Chapter Text
Kuroo sits at Kenma’s dining table, rifling through the day’s mission statements and reports. Newspapers, he would have called them, six months ago. But newspapers had always been biased and flighty things: the reports they now receive every morning on their doorsteps are hard and cold facts, endlessly preaching the New Japan.
A college in Osaka has closed down and all the unassigned students and staff have been posted to work on the rural cleaning-up project. Two more shopping malls have been turned into government offices. The factories are still hiring, and everyone above the age of ten is expected to get themselves assigned somewhere.
Speaking of assignments, Kuroo directs his gaze to the couch, where his best friend is lying upside down, tapping away at a handheld game. When the New Japan Rule had taken over six months ago, Kuroo, like most of Japan, had his life completely reorganized and dictated by strangers he had never met. As government officers even in the old Tokyo, Kuroo’s parents had been one of the first to be locked down on. As a result, a week into the New Rule, Kuroo had been assigned to a large factory downtown Tokyo putting together mechanical parts for machinery. He’d worked there ever since, and in the past six months had slowly climbed the ladder, now supervising, rather than getting his hands slimy with grease and being burnt by faulty MIG welders.
Kenma, on the other hand, had slipped right under the radar. Six months in and Kenma hadn’t even gotten assigned yet, unless you counted the brief stint at the local supermarket, which Kuroo didn’t, because Kenma had gotten himself fired (intentionally, Kuroo is sure) after a mere two days. Without an assignment ID card, you technically couldn’t do much, but that didn’t bother Kenma. He got Kuroo to buy him games, his parents kept him fed, and as their school hadn’t been forced to implement an assignment-card-check upon entry, a small percentage of students were still going to school ‘illegally’. So while the whole world was in disarray, Kenma maintained almost the same lifestyle he had before the New Rule.
Kuroo tugs absently at his hair, still wild and unruly, and reads the unassigned number statistics at the bottom of the day’s report. Two-hundred-and-thirteen unassigned people remaining in Tokyo. A tiny number.
“Kenma.” Kuroo says, eyeing the other prefectures’ numbers. “You better get some work. They’re going to find you, soon.”
The blond boy just makes a noise of discontentment and sinks lower in the couch.
“Kenma. You’re lucky for even have lasted this long.” Kuroo points out. “Look, I’m just saying, it’s better that you pick a job you like, right now, than have them assign one to you, alright?
“I don’t like any of the jobs.” Kenma says, voice petulant.
Kuroo gives an exasperated sigh. “Kenma, this is important. For all I care, you can get a job playing video games, as long as it’s an assignment.”
For the first time, Kenma’s eyes pull away from his game, and he looks at Kuroo. “Is there one? I wouldn’t mind.”
Kuroo drops onto the couch beside Kenma, picking up the volleyball under the table and cradles it in his lap. “I’m serious. You’re going to be in a lot of trouble if they find you now.”
The clicks and beeps of the game’s sound effects is the only answer for a long minute.
“Okay.” Kenma says. “I’ll get one this week. I’m about to finish this game, anyway.”
-
Monday morning passes with no signs of Kenma looking for an assignment. Kuroo drops hints everywhere he goes, from the flyers he’d retrieved from Kenma’s mailbox on his way to pick up the boy from school, to reading out the recruiting lists plastered all over the school corridor as he trails Kenma to his class. He keeps this up for two consecutive days, and sings a quiet victory whenever Kenma’s eyes flicker towards a certain poster that Kuroo just read out.
However, by the time Tuesday evening rolls around, Kuroo’s pretty sure Kenma has no intention of getting himself assigned, and scowls as he watches the boy continue to play his handheld game, snuggled comfortably in the window seat when Kuroo drops by after dinner. Anger and worry is brewing under Kuroo’s calm demeanor, and he says barely any words before settling down at Kenma’s empty desk to do his homework. Kenma stays on the window seat and keeps playing.
It’s past midnight before Kenma finishes the game and flops onto his bed. Kuroo looks up from his math question, but doesn’t bother chiding him to brush his teeth or get changed. Fifteen minutes later, he hears Kenma’s gentle breathing that indicates the boy has fallen asleep.
