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For the most part, the red string on Kenma’s pinkie doesn’t bother him.
It doesn’t tangle, doesn’t get caught on the edges of things or trodden on by preoccupied commuters. It extends and retracts as he moves, only ever in his peripheral vision—when he looks straight on, it tends to shimmer out of existence as if it knows now isn’t a good time to distract him. So Kenma ignores it, barely curious about who it leads to or when he’ll bump into this so-called soulmate of his.
For the past two days, however, the string has become unbearable.
Kenma scowls as his arm is yanked down off his keyboard, leaving a mishmash of letters across an email to his boss. This is the seventh time it’s happened in less than an hour. By the way the other patrons in the café side-eye him, he probably looks possessed. With a scowl, he slams his laptop shut, gathers his belongings, and troops back to his apartment. He sends a text to his boss: Sorry, logging off early today. Something came up, then dumps his bag off at his apartment, all the while holding his arm in place as the string jumps wildly.
There’s only one thing that interferes with the red strings, and that’s animals. Specifically, cats. Every once in a while, a dog or the curious bird or rodent will take an interest in them (magpies are notorious string interferers), but cats take the cake when it comes to constantly playing with the strings. Before now, it’s never been an issue. Before now, Kenma’s soulmate had taken care to train their pets, if they’d had any. But for the past two days Kenma has dealt with this jerking and bouncing, as if he has suddenly become a puppet to the worst puppeteer in history.
He never thought he’d go searching for his soulmate for something as spiteful as telling them off for not properly training their pets, but here he is.
Before he leaves, he stops at the bathroom, retying the bun at the nape of his neck and straightening his hoodie. He doesn’t particularly care about making a good first impression, as his soulmate hasn’t on him, but looking a little nice wouldn’t hurt.
The string thrums vividly as he opens the door.
Kenma has heard and brushed off all the rumors about the red strings—that they glow brighter when it’s time to meet your soulmate, that they become more solid the closer you are, that they can cross universes and timelines and every once in a while people have strange, unexplainable experiences that only their soulmate can understand. Most of the rumors sound like romantic nonsense, and Kenma is as far from romantically inclined as you can get. He pointedly ignores the fact that his string does look redder, realer, and that he definitely can’t push it aside like usual.
It’s obviously just a coincidence.
In the elevator, he recites in his head what he will say when he meets his soulmate. That they should be more considerate, that if they don’t have the time or space to take care of pets they shouldn’t have them. That no, he’s not interested in learning more about them, he just wants to go back to his daily life, thank you very much.
Kenma is so caught up in his mental pep talk that he doesn’t notice the string is somehow behind him until his hand is resting on the door and it’s not in sight. Kenma freezes. The string hasn’t led him out of the building at all. He glances back at his hand, confused, then begins following the string back up the stairs to some unknown floor between the lobby and the sixth floor.
The string ejects him on the fourth floor, which is good because Kenma doesn’t think he’d have the stamina to go any further. He leans against the wall, catching his breath, peering down the hallway where the string turns a corner. He knows for a fact that his string has never before followed the construction of a man-made object, content to barge through buildings and cars without a care. For better or worse, the string is guiding him, and so he starts following it again.
Around the corner, there are three doors. The string takes him to the farthest one, once again inconsiderate of the door in its way. It’s vibrant enough that Kenma’s surprised it can still get through the wood. He’s sure that if he reaches out, he would feel the string against his skin.
The door looks identical to his, with the number 421 on it instead of 667. When he looks down, a welcome mat with little paw prints greets him. As if on cue, his string jumps.
Kenma raps sharply on the door.
Almost thirty seconds later, he hears a muffled voice. “Just a second! Just a… oof.”
Kenma winces when he hears a thud. He shifts on his feet, wondering if he should just leave a note instead. He has come to the conclusion that this whole thing was a misunderstanding from fate, that he should try again later or maybe just deal with the cats for the rest of his life, when the door is flung open.
