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mastersassignmenthelp · 5 months

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soranihimawari · 2 years

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Two and a half Minutes

Pairing: university grad students Kuroo & reader

Rating: 🔞—mdni (themes)// KTA->KTF (angst to fluff)

Word count: 4.2K

Warnings: Kuroo’s ignorance makes him more of an ass; learning to be and do better

Today’s not a day to be late, at least according to the old maids living on your floor. You would think the one time you needed to show up post graduation rehearsal you’d have multiple alarms set, you figured you would make up the time with the way you drive. Then again, when you spent a majority of the last two semesters earning your keep as a librarian’s assistant in the restoration department, time is no consequence to you. Until you meet the rest of the academic staff in the rafter-wings of the auditorium. You were a little dishelved, but lucky for you, your self-proclaimed academic rival is there with his backup speech handy. He was a slick talker who could easily appease the annoyed brow of a doctorate candidate and their mentor with a simple smile; he was also one of the few who could match you in terms of tactical brilliance as proven by the language arts committee he helped formulate in the last year. You sighed, smoothing out your toga, your cap held in the white knuckled grip of your hands. More often than not, lately you’ve been keeping to yourself, trying to not let this years candidates’ comments of your humble origins bruise your already exhausted ego.

“And there they are,” his mockingjay voice says.

“Good mornin’,” you force the words out with a silken annunciation from your village town.

“My my,” the professor to his left says with a clapping motion. “Seems like we won’t hear my cadidate’s speech after all. Pity.”

“I was so looking forward to it too, but what can I do? Our valedictorian showed up with minutes to spare,” one sore jab wouldn’t deal the final blow of an already bleeding corpse.

“Mx YN,” the dean of your school greets you. She was an older woman with half-moon spectacles dangling high on her nose; encouraging letters of recommendation from previous professors landed on her desk with copies of your thesis in the fine arts multiple times.

“Ma’am,” you extend her salutations well-earned. The professor sponsor for your rival retreats a bit while the pupil stands side by side with you.

“I’m looking forward to hearing you speak,” the department head warnmly states. She grips your shoulder with a finality of pride in her otherwise stone face before she calls out another professor’s name who calls her over about an opinion on roses this time of year.

“Congratulations on not making a compete ass of yourself in front of her,” you hear your fellow graduate say. The grip on your cap had loosened some time ago, but now you wished it were a hammer and nail to pin his tongue against the podium. Violence wasn’t necessarily frowned upon here yet considering you could mince this man-child with words beyond his comprehension, you digress.

“Funny, I was about to the same thing,” the lilt in your voice made him do a double-take before you walked on to find your seat among the presenters for the ceremony.

A few minutes later, when you turn to look over your shoulder, you see him talk to another colleague who stares past him to study you. You break the eye-contact when you choose to fiddle with the doctorate cap before placing it upon your head. There is a chime playing overhead as the family snd friends who chose to be a part of the ceremony to cheer their loved ones on began to file in and find their appointed seats. Since there were two valedictorians this semester, you were expecting to see a slew of your rival’s family members and teammates. It’s not an everyday occurrence one well-known athlete graduates with a doctorate of sports administration.

“Jesus, it’s like a wedding party,” you mutter under your breath as you see his parent, aunt, and brother settle down in the front row; the teammates who were able to make it sat in the row behind them in their ‘signing suits.’ You don’t remember hearing his brogued shoes approach you, so you jump a little in your seat when he appears in your blindside.

“Everyone’s made it on my end,” he says with a jovial tone. The five seats reserved for your family and friends remained empty. It’s been what? Seven years of schooling altogether at this infernal institution and he still decides to be ignorant of self-made successes like yourself? How dare he, your thoughts are unnecessary filled with rude comments and childish taunts.

The ceremony commencement announcements are made and he settles into his own seat. The professors go through their introductions and trite speeches extending their congratulations to the family and finally the graduates. To your right, you pretend you don’t see the curious stare of your classmate. He nods and smiles to his parents who wave at him from their spot, his teammates’ holler for his attention too, slightly embarrassing him; but his eyes eventually land back on the empty seats reserved for you. Why on earth would no one want to come to celebrate this milestone with you? Was your family not as caring as his, he wonders. Or was it you were disowned because you chose not to buy into the corporations your family owned? Your life outside of this institution were little to no concern for him, yet the enigma that is you has gripped his curiosity like a vice.