Kuroo snags the game off the window seat with a sudden, overwhelming rush of fury, and drops it into his bag. Packing his books, he leaves the room and turns out the light behind him.
On Wednesday, Kuroo doesn’t wait to walk Kenma to school. Game console still in his bag, he takes the longer road to school, passes by the ocean and with a quick snap of the wrist, flings the device straight into the dark water. He feels better, but only by a small margin, and soon that feeling turns into nausea.
Kenma runs into him after school, expression confused, but doesn’t say anything. They walk home, one behind the other, but even the best of imaginations can’t pretend that they are walking home together. Kenma watches him quietly, but says nothing, and with the absence of the sounds of Kenma’s typical game, the walk home is frigid.
When they finally part ways at Kenma’s house, Kuroo kicks at the pile of work flyers sitting on Kenma’s doorstep.
“Kuroo?” Kenma says hesitantly.
“Don’t talk to me until you’ve gotten yourself assigned.” Kuroo says, and leaves Kenma standing in the mess.
He goes home and lies in his bed, feeling sick and angry, both at himself and at Kenma. It’s not been the easiest to deal with Kenma since the change in regime. Some might argue that Kenma had been difficult enough to deal with before the takeover, but Kuroo had been okay with Kenma like that, back then. Now he’s just worried all the time.
He’s heard stories of people being taken away from their homes and sent to different prefectures to do slave work. He’s heard of children in the more rural areas of Japan being murdered in broad daylight just because they refused to work, or because they had been bad at it. Kuroo personally didn’t know anyone this had happened to, and hell if he was going to let Kenma be the first.
Kuroo walks slowly past Kenma’s house the next day. He’s still not completely apologetic—he wants Kenma to get assigned, but at the same time he’s also sorry for having snapped at the younger boy. However, he sees no signs of Kenma, not at school, nor on the road.
At the factory, a couple of new assignments have come in. One of them is as young as twelve, and the kid is jumpy and terrified at every task. By mid-afternoon, the boy’s hands are cut and bleeding from meddling with machine parts, his soft skin unused to the hard work. Against his better judgment, Kuroo takes the kid to the infirmary, watches him sniffle as the nurse bandages his hands, and then sends him home for the day. All the while, Kuroo can’t get Kenma out of his head.
By the time Friday rolls around, life has become one neverending headache. After the incident with the new kid, he’d barely gotten any sleep, and the whole school is overly cheerful about something. Everyone is buzzing with energy and gossip, and Kuroo just wants to go back home. He sinks into his seat, hunched over, trying to massage the pain out of his head. All the while, voices sweep over him, saying things like ‘I can’t believe it’ and ‘what an honour’ and ‘it’s really quite terrifying’.
What exactly is unbelievable, an honour and terrifying all at the same time, Kuroo doesn’t catch. He remains unaware for at least ten minutes, head sunk onto his desk, before one of his classmates flounces over.
“Congratulations!” the boy says jubilantly, slapping Kuroo on the back. “What’s it like being friends with a celebrity? Who is his Fighter, do you know?”
A girl laughs at the boy generously. “Why? Are you thinking of applying? Five minutes of fame? That’s all you’ll last, Kaneda-kun.”
A third classmate shushes the girl. “It’s not a joke, Hitomi. Don’t say that in front of Kuroo-kun.”
Kuroo groans at the sudden crowd. “What are you guys talking about?” he asks.
The first boy shakes his head. “Kozume-kun, of course! What else would I be talking about?”
Kuroo blinks. “Kenma?”
Their professor steps into class, and the group scatters quickly, but not before someone pats Kuroo on the shoulder and whispers, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine! Let him know we’re proud of him, okay?”
As the professor takes attendance, Kuroo’s headache just grows. When it reaches Kuroo’s name, he grabs his bag and stumbles out of his seat.
“I’m uhh… I’m not feeling well.” he says quickly, and darts out of the classroom.
-
In the library, Kuroo pulls out the reports from the past few days, the ones he’s neglected ever since he started attempting to get Kenma assigned. The library is quiet and cold, and Kuroo crouches down by the stack of reports, flipping open every page, scanning the news for anything that might relate to Kenma.
