|| KUROKEN ONESHOTS ||

Soulmate

The word soulmate leaves a bitter taster in your mouth when you say it; and even as you think it, it's heavy in your mind.

As heavy as Yamamoto's head on Kenma's shoulder, as heavy as Kuroo's back against Kenma's stomach.

The world — it is so cruel.

Here's what they teach you in primary school: your born with your soulmate's name on you wrist.

Easy, useful, safe.

Here's what actually happens: Kuroo Tetsurou is born with Kozume Kenma's name on his wrist. So is Yamamoto Taketora.

Here's what actually happens: on Kozume Kenma's wrist, where there should be a name, there's a big, ugly, black, stain.

When Kenma is just a child he doesn't think anything of it. Is he different from the other children? Maybe. Does he want a soulmate? Most certainly not.

He knows his parents must hate it, but they never let it show.

His mom always tells him, One day it's gonna turn into a name, just wait and see.

And his dad always adds, And if it doesn't, who needs a soulmate? Mom and dad are right here.

But then, everything changes — a mother, somewhere in Japan, dies; a grandmother, a father and a son move next door to the Kozumes.

When he learns that their new neighbors' name is Kozume, Kuroo is sure it must be some kind of prize — some kind of consolation sent by Fate after all the pain, so that, Goodbye, mom, can also mean, Nice to meet you, Kenma.

When they meet for the first time, Kuroo is too intimidated by Kenma's cool indifference, too scared by his silent judgement; too shy and too sad. He can't find it in him to tell him.

He keeps his wrist so carefully hidden.

A couple of months later, he starts noticing: Kenma is just as shy; maybe less sad, but just as scared and just as intimidated by him. He gathers all of his courage and says, shakily, "You're my soulmate."

In response, Kenma's face, that's always meticulously plain, becomes worried. He furrows his brows - he feels like he's being made fun of, but he doesn't understand how or why. He asks for proof, and Kuroo shows him his thin, pretty, white arm and the words on it are clear: Kozume Kenma. Kenma doesn't say anything, just clenches his jaw and tugs his sweater safely over his own wrist.

He's so, so mad. His fury eats at him from the inside.

He hates Kuroo Tetsurou — hates his normal soulmate mark, hates his ability to fall in love, hates his stubborn and quiet admiration for Kenma.

Kuroo never asks; he is always too coy and — when they inevitably become best friends — too considerate, too adoring, to ask anything about Kenma's soulmate.

And it isn't that Kenma wants to keep it a secret, it's just something he never brings up. He's learned to always keep his wrist hidden when he's started going to school. That's the one thing Kenma's good at: survival. If the bracelet he always wears on his right wrist could talk, that's the one thing it would say, in harmony with his quivering heart, Survive, Kenma.

They both shut up when Kuroo kisses him, his heart and his wrist.

Kenma knew it was coming — he wasn't dumb.

But sometimes, when Fate screws you up so bad, you try to convince yourself it screws up other people too. You try to convince yourself it's wrong. You try to convince yourself it doesn't actually exist.