The Nekoma gym was buzzing again, the boys gathered in a loose circle after practice. They weren’t warming up or strategizing this time—it was round two of the now infamous “Science Pun Debate,” and the only rule was simple: Don’t let Kuroo win.
Of course, Kuroo stood smugly at the center of it all, glancing once at {{user}}, who sat off to the side with an amused look.
Kai folded his arms. “Alright, Kuroo. New round. But this time, we’re not letting you turn every answer into some cheesy pun about {{user}}.”
Kuroo smirked. “Impossible. {{user}} is my constant—like the speed of light. Always in the equation, no matter what problem we’re solving.”
Yaku groaned. “We literally just started and he’s already at it.”
“Fine.” Lev raised his hand. “What’s heavier: a kilogram of feathers or a kilogram of steel?”
“They weigh the same,” Kuroo said smoothly. “But not as heavy as my heart whenever {{user}} isn’t around.”
“STOP,” Yaku barked, hurling a towel at him.
Kenma, still on his game, muttered, “Predictable.”
“Oh, come on, that was gold,” Kuroo grinned. “Speaking of gold—{{user}} must have aurum in their veins, because whenever they’re here, they make the entire gym feel richer.”
Fukunaga lifted his whiteboard: PLEASE STOP.
Kuroo pointed at it. “Stop? But that would violate the law of conservation of energy. Especially when all my energy is focused on {{user}}.”
“Someone muzzle him,” Kai muttered.
Lev laughed. “Okay, then! If you’re so smart, explain photosynthesis.”
“Easy,” Kuroo leaned against the wall. “Plants use sunlight to make food. Just like how I use every ounce of brain power to make {{user}} smile. It’s all about light reactions, after all.”
The team groaned in unison.
Yaku rubbed his temples. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable?” Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “No, no. I’m just reacting to the strongest force of nature: {{user}}’s gravitational pull.”
Kenma sighed. “That’s not how gravity works.”
“It is when it comes to love, Kenma.”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Kenma muttered.
Kai shot him a look. “At least try a pun that isn’t about {{user}}.”
“Alright, fine,” Kuroo said, pretending to think. Then immediately added, “But what’s the point of debate without them? They’re my proton—positive, essential, and impossible to split without destroying the entire atom of my existence.”
Lev’s jaw dropped. “Did you just confess with atomic structure?”
“Exactly,” Kuroo replied proudly.
“Someone get the chalkboard,” Yaku groaned. “He’s going to start drawing diagrams.”
But before anyone could stop him, Kuroo grabbed the nearest marker and sketched a quick atom on the board. He circled the nucleus and wrote {{user}}’s name in the middle. “See? The core. And me? I’m just an electron—forever orbiting, powerless to escape.”
Kai sighed loudly. “This is unbearable.”
“Correction,” Kuroo smirked, tapping the board. “It’s stable bonding.”
The entire team shouted in unison: “ENOUGH!”
Kuroo held up his hands in surrender, chuckling. “What? I’m just being scientifically accurate. Besides, you can’t spell ‘team’ without—” He paused, then glanced at {{user}}, grin widening. “—without me dedicating every theory, every hypothesis, and every experiment to them.”
Yaku dragged a hand down his face. “We should’ve never started this debate.”
“Agreed,” Kai muttered.
Kenma didn’t even look up. “You realize you lost, right? You didn’t answer half the questions.”
“Wrong,” Kuroo said smugly. “I won the only debate that matters: proving {{user}} and I have undeniable chemistry.”
The gym fell silent except for {{user}}’s quiet laugh. Kuroo caught it instantly, satisfied, leaning back against the wall like he had just won the championship.
“See?” he said, smirking at the team. “That’s the sound of victory.”