Kenma’s only reaction to the dramatics is a slow blink as he takes in the man in front of him.
He’s tall. That’s the first thing Kenma notices. And that he’s a he, which isn’t really surprising but still notable. Kenma has to crane his neck up and up to see the man’s eyes, which are kind of covered by his atrociously messy spiked hair. They’re a muddy hazel, wide in either confusion or interest or both. His body is thin and gangly, but maybe he played sports because he has enough muscle mass for something like running or volleyball.
Kenma hates how superficially attracted he is to this man on the spot. He’s probably annoying, Kenma thinks, trying to keep a severe expression on his face. He probably laughs too loudly and would try to get Kenma to go out to bars with him in the name of fun.
A soft mrow breaks their silent appraisal of each other. Before the man can stop it, a tiny ball of white and orange fur darts between his legs, on a beeline out the door. Without thinking, Kenma bends down, scooping the kitten up. It’s so stunned that it doesn’t do anything other than blink at Kenma as he holds it up to his face. Like owner, like pet, Kenma thinks a little savagely.
“Can you please tell your cat to stop pulling on your string?” Kenma says without a hello. When the man doesn’t say anything, just stares at him uncomprehendingly, Kenma holds out his hand to show him the string. The kitten whose escape attempt he’d just foiled reaches out to bat at the tiny bit of string between the two of them. “I can’t work this way.”
The man blinks, glancing at his own hand. If Kenma were to hold it, it would engulf his. Sure enough, the string is there, leading from his pinkie to Kenma’s.
“Well,” the man says. His lips twitch into something that looks like a smirk. “Hello, soulmate. I’m Kuroo Tetsurou.”
Kenma’s mouth twists in displeasure. He’s certain all his horrible thoughts about this man are true.
“Kozume Kenma,” he says, voice clipped. “Now, about the kitten…”
“Do you want to come in?” Kuroo asks, opening the door wider. “I just put water on for tea.”
So that’s how Kenma finds himself sitting in an apartment that’s a mirror image of his own, decorated so completely different. Where Kenma’s apartment is littered with video game paraphernalia and other electronic mishmash, Kuroo’s space is light and open. He has all of his blinds up (which he probably forgets to put down and everyone can see into at night, Kenma thinks petulantly), and besides the cat toys strewn around the room, everything is in its proper place. There’s even a cool looking workspace in the corner by the sliding door to his balcony.
Kenma isn’t impressed. At all.
“Sorry about the mess,” Kuroo calls from the kitchen. “The kittens are a new addition. I found them the other day. Poor things were in a box by the dumpster, and I didn’t have the heart to leave them there.”
When Kenma sits on the couch, the kittens swarm around him. He leans down, petting at them until one of them uses their sharp little claws to latch onto his hand. He scowls as he pulls away.
“That one’s Fuku,” Kuroo says, nodding his head to the kitten still content in Kenma’s lap as he comes back into the room. Kenma takes the tea from Kuroo’s outstretched hand.
Of course, Kuroo is a talker. He tells Kenma all about the kittens, about his search for a forever home for them, while Kenma wonders how in the world he found such an altruistic soulmate. Kuroo apologizes for the bouncing string, a little skittish about bringing it up. He doesn’t say the word soulmate again.
Before Kenma knows it, he’s spent almost three hours with Kuroo. It’s the longest he’s willingly been in someone’s presence outside of work since college. He also, at some point and for some unknown reason, gave Kuroo his number.
Kuroo’s phone alarm going off finally gives him an excuse to leave, and Kenma’s surprised to realize he’s a little sad about it.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Kenma says when they’re standing face to face at the door, to himself or Kuroo he isn’t sure.
Kuroo shrugs. “Yeah, of course not. Maybe we can get coffee though? Next week. My treat.”
Kenma’s immediate reaction is to say no, didn’t Kuroo just hear him? But instead, he nods. “Text me the address.”
It doesn’t, Kenma reiterates to himself as he gets into the elevator to go back to his own apartment, mean anything.
