|| KUROKEN ONESHOTS ||

Stoned on you

If being a teenager means making bad decisions, Kenma thought, I've been a teenager my whole life.

That thought felt like the deepest, most meaningful realization he had ever had about himself; something Kuroo could have put into one of his poems.

With the most serious face he could pull off, he said it out loud.

He expected Yamamoto to be moved by it; instead, he furrowed his eyebrows and said, "You're so fucking dumb."

"They say drunk words are just sober thoughts." Fukunaga nodded sagely. "You can finally speak your mind."

"If that's how it is, then you are always telling the truth, huh?" Kenma answered, a nasty smirk plastered on his face.

Fukunaga pretended to blow smoke out of his mouth, which made Kenma cackle.

"Stoners," Yamamoto addressed them. "I'm not drunk."

He was, of course, drunk, and so was Kenma, but Yamamoto didn't like to be reminded. He usually didn't drink — being underage made it technically illegal, and his sense of justice was too strong.

"Why are you so annoying tonight?" Kenma asked him.

Tonight was Akaashi Keiji's birthday. They had been invited to his party, despite not liking him a bit, because they were his classmates. And they had gone, despite not wanting to go at all, because they were losers.

"I'm not annoying," Yamamoto argued, pronouncing the words with the same disgusted tone he had used to say, I'm not drunk. Like he was shielding himself from an accusation — he couldn't stand being unlawful, and he couldn't stand being unlikeable. "I'm pissed."

Had Kenma been sober, he would have made fun of Yamamoto. But alcohol made him sappy, so he patted his own shoulder and, when Yamamoto leaned on him with his full weight, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Akane," Yamamoto sniffed. "She's obsessed with Lev. Found his number in my phone."

"That's cute," Fukunaga stated. "Young love."

Kenma started laughing, "She's such a sly little fucker."

"Guys!" Yamamoto said, so loudly Yukie Shirofuku turned to give them a nasty look, "She's fourteen!"

Suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore, and Kenma stopped laughing as a weird sort of warmth grew in his chest.

Ah, being fourteen and in love. He thought he could relate.

"Let her be," he told Yamamoto.

Yamamoto rolled his eyes. They had grown so used to one another in the past two years, that now everything one of them said or thought was fondly predicted by the other: Yamamoto knew what he was thinking. "Sap."

The rest of the party was comfortably unremarkable: Akaashi's friends danced obnoxiously while Kenma's friends made fun of them; cake was eaten; toasts were made.

"Let's go," Kenma said, and they got out of the restaurant without even saying goodbye.

"Did you call your dad?" Yamamoto asked him.

"Oh," Kenma answered. He had forgotten. His brain seemed to be working slower than usual. It was better this way, probably. His mom wouldn't have been happy seeing him in this — state.

"Oh," Fukunaga mocked him, while Yamamoto said, "My parents are sleeping."

"Tora," Kenma began. "I'd call my dad — I would. If I wanted Mom to kill me. Shit."