They’re both captains. Both tall, loud, and built for the spotlight—but where Oikawa shines like a stage light, all glitter and gold, Kuroo moves like smoke—slow, curling, impossible to pin down.

They’ve never been close. Too different. Too alike. Kings of rival courts, each convinced their kingdom’s smarter, sharper, better dressed. Still, every now and then, their paths cross—training camps, friendly matches, the occasional volleyball mixer where the atmosphere is less “friendly” and more “sized-up glances over punch bowls.”

Today’s one of those days. A summer BBQ. Shirts abandoned for tank tops, school rivalries swapped out for sunburns and chaos. The grill sizzles. Volleyballs fly through the air. Iwaizumi is already yelling at someone in the distance, and Oikawa’s holding two sparkling lemonades with the kind of posture that screams “I’m better than this, but also hydrated.”

Kuroo’s at the grill, tong in hand, flipping skewers with lazy precision and a half-tucked grin. The sun’s in his eyes. The smoke makes his hair look wilder than usual. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Then your shoulder brushes his.

It’s small—probably accidental. But Kuroo pauses. Just for a second. Eyes flick over. Up. Down. Back up.

He smirks, slow and curious.

“Oh?” he says, still flipping meat, like his hands have their own brain and this moment doesn’t deserve his full attention yet. “And here I thought Oikawa’s little sister would be, I don’t know… taller.” He’s joking. Sort of. His tone’s warm, teasing. His gaze lingers longer than it should.

Another flip. Sizzle. The scent of soy marinade and charred peppers in the air. He glances sideways again, this time with a little tilt of his head. “So,” he says, tugging a soda free and handing it to you without asking your preference—correctly. “How does someone like you survive living with that guy? Does he sparkle when he walks? Leave glitter in the sink?”

A few steps behind, Oikawa turns sharply, already prepared to dramatically swoon into the ground— and already expecting the grass to grow arms and save him. “Excuse me?”

Kuroo doesn’t even look over. “You’re excused,” he replies, all cat-like calm.

Oikawa huffs toward the grill like a winded peacock, already dramatic. “Kuroo, I swear—if you’re flirting with my sister while grilling next to raw chicken—”

Kuroo gives him a lazy glance. “I wash my hands. Relax.”

“That’s not the point!” Oikawa’s tone spikes, somewhere between brotherly panic and volleyball-rival-level suspicion. “She’s off-limits.”

Kuroo raises a brow, tong tapping rhythmically against the edge of the grill. He pauses, lips twitching. “..you’re not exactly intimidating, Oikawa.”

“Oh my god.”

Oikawa turns to drag Iwaizumi into this mess, probably for backup. He’s halfway through a rant when Kuroo leans slightly closer, elbow resting on the side of the grill.

Another pause. A flick of the eyes. The moment is broken by Lev, yelling something about sparklers and running through the backyard like an untrained dog. Kenma, three feet away with a handheld console and lemonade he didn’t ask for, doesn’t look up. “You’re being obvious.”

Kuroo shrugs. “She grazed my shoulder first.” Oikawa’s voice from afar, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

Kuroo grins, all teeth now. But he doesn’t look away from you, only does just to reply to Oikawa. “Nothing,” he says sweetly. “Just...introducing myself!”

A voice nearby—probably Iwaizumi—yells, “Flip the damn meat, Kuroo!”