Their first three dates—if Kenma can call them that—are the most awkward Kenma has ever felt in his life, which is saying something as Kenma and awkward go hand in hand in pretty much every scenario. But each time they leave the cafe, Kuroo asks if they can do it again next week, and Kenma always answers yes.
“We don’t have to keep doing this,” Kenma says at the beginning of their fourth coffee shop interaction, frustrated that he still hasn’t learned how to be a proper human, that a conversation still feels like swallowing knives. That Kuroo doesn’t seem to care if he can’t form a sentence that doesn’t sound snippy or cold or embarrassing. That he seems to genuinely want to talk with Kenma, that he doesn’t mind if Kenma spends an hour talking about video games or sitting in silence when he just can’t come up with anything to say.
A brief flash of surprise crosses Kuroo’s face, followed by something more complicated, before disappearing behind a mostly normal look. “Maybe this is my favorite part of the week,” he says. His voice comes off as cool, casual, but Kenma has never heard this tone before. It sounds like Kuroo is afraid he’ll lose something important. And that something, Kenma realizes, is him.
“Maybe you’re a masochist,” Kenma mutters, feeling a blush spread across his cheeks, then regrets the comparison. He doesn’t like thinking of himself as a sadist. He doesn’t want to be mean; sometimes, it’s just easier.
Kuroo doesn’t do anything but shrug. There’s a small tilt to his lips now that Kenma’s wants to imitate, as if he knows what Kenma just thought and finds it acceptable.
Kenma scowls instead.
“Maybe I just like the way you talk,” Kuroo says. “So. See you next week? You’re streaming tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Kenma says, picking up his to-go cup. He doesn’t elaborate which question he answered but Kuroo doesn’t ask. Kuroo likes to text anyway, Kenma has learned. He’s sure he’ll bring it up again.
When he sits down to stream a few hours later, Kenma grabs the first to-go cup he finds shoved in his refrigerator. It’s the coffee he’d had that afternoon. When he takes a sip, he thinks it tastes better like this, not as strong.
A new username pops into his stream: KuroNeko347. It isn’t necessarily Kuroo, but Kenma’s got a sneaking suspicion it is.
His assumption is confirmed when he gets a text as he wraps up the stream that says: You’re never going to sleep with all that caffeine in your system.
Kenma texts back: Oh yeah? Watch me.
He only blushes a little when Kuroo answers: Only if you’re offering.
He can’t help but write back: Did you try all 346 other numbers before you found a username that wasn’t taken?
He gets a winky face back in reply.
Eventually, the weekly coffee shop dates become hangouts on the weekends, then Kenma encroaching on Kuroo’s space whenever they have free time. To help with the cats, he justifies, even though he knows Kuroo won’t ask.
Kuroo’s found homes for three of the kittens, leaving just Fuku and Nyan (of course you named your cat Nyan, Kenma snarked when Kuroo told him she’d been his before he’d found the kittens). Kenma doesn’t miss the other kittens—they were too rambunctious for his tastes. But he’ll miss Fuku when Kuroo finally finds a home for her. He’s surprised he hasn’t already. She’s by far the most well-adjusted of the litter.
Kuroo sits next to Kenma. Not too close, but close enough that if Kenma pulled his leg up onto the couch, his knee would touch Kuroo’s thigh. He’s thought about it before, but he’s never done it.
Their string is loose between them. Ever since Kenma followed it that first time, it has become harder to shove to the background. It shimmers, Kenma has noticed, when in direct sunlight. He wonders if everyone’s string looks like this, or if it’s different for everyone.
“Why didn’t you ever follow the string?” Kenma runs his thumb across Fuku’s head. Since their first interaction, Fuku has taken to Kenma. He’s as pleased as he can be about it—pets in general aren’t his thing, but this one isn’t so bad. He’ll be sad when Kuroo finds a different home for her.
