it wasn't their fault, someone important to him had departed recently.
Most of the times, however, he simply walked away.
- - - - -
It's with quite a bit of reluctance that he lets Oikawa drag him out one day. The tall boy insists that he needs to get fresh air, even if it just involves him going out and getting a coffee somewhere, or walking to work, or maybe going to that bookstore that he loves.
And he would tell Oikawa that he still goes to the bookstore.
But he doesn't go there anymore.
And he's getting kind of tired of lying to people.
- - - - -
It was on a spring day when they first met. Kuroo never really liked to read, but he confessed to him that he found it could actually be kind of fun when you wanted to impress your cute customer. And he told Kuroo that he was an idiot, and smiled a little bit despite the annoying blush that had crawled across his cheeks.
And on that spring day, he remembered the words that the dark haired boy had said to him, with utter confidence.
"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." He remembered clearly how the stranger/worker at the bookstore had approached him. "Lewis Carroll, right? I saw you reading him. But I have to agree with the quote, I tend to believe in a great deal of impossible things." He didn't reply, just watched the worker get closer to him.
He was a little bit (a lot a bit) interested to see how it would turn out.
"Although, I think that there's another quote that works better with me : nothing's impossible." He had raised an eyebrow at that. "Is it impossible to get your number?"
And he has cringed at that.
(But it turned out that, no, it was an impossible thing at all.)
- - - - -
"I miss you." Words spoken past tears and regrets are the only ones that seem to flow easily anymore. And suddenly that's all he's willing to write. Three little words. I miss you.
I.
Miss.
You.
I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you
But now matter how many times he thinks it and says it, he only writes it once.
He doesn't really like being redundant.
(But he really does miss him. A lot.)
- - - - -
And the letters stack up.
One day, he decides to burn them. They are getting to be quite a nuisance. He gatherers them (he had unconsciously sorted them into piles regarding who they were from. He didn't really care about the piles anymore if all he was going to do would be burn them unread.
He wanted to do it slow, as he felt a connection to that. He had fell in love with him slowly, and he had gotten to know him slowly.
(His heart had been broken fast, though, and that was all the more reason to burn them slow.)
He lights a candle, and picks up a letter randomly. Well, would you look at that. It's from his parent s. Not his own parents, but the dark haired boy with bedhead's parents. They are probably worried about him. He looks at the flame, then the letter. The flame, then the letter, the flame, the letter.
He opens the letter with his fingernail. He gets quite small paper-cut. He doesn't really mind.
Then he lets him self read the letter. It's read at a slow pace, as if slightly honouring the choice made earlier to go slowly. A poem that he had once read had told him to not go gentle into that good night, but that was more of his late companion's style than his own. So yes, he went gently.
(He couldn't help but feel like Kuroo would like it better that way anyway.)
Then, slowly, he picks up a pencil. Not a one. He only used pen when he was writing a story. So he used a pencil. And he writes a reply. He slowly reads the next letter, and he writes a reply. The candle burns down by the time he has finished, and he realises he never burnt a single letter. He puts out the flame between his fingers, and it hurt just a little bit against the accumulated paper-cuts.
He mails the letters the next day.
And he considers trying to pick up a pen.
- - - - -
The tears that inscribed meaning across my face wrote more with more meaning than I ever can.
(But I will still try, as I know that would put quite the smile on your face.)
- - - - - -
He picks up a pen.
He puts it down.
He opens his notebook. Not the I miss you notebook, but a different one.
He picks up his pen again.
And for the first time since he heard the news about Kuroo, he feels the words flow from the tip of his pen like spring water and he wants to sing.
If Kuroo could see him he'd probably be smiling that goofy, stupid smile that he always pretended that he absolutely hated.
He'd tell him that he's so proud.
And he finds that, for the first time in a while, he doesn't mind that.
And Kenma writes.
And the words finally flow
- - - - -