You hear him make a comment before he nudges you to approach the podium. Your speech you’ve memorized countless times, so with not much ado, you set your hands aside post-adjustment of the microphone. The teleprompter just has brackets around [[VALEDICTORIAN SPEECH]] and your voice seemed to have had a mind of it’s own. Your inflections come out when you pronounce certain words but you power through it with an air of professionalism your rival never tires of. It’s like an illusionists’ greatest trick. You end your speech with a thank you and with the hardest hurdle cleared, you wait for the names to be called.

Three hours of your day was all it takes for you to receive the graduate paper; the real diploma will take about another month to be shipped out to your residence. You asked your bookskeeper if you could use their mailbox seeing as you have yet to close on a new apartment contract.

You arrive at the reception hall without your toga, but you do wear your doctoral cap; conveniently it matches your high waisted suit pants and pearlized satin top. It was the nicest set of clothes you owned and since you rarely wore it out anyway, it was a safe choice for an after party like this. You interact and mingle with others who value your opinions on impudent subject matters, perhaps being fed into a lion’s den would have been easier than keeping up appearances with those who could afford to make trillions of donations like they were buying favors from the pope.

Alas peace was a lie you think when a catering waiter approaches you with a mimosa flute. You easily snag one and replace its spot with the empty one. You sip it carefully while contemplating when or if your rival’s family will force him to talk to you. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait very long; his fellow teammate decides to intercept you from being pulled into another conversation about Euclidean Geometry, how its laws of tessellations inspired Byzantine tiles.

“You sure do know how to capture my attention,” you tease, enjoying the bitter liquid making its way to your stomach. “Now how can I help you? PLease don’t tell me you’re here to set me up with—”

“Morisuke!” Another jovial rebel comes bounding up to you two. He shrugs his shoulders with a grumpy expression at his former kouhai while glancing back at you; perhaps he was going to ask you out to dinner, not that you would have refused because of the company he keeps. Friends of said rival or not, Morisuke was actually quite bold.

“Yamamoto, I swear,” you hear him curse his friend under his breath. If these two are here with you, then that means the thorn in your side wasn’t too far behind either.

“To hell with this,” you say, drowning the rest of your tongue with the cocktail. “Thank you for your time gentlemen, but it seems I have to go.”

Noir hair floats by yards ahead of you, probably doing a complicated equation to see the path of least resistance to reach you. The suit he wears is pristine and is a more adult version of his high school one, sans blazer. Rolled up sleeves and a neat double Windsor knotted tie show off his family’s style paired with the glitz of gifted cufflinks and classy watch. Compared to you who screams economic efficiency, his entire ensemble screams charmed life. Not saying he didn’t work hard, far from it, but the way he presents himself as a self-righteous know it irked you to no end. Your subconscious newsfeed decidedly reminds you with bold letters of today’s date and how it ought to be the least time you see the man, so you might as well extend an olive branch of sorts. You stand still, much to the surprise of those who knew of your accumulated hatred of your salutatorian. His parents who had split when he was younger kindly push him on the path toward you regardless of him moving on his own or not. The two friends who came to the ceremony stand a little off to the side behind you should you or their friend hurl insulting words, much like scorekeepers of a tennis match.

“Come to say goodbye?” He asks, peering up and down like a creature about to pounce on its dinner. Golden eyes known to charm women and men into his bed at all hours of the night seem to alight in watching your stone face soften into a relaxed blaze of fury.

“Oh and I thought you were scolded for playing nice with me today,” you raise a glass at his father who seemed to have extended his congratulations with a wave. His mother and father have finally reached a point of amnesty in their separate lives, from afar, their body language reads as amicable friends and co-parents to a doctor in business administration.

“Mm,” he takes a half step forward before eerily smiling at you when you raise your head higher to see his irses dilate a little more. He wants to pick at your mindset, but when reality had sunk in when he sat next to you during the commencement ceremony, he realized he was unfairly biased toward you. In your speech you make a mention of not remembering anything beyond second year of middle school. Perhaps the news of a massive storm surge taking out a few seaside residences one and a half decade ago finally gave him some crumbs of information.