He goes through Monday to Wednesday’s papers finding nothing, and stops abruptly when he pulls out Thursday’s report. On the very first page, there’s a printed notice on the bottom, typewritten font reading ‘High school students required for game beta testing. Assignment briefs posted to school offices. Interested students please enquire within.’ He pulls out Friday’s report with shaking hands, and finds nothing more.
Game beta testing. Kuroo shoves all the reports back into their respective files, sucking in a noisy gulp of air. The air-conditioning of the library is making his skin clammy.
“Interested students please enquire within.” Kuroo takes off towards the school’s administration department at a slow jog, which turned into a sprint as the conversations of his classmates from that morning echoed throughout his head. ‘Terrifying’, ‘minutes of fame’ and ‘not a joke’ are all words he can remember being used to refer to this mystery game.
He bursts into the office, swallowing hard, his throat too tight.
“Please.” He says to the sea of office faces staring at him. “Can you tell me about the beta testing game job?”
-
Nekomata-sensei rises from his cubicle in the corner of the office.
“Let me handle this.” he says to the startled office girl, taking the file from her. With a surprisingly strong hand, he guides Kuroo out into the hallway, into an adjacent, unoccupied conference room.
“Sensei, please tell me, is Kenma—is he one of the players?” Kuroo says desperately, even before they can take a seat. Nekomata forces him down onto a chair and sits next to him. Kuroo stares down at the file, but closed, it reveals nothing.
“Sensei, please.” Kuroo repeats.
Air whooshes through the vents as the heating rattles to life. “He is.” Nekomata confirms. “Please sit still, Kuroo-kun, and let me explain.”
“The New Rule is developing a game system that builds both mental and physical strength. Not much about the game is known yet, but that it involves players defeating one another, completing quests and climbing level after level to reach the top, as you would expect from a typical video game.”
Kuroo nodded. “It’s a game, though? A video game?”
Nekomata handles the folder carefully, pulling out a sheet of paper. He places it on top of the file, then clasps his hands over it, effectively covering most of the text.
“We have reason to believe that it is bigger than a mere video game. For one, the rewards are astronomical—the team becomes an icon, a legend for the New Rule. The players will be allowed to be unassigned save jobs related to the game. They will be given royalties, fame, extravagances.”
“How many people win?” Kuroo asks, frowning.
“Six, we believe, for the moment.”
“And what happens to the people who lose?” Kuroo asks.
Nekomata does not reply, and the truth sinks in. There will be no people who lose. None left alive, at any rate.
“Don’t looks like that.” Nekomata says sharply. “There is no indication that the other players don’t just go back to their routine lives.”
Kuroo laughs, empty. “If that’s the case, then why is everyone talking about the game like it’s the next Battle Royale? Why is everyone trying to convince me that Kenma will be okay? Why is everyone so reluctant to sign up, if losing simply means going back to everyday life?"
Kuroo sinks back into his chair. “Why would he sign up?” he asks. “What the hell was he thinking?”
Nekomata shakes his head. “Kenma was… recruited, you could say. Every school has to send at least one team, and the headmaster decided that Kenma has the …best odds.”
There is the word that had been bothering Kuroo. Teams. Team. His confusion must show on his face, for Nekomata proceeds to elaborate.
“Each team consists of two people, based on the Fighter and Sacrifice system.”
Fighter and Sacrifice system. Kuroo’s stomach churns. That was how the new soldiers had taken over the Old Japan, it was the system that had enabled the takeover of the Old Japan. By pairing up soldiers and dividing them into Fighter and Sacrifice, the Sacrifices took all the damage during a battle, leaving the Fighter perfectly able to fight. How it worked exactly was not clear to Kuroo, but he remembered clearly watching on tv, the way the Fighters would move forward, taking bullets aimed to kill and not even faltering, undefeatable as they surrounded the government building and forced their way in. Around them, their Sacrifices dropped like flies.
Kaneda’s voice from earlier that morning resounds in Kuroo’s head.
“Do you know who his Fighter is?”
Kenma is a Sacrifice. Of course he is.
The radiator is noisy in the background, but Kuroo’s skin is crawling. He reaches for the folder.
“We can apply, right?” he asks, voice rough.
“Kenma already has a Fighter.” says Nekomata.
