Test Me (Tsuki x Kuroo)

Chapter 13

I make it back to his place on foot. Decide I need fresh air. Decide wrong. It does nothing to the heatwave well-settled in my chest. Nothing to the thrilling tides on my stomach. In my head, we keep kissing.

I play it over and over again. Kuroo going down the stairs, turning around because he forgot something. Was it me he forgot? Kissing me. Did he go back for me? Eyes down until he reached me.

By the time I reach his place, the sky is tinged purple and blue and it's like being underwater, where everything is soft and silky and light and surreal. Everything seems surreal - that me, four-eyed-unexceptional-scrawny me, got kissed by him, charming-vivid-overwhelmingly-awake him.

I collapse on the couch. Text my mom. Say I'm okay. Am I? The book on the coffee table offers me a distraction and I take it. But it's a poor distraction. I read the same sentence over and over again. Eventually, the book is just another weight on my chest.

My eyelids gain weight too and when I finally lay them down, the dream comes as the dream went - fast and sudden.

I am on a boat at sea and there's nothing but water for as far as the eye can see. Over me, the night sky is a crowd of stars, the biggest I've ever seen, and the moon is bright and perfectly round and big, so big, I might just touch it if I reach for it.

I can't look away. Don't think I'll ever dare. Don't think there will ever be something nicer to look at. How could it? 

And then a sound. A voice. A slug of coffee.

"Hi."

I open my eyes.

Back in the apartment, the front door slides open and Kuroo walks in. I see only his shape against the deem lights of the hallway outside. The unruly hair, forever an outlaw. The broad straight shoulders. The exceptionally long lean torso.

When the door closes behind him, he disappears in the darkness of his house.

I push myself up, lean my weight on both my hands instead, half lying half sitting. I can see him better now. He drops his gym bag, kicks off his shoes, looks up at me. I am probably just a shape against the light coming from the street outside the window.

"You're still up," he notes.

"Sort of."

I watch him walk closer to the couch. Hope he doesn't stop walking even when he reaches it.

He doesn't. He walks past the foot of the couch, where my own feet rest. Walks past the length of my legs, still on the pair sweatpants I put on after practice. I push myself further up when he stops by my waistline.

He reaches for the book that slid down to my lap and I reach for his arm, feel the soft fabric of his sweatshirt against my fingers. I don't know how to do any of this, but I want to. I know exactly what I want.

I'm looking at it.

He's smiling - a small, soft, delighted smile.

When I finally pull him in - a flood of reckless courage - the book slides to the floor and he slides on top of me, knee lodged on the space between my legs, a hand on the armrest behind my head, the other on my left cheek. I feel bad for my right one. Let go of his arm, go for his face, always his face. He smells like good cologne and night time. Tastes like cool mint.

We kiss slowly and it reminds me of the night we smoked pot together and I melted into the couch, this very couch. I am melting now too. I am kissing him and he is kissing me and I keep melting. His hand leaves my face and rests on my neck, then trails down my chest, slides to my side, under my t-shirt. My stomach hums in delight.