A hell of a time to find out the person whom you’ve shared a majority of classes with was bitter for reasons beyond his control. Times of being angry arguing tooth and nail during classes could have been spent healing, turning over a new leaf as one professor’s adoptive proverb states.

You straighten your posture a bit via rolling your shoulders back, without much else, you say one of the most damning things you could think of: “Thank you for being my academic rival these past seven years; thank you for reminding me everyday how much you disliked seeing my name on the projects with the highest marks; for kicking me out of the library when I told you I had lost power in my apartment; for not even bothering to ask me why I have travel arrangements every March fifteenth to and I quote, ‘go on sabbatical to the shore line.’ And how I still endured your scrutiny when you boasted about being selected for a permanent spot in your fellowship. So yes, I suppose you can summarize what I just stated as, ‘come to say goodbye?’”

You shoulder-check him when you gracefully walk past him when he had nothing else to rebuttal with. He wanted to make a joke, but you being hardwired to take anything he says as a challenge reared its head at him and hurled a whirlwind of damage to his inflated ego. He turns to look at Morisuke and Yamamoto who just shake their heads agreeing they didn’t know you had been a great actor atop of your already serious demeanor. Sauntering off back to their corner, the saludetorian is called out for freezing by his best friend: “so yn finally told you off? I’m not surprised.”

“Kenma,” Yamamoto says with a Buddhist-like face. “Can’t you see how our old scheming captain is off his game.”

“People aren’t games,” Morisuke contributes this fact and the graduate’s father sort of chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” His son asks him.

“You, son,” his father begins. “Have a lot left to learn.”

The older man with graying streaks in his hair extends his arm politely to his ex-wife who sheds a little more light about the skeleton in your closet. She cryptically tells the lads to look up the landslide disaster that was covered in the news from when they were in junior high.

You were found outside the hall sitting on an abandoned ottoman, your head tilted back looking up at the fluorescent lights with a serene expression on your face. Your rival’s parents were always a source of well-intended comfort, after all they were the ones who frequented the stores you helped digitize the city ledgers. Always respectful toward your elders was a trait taught to you since you were young, so when the familiar voices belonging to them say your name, you stand to greet them.

“Congratulations, dear,” his mom says, squeezing your bicep a little.

“Thank you,” two words were said with the least animosity you had in you. It’s not entirely their fault their son was a dumbass, an insult was too soft by your standards.

Polite small talk with them was fun: his mom talks about her job overseas while his father updates you about how his aging parents are faring in the mountain city. You express you didn’t want to take too much of their time, bidding them farewell and safe passage on their way to the hotel they rented for the evening. Figuring you should do the same, you’re about to head outside to the reception lobby when you are nearly tackled by a familiar set of arms—the watch and fabric were a dead giveaway and much to your chagrin, you hear him say your name. One hell of an olive branch, your mind thinks as you try to squirm your way out of his hold.

“Stay still, f’me, I just wanna talk,” he instructs, readjusting his tightening hold on you. You fool yourself into calming down, but unfortunately, your body begins to think otherwise: your breathing is picking up again and you’re two minutes away from an apparent panic attack. “Hey, hey, it’s just me, ok?”

He releases you the second he notices the distress he might have caused. You stumble forward, hunched over where he had held you and even if you think he didn’t do it on purpose, he still doesn’t have access to that part of you yet. Morisuke, Yamamoto, and a blonde boy you’ve seen off and on make their presence known shortly thereafter seeing their friend with arms raised claiming innocence versus you who raises one arm in defense the other still holding your ribs together, your lungs finally returning to a homeostatic level.

“Don’t touch me!” your voice is lightning in a bottle. Your eyes are wildly displaced and you take a step back. You look terrified before brushing off the wrinkles in your outfit then you blow out a raspberry before lowering your arms to your side; he does the same, still mumbling an apology— he knew of panic attacks and anxiety attacks, but he hasn’t seen one happen by something he did.

“I won’t,” he demurely stated. “I’m not sure what—”

“Previous trauma caused by drowning,” you heard Kenma read aloud. It was an excerpt from an article that was published while you were in the children’s hospital the night after the landslide that claimed a few key people in your life. “Victims of the town near the epicenter were identified by relatives, but only three percent of those affected were claimed… surname tiles unclaimed were as follows.”

Your family name is among them as Kenma reads the rest aloud.