An unknown feeling erupts deep within Kuroo, and he grabs Nekomata-sensei’s arm in disbelief.
“Who?” he demands.
“I am not at liberty to say.” Nekomata says, and his eyes are clouded with concern and sympathy. “Go back to your own job, Kuroo. Kenma has made his decision.”
Kuroo shakes his head numbly. “No.” he says, and it feels like someone else is speaking. Kuroo finds himself disturbingly calm. He stands, and holds out his hand for the papers, gaze unwavering. “Give me the papers. I will change his mind.”
At long last, Nekomata hands over the folder with an air of resignation. Kuroo bows deeply, clutching the folder close and heads for the exit.
“Kuroo, don’t make any stupid decisions.” Nekomata-sensei calls after him. Quieter, just before the door is shut behind Kuroo, he thinks he hears a weary, “I don’t want to lose the both of you.”
-
Kuroo leaves the school and calls in sick for his job. He’s built up a respectable enough reputation that one off day won’t count against him that much. He heads straight to Kenma’s house, before realizing that, unless the boy skipped school too, Kenma wouldn’t be home.
Sinking onto the front steps of Kenma’s porch, Kuroo dials Kenma’s number from memory. The phone rings for several moments, and Kuroo half wonders if Kenma’s just ignoring him. It wouldn't be the first time. He tries again, and again. Presently, the line clicks. Kuroo sucks in a breath of relief.
“Kenma, I want to go with you. Let me be your Fighter.” He says within seconds of Kenma picking up.
“I already have someone.” Kenma answers after a pause. His voice sounds foreign, and Kuroo realizes that it’s been three days since he’s talked to Kenma, the longest they’ve gone without at least texting once in a long time.
“Who?” Kuroo asks, and then changes his mind before Kenma can hang up. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask later—Kenma, just tell your Fighter that you don’t need him. I’ll sign up. I want to go with you.”
There is a rustle on the other end. “I’m in class, Kuroo.”
Kuroo rubs a hand across his face. “Skip.” He says, which is completely unlike him. “I’m at your house.”
Kenma doesn’t say anything. Kuroo sighs.
“I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Not today.” Kenma says. “I’m meeting my Fighter after class today. We need to go through the forms.”
“No, Kenma.” Kuroo says, tightening his grip on the phone. “No. Please don’t. I’m your Fighter.”
“No, you’re not.” Kenma says quietly, and the call ends.
No amount of calling back gets Kenma to pick up, and when he goes over to Kenma’s house again after class has let out, still nobody is home.
-
Saturday arrives. Kuroo doesn’t know how they’ve come to this, Kenma making him lunch while he sits at the table, flopped down on the wooden surface and spinning his phone in circles.
“I told you to get assigned.” Kuroo says, curling his toes into the soft rug beneath his feet. His feet are cold. “Oh, Kenma.”
Kenma shrugs a shoulder, reaching for the bowls in an upper kitchen cabinet. “It could be worse. It’s a basic level-up-and-fight-system game.”
“Basic?” Kuroo echoes incredulously. He stops the momentum of his phone with the palm of his hand. “Have you read the brief?
“I play games all the time. This is no different, Kuroo.” Kenma says.
Kuroo kneads his fist into the table. “You’re going into a life-and-death game. It is different."
Kenma just makes a quiet sound of neither agreement nor protest.
“Who is your Fighter?” Kuroo asks again, sitting up. He’s fully prepared to force the information out of Kenma, there’s no way he’s going to let Kenma into the game without even the name of who he is losing Kenma to.
Kenma places a bowl of noodles in front of Kuroo, and Kuroo grabs the thin wrist.
“Kenma.” he repeats sternly. “Who is your Fighter?”
Golden cat-eyes survey him, and Kuroo tightens his grip. He can feel the bones beneath Kenma’s skin, and somehow, the first thought in his mind is how easily he could snap it, how easily someone else could break it. The thought makes Kuroo sick and he lets go.
“Haiba Lev.” Kenma says.
It takes a moment for Kuroo to understand what Kenma is talking about. Then—
“LEV?” Kuroo repeats, jealousy and disbelief rushing through his body. “Are you crazy? Lev would get you killed!”