When the silence stretches longer than Kenma thought the question warranted, he glances up. Kuroo’s looking at the TV, staring as if there’s something interesting playing instead of a slideshow of stock photos he’s probably seen a thousand times. “I never got around to it, I guess,” he finally answers. “You’ll spoil her if you keep letting her up on the couch.”
Kenma rolls his eyes as Nyan jumps onto the armrest next to Kuroo, her demands to be loved loud and demanding. “As if you’re any better.”
The afternoon passes by lazily and eventually, the tension drops from Kuroo’s shoulders when Kenma doesn’t press about the soulmate thing again. The string stays pretty and bright between them.
The roof of Kenma and Kuroo’s building has a nice outdoor setup that Kenma has never utilized, as he doesn’t throw parties or really know anyone else in the building besides Kuroo. If he wanted fresh air, he could get it from his balcony.
They haven’t talked about what this is between them, and Kenma doesn’t know if he wants to. He hasn’t ever felt so comfortable around someone so quickly. He spends way too much time scowling at his red string, irritated that fate or destiny or whatever has actually found someone he wants to spend time with. He spends way too much time thinking about Kuroo.
On the roof, Kuroo has set up a picnic, complete with a blanket and an eclectic assortment of cushions and pillows. “Or,” Kenma says, “we can sit on the couch.”
“This is more fun,” Kuroo argues. Kenma, as usual, relents.
After eating, Kuroo flops down onto his back, staring up at the sky. A few seconds later, Kenma joins him. He can feel Kuroo’s warmth radiate beside him. He very suddenly wants to curl up next to him and fall asleep. Like a cat.
Instead, Kenma reaches down and slips his fingers into Kuroo’s. Everything feels as if it’s balancing on a ledge.
“I didn’t want to meet my soulmate,” Kuroo confesses into the quiet between them.
Kenma doesn’t turn his attention away from the sky. In the middle of the city, there aren’t stars to look at, but the vast, endless void of the dark sky has its own charm. He feels Kuroo start to retract his hand, so he tenses his fingers. Kuroo doesn’t let go. A small blossom of warmth unfurls in Kenma’s chest.
“My parents,” Kuroo starts, stops. Takes a breath Kenma can hear. “Well, everything was fine, for a while. But then they just started fighting all the time. I was eight when they finally called it quits. And I thought, if that’s what soulmates are, I don’t want one.”
Kenma should probably say something, but he’s never been good with emotions or confessions. He keeps his hand in Kuroo’s, an anchor, a reassurance. “I think your cats would be sad if you didn’t,” Kenma says finally. “They wouldn’t have a string to play with.”
“I’m going to keep her,” Kuroo says.
This finally gets Kenma to look over at Kuroo. “Who?”
“Fuku. I think she’d be very sad to go to a home without you. If you want, you can take her to your apartment, even.”
Kenma has never felt this tightening in his chest before. He swallows once, twice. “I wouldn’t want her to be sad,” he finally says. “But I think I’ll stick to visiting for now. Who knows what will happen in the future, though?”
When Kuroo tries to pull his hand away this time, Kenma lets him. He’s not gone for long—he props himself up on an elbow, face close to Kenma’s. It’s too much. Kenma can’t help but reach up and brush his fingers across Kuroo’s cheek. It’s as soft as he always thought it would be.
“I’m really glad I met you,” Kuroo whispers.
Kenma looks into the depths of Kuroo’s eyes, sees the reflection of himself. He wonders what Kuroo thinks when he looks at him. He’s starting to realize that all he has to do is ask, and Kuroo will tell him.
“Me too,” Kenma says. The city noises around him fade as Kuroo leans down, hesitates. Kenma doesn’t think as he pushes up, just slightly, just enough for their lips to meet.
Afterward, they still don’t talk about it, but Kenma knows something has shifted for both of them. In the upcoming weeks, they’ll kiss some more, discuss their feelings, explore each other in new, more intimate ways, as fast or as slow as they want. He’s surprised to realize he can’t wait to see where they end up.