“Five seats in the commencement ceremony remained empty for a reason,” you state the fact again, no tears, just facts. You apologize for the stark commotion, shrugging your shoulders before disappearing into the warm night. It takes a few minutes for you to simmer down; you take a seat at a bench across the promenade. Your phone in your pocket lights up with a nickname of “do not engage” as the contact, the notification counter breaks over fifty at this point. Uttering a bitter goodbye to the illuminated ballroom building, you ready yourself to stand and begin the walk back to your dorm.

Meanwhile, back at the reception, Morisuke and Yamamoto said they were going to head to the men’s room then heading back inside for an hour or two more. Kenma locks his phone after sending the link to his best friend’s phone though the ebony blessed haired child was busy trying to rectify his major faux pax.

“Mx YN isn’t going to forgive you so easily,” Kenma scoffs. “Just because you toed the line with them before doesn’t give you the right to charge into that hellscape.”

“I know I fucked up, but,” he angrily hangs up the line. “Why did no one tell me this?”

“Kuroo, for a newly graduated doctor you’re not very bright,” his friend scolds him. Then, he playfully knocks his forehead with a closed fist. “YN values knowledge as a protective measure; you do it for the fun of outsmarting people and or for the flare. Seven years of attending university and not once did you think to ask yn about how she’s doing outside of class?”

“No, because I thought yn was fine,” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Loneliness pushes you to do many things,” Kenma states. “And I know empty eyes when I see them. YN may be the same age as you, but they’ve come to expect more from people like you. Do better, idiot.”

“…how?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Kenma leaves to turn back inside when he sees Yamamoto wave him over; the old setter fills the other two in. Morisuke chuckles when he picks up another hour devour this time asking an impossibly loaded question: “if this is how they are when yn’s past is found out, I can’t wait until he realizes he’s hopelessly devoted to yn.”

“Seriously? That’s where your mind jumps to when Kenma here sheds some damning information about yn?” Yamamoto is extraordinarily boisterous about this private matter.

“Kuroo needed to hear it from someone and sadly, even yn had to be reminded,” Kenma stands by his decision. “Whether yn told him or not, it needed to be acknowledged for context. They’re the most irritating people to be around when in the same room, but they do exude the confidence to keep each other inline.”

“What makes you say that?” Morisuke inquires, benevolence beseeches his words. His former teammates lean back to see their old captain pace worriedly with his phone attached to his ear. Kenma’s lips purse into a definite smile like he’s finally figured out the last difficulty in a puzzle rune game.

Two weeks later, you take your belongings from your dorm room and pack them into a suitcase. Your favorite novels were already shipped to your new flat earlier that week. The bookkeeper still keeps an eye out for your graduate degree in their personal mailbox on your behalf. Exchanging a few words of gratitude, you are granted well wishes for your future endeavors, not once pondering over the reception incident. If you did, you would be doing a great disservice to the frightened amber eyes of a rival who, judging by his reaction, heard the news story about the phenomena for the first time. He probably didn’t think anything of it; thought of the news reporters on the tv as ‘boring real life news’ before a prime time quiz show made its scheduled debut. His eyes constrict and relax when his friend reads the in memoriam part, but when his mouth opens and closes like a fish struggling to breathe, he sees you stand albeit a bit proudly. He hears you say something, but the blood in his ears pushes your words away and he watches you disappear into the night.

Contrary to popular belief, one would think he had adjusted to the news well. How wrong they were. For the first seventy two hours post graduation, Kuroo spends his time researching more about the incident. He’s appalled to why he didn’t ask any of the adults in his life about this sooner or how come his mother gently guides him to meet you in the freshman orientation—he thought you lied when you said your guardians couldn’t make the trip out here, only to realize you were telling the truth for a very different reason. Your affinity for wearing three-quarter sleeved clothing to hide surgical chest scars forces his heart to fall to his shoes. His snide jokes in a class once landed him with a warning from the professor, but you raised your hand to propose a counter argument thus creating the outline for the rivalry whether accidental or not.

Does it explain why he faces your door now? No. He must be out of his god -damned mind to be here, his brain thinks. In the group chat he has with his closest friends, most of which reply with a single ‘f’ for respect, Kenma replies privately.