Kenma narrows his eyes, and turns away to ladle himself a bowl of noodles.
Even in his agitated state, Kuroo notices his own carefully made bowl, and sets it aside so he won’t accidentally knock it over. “Lev, Kenma? he breathes. “Haiba Lev? I know he’s got potential, but he’s a wildcard! He doesn’t think, he doesn’t know you—Kenma, you’re going into a life and death situation with him?”
“Can you stop saying life-and-death?” Kenma asks. “It’s overdramatic.”
Kuroo half-snarls.
“Out of everyone who goes in the game, only six people come out alive, and you think I’m being overdramatic? Has it occurred to you that you might be taking this way too lightly, like you do with everything else?”
Kenma tenses, and if this had been any other day, Kuroo would have stopped talking. But today is not like any other day. Kuroo is up to here with frustration, and seeing Kenma go about as though nothing is wrong makes him absolutely furious. Kenma’s capable of a lot, if he would just try, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t ever.
“It’s not the same Japan we grew up in, Kenma! You’re fucking representing the school in one of the biggest events since the takeover, and you’re not even trying to win it!”
He grabs the stack of papers sitting at the corner of the table, yanking out the terms and conditions sheet that Kenma has signed and dated. Scanning through the yellow form quickly, he reads aloud, “…agree to perform the duty to the best of my abilities… understand that a lack of initiative may result in severe consequences and take full responsibility… terms and conditions may change at any point subject to discretion of the game developers.”
He throws the papers down in front of Kenma. “Did you even read this? ‘Lack of initiative may result in severe consequences’? It is a life-and-death situation, and they own you, Kenma. You signed it, and they own you now.”
Kuroo feels like he’s being ripped apart. “Let me be your Fighter.” He says softly, almost pleading. “I’ll make a better Fighter for you than Lev would.”
Kenma ignores him. He nudges the bowl of noodles towards Kuroo, which Kuroo in turn pays no attention to.
“You’re going to die there if you go without me.” Kuroo says brokenly. “Kenma, please, please."
“And you’re going to die if you go with me.” Kenma says.
Kuroo’s blood instantly goes cold. He hates this, hates how the entire week has been a rollercoaster, hates how when he looks at Kenma, all he sees is unattainable gold. Looking up to meet Kenma’s eyes slowly, he says, “Is this what it’s about? You don’t want me in the game because you don’t want me to die?”
“You said it yourself. It’s a dead end game, Kuroo.” Kenma says. He busies himself with his noodles, although he doesn’t take a bite.
“I said life-or-death. It's only death if you lose, and you’ll lose if you take Haiba Lev. That’s all I’m saying.”
Kenma doesn't look up.
“So you don’t want to take me because you don’t expect to win?” Kuroo asks, temper flaring. “You’re telling me you’re giving up? You’re not even going to try?”
Kenma shoves away from the table and stands. “Of course I’m going to try. But I don’t want you there. You don’t need to be. There are so many other things out here you could be helping out with. You don’t need to go with me.”
“I go wherever you go, Kenma, when has that not been the case?” Fingers grip the edge of the table tightly. Kuroo’s knuckles, if he would look down, are white.
“Tell me you don’t think that together, we stand a chance of winning. Tell me that I don’t make you a stronger team.” Kuroo says, and his voice is dangerously low.
“I don’t want you there.” Kenma says, turning away so Kuroo can’t see his expression.
Kuroo grabs the younger boy’s shoulders, spinning him around. “That’s not what I asked and you know it, Kenma."
“I don’t care what you asked!” Kenma shouts. “You’re not going!”
The empty pot that Kenma had been cooking the noodles in clatters to the floor as Kenma yanks himself out of Kuroo’s grasp and the momentum spins him straight into the cupboard door. Kenma drops to the floor beside the pot, and glares at Kuroo, furious, breathing loud in the sudden quiet.
“Why are you so unwilling to let me die, but so willing to let me lose you?” Kuroo asks, voice cracking with every syllable. “How can you not know, that to me, those are the same things?”
“Stop it, Kuroo—"
“Fine! If you’re going to be such an idiot about this, then by all means, take him! But don’t for a moment think that I believe you think Haiba Lev is a better match for you than I am!” Kuroo snarls.
Kenma stares at Kuroo, then drops his gaze down to the ground.
“Fuck.” Kuroo mutters, the taste in his mouth bitter. “I’m out of here.” He says roughly, and storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
-
For the second time that week, Kuroo finds himself lying in bed, completely overwhelmed by his emotions. He doesn’t know what to think anymore. It’s different, knowing that Kenma cares, but both result in the same unbearable pain. Kuroo turns over, curling into his pillow, kneading a fist into it.
Haiba Lev. Kuroo pictures the first-year, hanging over Kenma and chatting excitedly, eager to learn new tricks and diving recklessly into each one of them. It’s not that Lev isn’t capable, but Kuroo can’t trust anyone with Kenma but himself, especially not with something like this. Knowing, now, that Kenma’s putting his own life as well as Lev’s in risk just to protect Kuroo leaves a sick feeling in Kuroo’s gut. The thought repeats itself over and over in Kuroo’s head, and he kicks at his blankets, then flings his pillow across the room, sitting up and then crumbling, burying his face into his bedsheet.
Clear as a flash, Kuroo sees Kenma’s eyes, wide and hurt as he left, and curses. He pushes out of bed, pulls on his jacket and slowly puts on his shoes again, buying time before he goes back to face Kenma so he can think about his next move. It doesn’t work, and despite the three-minute walk to Kenma’s house feeling like the longest road he’s ever taken, Kuroo still has no clue what he’s going to do or say.
Kuroo digs out the keys from the flowerpot by the front gate and lets himself into the house. The living room and kitchen are shrouded in darkness, and there is a small light coming from the corridor upstairs.
The light in Kenma’s bedroom is on. Kuroo knocks once to alert the boy despite the fact that the door is ajar, and pushes the door open. He sees Kenma buried under the blankets, thin locks of blond hair the only thing visible from the doorway. There is a faint sniff. Kuroo pads across the room in his bare feet, certain that Kenma knows he’s there, but Kenma makes no move to greet him or even acknowledge his presence.
“I’m sorry I left.” Kuroo says, sitting cautiously at the side of the lump.
Kenma doesn’t react, just stifles a sob, breathing ragged. The blanket trembles, and a small hand tugs the blankets even higher over his head.
“Kenma, I’m sorry. I was scared, and angry, and I didn’t mean what I said.” Kuroo presses. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and places it on Kenma’s back. A shudder runs up the blankets.
Still no reply.
“I was being stupid.” Kuroo’s throat clenches. “I was just… jealous that you picked Lev over me, okay?”
There’s a brief pause, and then Kenma sucks in a breath. Another half-sob.
“Talk to me, Kenma.” Kuroo whispers. It’s so cold in between them, and Kuroo cannot stand it. “Kenma, please.”
“Why would you even think—” Kenma begins, and he sits up abruptly, wrenching the blankets off and getting tangled up in them for a few seconds. “Why would you—”
Finally, he succeeds in freeing himself, and whirls to face Kuroo. The intensity of his gaze takes Kuroo off-guard. The gold is glinting, vicious, sharp and a relief all at the once.
“Of course you’d be a better match than Lev.” Kenma says angrily, eyes blurred with tears. “You’ve always been my best match.”
Kuroo feels like he’s been staked straight through the heart.
“Then I’m going with you.” Kuroo says firmly, extending his arms and pulling Kenma close. Kenma fights for a short moment, then lets Kuroo hold him close.
“I don’t want you to die.” Kenma chokes out.
Kuroo brushes his lips against the crown of the boy’s head. “Then don’t bring me there to die. Take us there to win.”
Defeated, Kenma starts to cry, shoulders shaking. Kuroo feels himself shiver, despite the much welcome warmth in his arms. It’s a victory, but it means so little when they’re about to fight a much bigger battle.
Kenma buries his face in Kuroo’s chest. There is a breath of something, I’m sorry, and Kuroo hugs Kenma tighter. It’s times like these that he feels he can never get enough of Kenma, like the two of them are two parts of a whole, and any amount of distance feels impossibly shattering.
Kuroo closes his eyes and inhales, wrapping his arms around the younger boy. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’ He vows silently. ‘I’ll bring us home again.’