The butcher paper the florist sold his bouquet in crinkles in his hands. He’s trembling with nerves even now when he faces the closed door. Not knowing where to begin to apologize for ignorant and rude behavior is beyond him, but not even attempting the attempt is more an act of cowardice. So, he raises a hand to knock upon your door. You hear the call to the door, but when you look through the viewfinder, you say nothing. Instead you hold your breath to see if he would knock again—he does, multiple times in fact. Your neighbors pass by starting the rumors that your well known ire is here to pour out his soul to you to start up again; though he waves them off to get some version of privacy, he takes a deep breath before touching his forehead to the door. You press a curious ear to it on your end.

“Of course yn isn’t here,” he scoffs.

He sounds…sad? Disappointed? You hear the rustling of the paper and a sniffle. Is he allergic to the pollen of the flower, but bought them anyways? You shake you head wondering if he new or if this is a newer development, but you wait.

“If you’re not here, then I’ll apologize to the last thing you probably saw,” he continues, pressing his head into the doorframe this time. “I’m sorry for being a righteous ass to you; you never really opened up and told me off until that summer course in second year, remember? You got so angry about me doodling all over your notes only for you and I to be paired up as lab partners in the fall. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you said you were going on a date; my ex thought it was funny to see if I could crash your date; I’m sorry I used you for my personal entertainment when things didn’t go well at home. I’m here to say sorry and I’m sorry I missed you. We could have been friends, and instead I squandered my opportunity to not only make my arch nemesis a friend, but maybe something more?”

You subconsciously unlock your door and he stands back a bit. He brings the flowers up to his face to hide his expression. You pull the bouquet out of his hands, thanking him for the gesture.

“Despite you being the bane of my existence,” he winced at that. “You still have a long way to go before we even become acquaintances. Go home Kuroo Tetsuro, it’s late.”

You’re about to close the door and trash the flowers, yet his hand reaches the doorknob first. You can feel him hover above you, a pointed look of dejection scribed on his features.

“So that’s it then?” his breath fans the baby hairs in the back of your neck.

“…”

You walk further inside, your back rigid in not turning around to face him. He sees and hears the flowers fall into the trash can and hears you tell him to leave.

“Yn?”

You’re in the kitchen after he closes the door.

“Go away,” your voice is cold.

“Not happening,” he is bold, approaching you with a smirk. “Olive branch?”

His arms are open to you, and he turns his head to one side, signaling you to come accept some form of human company. Even if he’s the scum of the earth in your rueful eyes, you could kick him in the groin if necessary.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Two and a half minutes, non-negotiable.”

“Fine.”

You mentally prepare yourself to embrace an enemy. Your steps are quiet and calculated, yet when the amendment is for a minute and half you bow your head in defeat when you stare up at him. Kuroo has this anxious disposition and he breathes a sigh of relief when he feels your arms hit his torso. You’re surprisingly warm and softer to the touch when his hands graze past your upper arms. His cheek smooshes gently against the cotton Candy texture of your hair. He holds you there and pats your back whispering a, “you’re not going to hug me back are you?”

“…?”

You let him hold your tired self for longer than the allotted time. You don’t forgive his words, nor his actions he learns. Rather, you give him a haunting blessing:

“In this house, you’re on thin ice. Move my heart with good deeds and I’ll consider taking up your offer from freshman all-nighter week.”

“Oh ho?”

“High tea at the fanciest coffee house and pastry in Ropppengi.”

“You’re on, yn.”

You nod against his chest once more before pushing him off of you with a curse: “smooth talking bastard.”

“You like it though.”

“Alright that’s it. Out you go.”

“Aww, and here I thought I was laying the groundwork for you and I to be civil.”

Your expression changes as you cross your arms and point to the door. He surrenders, residing in your genkan for a moment. An epiphany of sorts shifts his heart a bit; he wants to prove to you people can change. He wants to try, at least for you.

Kuroo leaves then, sneaking a glance at the bronze highlight the lamp on the entrance to the front door illuminates your figure. You shake your head muttering a barely audible, ‘unbelievable.’ He doesn’t know he’s checking you out (having a whole Nicholas Sparks moment in fantasyland there) until you tell him to quit staring and go home. Kuroo and you have a long way to go before becoming anything other than rivals, but coffee connoisseurs seem like a good place to start.

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #haikyuu x reader #kuroo x reader #uni!gradstudent au #🔞—mdni #🔞: MA themes #psychological & physical triggers for surviving landslides

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